SPN/CM - I See a Darkness - Ch 2 & 3 /?
Title: I See a Darkness
Fandoms: Criminal Minds/Supernatural
Rating: T/PG-13, but ventures into show level M/R
Warnings: Later mentions of child abuse, murder, violence--basically everything you'd get from watching either of these shows.
Summary: Working a case, Dean and Sam run into a problem, and they make the worse decision possible: they kidnap two members of the BAU. Between Fedsitting and hunting a killer who's collecting siblings, the boys aren't having their best day ever. Gen.
Link to Previous Chapter: Chapter 1
Setting: Season 4 for both shows, though time doesn't exactly line up. After "Wishful Thinking" for SPN, after JJ returns for CM.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or Criminal Minds. Or Attalla, Alabama (real place, but fully fictionalized for this story). I am making no money off of this story. Written for fun only.
Chapter 2: Two in the Hand
Dean leaned down, staring at his reflection in the wood framed television as if expecting something to jump out of the curved glass. He reached out, turning the knob, and a tunnel of light flashed across the screen, bringing it to life. His face lit up almost as quickly.
"Hey, check it out, Sammy," he called, "tube works."
Sam hummed a response, stepping around the sparsely furnished cabin. A single full-sized bed, extra cot folded against the wall, small sofa, breakfast table… He reached the kitchenette and tried the water. It gushed forward, surprisingly clear.
"Someone's been staying here. Often." Sam looked up, darkly, letting those words sink in for Dean.
Big brother only shook his head. "Not here now, though," he commented. "And hopefully we won't be here long enough to see who's taken over the place."
Because they weren't exactly on speaking terms with a good chunk of the hunting population of late. And with Caleb unable to vouch for them from beyond the grave, meeting up with whoever had taken to keeping the cabin kept up might not be pleasant. Dean took a step back, sitting on the edge of the bed. It creaked with his weight, and he grinned, despite himself.
It was probably the same mattress he'd jumped on in their last stay, when he was chasing Sammy across the room. They'd been kids then, and it was one of the rare times when their dad was actually staying in town to take care of a job instead of dropping them off at a motel. Caleb hadn't minded them staying on the property, so long as the pantry and toiletries were restocked - if memory served, Caleb, a fan of arms deals, had mostly done work of the none hunting variety from the tiny cabin. Hell, Dean and Sam hadn't even known Caleb very well back then. He was just another name.
"Damn long time ago," Dean muttered with the thought. Longer still after how he'd spent his summer vacation. He held down the shutter that came with that realization.
Sam was staring his way, but to Dean's surprise, there was no deep chick-flick meaning to the look. He was simply avoiding looking at the opposite wall, where their two guests were currently secured to two table chairs. Dean didn't blame him. Neither of the brothers needed to voice how deep shit creek had gotten over the past hour.
"Dean." Sam let out a breath. "Dean, maybe we should drop this case."
"Think we kinda made a commitment here, Sam." Dean gestured to Penelope in particular. He cocked his head. "Unless you're just trying to get out of this because you think…"
"That we have bigger and badder concerns?" Sam scoffed. "Yeah, Dean. Actually, that's exactly it."
Dean shook his head, standing. "Bigger and badder than saving lives?"
"This morning, you were complaining that you didn't think this was our kind of case, Dean. And nothing at the Hamilton's really changed any of that." Sam hesitated, "Is there something you're seeing that I'm not? Some special reason for taking this one?"
"What, so suddenly an EMF reading is worth writing off? Bo - " Dean paused, glancing the Feds and deciding that not using Bobby Singer's real name was probably a good idea, "We wouldn't have been given this case if there wasn't something to it. And, you know as well as I do that the earlier murders showed a lot of the usual signs."
Dean saw it out of the corner of his eye, the sight movement against the wall.
It looked as if Dr. Reid had found his comment interesting. When the agent realized he had their attention, he shifted forward, as much as the rope around his chest would allow.
Dean jerked his thumb in his direction. "See, they don't even know about the earlier ones yet, Sam. We're ahead of them on this."
"Dean." The voice was so foreign that Dean almost didn't recognize it. His eyes shot to Spencer just as the younger man opened his mouth to speak again. "Dean, your brother is right." He chewed his lip for a split second before continuing, his wording careful. "You can leave this case to us. We can handle it - let us handle it. There's nothing here for you to hunt."
Dean blinked, confused for a moment before he realized what "good cop" here was getting at. The play-along game. Great. He took a step toward the agent, but Sam reached a hand out to block him. Dean shrugged it off.
"Alright then, Spencer, I suppose we should just pack up, hit the road and drop you two off in front of the police station with a letter of apology?" Dean smirked, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "Sorry, Kid, not gonna happen." He took a breath, leaning forward. "And for your information, no you cannot handle it. The last FBI agent who thought he could ended up going down bloody, so forgive me if I'm not all that willing to leave it in your capable hands."
