Two Things (Three Things), for siennavie (part 5)
Part Five
"Where are we?" Dean drew his gun, cocked it, settled into a fighting stance. He felt Sam at his back. They were in a house, one he didn't recognize.
"Easy there," Ciaran said. "This is our home. We're safe here."
Sam's eyes were huge. "Did you just teleport us?"
Dean still wasn't sure if he should add that to the list of psychic powers. He'd seen Ciaran's eyes turn - well, darker than yellow. But gold sounded a little too poetic and pretentious for his comfort.
Gwen and Mark were back to back as well, each with a gun and a knife drawn. Freya was nowhere to be seen.
Sam spun, forcing Dean to turn with him. "Freya!"
"She's safe," Anna said. "Ciaran sent her home. Bloody hell - you're all hunters? The lot of you?"
"Who are you?" Dean demanded.
"Not hunters," Anna said, "and not penny psychics either."
"Why did you care about our names?" Gwen asked.
Ciaran raised a hand. Dean trained a gun on him.
"Whoa!" Ciaran protested. "Look, if we'd wanted to kill you, we could have done that ages ago. If we'd wished you harm, we could have left you for the FBI to take. So can we put all the weapons away? I could disarm you if I needed to, but if you break the tension yourselves, I think the peace will hold, don't you?"
Dean glanced at Gwen. She nodded, and she lowered her gun, so Dean did the same, and Sam followed. Mark was the last to obey, and though his gun was holstered, he kept a hand on it.
Ciaran waved a hand, and a tray of drinks appeared on the coffee table. "Now, we need to have a chat. Please, sit."
Dean was tempted to stay standing just to be contrary, but the casual display of immense power was disconcerting, so he sat. Were they witches? Sam sat beside him on the loveseat. It was a little crowded. Mark and Gwen sat on the sofa, and Ciaran and Anna seated themselves in the two overstuffed armchairs. Ciaran waived a again, and a drink floated first to Gwen, then to Anna. Anna plucked hers out of the air as casually as could be, so Gwen did the same.
"It's just water," Ciaran said. "So, you lot are hunters, and you're after a yellow-eyed demon."
"It killed our mother," Sam said quietly. "It killed the woman I would have made my wife."
"Their mother was our cousin," Gwen said.
Ciaran nodded, expression pensive. "I see. And you thought Anna and I were - what, spawn of this demon?"
Sam shook his head and explained his theory about the demon's chosen psychic kids.
Understanding crossed Anna's face. "And you thought, because of the fire in our eyes when we cast magic, that we would be like you?"
"I was hoping," Sam began. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I need to know what the demon's planning for me. And the others like me. I'm afraid -"
Ciaran and Anna exchanged looks. Ciaran gnawed on his bottom lip for a moment. "Here's the thing about fate. People can plan things for you, fate things for you. Sometimes in your attempts to avoid something you've glimpsed, something you think is fated, you just make it come true."
Anna reached out and squeezed his hand, smiling gently.
"But you need to ignore it. Make plans for yourself and go for them. Sometimes what you want is what someone else has fated for you. Sometimes you disrupt what someone has fated for you. However it turns out, fate isn't set in stone. It's all a probability game, what is most likely to happen given the efforts others have put forth over time, the schemes they've deployed and the machinations they've engaged." Ciaran smiled at Sam. "So forget what others have planned for you. Make a plan for yourself, and stick to it."
"You sound like you've been fated before," Gwen said.
"Have been, will be." Ciaran shrugged. "If I'm fated for something I like, then I roll with it. If they say I'm fated for something I don't like, well, I keep fighting for what I like."
Mark eyed Ciaran for a long moment. "What are you fighting for?"
"Old friends," Ciaran said.
"Who are you?" Dean demanded.
Ciaran's grin turned sly. "Given the aliases you two chose, I thought you might have figured it out. I never really had much taste for a beard except in disguises, and now I keep hearing people refer to my beard like it's some kind of epithet."
Mark looked confused. Dean felt confused. Gwen looked like she was on the cusp of understanding the allusion Ciaran was hinting at. Sam's jaw dropped.
