Haunted Minds 8/?
Title: Haunted Minds 8/?
Author: buffyaddict13
Rating: RFT/R for violent images
Fandom: Supernatural, Criminal Minds
Pairing/Characters: Gen, Sam and Dean Winchester, Andy Gallagher, Bobby Singer, Spencer Reid, Aaron Hotchner, Emily Prentiss, Penelope Garcia, Derek Morgan, Jennifer "JJ" Jereau
Summary: A shocking discovery sends the BAU to Cold Oak, South Dakota.
A/N 1: Betaed by the extremely awesome riverbella. Thank you babe! Big buckets of thank you to all the people who've been reading this.
A/N 2: Spoilers up to Seven Seconds (season 3) for Criminal Minds and spoilers for Supernatural up to Fresh Blood (season 3).
gorgeous cover made by riverbella.
The greatest griefs are those we cause ourselves.
~Sophocles
Reid can feel Garcia looking at him and realizes, belatedly, he's standing too close to her. He shifts a few inches backwards. "Sorry," he mumbles.
Garcia gives him a look like he's been speaking in tongues. "Reid, I'm used to you breathing down my neck. I'm just waiting for you tell me what I'm supposed to look for." She winks at him. "Or are you just trying to get some alone time together? You know you can't resist me."
Spencer opens his mouth, closes it. He stares at her. She's joking with him. Like she does with Morgan. Right? His brain feels too heavy for his head. He puts one hand against the work table and leans, aware that if he doesn't, he's liable to fall. This was a bad idea. A bad idea. But bad idea or not, he needs to ask about Andy. Just do it.
Garcia smiles gently. "Reid, I'm teasing. You can stop gaping like a fish, okay?"
Reid nods stupidly. He forces a coherent string of syllables out of his mouth. "I need you to check some information on Andy Gallagher for me." He licks his lips, focuses. "Please."
"Can do." Garcia's head bobs, her blond hair bounces around her shoulders. "Care to specify or do I get to look up whatever I want?"
Reid pictures the legal pad back on his desk. He recites everything he'd written down. "What city was Andy born in? What school did he graduate from? What were the names of the books that were found in his van? And-" Reid darts a look at the computer screen and away from her face. "-was there a, um, disco ball in his van as well?"
Garcia's face brightens. "Okay, so not your run of the mill 'does he have a record,' Nice. A girl likes to mix it up every now and then. You are aware you just asked about a disco ball in a van, right?"
Reid's voice is nearly transparent. "I know."
She taps the keys and half a dozen boxes pop up across the screen. "All righty. According to Mr. Gallagher's birth certificate, he was born in Oklahoma City." She taps a few more keys, fingers flying gracefully, reminding Reid of a concert pianist. His own fingers feel clumsy and leaden in comparison. Garcia scrolls through another window. "And…it looks like he graduated from Guthrie High School. Oh. And the school mascot is a Blue Jay, in case you were wondering."
Reid watches her tap the mouse and enter a series of passwords in a pop-up box. So far her information matches what Andy told him on the plane. He yawns again and rubs his eyes. He doesn't think there's enough coffee in the world to make him feel alert. "Okay, Reid? Why exactly did you think Andy Gallagher's magnificent Barbarian Queenmobile would have a disco ball?" Penelope looks at him over the top of her glasses. "Is there some kind of disco ball crime scene statistic I'm not familiar with?"
Reid's face grows hot and he stammers. "I-I heard that he might have, uh, something like that." He rubs the knuckles of his right hand over his left palm. "What about…what about the books?"