Wide, brown, guilt-inducing puppy dog eyes stared up at him. Damn. Dean wondered if Sam even realized that other humans possessed that same super-powered gaze. If Dean didn't know better, he'd say the agent was waiting for a blow. Which made Dean feel a little worse. The hunter straightened, softening his expression slightly, and clearing his throat.
"You two just sit tight and let us get this thing done. It'll be over before you can recite your handbook."
He turned his gaze to Penelope. The woman's face had paled, making her heavy eyeliner and near-purple lipstick stand out. Judging from the tremble of her chin, she was very close to shedding a few tears. Shit. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to mention a dead agent. Somehow, two grown adults were making him feel like he'd just kicked a little girl's puppy. It wasn't exactly a good feeling. He opened his mouth, ready to warn them that gags were in their future if Dr. Reid gave any more suggestions, and gave up before the words left his mouth.
Dean sighed, throwing his arms in the air in surrender and turned his back the hostages in defeat. "You know what, Sammy, next time, you give 'the talk'."
Sam was hiding his grin with one hand. The humor drifted, his brow wrinkling in its place, as if an idea had just struck him. "Penelope?" he asked. "What exactly do you do for the FBI?"
She gathered her courage, taking a shaky breath. "I'm a computer technician for the BAU."
Dean looked over one shoulder. "What's the BAU?"
Sam stepped forward before she could answer, a little too quick in his reply. "Behavioral Analysis Unit. They're criminal profilers."
"Ah, Sammy, I'd forgotten about your little FBI phase - kept trying to convince Dad he was chasing a serial killer. Was that before or after you decided you wanted to be a magician?"
Sam glared at him a split second before pushing the warning home. "Dean-" an unspoken 'did you hear me, dude?' between one word and the next, "-profilers."
Dean shook his head, somehow managing to sound nonchalant. "Day just gets better and better. Step out for ice, end up with Computer Hacker Barbie and Clarice Starling. Wonderful."
Penelope's scoff was so low, he barely heard it. "Barbie?"
The night was brightened by the gray clouds looming above, holding back the heavy rain for a few moments. Already, though, a light mist was falling once more. Beggars couldn't be choosers, though; Derek was simply happy the downpour that had arrived while he was finishing up at the dumpsite was on temporary leave.
He hid the phone with his free hand, boots splashing through the puddles before he found sanctuary beneath the overhanging in front of the motel. One wide palm swiped the dampness off his dark brow, his near-smooth head, before he gave his attention back to the conversation.
"Nope, Hotch. Like I said, nothing different than the previous dumps, accept for the location. Forested area, right off a main highway. High ravine against the road." Derek paused, shaking his head. "What gets me is that no one has seen this guy in action. Unloading one body is hard enough, but two? And without a single shoe print? Something's not adding up."
Lifting his chin, he read the room number off the closest door, walking toward it with a wide stride. The hum of Hotchner's voice could barely be heard over the rolling clouds above. "Yeah, well, be careful on the roads. Got a feeling the storm's not over yet."
Room 36 came into view. Derek closed his phone with a snap and pocketed it. He raked his knuckles over the blue door, listening for movement inside. "Hey, baby girl, it's Derek," he called.
No reply.
He rolled his eyes, a small grin at one corner of his mouth. If Garcia was on the same wavelength as him, she was probably hitting the showers right about now. He hoped she'd had the foresight to hand the other room keys off to Reid first, or the rest of the team was going to have a hell of a time getting into their rooms.
Derek took another step down. A sliver of light was spilling out between the mostly-closed curtains of Reid's room. Another tap. The agent hesitated before knocking harder.
Nothing.
"Damn," he muttered, turning back to face the parking lot. A split second later he remembered that Garcia and Reid had left the rest of the team with the rentals, getting a ride to the motel from Deputy Barnel.
That ruled out them hitting the town, not that he suspected either of them were in the mood to do anything more than sleep. Or that Attalla had anything to offer past sunset.
The manager's office was still open. Good. Maybe they were in the small lobby. At the very least, the manager might be able to get him another key.
Still, Derek didn't make a move toward the office. Something about this felt off. He glanced over his shoulder, staring at Garcia's door, a frown on his face. What if…? Derek shook his head, stopping the paranoia before it could dig its claws deeper. Check the office first, then worry, he told himself. Nevertheless, his hands dug back into his pocket, pulling free the cell phone.
Garcia's was the number he dialed most, so he pressed call without thinking. His steps toward the office were slow, deliberate, as if they were timed with each ring. Chewing his bottom lip, he waited for the voice message telling him to "bestow the keeper of all knowledge" his "offerings." Even that wasn't enough to loosen the hard frown on his face.
"Garcia, I'm at the motel." He hesitated, resisting the panicked question at the tip of his tongue. "Call me," he finished, instead, ending the call.
Reid's number was next.
Ring.
Morgan was nearly at the end of the building, the office separated from the long wing of the L-shaped motel.
Ring.
His brow wrinkled when he heard an echo of the ring in the distance. Pulling the phone away from his ear, he turned a full circle, eyes searching the barely lit parking lot. The rain was falling again, throwing the sound in every direction. It took him a moment to focus, to hear it again, to figure out where it was coming from. When he did, he realized his back was to it.