"No way," Sam said. "So when you were asking about Lance and Elaine and Gwen --"
"Some of us were in the old country," Anna said. "But some of us ended up here. This time around, we don't want it to end so badly."
Dammit. Ciaran, Anna, and Sam were talking some kind of code.
"You know what?" Dean shook his head. "Cryptic chats later. You two aren't really twins."
Sam looked ready to protest the interruption, but Anna was nodding.
"Correct."
"And Yellow-Eyes didn't kill your parents."
"Correct."
"And you don't prey on humans."
"Also correct."
"And you don't want to hurt us."
"Goodness gracious no," Anna said. "We'd have been up a creek without a paddle over this tennis tournament without the two of you. Four of you," she amended, when Mark bristled.
"Then you know what? Let's finish this tennis tournament and get out of here." Dean reached out and grabbed one of the glasses of water, downed it in a single go.
"What are we going to do about Agent Hotchner?" Gwen asked.
Ciaran smiled. "Leave that to us."
Mark raised his eyebrows.
Ciaran lifted a hand to forestall comment. "We won't hurt him. Don't worry. He won't remember anything you don't want him to remember. As far as he'll know, you two are FBI agents, and you two are tennis pros, just like us."
Dean set down the glass and took a deep breath. "Dammit, Sammy. That was a real long climb for a real short slide."
Sammy was gazing at Ciaran with cautious awe. "I, uh, I don't know what to say. When I was kid, Dean used to read me comics about - about --"
Ciaran slapped his list down on the coffee table. "Enough about us. More about tennis. Who's calling dibs on who?"
"I thought we couldn't call dibs on people," Dean said.
Anna shrugged one shoulder, smiling. "Maybe just this once."
* * *
The majority of the conference-goers had turned out for the tennis tournament. Aaron was surprised and impressed, and he wondered how much of the enthusiasm had come from the Chief himself, who was seated on the front row of the bleachers set up just beyond the tennis court fences. His wife sat beside him, beaming at Aaron.
Anna and Sam were perched on high seats parallel with the nets on each court, to act as judges, and Dean and a promoted ball-girl were manning the scoreboards for the audience to see. Aaron glanced over his shoulder and saw Agent Finch and Freya at the tabulation table, signing in players and handing out bottles of water. Beside them, Ciaran had a medic booth, complete with towels, more bottles of water, and a first aid kit.
"Ready, Agent Hotchner?" asked Agent Fletchley.
"I am. Please, call me Hotch. More economical on the court."
"Okay. I'm Mark," he said.
Aaron shook his hand. "Thank you. Now, let's do the best we can."
Mark was silent during any bouts that weren't theirs, studying their opponents with a ferocity that was a little unnerving for a friendly competition, but then he was young and ambitious, and he seemed to have a tendency to want to prove himself in everything, not just in investigative work. He and his partner had been very willing to help with the SWAT drills, posing as dangerous criminals who had potential hostages in their midst.
When it was Aaron and Mark's turn, Aaron stepped onto the court. He'd spent the previous match limbering up, but he shook out his limbs one last time just in case.
Sam was judging their game. Aaron and Mark had the first serve. Aaron let Mark take the serve and settled in, ready to return fire. Gideon wasn't much one for anything more strenuous than swing dancing, and he didn't much think of the comparison when Aaron said tennis was like speed chess, but it was. The question of to whom and when and where to return a ball had to be calculated in an instant, played against the skill and speed of the other team.
Maybe Aaron had been watching his opponents more closely than he thought.
Sam called the game, and Mark slammed his serve into the opposing team's ad court. Adrenaline sparked in Aaron's nerves, and then he was in the zone, darting back and forth, firing the ball back over the net. It took a bit, but then he and Mark were on the same wavelength. All they needed were their names and mine and then they were all over the ball. Mark was fast, had excellent reflexes, but Aaron had better technique, could get his racket into places Mark couldn't.
Aaron wasn't keeping track of the score, he was just keeping track of the ball.
And then Sam was saying, "Match goes to the Feds!" and the audience was cheering. Chief Seegmiller and his life were the loudest.