Garcia studies him for a few more seconds and Reid clasps his hands together, rubs one thumb over the other. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. They're in the way; the only part of him he can never keep still. Penelope mutters, "Your wish is my command…even when it's really frikkin' weird." Another box appears titled Items catalogued from vehicle. "Looks like there were four books. Jeez. Considering the disco ball and the bong-which apparently belonged to King Kong at one time-in the van I figured Andy was into light reading. Say, limericks and knock-knock jokes." Her forehead creases and she squints at the screen. "I’ve never even heard of this stuff. Phenomenology of Spirit by G.W.F. Hegel, Groundwork of the Metaphysics of-"
Reid cuts in, finishing the title. "Morals by Immanuel Kant. And the third book is Philosophical Investigations by Ludwig Wittgenstein."
Penelope looks from the screen to Reid, her mouth a near perfect O of surprise. Reid doesn't like the look or what it implies she's thinking. He doesn't want to answer her questions--or give her the opportunity to ask them--so he blurts "Hegel was an eighteenth century German philosopher. He's known as the founder of Hegelianism and some of his key conceptions include 'absolute idealism,' 'Spirit,' 'negativity,' and 'sublation'."
"Uh, Reid?"
He ignores her, takes a breath. " Sublation is a component of the most basic level of Hegel's system of logic. The two concepts being and nothing are both preserved and changed through sublation into the concept of becoming.
"Reid."
Everything Andy told him is true. Correction: everything Andy told him to write down is true. There is no way Reid could have known about disco balls or high schools or which philosophers Andy read, therefore Andy cannot be a delusion. Reid thinks he might never stop talking. If he keeps throwing out words he doesn't have to think. Or worry. Or act.
"In sublation, a term or concept is both preserved and changed through its dialectical interplay with another term or concept. In classical philosophy, dialectic means controversy."
Garcia rolls her eyes, huffs, and scribbles something on a flower-shaped post-it.
"It's the exchange of arguments and counter-arguments respectively advocating propositions and counter-propositions."
Garcia tears off the post-it and holds it up in front of him. Reid is careful not to look at it. He should really leave. Go find Emily.
"In Medieval Europe, dialectics-that is, logic--was one of the three original liberal arts collectively known as the trivium. The other arts were rhetoric and grammar."
Penelope shakes the note at him and he doesn't want to read it, but the sentence is in his brain before he can stop himself. How did you know?
Spencer rubs his mouth with the back of one hand, folds his arms. "I, um, read a lot."
"Oh really? And this Hegel dude’s book just happened to tell you ‘hey, Andy Gallagher has my book? And a disco ball‘?"
Garcia wheels herself across the room, grabs the arm of the chair Emily had been sitting in, and rolls it over to Reid. "Sit."
Reid does.
Penelope sticks the post-it to the table, leans toward Reid and folds her hands. "Talk." She holds up a finger in warning. "And if you babble one more word about German philosophy I will make you sorry. Do not doubt me on this."
Reid swallows. "I. I can't tell you." He shakes his head, fidgets in the chair. "You wouldn't believe me."
"I believe a lot of things," Garcia says. "Try me."
He shakes his head. "Let's just say…I had an inside source. Someone who might know something about what…what happened in Cold Oak. Or-or think they know. He gave me some information to test the veracity of his claims."
"And I take it he's verified now."
Spencer nods.
"Well…then that's good, right? Finding out what happened? That's sort of the point, isn't it?"
Reid looks down at the floor. He moves his head vaguely; hopes Garcia mistakes the gesture for a suitable answer.
"Reid? You know you can talk to me if you ever feel like talking, right? Me and Esther still owe you a night out on the town, you know. All you have to do is say the word."
Reid swallows past the rock lodged in his throat. He doesn‘t want to think about the night he and Garcia were originally going to take a drive in her car. Garcia‘s offer to talk sounds remarkably similar to Morgan‘s. He wonders if they‘ve been talking about him. He‘s probably just paranoid. He should be grateful they care. If only they'd realize he doesn‘t want to talk. That he can‘t. He musters a weak "Thank you."
"Is it okay to ask how's your mom doing? Is she, you know, okay?"
Spencer lifts his head, manages a faint smile. He's touched by her concern. Everyone knows about his mother now, Garcia‘s the only one who ever takes the time to ask about her. "She's all right." She's the same.