Derek came to a dead stop, staring at the small breezeway separating the front half of the building from the back. A vending machine that looked as if it hadn't been restocked in a decade, a Coke machine, and to the opposite side, a blue and white ice box. A plastic bucket had been abandoned on the wet sidewalk below, mostly melted chips floating in a tied-off plastic bag beside it.
And the ringing had stopped. Not before Derek had heard where its muted tone was coming from: the box itself.
Derek knew why the hairs on the back of his neck were standing, and he wished to God they'd end their salute. He had enough scenarios going through his head without his subconscious throwing up red flags. He licked his lip, reaching out. His distorted reflection stared back at him from the pitted silver doors of the box.
"No," he whispered, without meaning to.
No to those thoughts. About what could be past those doors. What was waiting. Why two of the people he was most protective of in this world weren't answering their phones. No. Plain and simply put, No.
His fingers latched on to the pull. One yank and it slid open. The contents were shadowed, Derek's body blocking the bright light above him. But he see clearly enough. No bodies. No blood.
Derek pushed a painful breath from his chest, but those pesky hairs were still standing on his neck. At the corner of the box, abandoned on the last bit of remaining ice, were two cell phones. He didn't need to pick them up to know who they belonged to. He caught his mouth with one hand, pinching his lips with his fingers. Thoughts flooded him, but only one formulated well enough for him to take action. He lifted his own phone again, waiting for an answer.
By, God, there better be an answer. If their wasn't, he'd…
"Morgan?"
"Hotch," Derek breathed, pushing the emotion down. "I think we've got a problem."
"Morgan, what's wrong?"
There was an urgency in Hotch's voice that Derek wanted to rebuke. After all, he wasn't sure. Not yet. Couldn't be, not until he checked their rooms. Was absolutely certain that…that they were gone.
"Hotch, I'm still at the motel, but Garcia and Reid…" Derek's eyes had drifted downward, following the spill of water from the broken-down ice machine. His feet had a mind of their own, taking him to the backside of the motel, where another line of rooms waited, no cars parked in front of them. But there, on the sidewalk a few rooms down from the vending area, was a single feather.
"Morgan, are you still there? What's happening?"
Derek took to one knee, reaching down for it. He rolled it between two fingers, vaguely aware of Hotch's voice in his ear. It was sunflower yellow. Short as his little finger. Fuzzy. Just like the ones on Penelope's hair barrette.
"Has something happened to Garcia and Reid? Morgan, talk to me."
Derek's voice was distant when it finally returned. "Hotch, they're missing," he said, as calmly as he could manage. His body grew rigid, nearly shaking. "Hotch, you need to get here before I start kicking in doors."
And he closed the phone with a snap.
For all the training, for all the profiling, there was no sure-fire way of dealing with two people as delusional as the Winchesters. Especially when his hands were tied, literally, his gun taken, his friend in danger. But, Spencer remembered what Gideon had taught him: the profile, that was his real weapon. The only one he currently had at his disposal.
Spencer really wished this was his first time in this situation. That the terror crawling over his skin like spider legs was completely new to him. But it wasn't, not in the least.
Without meaning to, he found himself staring at Penelope. If the brothers would just leave the room, the both of them, for just a moment, he could tell her that she'd be alright. That he'd get her out of this, somehow. Because that's what someone like Morgan would say. What he wouldn't tell her, of course, were the details of the Winchesters' files. What they had, what Dean Winchester had, reportedly done to those women in St. Louis.
Spencer watched the younger brother, Sam, scoot forward from his makeshift seat on the cooler, holding the water bottle's straw closer to Garcia's mouth. She arched her neck, taking a hesitative sip before pulling away from him again. Sam was distracted, though, glancing over his shoulder, watching his brother lay the laptop and notes out on the small breakfast table, scooting a floor lamp closer to the work area. The cabin itself wasn't very well lit, especially now that night was fully upon them, but there was enough light to see by.
Spencer shared a glance with Penelope, hoping that she'd understand. Her lips opened again, and she let her eyes trail Sam's face.
"Thank you."
Sam startled, haven forgotten the bottle in his hand. He lowered it, sitting it down on the floor beside her chair.
Spencer caught Penelope's eye again, nodding slightly. Sam. Sam was the one they needed to concentrate on.
"For the drink," Penelope added, biting her lip slightly.
"Um," Sam gave her an awkward smile, "yeah, you're welcome." And then glanced up to see Spencer staring him down. "How about you? We've got some more water, beer…might even have a bottle of apple juice left." He was already standing again, ready to pop the cooler's lid open, when Reid shook his head.
"No, thanks," he said, swallowing.
Sam nodded, standing in place. After a moment, he sunk back to the edge of the cooler, propping his elbows on his long legs and leaning forward. His dark eyes glanced up for a moment, silently calling his brother's attention, but he turned his focus back on Reid a split second later.