Aaron heard a, "That's my boy!" from the Chief. No one had called him a boy in years. Unless the Chief was referring to Mark?
Agent Finch emerged from behind the tabulation table to ply Aaron and Mark with drinks and towels to wipe themselves down as much as possible.
"You looked great out there," she said. "Definitely through to the next round. Keep it up."
For all that there was a conference going on, the tournament had consistently good attendance. Some of the club's regular patrons were in the audience as well. They were excited to see their new tennis pros really let loose and compete. Aaron didn't envy Sam and Anna, perched high up in the hot sun for hours on end. He wondered how well they would fare in the final round.
After a long day of tennis, Aaron was invited out to dinner at a fine restaurant in town to eat with the Chief, his wife, and the other local LEO leaders and their spouses. He did his best to represent the Bureau well. He was tired, but he'd earned it, and he'd missed, so much, the fierce energy of competitive tennis. When he got home, he'd make time to play with Haley on his team again, come hell or high water.
* * *
"Hear that, Sammy?" Dean asked.
The final round between the cops and the lawyers had just finished, and the cops, led by the formidable FBI duo, had won. The stands were ringing with cheers and adulation, the boos and hisses of the lawyers completely drowned out.
"That's what you'd have to look forward to you if you'd stayed at Stanford," Dean said.
Sam didn't flinch at the reference to his old life. "We need to get out of here, and fast. Move on. Find a real hunt."
"Are you asking me to throw the game?" Dean demanded. "What kind of a man do you think I am?"
"The kind of man who hits on a married woman, gets her drink thrown in his face, and then gives my name to her husband," Sam said without missing a beat.
"But I'm not dishonorable."
Sam arched an eyebrow.
"Sammy..."
"It's Sam," he said. "Come on. There are other hunts out there. Other leads. But we need to keep moving." If we stand still, he meant, fate will catch up to us.
"Fine," Dean said, "but at least give it your all against Anna and Ciaran."
Sam snorted. "If we win, don't think for a second it wasn't because they didn't let us."
"Who are they, anyway?" Dean asked.
"No one dangerous to us. Let them be."
"Fine. I will. Except on the tennis court." Dean spun his racket on his palm and was inordinately pleased when it didn't fall after half a second. "Ha! See? I got this. We got this."
Sam gazed across the tennis courts at where Agent Hotchner and Mark were talking to Gwen and Freya. "I hope so."
Dean grinned. "Let's go get us some marshmallow hearts from those Lucky Charms."
* * *
Anna and Ciaran were fast, fierce tennis players. They moved like a well-oiled machine and it was almost like they could read each other's minds. Maybe when he got back to HQ, Aaron would ask Reid what he knew about twins and their quasi-psychic connections. Sam and Dean were fast, strong, and feral, almost desperate on every ball they managed to return, but best as Aaron could tell, they were giving the game their all. If they won, they'd desperately need the dinner break to recover and get their strength back.
Sam and Dean prevailed by the skin of their teeth. Anna and Ciaran put up a good fight, and when they shook hands with their opponents over the net, it was with genuine friendship.
"Think you can take them?" Agent Finch asked.
"Hell yes," Mark said.
Aaron fought down an amused smile. "I think so."
Agent Finch grinned at her partner and nudged him. "Good luck, Markie Mark."
That earned her a scowl.
Dinner was a light affair, because Aaron didn't want to get too full to run around, but he made sure to take down enough carbs so he'd have energy to burn. Mark, on the other hand, ate like there was no tomorrow. After the meal, Aaron hurried upstairs to change into fresh clothes. There were several text messages from Garcia and the rest of the team wishing him luck in the final round. He smiled and fired off his thanks, and then he headed to the tennis court. Surely Strauss wouldn’t fault him for telling Garcia about the tennis tournament last night.
The bleachers were overcrowded, and the club staff had set out folding chairs as additional seating. The audience was divided between the conference participants cheering for Mark and Aaron and the country club patrons cheering for their tennis pros. Sam and Dean looked fresh-faced and eager. Dean was shadow-boxing to warm up; Sam was stretching and limbering up one last time.
