Fandom: Bloodlines (CW)
Characters: Ennis, Tamara
Word Count: ~350
Summary: Ennis goes back for the silver bullet with his prints on it. He has a thought.
That eight-year old boy in the park. Ennis would have been twelve; in a different life, they might have known each other. Ended up running cross-country or doing forensics club together or something. It's stupid; three million people in this town and he knows it's stupid. Serendipity don't just happen like that, and contrary to popular belief, are not all connected--Ennis is damn sure of that. The connection part, anyway. The serendipity, he'd believed, at least for a while; but serendipity don't end bloody.
Ennis also knows that you don't run a trace on a silver bullet, because silver bullets don't exist. He cleans himself out of the crime scene. He'll wash off the discharge and he don't even try to touch the body. He'll take himself through the motions of declaring a just shooting (because of course it is). As for IA, well, he's already got plenty of those, hasn't he.
He's in the shower when it occurs to him that bullets don't just disappear, that silver is hard, that it's not like he loaded Pop's gun with gloves on. That he's gonna need to get that fucker back.
Stay out, said the guy, Winchester--one of them. He's met too many vigilante freaks this week, and he's not even gonna try to keep track. As he stands over the body, pale now, smelling like shit (real shit--luckily it's been a cold winter, do nothing smells dead), he adjust the knife in his hand and he figures this is probably the exact moment where staying out goes out the window forever.
He butchers. He digs through flesh with blade and forceps and he gets his goddamn bullet back. Hell, he's got time to hit up Tim Horton's before his shift starts if he wants to.
He looks at the collage that's left of that eight-year old boy.
It's not until he's hopped the blue line to the Academy that he really starts thinking again.
Tamara had been allergic to silver.