"Back at the motel," Sam began, "you recognized Dean."
Spencer noticed how innocently Sam had managed to not make that into a question, giving him no room to claim otherwise. Spencer's fingers fidgeted above his legs. He nodded, his adam's apple bouncing in tune with the movement.
"Yes," he said. "He was on the Most Wanted list. All FBI agents are required to know the names of those individuals."
"Was," Dean chirped, coming up beside the agent. "Was on the Most Wanted. Kinda strange, though, you taking one glance at me and recognizing my face alone. Especially since I'm dead, according to you guys."
"You've died twice now," Spencer supplied.
As much as he knew he should be concentrating on the situation at hand, he couldn't help but let his mind flip through that information, digest it further. How had the Winchesters escaped alive? How had Dean faked his deaths, especially the one in St. Louis? There'd been coroner pictures of the body of the man standing in front of him. And, why? Why fake your death so elaborately if you're not going to stay under the radar?
Dean's gaze narrowed slightly at the reply, more questions behind those hazel eyes. Spencer could see the paranoia there. He realized too late that he should have kept his mouth shut. If the brothers thought he was too suspicious, if they turned him into a villain in whatever current fantasy they were playing out, he'd be endangering himself and Penelope even further.
Spencer caught those piercing eyes again. "I have an eidetic memory," he continued. The explanation wasn't enough, he knew. He needed to make himself accessible, make the brothers believe he could be convinced of the truth behind their delusions. Playing along was the safest course of action at the moment. It might be enough to buy the team time… Time for what? To find their two dead abductors?
No, he had to have more confidence in his team. They'd found him in the past. They'd do it again.
"I read through your file a few years ago for a Special Agent named Victor Henricksen." Spencer watched for the spark of recognition in Dean's eye and wasn't disappointed. "Agent Henricksen was obsessed with your case after the incident in St. Louis and called me several times to look over his profile." Reid paused, weighing his options, and deciding to take the chance. One of the things Henricksen had insisted on was that the oldest had quite the ego - Reid could work with that. "I told him that I doubted he'd be able to track down you and your brother. You'd lost him before, and you'd do it again. Judging from what I've read, you're very skilled at what you do. It's impressive."
Dean snorted at that, breaking eye contact. "What exactly do you think we do?" he asked, his voice low.
Spencer stilled. He'd been expecting some sort of confirmation of vanity, over-confidence, arrogance. Instead, Dean's physical reaction, aversion, had almost been self-deprecating. "I know what Agent Henricksen thought you did. But he was wrong about you." Spencer straightened, leaning closer. "He thought you were just killing people, but there was more to it than that, right, Dean?"
"Listen." Dean took a breath, his eyes finally drifting up from the floor enough to meet the other man's gaze. "If this is the part where you start bad-mouthing Henricksen because you think it's what I want to hear, you can just stop where you are. Victor was a good guy. He made assumptions that any sane person would, and, yeah, he was wrong. But he was a good man."
Spencer blinked, trying to hide his surprise. The reaction told him enough: at some point, Agent Henricksen had become part of Dean's delusions, but not as a monster. "Is he the agent who…died bloody?"
Aversion, again. Spencer felt the conversation slipping from his grasp.
Dean's brow wrinkled as he studied his own hands. "Yeah," he said, and stepped away, as if the notes he'd left on the table had suddenly become more interesting.
Spencer could feel Sam's eyes on him, glaring a hole through his skin. When he met the youngest Winchester's gaze, he was surprised at the anger there, restrained but present.
"Just because you read a file on us, doesn't mean you know us," Sam bit, standing. His looming height was unnerving, but whatever had been in his eyes disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. "If you change you mind about that drink, let me know."
He stepped away, joining his brother over a stack of papers. Reid and Garcia's eyes trailed him. Spencer released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The profile was his best weapon. Unfortunately, it looked like it was no where near complete.
Penelope shook her head slightly at Spencer, obviously unnerved by the exchange. Reid had to remind himself that she didn't know the details. Didn't know what it was the Winchesters believed.
"That went well," she whispered.
Spencer echoed the sentiment.
The motel hadn't put money into new lighting in at least a decade, and yet it was, currently, standing out as a beacon in the night. Car lights, spotlights on the scene, flashlights: it was as bright as midday in the parking lot at the back of the building.
"Looks like half the town's here," Emily said, her eyes scanning the crowd.
Derek only nodded. He'd been a whirlwind for the past hour, but, finally, her words seemed to bring him to a stop. Dark eyes narrowed as the man studied the faces crowding the area, as if he'd noticed he wasn't alone in his search for the first time. He didn't speak, letting the moment of hesitation wash over him as quickly as it had arrived.
Emily frowned, knowing he was about to move again. She couldn't blame him for not being able to stand still, even if her own betraying legs currently felt like they were filled with lead instead of blood.
"Morgan," she began.
The sentiment at her lips didn't finish forming. Hotch and Rossi were approaching from the vending area, their faces set. From their expressions alone, she knew they hadn't found anything they could use. Nevertheless, Morgan moved forward, his hard-muscled mass almost threatening in the quick movement.