Mark and Aaron went to meet their opponents at the net. Anna climbed up to the perch to judge, and Ciaran took over manning the scoreboard.
"Good luck," Sam said, utterly sincere as he shook hands with Mark.
Dean's grin was fierce. "Bring your A-game."
"You're on," Mark said. His grip on Dean's hand was white-knuckled, but Dean didn't even flinch.
Aaron met Sam's gaze and was startled by the intensity in Sam's gaze. "Good luck," Aaron said.
"Thank you. And to you." For one second, Sam's eyes were the same brilliant green as Dean's. Then he was peeling back and heading for his end of the court, spinning his racket and flourishing for the audience crowded up close to the fence.
Anna had a bullhorn to be heard over the din of the audience. "Players, take your marks!"
Aaron trotted to his end of the court and settled onto his half.
Chief Seegmiller was given the responsibility to handle the coin toss.
"Heads or tails?" he asked Aaron.
"Heads," he said.
The Chief tossed the coin, caught it, paused. Then he peeked at it. "Heads!"
The conference side of the audience cheered. A shy, blushing teenage girl handed Mark a tennis ball. He bounced it a few times, testing it. Anna called the game.
Mark bounced the ball one more time, tossed it up, and slammed it across the net.
Sam and Dean rarely called to each other. They tended to divide coverage of their half of the court evenly, and they had an excellent sense of when the ball belonged to one or the other. What Aaron and Mark needed to do was send the ball right into where their coverage mingled, get them confused, in each other's space.
For the first game, Aaron and Mark kept feeding the ball right down the middle. Dean was the dominant personality, so Aaron wasn't surprised when Dean muscled his way into Sam's space to make sure the ball didn't make it past them. Sam had a wicked backhand, but Dean's hits had more raw power, and more than once Mark had dodged the ball rather than take it on, which cost them the first game.
For the second game, Mark and Aaron started setting the brothers up by firing a ball down the middle for Dean to scramble after, then returning the ball onto Dean's undefended side. After a while Dean caught on to the strategy, but Sam, who was used to Dean covering the middle, let several balls in the middle go, and Mark and Aaron took the game.
For the third and final game, Mark and Aaron did their best to keep Sam and Dean on their feet, but Sam and Dean had caught on to their tricks. They started talking to each other, calling the balls down the middle, and they'd dart back to cover their halves of the court once the ball down the middle was called. They'd started firing balls over to Mark in ad court, and Aaron quickly realized why. Mark tended to favor his right shoulder ever so slightly, but as the tennis games had worn on, he must have been favoring it more, and the brothers had noticed.
The final serve was Sam's. He bounced the ball a couple of times, murmured something to Dean. Dean nodded, twirled his racket, then settled himself into a stance that left him ready to spring in any direction.
"Ready?" Mark asked.
"Ready," Aaron said.
Sam tossed the ball up. Aaron felt like time had slowed down. The ball hovered in midair. Sam leaped, higher than any human ought to be able to leap, arced his racket toward the ball.
Thock.
There was a heartbeat. Another heartbeat. The ball sped toward Mark's bad side. Mark lunged.
A cry rose up from the audience. Mark hit the ground with a grunt.
Aaron dashed toward him.
Sam looked horrified.
On the other side of the court, Dean was diving for the ball, racket outstretched.
Thock.
Dean tumbled to the ground.
The ball was coming toward right where Aaron had been standing.
Another cry rose up from the audience. Anna was calling the end of the game. Mark heaved himself up to his feet, wincing and clutching his shoulder, racket forgotten.
"Are you okay?" Aaron asked.
Mark nodded, expression tight, face pale. Ciaran abandoned the scoreboard and trotted over to see what was going on. On the other side of the court, Sam was helping Dean to his feet.
They met at the net again, Dean grumbling but allowing Sam to support his weight, Mark radiating waves of don't touch me. But they all shook hands and murmured platitudes of good game.
"Really," Sam said, smiling at Aaron. "Good game."
Mark shoved Dean in the shoulder. "I want a rematch."