Garcia reaches out and lightly pokes Reid on the forehead with the pink pen. The heart blinks on and off. "I'm not sure the same can be said about you, Doctor Reid."
Spencer's smile brightens, then fades out. He can't afford to stay here much longer. It's difficult to resist her kindness. If he doesn't change the subject he might break down and tell her everything. And Garcia might say she believes a lot of things, but he's fairly confident belief in the supernatural is not one of them.
"Can you look up something else for me?"
"You want me to confirm Andrew Gallagher's shoe size and favorite movie?"
"No. I'd like you to look up the name 'Sam Winchester.'"
Garcia swings back toward the computer and taps the keys. "Done and done. Let's see what---holy crap."
The tone of her voice pushes Reid forward. He moves his chair next to hers; checks the screen. "This guy doesn't just have a record, he has a whole file. And jeez, look how cute he is. All the best guys are either gay or serial killers. My lonely little heart weeps at the injustice."
Reid scans the information. "Samuel Winchester, twenty-three years old.” Huh. The same age as the victims in Cold Oak.
"Oh my God. Would you look at his brother?" Garcia grabs the pad of post-its and fans herself. "He's literally melting my computer screen. Well hello, Dean."
Spencer lifts an eyebrow at Garcia's antics, but his attention remains on the text. Dean's wanted for a string of murders in St. Louis even though-
"The what now?" Garcia asks, echoing Reid's shock. "Dean faked his death? With what? A clone? A robot? A giant cardboard cut-out?" She peers at the screen suspiciously. “Is this some kind of joke?”
"It doesn't make any sense," Reid breathes.
"Understatement," Garcia intones loudly.
"No, I mean the whole report." The bulk of charges against the brothers reads like a desperate attempt to pin anything and everything on them, from grave desecration to global warming. A tag appears onscreen listing Agent Victor Hendriksen as the contact name on the file. Reid instantly memorizes the name and number. "Can you do a little research and find out as much as you can about Sam Winchester and his brother?"
Garcia chews on her lower lip for a moment, eyes on Reid‘s face. "Just so I'm clear…is this request common knowledge…or just between us?"
Reid stares at her.
The technical analyst nods. "All righty then. Mum's the word." She mimes locking her lips and tossing a key over her shoulder.
Reid holds up his hands guiltily. "No, Garcia. I don't want…I don’t want to get you into trouble."
Penelope smirks. "Oh honey. You? Get me into trouble? Not likely. Now shoo before Emily physically drags you down to the kitchen. She's dying to show you she's the next Houdini."
Reid blinks. Houdini? What? He mind feels clogged, sluggish, like its covered by a fine patina of dust.
"Go. From the looks of it you could use an oil drum full of coffee, and frankly, I’m not even sure that would be enough. But I've been forced to watch the Great Matchstick Caper six times in the past three days, and that's five and a half times too many." She touches one finger to her head and then points to the door. "Adios, muchacho." She turns back toward the computer. "And that friends, is the extent of my entire Spanish vocabulary right there."
Reid eases himself out of the chair and wheels it back to the corner. "Thank you," he says quietly.
Penelope smiles back, her face framed by blond waves. "Hey, when you have a gift, you might as well flaunt it." Her smile softens. "But the offer stands. You. Me. And Esther. Got it?"
Her face is open and guileless. She really wants to spend time with him. Reid’s chest aches. He wants to tell her Yes, now, please. Let's go. Drive somewhere, anywhere, just get me out of here, just go. What he says is, "Got it."
When he leaves her office, he can feel the weight of her gaze on his back.
ooooo
Bobby Singer drops into a chair by the girl. She's huddled into herself, arms folded, head down, knees up. She won't look at him. Bobby doesn't blame her. What she's been through, she ain't likely to be in a sociable mood for quite some time. The big guy's doing a little better. He's upright anyway. But he's been crying for the past hour. The tears just keep leaking down his face. He cries silently, face blank, hands fisted in his lap. Every now and then he whispers something that sounds like this isn't happening, this isn't happening.
