SPN/Criminal Minds crossover: This Bitter Earth, 2/2
Back to Part One
--
The team gathered around a small video monitor that displayed Interview Room One, the bare-walled closet of a room where Dean Winchester currently waited in handcuffs and leg irons, looking sallow and uncomfortable in an orange prisoner's jumpsuit. His palms and chin were scraped raw from meeting unforgiving asphalt during Morgan's tackle. Old bruises stood out on his face and throat, fading to a yellowish green.
Morgan paced the room. "Bastard won't give up a thing. Two hours in the box and all I could get out of him was a few dirty limericks."
"In his defense," Prentiss said, "those were pretty good limericks."
"Not as cocky as he used to be, though," Rossi said.
Morgan thought back to the smirking "confession" Winchester had given in Baltimore. The hunched figure in the interview room hardly seemed like the same person. "Looks like he got the beatdown of a lifetime recently. Maybe that's got a little something to do with it."
"He's showing some signs of PTSD - hypervigilance, exaggerated startle response. Most of the time he's got it under control, but every once in a while, it's there."
"One thing I'm not seeing," Hotch said, "is any evidence of racism. He doesn't seem to have any problem at all with Morgan, or the black deputy who processed him."
Morgan hated to admit it, but it was true. He hadn't picked up any weird vibes from Winchester, other than a sense of resignation.
Hotch tilted his chin toward the paper-filled table. "What else did you find?" he asked.
"Well, we've been able to fill in a few of the gaps in those missing years." Reid picked out a sheaf of papers bound together by a binder clip. "The records are spotty, but it looks like John Winchester tried to keep his sons in school even though they moved around so much - sometimes more than four or five schools in one year. We already knew Sam was a good student, considering his success at Stanford, but it turns out Dean wasn't exactly the underachiever everyone assumes. He wasn't a straight-A student, but his grades never dropped below a C. I'm inclined to believe he was trying to stay under the radar and avoid any sort of attention - good or bad.
"Garcia also managed to dig up several reports to children's services over the years - usually alleging neglect. It seems that John often left the kids on their own, and occasionally a motel clerk or neighbor would phone it in. There were two allegations of abuse, when teachers noticed Dean coming to school with bruises and broken bones, but nothing was ever substantiated - both times, the family packed up and left town before an investigation could begin.
"After Sam left for Stanford, the trail is sporadic at best. It looks like Dean and John were just drifting - sometimes together, but often apart. In early October, 2005, John dropped off the grid completely. November 2, 2005, Sam's girlfriend died in a fire eerily similar to the one that killed Mary Winchester. After that, the reports indicate Sam and Dean were on the road together.
"There are a few exceptions, though. In 2007, just a couple of months before their incarceration in Arkansas, Sam was a suspect in a series of crimes that took place over the course of two weeks - mostly misdemeanors, drunk and disorderly type stuff, but his name did come up in the investigation of the murder of one Steve Wandell. There's another string of incidents starting last summer, not as frequent or severe. Dean is missing from reports altogether for about four months. During that time, there are quite a few witnesses who describe Sam - or presumably Sam - as the 'tall scary guy,' 'really intense.' He was careful about not leaving fingerprints or other evidence, but he was seen near some crime scenes, reportedly got in some bar fights, frightened a few people while questioning them."
"Questioning them?" Prentiss frowned.
"Yes, and this is where it gets weird."
Morgan huffed a laugh. "It wasn't weird before?"
"It seems that bizarre confession Dean made in Baltimore wasn't just trying to set up an insanity defense. The Winchesters apparently see themselves as ghost hunters of some sort. This was among the things Dean was carrying when we brought him in." Reid held up a black electronic device that looked like an old Walkman. "An electromagnetic frequency reader. Seems they're de rigueur for 'paranormal researchers,' though this one looks homemade. High readings are supposed to indicate supernatural activity."
"You mean all that nonsense in the confession - vengeful spirits and shapeshifters - he was actually serious about that?"
"Apparently so. I did some research on those matching tattoos - it's a symbol supposed to guard against demonic possession. Oh, and Dean was also carrying this." Reid picked up a silver flask.
"So he likes a drink now and then, so what?" Morgan asked.
"Actually, it's water." The look on Reid's face was somewhere between puzzled and amused. "I bet you anything it's holy water."
"You've got to be kidding me." Morgan sagged back against the wall. "Not another self-proclaimed exorcist."