"Later, Timberlake," Dean said, and smirked.
Mark swatted at him, but the gesture was without malice. In fact, it was almost brotherly. "Later," he agreed.
Gwen stepped up, and Mark allowed her to support his weight even though she was a full head shorter than him. "Let Ciaran check you over, and then we'll get you cleaned up and maybe a little drunk." She grinned at Aaron. "You should drink with us."
Aaron thought of those hungover students during the first keynote speech of the conference and considered. But something about Gwen's smile reminded him of Greenaway, of his first days in the BAU with Gideon, and he nodded before he could think about it further.
Aaron remembered going to a local bar where the crowd was considerably younger than him but the agents and tennis pros blended in. They fed him a steady stream of drinks, and then Dean and Gwen fleeced him at cards. He managed to take Sam and Ciaran in a game of pool, but then Mark and Anna ruined him in a game of darts. Where Aaron managed to take them all, however, was on the bar's trivia quiz machine.
"See, Dean," Sam said, "if I'd gone to law school, that coulda been me."
"If you'd gone to law school," Dean replied, "you could bail me out when I do stupid stuff."
Sam clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm here to make sure you don't do stupid stuff. You do that, right Hotch? You make sure your team doesn't do stupid stuff."
"I try," Aaron said.
"Try not," Gwen intoned. "Do or do not. There is no try."
"Star Wars!" Sam cried. "You really are my people."
Aaron couldn't help but laugh. He wondered if Sam and Reid would be friends if they ever met.
After the trivia quiz machine game, Aaron's night was a bit of a haze, but when he woke up the next morning he didn't feel particularly hung over, he wasn't missing any clothes, and he didn't have any extraneous tattoos, piercings, or other body modifications, so he figured the others had sent him home safe. He'd passed Strauss's test, he was sure of it.
* * *
The end of the conference was nothing to write home about. When Aaron returned to FBI headquarters, Strauss congratulated him on his tennis win. The next year, when he heard on the news about Agent Henricksen being killed in an explosion at a Colorado police station, he mourned for the loss of a colleague, but he didn't closely at the details of the story. If he had, he might have recognized Henricksen's deceased quarries as a pair of tennis pros he'd competed against at a tennis tournament the prior year.
* * *
Dean put down his fork after his last slice of pie at the Bumbleberry Café and sat back, rubbing his belly appreciatively.
"That really is the best bumbleberry pie I've ever had," he said.
Freya beamed at him. Then she looked at Sam. "How was yours?"
"Delicious." He rarely indulged in pie, and his smile was sincere. Freya had no clue that her gigantor crush had almost been taken down by the FBI.
"Too bad you have to go," Anna said. "You play a good game." Her gaze sparkled with amusement. Sam was right. Dean was under no illusions that Anna hadn't done anything but let them win. He suspected she was entertained by dangling them in front of a real FBI agent. Sam insisted that Ciaran was just making sure his spellwork had held.
"Well, our awesome tennis skills are needed elsewhere," Dean said. He'd found a hunt in Hollywood. He was so jazzed. Wannabe actresses as far as the eye could see. It would be awesome times. "Sammy and I hate to eat and run, but..."
"But you helped us, and we appreciate it," Ciaran said. "We couldn't have survived this tennis tournament without you."
"No problem." Sam smiled at Ciaran. "Good luck with your search. And if I ever run into the right people, I'll let you know."
"Thanks," Anna said.
Dean threw down enough cash to cover the meal and leave a decent tip for Freya, pushed himself to his feet. "We gotta go, Sammy. Daylight's burning."
"Thanks for everything." Sam actually hugged Freya, and then he followed Dean out to the car.
Where Gwen and Mark were waiting, dressed in regular hunter gear.
Gwen shoved a business card at Sam. "We'll keep an eye out for other psychic kids like you, all right?"
"Thanks." He pocketed the card. "It was good to meet you. We, uh, never knew much about our family growing up."
"Speaking of family," Dean said, "don't be strangers, all right? We got your back on a hunt if you need it."
