Purposes Mistook

Summary: Sam and Dean finish a hunt only to find there was a witness to the showdown, a witness who makes a demand of his own…

Disclaimer: Kripke and Company own Sam and Dean. And they'd better take good care of them this season finale or someone I know is going to be very, very upset with them.

The last story was way too long, so this one was purposely written at a run.

Chapter One

And let me speak to the yet unknowing world
How these things came about: so shall you hear
Of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts;
Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters;
Of deaths put on by cunning and forc'd cause;
And, in this upshot, purposes mistook
Fall'n on the inventors' heads

- Hamlet Act V, scene ii

Dean was in the lead as they moved through the office building, guns at the ready. Sam was behind him, facing backward but with his free hand holding Dean's shirt so they could move in sync even though they weren't looking at each other.

They had blocked all the exits on this floor of the building. The werewolf was here, locked in with them. It was after hours and the offices were empty except for the man they'd been tracking for the last week. He looked like a normal guy right now, but he was a dedicated serial killer who enjoyed murdering no matter what form he was in. He'd just been given claws and teeth as weapons for a few days a month instead of his usual knives.

Dean and then Sam moved into a wide room that was a sea of cubicles. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Dean whispered.

"We have to find him, Dean. He'll turn tomorrow night."

Dean didn't bother to answer, just continued to scan the room as they moved, Sam doing the same in the opposite direction in case the man tried to sneak up behind them. It wouldn't be the first time. Sam was working through a nasty concussion thanks to this guy sneaking up on them when they'd run into him two days ago.

As Dean passed cubicle after cubicle, he fought not to swear, loudly and repeatedly. They'd nearly had the guy at his house, but he'd managed to slip past them and make it here. There were just too many places to hide, no doubt the reason the man had chosen to make his last stand at the office. This was his territory and he knew it better than they did.

Dean moved forward, methodically checking the cubicles while Sam watched his back, both of them listening for any sounds that might give away the man's location. Outside the proper phase of the moon, he didn't have any particular advantages other than a highly developed survival instinct and no scruples about killing anyone.

Dean felt his heart bang against his chest at the distinct sound of a revolver's hammer being pulled back. Sam's breathing sped up very slightly and Dean knew he'd heard it too. They both scanned the room trying to find the source, but the faint sound had bounced around too many cubicle walls to be able to tell where it had come from.

Dean began to move forward again, staying lower since he now knew their opponent was armed. He and Sam both swung right at another, much louder noise. It sounded like someone had run into a piece of equipment, a copier or a computer, and knocked it over. Dean broke into a jog and Sam followed, hurrying around one end and into the next row of cubicles before the guy could get away again and hide.

They searched down the row and Dean was about to decide the guy had been too fast for them when he saw a bit of paper flutter to the ground outside the cubicle at the end of the row. Sam stayed in the corridor, poised to go through the cubicle entrance, while Dean quietly snuck into the neighboring cubicle and readied himself to stand on the desk and go up and over.

He looked to Sam who held up a finger to start the countdown. One, two, three…

Sam rounded the opening to the cubicle just as Dean jumped up on the desk and aimed down into it.



They simultaneously turned their guns away from a terrified office worker, sitting in his chair with his hands up, looking like he was about to wet himself, not that Dean could blame him. The man was in his early 30s, dark haired and average looking. He was in a shirt and tie, although the tie had been loosened, a typical office worker bee.

Dean jumped down off the desk and came around to stand beside Sam. "Anyone else here?" Dean asked the man in a whisper. They'd just assumed the offices were empty this late and they hadn't seen anyone on the security cameras before they'd shut them down.

The man shook his head, unable to take his eyes from their guns. "N-no. Boss made me stay late to work on the Ph-Philpott account."

Dean rolled his eyes. Corporate America. He didn't know how anybody stayed sane working a job like this. He'd take a shotgun vs. a crazed poltergeist any day of the week over memos and never-ending, useless paperwork.

"Dean, get down!"

Dean dropped to the floor, turning his head in time to see Sam put three rounds in the man who'd been trying to sneak up on them while they were distracted.

It never was like the movies. Even if you shot someone in a place that would kill them, it took a little while for their body to realize it and give up. In the meantime, before the guy realized he was dead, he could still shoot back, which the werewolf did. Thankfully his normal preference was knives and not guns. He was a lousy shot.

Sam refocused his aim while Dean rolled so that he was free to fire as well. It wasn't necessary, however. Sam's next round caught the werewolf in the heart and he finally keeled over.

Dean got to his feet and he and Sam moved forward carefully just in case. There was always the chance he was playing possum. As they got closer though, Dean could see it was a done deal and sighed in relief.

"You shot Marvin."

Sam and Dean both turned to see the other guy had come out of his cubicle and was staring at his fallen co-worker.

"Dean, we should go," Sam urged.

"Right." Witnesses who could identify you were never good. He was in a daze now and wouldn't remember them well, but they were pushing it.

"You shot Marvin!" the man said again, this time his wide eyes glued to Sam.

Marvin. Dean tried not to snort. Marvin wasn't exactly the best name for a fearsome werewolf/serial killer. Dean suppressed the thought though. Sam was still a little twitchy around the werewolf topic and Dean had been making an effort. Mostly. But, really… Marvin?

"If it makes you feel any better," Dean said to the man, "your buddy was a real bastard." He nodded to Sam and they both headed for the exit.

"W-wait…" Sam and Dean both kept walking. "Please, stop!"

Dean turned to look at the man, but kept walking backwards to keep up with Sam. "What?"

"Just, stop. Please." The man moved to follow them, fear and reluctance warring with something else Dean couldn't quite place.

"Has this guy got the survival instinct of a goldfish or what?" Dean shook his head in disbelief.

They had to stop momentarily to unbar the exit door to the stairwell and the man caught up with them. "Please, I need-"

"Sir, you need to go back to your desk and call 911," Sam said irritably and Dean's eyes snapped to his brother. Sam's concussion had only exacerbated the normal moodiness and, yeah, the werewolf thing was definitely bothering him now. For Sam's sake, Dean had really been hoping he'd be the one to take the shot, but it just hadn't worked out that way.

The office worker put his hand on Sam's forearm and Sam angrily shook him off. The guy tried to grab him again and Sam aimed his gun at the man, deciding being Mr. Nice Guy wasn't going to get it done. "I said go back to your desk, sir."

Dean was momentarily alarmed at the Dirty Harry attitude until he noted Sam's finger was carefully resting on the trigger guard and not the trigger itself. Sam's expression was set in stone and Dean could tell that he was desperate to get away from here.

"You don't understand," the man said, his eyes once again glued to the gun. "I… you…"

"What?" Sam asked in exasperation.

"I need you to shoot me, too."

More soon…