Hotch stood in front of the corkboard, arms crossed, inscrutable as ever. Morgan sure as hell hoped he was seeing something besides a big-ass pile of crazy. "Let's give this another shot," Hotch said and turned to Morgan. "I haven't played good cop in a while."
Winchester brightened considerably when he saw they'd brought him coffee, even more so when Hotch unlocked his cuffs. "Thanks," he said. Seemed surprised - and definitely a little suspicious. He ignored the packets of sugar and little tubs of cream, downed half the cup black before Hotch even sat down.
Morgan took the chair nearest the wall and leaned back, arms crossed, going for surly skepticism. Hotch sat directly across from Dean, neatly arranged his files, legal pad, and coffee.
Winchester let out a low whistle. "Damn, that must be painful."
"What's that?" Hotch asked.
"That giant stick up your ass."
Morgan snorted a laugh. Even Hotch twitched an almost-smile. He waited till Winchester met his eyes. "I'd like to ask you some questions, Dean, and I'd like to hear the truth. Not the version you think we'll believe. Not the version you think will get you out of jail. The truth, no matter how crazy it sounds."
Winchester's brow furrowed. "Why the hell would you want to hear that?"
Hotch flapped open the case file, carefully laid out three crime scene photos - the three Charleston victims. Must have been the goriest shots he could find. Winchester glanced at the photos and looked away. Morgan couldn't tell if it was guilt or something else.
"I can't begin to make sense of this case," Hotch said. "I don't think you killed these men. But I think you know what happened to them. Please. Tell me."
The only sound in the room was the hum of the fluorescent lights. Winchester stared down into his coffee. Hotch stared at Winchester. Morgan stared at the both of them and tried not to move a muscle.
It must have been a minute or more before Winchester shifted. His hunched shoulders relaxed a tick; he turned his coffee cup clockwise a half turn and then back again. Looked up at Hotch for a split second, almost shyly.
Hotch took out the homemade EMF meter, placed it on the table between them. "Why don't we start here? You made this, didn't you?"
Winchester kept his eyes on the meter. Cleared his throat. "Years ago. Figured it was a little more subtle than just waving around some gadget." He shrugged. "Guess it's getting obsolete. Everybody listens to iPods nowadays."
"Pretty impressive, nonetheless. I know people with multiple graduate degrees who couldn't do this."
Not even a smile.
"So this detects evidence of supernatural activity?"
Another shrug. "Theoretically. Things like power lines can interfere with readings."
"What are some other signs? What are the things you and Sam look for when you're working a case?"
That got a sharp look.
"That is what you do, right? Kind of like private eyes for paranormal problems?"
Winchester laughed. "Well, when you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous."
"So how do you find a case?"
"Look for weird stuff in the newspaper. After a while, you start to recognize the signs. You know, phrases like 'freak accident,' 'unexplained injuries,' 'authorities are baffled.' Wild animal attacks in the middle of a city. Stuff like that."
"When you get to town, what do you do?"
"Same things you guys would do. Talk to any witnesses. Visit the scene. Try to narrow down whether it's a spirit or demon or some kind of creature."
"So all the time you spend in libraries - ?"
"Research. The history and folklore of a place can give you some idea what you're looking for."
"And that's why you were looking for death certificates at the health department today?"
Ah, damn, Hotch was good. Led it right back around to the case at hand. They might only get batshit crazy answers, but at least they were getting something.
Winchester hesitated. Must have realized they were getting back into dangerous territory. But Hotch was definitely on the right track, because the guy kept talking. "We think it's a vengeful spirit. Most likely one of the plantation owners or overseers. Angry spirits are usually the product of violent deaths, so we were trying to narrow down our list of suspects."
"What happens then, when you think you've found the ghost's identity?"
"Well, typically the way to get rid of a ghost is to destroy the remains. Uh, salt and burn them, actually."
"So that's the grave desecration." Hotch actually smiled at that, and Morgan thought he understood why: one of the weirdest aspects of the Winchesters' crimes had finally been explained. He wondered if Victor Henriksen had ever suspected this reason, or if the poor guy had died never knowing.
Hotch looked down at the EMF reader again, turned it this way and that. "I still can't get over this thing. I mean, I can't even program a VCR. You've got a real talent for electronics, Dean. I guess you'd have to be good at that sort of thing, keeping that car of yours on the road as long as you have. You're not a dumb guy, but you choose to play dumb. You got decent grades. Probably could have gone to college if you wanted. Could have had a different life. But you stayed."