Sam and Dean are still outside salting and burning bodies. Bobby pulls his hat off, rubs a hand over his head. What a waste. Six dead in the past twenty-four hours. He figures he should be thankful he-and Sam and Dean-didn’t bump the number higher. He found something all right, but it turned out to be a hell of a lot more than he was lookin' for. What he wanted was a simple hunt, something to take Sam's mind off his brother's predicament.
What he got was up close and personal time with seven of the most powerful demons he's had the misfortune to deal with. One of those demons had killed the family in front of the TV. And now the poor bastard who'd been possessed is sitting across from Bobby, blubbering like a lost little kid. Bobby figures that's exactly what he is.
Exorcising one demon is a tricky prospect at the best of times. Exorcising seven is leaning a little too close to suicide for Bobby's liking. Still, all's well that ends well. Unless you ask Tamara. It's a shame about her husband. But still, nobody ever said being a hunter was easy. Or safe.
The sound of Sam's raised voice drifts through the window. Bobby shoots a glance at the guy and girl; they both stay put. Bobby doesn't. He walks to the window, looks out.
Sam is waving his arms, pissed off radiates off him in waves. "You know what?" he hollers at Dean. "I've had it. I've been bending over backwards trying to be nice to you, and...I don't care anymore."
"That didn't last long," Dean says.
Bobby winces. Don't push him, Dean. But Dean's a damn fool and Bobby missed out on Telepathy 101, so he doesn't hold out much hope for his message getting through Dean's thick skull.
"Yeah, well, you know what?" Sam moves into Dean's personal space, looming. "I've been busting my ass trying to keep you alive Dean, and you act like you couldn't care less. What, you got some kind of death wish or something?"
Bobby sighs. For all the shouting these two do, it'd be nice if they learned to actually communicate once in a blue moon. But then their Daddy never said anything soft if he could say it loud first.
Dean's eyes slide toward the house and Bobby stands firm. He doesn’t give a flying fuck if they see him or not. In fact, he hopes they do see him, hopes they dial it down a notch or three, the idjits.
If Dean does see him, he doesn't let on. But Dean always has been good at pretending. "It's not like that."
Sam's eyebrows climb up his forehead. "Then what's it like, Dean?" He makes Dean sound an awful lot like asshole. One corner of Bobby's mouth tics upward.
"Sam-"
"Please, tell me." And now the anger's gone. Sam's got that voice back, the one from the library that's all twisted up. Bobby takes a step back, wonders if it's worth going outside, trying to make a little peace.
"We trap the crossroads demon, trick it, try to welch our way out of the deal in any way?" Dean takes a step toward Sam and his voice drops. Bobby has to strain to hear what comes next. "You die. Okay? You die. Those are the terms. There's no way out of it. If you try to find a way, so help me God, I'm gonna stop you."
Bobby blinks, closes his eyes. Now he wishes he'd kept his distance. Sneaky bastard, he thinks, but he can't quite tell if he means the crossroads demon or Dean. Bobby goes back to the chair and sits down. He feels about ten years older than when he got up. How could you make that deal, Dean? he wonders. But he already knows the answer.
Bobby stares at the ceiling, contemplates calling 911 and hauling ass out of here. Car doors slam outside, followed by the familiar growl of the Impala's engine. The big guy flinches and starts muttering again. This isn't happening, this isn't happening.
The old hunter can't help wishing the kid was right.
ooooo
Emily hovers beside the bowl on the counter. She smiles nervously when she sees Reid, her expression an amalgam of anticipation and apprehension. She gestures to the mug beside the bowl. “Here you go. Three tablespoons of sugar. Don’t blame me if you can’t sit still while JJ’s going over the next case.”
