Anyway. Sam. Flashlight-fu. God, he's hot tonight. Ooops. Did I type that out loud? "You did." Dammit! So, Sam slams open a door and waves his flashlight around. Uh. It's far more tense-making than I just made it sound. Trust me.
Vault. Dean escorts a group of hostages back inside, last among them Blondie The Discouraged Deangirl. "And I thought you were one of the good guys," she ornately mopes. In a bit of nicely played character business wherein Dean reveals he actually does want people to think well of him, he asks for her name -- "Sherrie," as in "Oh," as in "Oh, Nooooo! Do Not Ever Play That Song On This Show!" -- and offers his own, along with his honest assurance that everyone will be okay. Oh, Nooooo! Sherrie's supremely unimpressed. I'm telling you, you piss off those Deangirls just once, and they're just vicious until the end of time.
Dean shuts the vault door once more, and I swear to God, they're screwing with us in these shots, because they've got that wee little bow-legged man straining to push closed that massive door again and again this evening, when half the time, The Ginormotron could've just, like, leaned on it a little bit, or something, and bam! But I shouldn't be making fun of El Deano, for he's in the process of receiving a very painful phone call. "This is Special Agent Victor Henriksen," the gentleman in question officiously introduces himself when Dean picks up the bank's ringing line. Upon learning Dean's "not really in the negotiating mood right now," Henriksen snaps back, "Good, me neither. It's my job to bring you in -- alive's a bonus but not necessary." Dean's all, "Whoa, dude, nice talk from a federal agent!" and Henriksen's all, "Cut the crap Dean Winchester, I want you and your brother out front, pronto, or we're coming in with guns blazing." "How'd you know we were even here?" Dean splutters. "Go screw yourself," Henriksen sneers, "that's how I knew." The agent then goes on to list Dean's many purported crimes in St. Louis and Baltimore, tossing in the grave desecrations and credit card fraud for good measure before launching into an attack on Daddy Shut Up. "You don't know crap about my dad!" Dean seethes. "Ex-marine, raised his kids on the road," Henriksen all but ticks off on the tips of his fingers, "cheap motels, backwoods cabins -- real paramilitary survivalist type, but I just can't get a handle on what type of whacko he was: White supremacist, or Timmy McVeigh?" Dean gets very quiet as he responds, "You got no right talking about my dad like that -- he was a hero." Henriksen's all, "And your mother blows bubble gum. In Hell. Come out in one hour or we come through those doors full automatic." Click. Dean bangs the handset against his forehead a couple of times before slamming it back into its base.