Hotch's eyes came up, held Winchester's. "You let us catch you, didn't you? You probably could have escaped if you'd gone with Sam. Instead, you led us away from him.
"You had a .45 at the small of your back. A knife at your belt and one in your boot. You could have shot your way out. You could have fought. But you didn't."
The fluorescents hummed. Hotch waited, an uncomfortably long beat. Then:
"Your brother's the monster, isn't he, Dean?"
The change was almost imperceptible: a tingling charge in the air. Before he could clamp down on the reaction, Winchester's eyes went wide. A split second, a flash of panic. That was all Hotch needed. He pressed on.
"Your father raised you to be a soldier in his war. To follow orders. To take care of Sam. You kept him clothed and fed, made sure he got to school on time and did his homework, did your best to keep him safe. All your life, you did what was asked of you, even when it didn't quite seem right. And now that you're both grown, you're still looking after him, aren't you - covering for him, cleaning things up.
"Because deep down, you're just that scared little boy who misses his mother and would do anything to keep the rest of his family together."
Winchester sat rigid, jaw clenched, a light of panic in his eyes. For a minute, Morgan thought they had him. Then he shifted, looked away. His voice was low and rough when he spoke. "I think I'm done talking for now."
--
Early the next morning, Morgan found Hotch in the conference room, staring blearily at the small monitor that showed Dean Winchester's holding cell. He poured two cups of coffee, held one out to Hotch. "You get any sleep?"
"Some." Hotch nodded thanks, took a grateful sip of the terrible cop shop brew.
"What about him?"
On the screen, Winchester sat on the floor, back to the wall and knees drawn up to his chest, facing the cell's door. His head lolled at an awkward angle; he was asleep, though it didn't look particularly restful. As they watched, he muttered and twitched. Jerked awake, tried to scramble away from some invisible threat, before the nightmare faded. After a few minutes of slow, deliberate breathing, he seemed to calm down. Soon, his eyes slipped shut, his head drooped to the side, and the process repeated itself.
"He's been like that all night," Hotch said, "except for when he was pacing the room, trying to stay awake."
Morgan blew out a frustrated breath, tipped his chair back onto two legs. "This case is bothering the hell out of me, Hotch."
"Me, too. Any aspect in particular?"
"I don't know, man. I know this guy's guilty of credit card fraud at the very least. I have no doubt he can throw down if need be. I'm sure he knows his way around weapons and he's not afraid to use them. But the more I see, the less I think he's a killer."
Neither of them looked at each other. Morgan caught Hotch's nod out of the corner of his eye. "I think you're right. In fact, I'm even starting to wonder about Sam's involvement. Reid's been comparing the new credit card information Garcia found with the timeline of the Winchesters' alleged crimes. There are quite a few discrepancies, instances where Sam and Dean are committing credit fraud halfway across the country from the murders they're accused of. In other cases, the crimes overlap. They're supposedly killing someone at the same time they're digging up a grave or impersonating Homeland Security in another city."
Reid's voice came from behind them. "There are also very mixed reports from witnesses."
Morgan turned to find Reid hurrying into the conference room, carrying an extra-large cup of carryout coffee, messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Looked like sleep wasn't coming easy to anyone on this case.
"Some accuse the Winchesters of every crime imaginable," Reid said, settling into the chair next to Morgan. "From brutal murders to burning down an orchard - while others describe them almost as folk heroes, swear the Winchesters saved their lives. And I've found something else weird."
Reid dug into his bag and extracted several printouts, handed them over. Morgan laid them out on the table so Hotch could study them, too. Booking photos, the shots documenting Winchester's tattoo and scars: one taken just the night before, the other from his arrest in Arkansas almost two years ago. "Now, we knew about the tattoo," Reid said, "and the handprint brand is new. But what's odd is what isn't here."
Morgan leaned in to peer at the photos. "What the hell?"
He'd only noticed the handprint before, livid red against pale skin, though it had obviously healed some time ago. He couldn't begin to imagine how it had been done or how painful it must have been.
But Reid was right. Now that Morgan looked closer, he saw that scars were missing: an old burn, knife wounds that looked almost like clawmarks, a bullet wound high on the left shoulder that had still been fairly fresh when the Arkansas photo was taken. Now they were just - gone.