"Hotch, were all the guests accounted for? Were the police able to locate them?"
Rossi raised his brow slightly, sharing a look with Emily. She wasn't the only one who had noticed how wired Morgan was, his voice high, clipped. Aggressive, even if that aggression wasn't aimed toward the team.
Hotch's expression was stony; the constant leader. "Sheriff McKinney's men located the man staying in room ten at the local diner. The family from room thirty-seven arrived back just a few minutes ago. Two individuals, however, are missing. The hotel manager says they paid in cash for two evenings, but it looks as if they've already moved out of the room."
The light caught Derek's eyes, brightening them. "Names? Descriptions?"
The rapid-fire questions were almost barked out. Hotch didn't comment, though, turning the floor over to Rossi. The older agent nodded once in the direction of the rooms. One door was wide open, Sheriff McKinney standing at the frame with an elderly man holding a ring of keys.
"The hotel manager, Berry Pierce, wasn't as helpful as we could have hoped for," Rossi sighed, shaking his head when the team's attention came back to him. "He's elderly and, unfortunately, doesn't believe in wearing the glasses his doctor prescribed. The description he gave us was rather vague. Both were male Caucasians, tall, dark haired, and, I quote, 'youngish.'"
Emily raised a brow. "You're kidding? That's it?"
"Did he get a name for either of them?" Derek bit.
Rossi scratched his ear, not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. "Not one we can use. They were signed in under Mal and Angus Young. Apparently, Mr. Pierce isn't much of an AC/DC fan."
Morgan looked as if he were ready to punch something. Emily understood his frustration. They all did. But she pushed down the aggravation, concentrating on the case at hand. The case… With all eyes peeled for Garcia and Reid, she'd almost forgotten why they were in this town in the first place.
"Should we assume that one or both of these men might be the Unsub we're looking for?" she voiced.
Hotch's jaw twitched, but his expression wasn't one of surprise. He'd been considering the idea, Emily knew. He had to have been, because coincidences weren't things they ran into often.
"There's a possibility," he said. "Multiple unsubs would explain the organization of the disposal sites, the ease of the abductions. If that's the case, then our unsubs might be siblings themselves, or at the very least, related."
Derek ran a hand over his mouth, wiping away the dampness at the corner of his lips. "But Reid and Garcia don't fit. They're not siblings. Neither of them even have siblings. And they were taken together instead of apart. This doesn't feel planned." He winced, shaking his head. "Which means that, if the murderers and their abductors are one and the same, Garcia or Reid must have saw something that threatened the unsubs. Made them react."
Emily straightened, crossing her arms over her chest. "…Or they were recognized." At Rossi's puzzled expression she went on. "Not Reid or Garcia. I mean, one of them might have recognized the unsubs. If the unsubs picked up on it, they might have reacted with their most familiar course of action. Abduction."
The team grew quiet. Emily knew exactly what her words implied. Unplanned. A reaction to a threat. If that were the case, there was a good chance the unsubs had disposed of Reid and Garcia already.
Derek took a step back, walking away from the group without a word. Hotch stared after him.
"We'll find them," Hotch said. His frown deepened, contradicting the words. "We'll find them. If the unsubs did react in a panic, they'll have left something behind."
Rossi nodded. "And we'll find it."
___________________________________________________________________
Chapter 3
Waiting for the Sun
"Waiting for you to come along/ Waiting for you to tell me what went wrong/ This is the strangest life I've ever known"
- "Waiting for the Sun" by The Doors
Above, pale gray clouds on a midnight blue backdrop danced without their usual music. A moment of silence between one heavenly wave "hello" and the next as they passed. But the world below was neither as quiet nor as peaceful as the sky.
Glass shattered, the exclamation mark on the final scream enough to still the lone possum dining at the bottom of the steel trash barrel.
The woman who stormed out was young, too young to be the child's mother. Her make-up was a charcoal smear beneath the tangled mass of bottle blond and hairspray, her fingers strained around an overfilled bag spewing skirts too short for the season and lace too synthetic to be undergarments.
A shoe dropped free, clattering against the wooden planks. She didn't turn back for it.
The child stepped off of the stairs, out of her way before she could storm down, trip over his small, hunched form. She was blind to him, either purposely or because rage made her so. By the light of the moon, the smaller form took shape: a boy, too short and too quiet for his nine years.
The woman held no interest for Ricky. The child on the other hand was, in a word, perfect.
There was not a soul inside the house aside from the father, and yet the old man's gravelly voice could be heard, calling out a name. Anger wrapped in that single word.
The child looked over his shoulder, gaze drawn to the slammed door, fear crossing his face for a split second before numb indifference took its place. He took a step back, crouching down beside the stairs to the porch, hiding there while fading red taillights brightening the old country road.
The woman was gone. The father too lazy to follow.
Ricky had lowered himself to the boy's height, crouched low on the damp earth, but he was too far away to be seen or heard by the child. A crooked smile on his face, Ricky leaned forward, his lean silhouette breaking free of the bushes.