Reid reaches for the coffee, curls his hands around the mug. The coffee is too strong and too sweet, but it’s hot and caffeinated, and he‘s grateful. He sips it carefully; tries to convince himself it will make him feel better. “Thanks.”
She beams at him. “No problem. Okay, before we head into the round table room, can I show you something?”
Reid’s eyes flick to the wooden matchsticks on the counter and the box of sugar cubes. He knows instantly what she wants to show him, why she’s excited. He did this same trick when he was nine for extra credit. He lifts his eyebrows in feigned curiosity; he’s not going to ruin this moment for her.
“You’re not the only one who knows how to do physics magic. Behold.” Prentiss wiggles her fingers over the bowl. She drops in several matchsticks and they float around the edge of the bowl. Next, Emily lowers a sugar cube into the water. Immediately the matchsticks float toward it as if the cube is magnetized and they're made of metal.
“Magic matchsticks!” She lifts her hand, face shining. Reid stares at it for a moment before Emily whispers, “Dude, high-five.”
Reid obediently slaps her hand. Her excitement is infectious. He’s charmed by her desire to learn the trick, her eagerness to show him. As if he’s some kind of expert on the subject. Far from it. He knows just enough sleight of hand, just enough tricks to impress others and fool himself.
“That was amazing!”
Prentiss waves the compliment away. “It’s no flying film canister, but still.” She smiles, her expression mildly sheepish.
Reid shakes his head. “No, it’s really cool. I’m glad you showed me.” He raises his mug. “To physics magic.”
Emily laughs, clinks her mug against his. “To geeks.”
Morgan walks into the room, grabs a mug from the cabinet and pours himself a cup of coffee. He glances at the bowl full of matchsticks, then from Emily to Reid. “Do I even want to know?”
“Just a couple of geeks,” Emily says with a shrug. “Nothing to see here, move along.”
“Then why do I feel like I just missed something?”
Reid smiles over the top of his coffee cup. “Because you did.” He looks at Emily from the corner of his eye. “And it was magical, believe me.”
Morgan makes a face. “Pretty boy, you’re making me real sorry I asked.”
JJ pokes her head into the kitchen. “Guys? Are you ready?”
Morgan follows JJ, casts a look back at Reid and Emily. “You two coming?”
“Be right there,” Reid says, fluttering a hand near Emily’s arm, but not actually touching her.
Morgan nods and leaves the room.
Now it’s Emily’s turn to look curious. Reid runs a hand over the inside of his arm. “I just wanted to tell you…um.” He closes his eyes, opens them, takes a deep breath. Prentiss waits, patient, and Reid feels another twinge of guilt over the way he’s treated her in the past. “I-I took your advice. I mean, I reread Gideon’s letter. And I--I think I finally understand why he addressed the letter to me.”
She tilts her head, lifts an eyebrow. “You do?”
The answer is obvious. Gideon still looked at him as a student, a child. Someone to be coddled. The knowledge roils in Spencer’s gut, makes him sick. He rushes the words; if he doesn’t get them out now, he’ll never admit them aloud. “He felt sorry for me. He thought I was j-just a kid. That I wouldn’t be able to function without him.” He lifts his chin slightly, defiant. “But I can.” Reid looks into his mug. He can see the faint oval of his face reflected there. “And speaking of sorry, I wanted to tell you, should have told you--”
“Reid.” Her hand snags his arm, gives it a quick squeeze.
Spencer’s brain categorizes the touch as affection. He also thinks of Andy, remembers the feel of fingers pressing into his bicep. Shit, Spencer. Just…don't do whatever you're thinking of doing. Okay?