"That's impossible," Hotch said. "I don't know of any plastic surgery with results that good."
Reid shook his head. "There isn't. And even if there were, why would he bother removing those scars, but not the tattoo, which is much more memorable?"
"And why get something new, as easily identifiable as that handprint?"
Morgan looked back to the screen, where Winchester was snapping awake from another round of nightmares, and tried to shake the feeling that they'd stumbled into something way over their heads.
--
It wasn't the first night Dean had spent in a holding cell; it probably wouldn't be the last.
It was, however, the first time he'd ever been offered a McDonald's breakfast by an FBI agent.
The black dude, Morgan, he recalled, collected him from the cell around seven that morning, long after Dean had given up hope of a restful hour or two of sleep, and led him back to the interview room he'd seen way too much of the night before. The cuffs came off, which was nice. The McDonald's bag and a cup of joe were waiting on the table, the room awash in the delicious scents of grease and coffee.
"Dig in." Morgan sat, gestured at the bag with his own coffee. "Just a couple'a McMuffins, but it's better than jail food."
So Morgan was good cop today. Pretty rich, considering the hardass tack he'd tried last night. Dude was pissed when he couldn't get Dean to admit he was some kind of white-supremacist, southern-pride jerkoff. Couldn't blame the guy, though. He was just doing his job, and there were few things more frustrating than hitting a brick wall on a case.
Dean dug into the food, since he really couldn't be sure if he'd ever eat anywhere besides a prison cafeteria again, and let Morgan start the inevitable questions.
"Let me ask you something." Morgan leaned forward with both elbows on the table. "Was it Sam who kicked your ass so bad?'
Dean snorted coffee up his nose. "What? No." He flailed at himself ineffectually with a napkin. "I mean, Jesus, we've had some pretty epic fights, but never…" That was about as far as he could get without thinking about Alistair, which never ended well.
"So why did Hotch strike a nerve last night, when he called Sam a monster?"
Dean studiously kept eating. He'd thought he was pretty good at controlling his reactions. Either he was slipping, or these guys were just that damn good.
Maybe it was a little of both.
"You've seen a lot of shit," he said finally. "You ever known a cop who saw too much, got burnt out - who maybe took things too far? Who crossed the line?"
"Yeah," Morgan said, his voice rough. "I've seen that."
"I'm afraid that's gonna be Sam.." Hell, afraid it already was. "He's not a monster." They both heard the unspoken but he could be.
They sat in silence while Dean went back to the food. Then Morgan said, "One other thing I've been wondering about. Monument, Colorado. What really happened in that sheriff's office? How did you and Sam get out?"
Lucky thing Dean had already inhaled one McMuffin, because that little incident was more than enough to put him off his feed.
"Off the record," Morgan said. "Tape's not running. Victor Henriksen was a friend of mine. I just want to know. That's all."
Dean picked at the second sandwich, mulling it over. "I didn't kill him," he said. "But it was my fault he died."
"How did it all go down? Did someone try to bust you guys out?"
A weak laugh squeezed out of Dean's throat. "Pretty much the opposite." The feds must have spiked his coffee with sodium pentothal, because there was no excuse to be spilling his guts to a civilian. Maybe he'd finally cracked. Maybe he just didn't care anymore. "It was demons," he blurted. "Basically, their head honcho wanted us dead. Sent a bunch of minions to storm the place. We fought 'em off. After seeing what he saw, Henriksen let us go. And after we were gone, the big cheese showed up and made everybody pay for helping us."
"Vic was really gonna let you go?"
"Yeah. He was gonna report we'd died when the helicopter exploded, when the shit first started to hit the fan."
Morgan was quiet for a long time, and Dean felt like an ass. Telling the truth was never a good idea. His stomach tightened at the memories of blood and fear, of Henriksen's pissed-off ghost. Breakfast was sitting heavy now.
Morgan leaned back in his chair, a deceptively lazy sprawl. "You might be batshit crazy," he said, "but I think there's at least some truth sandwiched in there somewhere. I don't know why, but god help me, I'm starting to believe you."
"Maybe it's 'cause this case you're on doesn't make sense any other way."
They didn't get a chance to debate the case. The door unlocked from the outside. The bearded guy, Rossi, poked his head in, spoke to Morgan while ignoring Dean. "Looks like the other brother is hard at work. Someone broke in to the vital records department early this morning. Meeting in five."