"Perfect, isn't he?"
Ricky nodded. "Exactly what I was thinking. You're never wrong, big brother."
He could feel Glenn kneeling beside him, a shade made of ice touching his arm. The contact with his sibling comforted him, left him caressing his own fists like a thief in a goldmine. His fingertips brushed the ring on his finger and the grin became less maniacal, almost gentle. "Someone needs to be there for him," Ricky agreed. His body trembled slightly. "When?"
Glenn seemed to fall backwards, disappearing both from view and from existence in an instant. Ricky smiled when he saw his big brother's form further away, pale as moonshine, behind the cowering child. The unknowing child.
Glenn looked as he had in death, a flannel over a loose shirt, jeans. Blood. Too much of it. But it had lost its color, appearing to be black and gray shadows on the colorless flesh of his forehead. And Glenn was young, too, younger than Ricky now. Or, at least, he looked it.
Head cocked in study, Glenn's lips moved, though no sound came out. Ricky knew, though, what it was he mouthed to the child: "Soon."
Sam wasn't a fan of taking hostages for precisely the same reason he didn't enjoy babysitting. Voluntary responsibility over another human's life? Hunting was about stopping monsters and saving people, as his brother had drilled into his head a number of times. Not about endangering them. And not about providing supervised bathroom breaks.
Not that he was actually supervising. Sam felt heat in his cheeks at the mere thought. Which was odd in itself. As much as Dean liked to poke fun, he hadn't been "shy Sammy" in a long time. The flush from the other side of the door startled him into awareness, his shoulders lifting off of the door before the knob twisted.
Penelope peeked out, a strained, nervous grin crossing her face for a split second. Most the makeup had been washed from her skin, though a purple stain on her lips remained.
"All done," she announced.
Her blond hair was hanging loose around her round-cheeked face, a thin green-dyed highlight curling against her neck, the fuzzy barrette abandoned somewhere. Sam leaned over her, seeing the elastic on the edge of the sink. He sighed, putting his hand out, beckoning for her to relinquish her prize.
Penelope frowned, hand in the figurative candy jar, and dropped a bobby pin onto his palm.
Sam stood firm. "The rest of them."
She sighed, reaching up to yank two more off the bra strap she'd secured them to. Sam coughed down his chuckle at her pout when she relinquished the hair accessories.
"Do you even know how to pick a lock?"
She raised a plucked brow. "Can't be that hard."
"That's a no."
Penelope shrugged, the voice of defeat. "I was just planning to poke you really hard."
"Thanks for the heads up." Sam smirked, tilting his head in the direction of the main room. Penelope took the hint, walking in front of him.
Sam was surprised to see that his brother had untied their other guest as well. Meaning both of their "hostages" were currently unsecured. A dangerous move. An un-Dean-like move. Sam huffed, aggravated by the barely contained smile on his brother's face. Because, somehow, Dean found something about this situation damned funny.
Sam was not as amused.
The older Winchester was sitting on a stool beside the lone bed, a fake seriousness to his wrinkled brow as he posed an important question to the FBI agent laying flat backed on the mattress like a psych patient on a sofa.
"So up?" Dean asked, yanking Dr. Reid's arm skyward to indicate the iron railed head of the bed. "Or down?" Dean dropped the lanky arm down beside the mattress, where the skeletal bed frame was exposed. "Up or down, man? Not rocket science - up or down? Doesn't take a genius. Though, since you are one, this should be an easier decision."
Reid blinked, confused by the movement and opened his mouth to speak. Dean interrupted him.
"Up?"
It took all of Sam's strength not to slap his own palm against his forehead. Or, more likely, against the back of Dean's head. God, I shouldn't have let Dean have dibs on the extra coffee this morning. Sam reached out, gently taking hold of Penelope's arm to keep her from getting too close to her fellow agent.
"Down?"
Sam had a feeling Dean had already asked this question. Multiple times if the exhausted expression on Spencer's face was any indication. The young agent tilted his head up and opened his mouth once more, ready to reply when Dean glanced Sam and jerked Spencer's arm up as if he were a Raggedy Anne doll, cuffing him to the pole on the head board. The momentum pushed Reid's head back down onto the pillow. One leg rebelled, laying sprawled off the side of the mattress.
"Up it is," Dean chirped. At Spencer's frown, he nodded his head and grabbed the guy's foot, tossing it against the other. "You're a back sleeper. Trust me."
Sam rolled his eyes, deciding to let his brother's inappropriately good mood go unchecked. "So, I'm guessing they're getting the bed?"
Dean moved to the foot of the bed, jerking Reid's shoes off with a swift move, his eyes still on his brother. But Sam's had moved to the agent, noticing the split second of panic on the man's face at the action. Sam raised a confused brow, not wanting to consider what the expression was about, and waited for Dean's reply.
"Sorry, Princess," Dean smirked. "Hope it doesn't interfere with your beauty sleep."
"Jerk."
