Rating/Warnings: GEN, PG-13 (some R-rated language), OC outsider POV, Wee!chesters, kids in peril-ish, no spoilers for anything

Characters: OC, Dean (10), Sam (6), John

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me, and therefore I can't feed them all ice cream.

A/N: I'm certain this particular scenario has been ficced before, but there was something in the news tonight and it triggered this insistent little bunny, so I'm running with it.


by CaffieneKitty


This bank job had gone off great, he hadn't needed to shoot anyone, not even a little. Cops got pissed when you shot people; they chased harder, took longer to shake. Corey adjusted the duffle-bag stuffed full of cash and walked purposefully towards the nearest gas station. Walk, don't run. Guilty people run. Five years of bank heists and not caught yet, so it must work.

Some old boat of a car was pulled up next to the pumps. Big black shiny car, driver nowhere in sight. Probably just filled up and inside paying. Perfect. Corey trotted to the driver's side, opened the door, pitched the duffel full of cash into the back, got in and shut the door.

That's when he saw the two sets of wide eyes in the back seat.

Shit, kids. Cops'll never stop chasing me if I take kids hostage.

One rug-rat looked about nine, one maybe five. They sat on either side of his duffel of money, expressions shifting from alarm to... fear probably. Corey didn't know a damn thing about kids, but if some strange man jumped into his mom's car while she was in the liquor store, he'd be pissing himself.

"It's okay," he said to the rear-view mirror, "I got in the wrong car. Hand me up that duffel bag and there won't be any trouble."

The older one lowered his chin. "Damn right you got in the wrong car, Mister. Sammy?"

Something looped around Corey's neck and pulled tight, jerking his head back against the top of the bench seat. He gacked and pulled at what felt like the strap from his own duffel bag, digging into his neck. He couldn't see the younger kid in the mirror anymore, but from the feel of it the kid was using the duffel-bag full of cash like a tire-swing, with Corey's neck as the tree limb. While he was coming to that awareness of his precise situation and fighting for air, the older kid swung over the seat-back and into the front passenger seat, kicking Corey in the eye on the way past.

"Shigch-!" was all he could get past the pressure on his throat as stars exploded in his vision. He flailed into the backseat with one arm, trying to dislodge the little shit that was choking him with his own hard-stolen money. He caught a handful of hair and yanked, easing the pressure on his throat slightly and netting a loud "OW!" from the littler kid.

In the passenger seat a gun cocked. Corey froze and looked over with the eye that wasn't swelling shut. The older kid had the glove compartment open and a silver handgun the size of his head pointed at Corey.

"Let Sammy go," the kid said.

Corey kept a grip on the little kid's hair and wheezed; the statistic that guns were most dangerous in the hands of someone scared and inexperienced rattled through his slightly foggy head.

This kid looked the exact opposite of scared and inexperienced. The gun was rock-steady in the boy's hands, and his glare might burn through a steel vault door. As Corey gasped for air, the older kid reached up and purposefully flicked the safety off. "Let. Sammy. Go."

Corey let the younger kid's hair go and raised his hands. Full pressure on the bag strap returned to his throat and the edges of his vision started to fuzz out.

"You gonna get out of my car quietly, or am I gonna have to let my kids finish you off?" said a voice outside the open driver's side window. Corey couldn't turn his head, what with the kindergartner choking him to death and all, but he rotated his remaining good eye around. A big man in a leather coat loomed at the window.

"Kwigch-Gnch!" said Corey, raising his hands higher, pressing his palms flat against the car's ceiling.

"Good," said the big man, and his fist landed in Corey's other eye.


When Corey came to, he was in the men's room of the gas station, trussed up with his own pants and jacket, duffel-bag of cash right in front of his nose. Both eyes felt half-swollen and his throat hurt like he'd been swallowing razor blades.

The door rattled open and a pair of blue-clad legs and shiny shoes swam into view. "...anonymous tip that- Well, lookie here!"

Corey groaned. Five years of heists down the crapper. But maybe jail wouldn't be so bad.

At least in jail there wouldn't be any goddamn kids.

- - -
(that's it.)