Fuck Dean had wondered if Sam would even stick around to finish the case. Anybody sane would have taken off, kicked the job to someone else. Dean was already resigned to doing some time; any attempt to bust him out likely wouldn't come until he was transported. He could sit tight for a while. But now - shit, if Sam got himself arrested, they were both screwed.
Son of a bitch. He had to get the hell out of here. Outside the sheriff's office, he'd at least have a shot at finding a stray paperclip, a friggin' coat hanger, something.
He'd been off in his head for too long; Morgan was staring at him. "He's trying to wrap up the case, isn't he? Means he'll be digging up a grave tonight, right? Where? The plantation cemetery?"
Dean swallowed hard, not quite sure if he was about to make a brilliant move or a giant fuck-up. "I'll help you out," he said, "but you'll have to do a few things my way."
Morgan just shook his head. "Come on, man. Just because I'm starting to think you're not completely loco, doesn't mean I can let you start calling the shots."
"I'm not asking you to hand me a knife or let me go, just to indulge my delusions a little bit. If I'm right, no more ghost, no more deaths. If I'm wrong, you get to debunk all this stuff."
"You gotta give me more than that."
Dean felt a cold twist in his gut. Said it anyway. "I can give you Sam."
--
Morgan was pretty sure Hotch's head was going to explode.
"Let me get this straight," Hotch said, arms folded across his chest. "You want to let a suspected serial killer dig up the grave of a Civil War veteran."
"Well, when you put it that way, it does sound pretty bad." Morgan felt a bubble of hysterical laughter building up in his chest, bit his cheek to keep it in. "We can move in before he actually opens the coffin."
"And why exactly does Dean need to be there?"
"Says he can talk Sam down if things start to get out of hand."
Hotch walked over to the monitor to watch Dean fidget in the interview room. "You realize this is probably some convoluted escape plan."
"Probably." Morgan sighed. "It might also be our best chance at getting Sam without anybody getting hurt."
Right about the time Morgan felt like squirming himself, Hotch nodded. "Let's get the team together. If we can figure out how to control this little field trip, it might just work."
--
At midnight, Dean sat handcuffed in the back of an SUV parked on a service road of the plantation. Beside him, Morgan watched his every move. The front seat was occupied by the uptight G-man, Hotchner, and the skinny geek, Reid. After a few digressions on obscure topics of American history, Dean knew that kid could pose a real challenge to Sam's title of Walking Encyclopedia of Weirdness.
Christ, he hoped Sam had a plan, or at least knew something was up, because he was fresh out of ideas.
The agents all had those sweet earpieces that made conversation easy for them and hard for Dean to follow. He gathered that the other members of their team were covering the perimeter. Hotchner had night vision binoculars trained on Sam, who was digging away, no sign of trouble yet. The crickets' hum was broken only by occasional updates and check-ins.
At least the feds had held up their end of the bargain so far. They hadn't busted Sam the moment they saw him. They'd kept Morgan away from the grave. They'd let Dean pocket a tiny salt shaker at dinner. And they'd let him change into street clothes instead of that stupid orange jumpsuit. Must have been pretty damn confident he wasn't getting away.
He was starting to think they were right.
A shotgun blast broke the silence, and everyone burst into motion.
Dean scrabbled at the door handle before he remembered he was kiddie-locked in. Hotchner let Morgan out of the back before he and Reid dashed off toward the graveyard. When Dean's door fell open, he tumbled with it. Morgan dragged him to his feet and around to the driver's side. One quick strike to his neck and he was crumbling, one wrist cuffed to the steering wheel before he knew it. Then Morgan was gone, gun drawn and bolting toward the action.
Officially FUBAR.
Dean felt around frantically for a lost paperclip or pen, an antenna, anything that could be broken or pried loose. Came up empty. He yanked at the cuffs, at the wheel.
The shotgun boomed again. He could hear shouts in the distance. A second gun fired.
Fuck.
"SAM!"
He was dimly aware he'd bloodied his wrist. Didn't care. Pulled harder. Steering wheel, cuffs - unlikely to break. But he knew how fragile flesh and bone could be.
He retched when his thumb gave, fell to his knees. But he was loose. He lurched to his feet and ran into the fray.