"Bitch."
Sam couldn't help the smile across his face, happy when it was reflected in Dean's eyes. He'd had to go without that endearment for too long. And for a while, he'd thought he'd never hear it again. Sam was vaguely aware of the odd looks he and his brother were currently receiving, but didn't mind. Their two hostages already thought the Winchesters were murderous psychopaths. Reputed potty mouths were the least of their problems.
Dean clapped his hands once, ending the moment. "Unless," his eyes drifted to Penelope. He wisely chose not to wiggle his eyebrow suggestively. "Unless Penny isn't comfortable with laying so close to her co-worker. If Spencer here is a little grabby, you could take the cot and we could duct tape the good doctor to the sofa…"
"No," Penelope interrupted. She blinked, as if flustered by the choice. Apparently, kidnapping wasn't supposed to come with options. "Um, thank you, the bed is fine."
"Settled then," he shot Sam a look, "dibs on the cot."
Sam didn't have to glance up to know the cot was closest to the front door. And also appeared to be older than either of the Winchesters. "Dean…"
Deans wagged a finger to stop him. "Your freakishly long legs are just going to have to cramp up on the sofa, Samsquatch. Now, tuck Penelope in already." He gave her a quick wink. "And don't let her talk you into anything I wouldn't do."
Sam ignored the statement. "There's a little research I wanted to do before bed."
Dean looked up. "No, Sammy." The mirth in his voice disappeared. He rolled his shoulders, stretching out an ache that seemed constant these days. "We're not going to have much time before their friends get a description on us. Better get in all the rest we can."
Before we've got to run.
Sam grimaced. Demons and angels were bad enough. Now the FBI would be on their case. Again. Fake deaths just didn't last as long as they used to. Much like real ones.
The bed was uncomfortable. Morgan really hadn't expected any different. He leaned his head back, missing the stack of pillows and hitting the wall. Heavy lids wanted to stay down, but he cracked his neck, keeping his gaze wide, watching the small motel room as if something might appear from one of the shadowed corners.
He'd searched it. Thoroughly. And, yet, her, Garcia's, largest bag remained untouched, still zipped up from the flight down. She'd be angry if he went through her things, if he lost one single earring.
Because she would be back. She would. And, she'd want to wear one of her favorite pairs.
"Miss you, baby girl," he said.
This hadn't been his first stop either. Two hours ago, he'd been in Reid's room, sitting back in the very same position. As if the abductors had left some message behind. But, they hadn't. Garcia and Reid hadn't had the time to unpack their shower items or settle in, so, in all likelihood, the abductors had never even seen the inside of the rooms.
Derek had went to them, nevertheless, after everyone had forced themselves to retire for the evening.
The knock at the door was faint, barely a tap, but it jerked him to awareness.
"Morgan?" The call matched the knock, but the sound was enough for him to make out the owner. Emily Prentiss.
He shook his head, ashamed that he had thought, even for an instance, that it might be someone other than his accounted-for teammates. Morgan opened the door for her, stared out at the chill night. Prentiss didn't so much ask for an invitation as push her way in, rubbing the cold out of her arms.
"Thought you might be here," she said.
Morgan straightened. "Did something happen? Hotch didn't call…"
She shook her head, stopping him before he could get his hopes up. "Nothing like that." Emily stared at the open space, her eyes stopping on the wrinkled bed linen where he'd been propped. "I woke up a little early," she excused, leaving out the 'few hours' part. "Looks like you never woke up at all."
"I got some sleep," he defended.
Her frown said she didn't believe a word of it. With a shake of her head, she gestured for him to take a seat on the edge of the bed with her. The mattresses grunted at the give, but silence owned the room in seconds.
"Know why you're here?" Emily asked.
Morgan snorted, shaking his head. "As in, why I'm here on earth? Haven't the foggiest."
Emily cast him a glare. "In this room." She paused, weighing her options, before she continued. "Before I went to bed, Rossi said you were in Reid's room. Do you know why you've spent the night in their rooms?"
Derek wasn't in the mood to answer, but his mouth opened. "Studying the victims," he said, nearly at a whisper, "like I would in any other case."
She shook her head but didn't contradict him. "They aren't any other victims, though."
"Emily?"
Prentiss turned, watching his hunched form with wide, wet eyes. "Yes?"
Derek clasped his hands together, letting them hang down between his knees. "Garcia," he said, "Garcia's not trained for this." He licked day old coffee off his bottom lip, not letting his gaze raise. "And we know what these unsubs do to them, to the people they take. We've seen the damn videos, the photographs. We know." He turned to face her. "I wish we didn't. Know."
Emily reached out, gripping his shoulder. "Derek, Reid's been here before. He'll take care of Penelope. I'm trusting in that. In him. You need to do the same."
Morgan nodded, but his eyes had darkened slightly, emotion making them shine in the faint light. "Sure, the kid knows what to do. He'll take care of her." He raised his hands higher, as if in prayer. "For as long as he can."