“You have nothing to apologize for.” Emily’s eyes are dark and penetrating, like she’s trying to look inside his head. “But I also think you’re wrong. I know you’re a genius, and I’m sure you know more at twenty-six than I ever will. But I’m telling you right now, Gideon left you that letter because you’re the one who meant the most to him. He cared about you, Reid. And if you think anything different, you’re selling yourself--and Gideon--short.”
ooooo
Sam sits stiffly in the passenger seat, fists clenched at his sides. Dean keeps his eyes on the road. The stereo’s cranked; Lemmy's voice blasts from the speakers. Dean sings along, vaguely off-key, grinning like he doesn‘t have a care in the world. He’s (acting) oblivious to Sam’s fury.
Sam is pissed. And it feels like his indignation is plenty righteous because Dean’s wrong. Sam doesn’t care what the cross-roads demon told Dean about breaking the deal. Demons lie. And besides, if Dean thinks Sam’s gonna sit around on his ass and wait for the hellhounds, then Dean’s a fucking moron.
There's no way out of it. If you try to find a way, so help me God, I'm gonna stop you.
He inhales through his nose, exhales. He makes a concerted effort to uncurl his hands, rests them in his lap. He’s not going to lose his temper (again). He’s going to be calm, methodical, logical. If Dean’s so anxious to act like everything’s normal, Sam can do that. Hell, Sam can act like Dean. He can close himself off, harden his edges. Sam already feels like a stranger to himself; it’s not much of a stretch to make himself into someone else altogether. Someone like Dean. Isn’t that what Dean wants? For Sam to be able to make it on his own? Never mind the fact Sam doesn’t want to. Sam’s hands pull back into fists.
This is bullshit. They should be on their way to Shreveport right now to see the voodoo priestess Tamara mentioned. Dean doesn’t know if she can help or not; his refusal to go is just another example of his selfishness. Sam closes his eyes. Dean’s words feel like rock salt in his mind: hard and bitter and stinging.
Whatever. You're alive, I feel good--for the first time in a long time. I got a year to live, Sam. I'd like to make the most of it. So what do you say we kill some evil sons of bitches and we raise a little hell, huh?
Sam doesn’t want to raise a little hell. He wants to fend it off. He wants to keep Dean as far away from hell as possible. He flicks a look at his brother. Dean bobs in his seat, fingers tapping the steering wheel. Dean glances back at Sam, his mouth curved in a smirk. He turns the volume on the stereo louder, raises his voice to match.
Sam opens his mouth to tell Dean to knock it off, to turn the goddamn music down, but the words shrivel to ash on his tongue. His anger dissipates like smoke and he swallows. His right eye tics and he rubs at it furiously. In another year Dean won’t be here to swear at. In another year Dean will be gone. Sam won’t have to listen to Motorhead or Dean’s shitty singing, and that thought makes Sam physically ill.
One hand goes to the door handle and he counts to ten; waits to see if the nausea will relent. It does. But in its place is the familiar clench of panic. Cold fingers squeeze his chest and Sam thinks of the demon’s words back at the farmhouse. I've heard of you. We've all heard of you. The prodigy. The boy king. Looking at you now, I got to tell you, don't believe the hype. You think I'm gonna bow to a cut-rate, piss-poor human like you? I have my pride, after all. And now with your yellow-eyed friend dead, I guess I don't really have to do a damn thing, now do I? You're fair game now, boy, and it's open season.
He’d thought he was going to die. But his fear hadn’t been for himself; it had been for Dean. He’s no prodigy and he’s no king. He's a brother. (A failure. A liar.) But he understands the demons are no longer wary of him; they’re not afraid. And that’s a mistake. Because Sam realizes that somewhere, a demon is holding the contract on Dean’s life. And if Sam can’t find a way to void the deal, maybe he can find a way to locate the demon. And kill it.
The mysterious girl who saved his life had a knife that could kill demons. A knife like that could come in handy.
Sam leans back in the seat, forces himself to relax. He’ll kill a hundred demons--fuck, he’ll kill a thousand--if it’ll lead him to the one holding Dean’s contract. Sam’s not afraid to kill, not anymore.
It's open season, all right.
But Sam's doing the hunting.