--
In front of him, Morgan heard gunfire. Behind him, Winchester yelled for his brother. He wasn't sure what had gone wrong, but things had turned into a clusterfuck, and fast.
He skidded to a stop in the clearing that held the little cemetery. The flashlight Sam Winchester had been digging by dimmed and died. The light on Morgan's gun went out a moment later. In the sudden dark, he saw only vague shapes: Sam's tall frame, shotgun in hand; Reid ducking for cover behind a tombstone. Where the hell was Hotch?
A misty form coalesced to Morgan's right, slowly becoming more defined, until it took the shape of a man. Its edges became clearer, its form more solid. Now Morgan could see the tattered Confederate uniform.
While the rational part of his brain was thinking, nice hologram, the rest was screaming, HOLY FUCKIN' SHIT! Because ghosts didn't exist. But he was pretty sure that was one right in front of him, advancing toward him. He brought up his gun and fired. The image (totally not a ghost) flickered out, reappeared closer. Before his brain could process that one, something cold had grabbed his legs and he was being dragged across the ground.
He lost his gun. Clawed at the ground, trying to halt his momentum.
Dean Winchester made a diving grab, caught Morgan's left hand, and dug his heels in against the (not a) ghost's pull. They jerked to a stop. Morgan felt like he was being ripped in half. From Dean's grunt of pain, he wasn't doing much better. Then a white shirt bobbed up out of the darkness, and Hotch grabbed on, too. The extra hands let Dean fumble out the mini-salt shaker he'd swiped and fling its contents toward the ghost.
The icy claws let Morgan go, the sudden lack of resistance sending everyone sprawling. Winchester flopped back in the dirt, panting, eyes squeezed shut in pain. Hotch landed on his ass, legs splayed in a rather undignified manner. A thin line of blood trickled down from his hairline.
"You okay?" Morgan asked.
Hotch nodded, breathing hard. "That thing threw me around a bit. Was that a - "
"Ghost?" Winchester said. "Congratulations. You've popped your supernatural cherry. Now come on, that thing's not gonna stay gone for long." He rolled awkwardly to a sitting position. His left shoulder drooped - dislocated? His right hand was streaked with blood. Morgan felt a little sick imagining how he must have gotten out of those cuffs.
More shouts came from the cemetery, then a shotgun blast. The three of them hustled back. In the little clearing, they found Sam Winchester chest-deep in the grave and Reid wielding the double-barrel, looking as panicked as Morgan had ever seen him. "Are you guys okay?" Reid stumbled a bit over the words. "What the hell was that? Was that a - "
"Yeah, kid," Morgan said, "it was."
"Q and A later," Dean bit out. He dug into a duffel bag lying next to the grave, found a canister and began pouring out a circle of salt.
As he worked, the spirit materialized again. Reid blasted it with the second barrel. "Please, guys," he said, "tell me I'm not hallucinating that."
Dean traded with Reid, shotgun for salt canister, and told him to finish the circle. It was proof just how crazy things had gotten, that nobody objected to giving the alleged serial killer the gun. As Dean reloaded with rounds from the duffel, he called down to Sam. "How's it going, Sam?"
"Almost there."
Morgan heard the scrape of the shovel against something solid, then a crack of wood splintering. Jesus. They were really digging up this corpse. And he was damn well going to let them.
The ghost reformed. Dean opened up with both barrels, cracked the gun to reload.
"Dude," Sam said from the grave. "Salt!"
Reid realized that meant him, tossed the canister down to Sam. A few moments later, the brothers exchanged salt for lighter fluid. Dean straightened up just as the spirit came back. He unloaded again.
Then Sam was scrambling up out of the grave, scratching at a book of matches until it lit. A twist of his wrist and the old bones went up in flames.
Morgan didn't relax until Dean lowered the shotgun and sat down hard on the ground, leaning against a gravestone. Sam came to sit beside him. A casual shoulder bump served as a greeting, though it made Dean wince.
"You guys can calm down now," Dean said with a pained grin. "It's gone."
That was when Morgan realized he still had one hand fisted in Hotch's shirt, the other in Reid's ugly sweater. Any other time, he might have felt silly. But tonight, he decided to hold on just a little longer.
--
Dean wanted to take the hand Sam held out to help him up, but his right hand felt like it was swollen to the size of a grapefruit, and it seemed he'd regained the trick shoulder he'd lost when he'd returned from hell. This was the third time he'd popped it since he'd been back.