Reid had a hard time staying asleep, and he doubted it had much to do with the cuff holding his hand above his head. He'd drifted in and out, craning his head to see that Penelope was having no such problems, no doubt emotionally exhausted by the events, her head angled towards him, hair spilled out as if to reach him. She'd placed her free hand over his. Though he usually found himself uncomfortable with physical contact, the warm comfort was one he appreciated, even if it had been done subconsciously.
Each time he had stirred and turned to check on her, his second move had been to twist his head toward the opposite wall. Dean and Sam had been awake sometime longer than they'd expected, contrary to what the oldest brother had stated. Finally, though, Sam had disappeared onto the sofa, his socked feet hanging off one end, his brown hair spilling over the opposite arm. Dean had laid back on the ancient cot, each movement sending a loud metal whine He'd grown still, fully clothed, a hand on his stomach, another tucked behind his head. Dean's eyes, though, had been open each time Reid had glanced his way, as if the man were in deep thought.
But now, it appeared as if Dean Winchester was fully asleep, rolled out of his stiff position and onto his side, facing the bed.
A soft noise disturbed the silence of the room.
Reid raised a brow, surprised that it had been a short gasp from the older brother. He was having a dream. If the sheen of sweat on his brow, the clenching fingers over his blanket, weren't indication of a nightmare, then the grimace on his face surely was. By moonlight, his quiet struggle with his sleep made Dean Winchester appear almost childlike. Innocent.
But Dean Winchester wasn't innocent. Reid knew that, though he wasn't exactly sure what one could consider the two brothers. Sick. Sick was the word hospitals and defenders would use. Deranged would be the word the public would label them with. Delusional is what Spencer Reid had chosen.
Spencer had never been quite so thrown by the background of an unsub. Usually, a file was helpful, but, obviously, Agent Henricksen's wasn't doing much good. Perhaps that was what was throwing him off. He needed to sort through what he knew, throw out what was conjecture on Henricksen's part, put together what he had gathered over the hours with the brothers.
And he had to do it fast.
The Winchesters might be delusional, but the murders committed around Attalla were the work of a serial. Which meant, the need to kill wouldn't be sated by a change in their fantasies.
Dean moved slightly, his head ducking down, chin pressed into his chest as if to protect himself. The muscles of his face tensed.
The call was hoarse, quieter than a whisper. Reid wouldn't have heard it at all if he hadn't been watching the man's lips form the choked name.
"No, Sammy…"
Reid heard the creak that followed, raising his head slightly to see that he wasn't the only one awake. Sam was propped up on the arm of the sofa, watching his brother with a hollow expression. Not a single emotion left naked on his face.
The small audience jumped when Dean jerked in his sleep, his eyes wide, a pant at his lips. Reid laid back, trying to close his eyes enough to look as if he hadn't been watching, but Sam remained exactly as he was, unashamed of his spying.
Dean locked eyes on his brother, guilt leaving his face paler.
Reid wasn't quite sure what that expression indicated, his own brow knitted in confusion. Reid caught the answer before it could leave his mouth, swallowing down the need to tell his theory on the matter. Because the team wasn't there to hear it and the Winchesters wouldn't like it very much.
Guilt. That was important. A missing piece.
Guilt because he was killing siblings? Punishing others because the two siblings he really wanted to hurt… Every bit of evidence on the Winchesters suggested that Dean was highly protective of his little brother. Even an uncontrollable urge to kill might not allow him to harm Sam, at least not at first, but, if that was what Dean wanted, to murder his little brother… That would explain why he was taking out his frustrations on siblings. But it didn't explain why he killed the older sibling as well.
Unless the older sibling represents Dean himself, Reid mused.
Perhaps Dean was breaking from his father's instilled delusions. Perhaps he was beginning to recognized what he and his brother were actually doing. To innocent people. Reid sucked in a quick breath, holding back a tremble at the thought. If he was correct, if Dean was that self-destructive, there would be no reasoning with him. A man ready to kill himself, to kill the very person he was raised to save, was beyond dangerous, beyond predictable, especially when one didn't know which delusions he was still acting out and which had already crumbled away, out of his reality.
Spencer wove his fingers through Penelope's, gripping on to her in fear.
"Want to talk about it?" Sam asked.
Dean snorted, shrugging off the question. "It's nothing, Sammy."
"Nothing?" Sam's jaw tightened. "Sure," the man bit. He rolled back onto the sofa, pounding down his pillow with one arm in frustration.
Dean had already turned his attention from his brother, staring at the bed. Spencer opened his eyes fully, knowing he'd lost the facade. He expected Dean to be angry at the invasion of privacy, but only the guilt remained in his eyes.
There was something else there, too. Shame. It made Spencer nauseous.
"Sorry I woke you, kid," Dean whispered, his voice hoarse again. "Go back to sleep."
Reid somehow doubted that was going to happen any time soon, not with a dozen new questions filling his mind. When he opened his eyes again, daring to look out, Dean Winchester was slipping out the front door, a leather jacket over his shoulders.
LINK TO CHAPTERS 4 & 5