In the end, he pushed to his feet on his own, then leaned against Sam.
Hotchner stared down into the burning grave, grim and unreadable. Reid looked a little shell-shocked; he let Morgan walk him over and sit him down on a nearby marble gravestone. Dean wondered how all this would play out: who would believe, who would question, who would deny. He'd met more than a few survivors who'd talked themselves out of what they'd seen.
Sam nudged his shoulder. Dean couldn't help the sound he made. "You all right?" Sam asked.
"Mostly," he ground out. "You?"
Sam shrugged. "Dude, I'm fine. That skinny guy was surprisingly adept with the shotgun. Tried to arrest me at first, but once he saw the ghost, he did exactly what I told him."
Morgan made his way over to them, stepping carefully around mounds of grave dirt. "You all right, Dean?" he asked.
Dean managed to nod, flashed a grin that wasn't fooling anybody.
Then Morgan looked to Sam. "So you're Sam," he said. Dean listed to one side while the two of them sized each other up, bristly and alpha-male and, Dean was disconcerted to note, possibly a bit protective towards him. After an uncomfortable pause, they shook hands, a truce of grudging respect.
Okay, that wasn't creepy at all. Dean just hoped they left the territorial pissing to metaphor.
The flames in the grave were guttering out, the sounds of the night creeping back in. Crickets took up their song again. Bullfrogs muttered deep in the marsh. Dean took a deep breath of the smoky air, smelled accelerant and damp earth. His stomach did a little flip, remembering his own grave.
Flashlights bobbed in the trees, the rest of the team on their way. Hotchner wound his way through the grave-dirt obstacle course to stand next to Morgan. "Is your car near here?" he asked.
Sam narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
Hotchner said, "Because you can go."
Sam stooped to start gathering their supplies, but Dean had to ask, "Seriously? How are you gonna explain all this?"
Hotchner gave an almost-laugh. "With difficulty. But I'm sure we can think of something. The CIA does it all the time."
Then Morgan said, "One question, though. If we ever run across something weird like this, how can we get a hold of you?"
Dean hesitated. They'd be getting new phones after this for sure. "Call Bobby Singer," he said. "Singer's Salvage, near Sioux Falls. If we can't take a job, he'll know someone who can."
"Got it. Take it easy on those credit cards, you hear? If anything trips you up, it'll be that."
"We'll do our best."
Sam nodded toward the south and started walking, which Dean took to mean the Impala was parked somewhere on the service roads near the marshes. He turned to follow, then thought of something. "Hey, I don't suppose there's any way I could get my gun back?"
Morgan grinned. "Don't push your luck. And Dean?"
Dean stopped again. "Yeah?"
"Thanks."
Dean nodded, then took off.
It would be good to get back on the road, get some miles between him and the concrete walls, the shatterproof glass he'd gotten to know a little too well. They could stop once they crossed the state line, fix up his shoulder and get some ice on his hand, better late than never. He could deal with the pain in the morning. Go back to worrying about Sam, about angels and demons and the apocalypse. Go back to the guilt and the fear and the nightmares.
But for tonight, they were still free. Still together. And for once, the good guys had won. As the dark marsh and insect hum swallowed him up, he felt lighter than he had in weeks.
He caught up and fell into step with Sam.
--
Hotch and Morgan watched the Winchester brothers disappear into the night. "Hey, Hotch?" Morgan said.
"Hmm?"
"Just how the hell are we going to explain this one?"
-------------------------------------------------
Author's Notes Part Two: If I overlooked your favorite character, I apologize. As much as I love both of the Winchesters and all the CM folks, things can get a little crowded when you try to include everyone, as I quickly learned.
Branford Hall, and the family who occupied it, are fictional, but the plantation and grounds are based on Boone Hall and Drayton Hall, both near Charleston.
The quote about a four-year-old girl being traded for "one bay mare, two cows, and two pigs" comes from the true story of a slave traded in Missouri in 1801 (Ruth Randall, "A Family for Suzanne," National Genealogical Society Quarterly 95 (December 2007): 281-302.)
Recent reading about forensic anthropology has brought to my attention that grave digging as portrayed on Supernatural is even more unrealistic than I first thought. Please just pretend that the coffin described herein would be a nice, Hollywood-prop pine box, pristinely preserved despite its marshy location.