"Speaking of family," Gwen said, "our family is pretty big. We'll call you about a reunion sometime. And Sam - I'll send you everything we've got on the Men of Letters. So you can learn something about your father, too."
Mom came from a family of hunters. Dad came from a family of hunter-haters. Dean was sure Dad hadn't known Mom was a hunter, that Dad hadn't even known what hunting was till after Mom died. Maybe Bobby knew something about these Men of Letters. Dean would have to find out.
But first, they had to take care of old Yellow Eyes.
Mark didn't say anything, but he did give Dean two things: a leatherbound journal, and a knife.
"Thanks," Dean said, accepting them warily.
"Your mother's," Mark said.
Dean's eyes went wide.
Mark grinned. "Call us." And then he straightened up and headed for Gwen's car.
Dean watched him go. "You know, Sammy, maybe this tennis thing wasn't so terrible after all."
"Maybe," Sam agreed. He and Dean watched their cousins pull out of the parking lot. Sam turned to Dean. "Did you know any of this? About Mom and Dad?"
Dean hated the hitch in Sam's voice. It was the same hitch in Sam's voice when he'd insisted there might be another way to save Madison.
"No."
Sam bit his lip.
"I promise, Sammy." Dean sighed. "I know me - and Dad - really clam up when it comes to, to Mom. But I swear. Now you know everything I know."
Sam nodded. "Okay."
"Hey, uh..." Dean held out the journal. "I'll drive. Why don't you read to me?"
"Okay," Sam said. "But maybe we should check out that vengeful spirit in Cedarville first."
"Nah. I already called it in to our cousins." Dean grinned. "Hollywood, here we come!" He gunned the engine and peeled out of the parking lot. There was so much to think about with all the new information about his family. There were so many questions left unanswered about the plans old Yellow Eyes had for Sam and the other kids. There were so many things Dean ought to say, because those shadows from Madison's death were still lingering in Sam's eyes. But Dean wasn't very good at offering comfort.
Dean Winchester was good at three things now, though: killing monsters, eating pie, and playing tennis (four if you counted seducing women; five if you counted fixing cars).
"Where are we?" Dean drew his gun, cocked it, settled into a fighting stance. He felt Sam at his back. They were in a house, one he didn't recognize.
"Easy there," Ciaran said. "This is our home. We're safe here."
Sam's eyes were huge. "Did you just teleport us?"
Dean still wasn't sure if he should add that to the list of psychic powers. He'd seen Ciaran's eyes turn - well, darker than yellow. But gold sounded a little too poetic and pretentious for his comfort.
Gwen and Mark were back to back as well, each with a gun and a knife drawn. Freya was nowhere to be seen.
Sam spun, forcing Dean to turn with him. "Freya!"
"She's safe," Anna said. "Ciaran sent her home. Bloody hell - you're all hunters? The lot of you?"
"Who are you?" Dean demanded.
"Not hunters," Anna said, "and not penny psychics either."
"Why did you care about our names?" Gwen asked.
Ciaran raised a hand. Dean trained a gun on him.
"Whoa!" Ciaran protested. "Look, if we'd wanted to kill you, we could have done that ages ago. If we'd wished you harm, we could have left you for the FBI to take. So can we put all the weapons away? I could disarm you if I needed to, but if you break the tension yourselves, I think the peace will hold, don't you?"
Dean glanced at Gwen. She nodded, and she lowered her gun, so Dean did the same, and Sam followed. Mark was the last to obey, and though his gun was holstered, he kept a hand on it.
Ciaran waved a hand, and a tray of drinks appeared on the coffee table. "Now, we need to have a chat. Please, sit."
Dean was tempted to stay standing just to be contrary, but the casual display of immense power was disconcerting, so he sat. Were they witches? Sam sat beside him on the loveseat. It was a little crowded. Mark and Gwen sat on the sofa, and Ciaran and Anna seated themselves in the two overstuffed armchairs. Ciaran waived a again, and a drink floated first to Gwen, then to Anna. Anna plucked hers out of the air as casually as could be, so Gwen did the same.
"It's just water," Ciaran said. "So, you lot are hunters, and you're after a yellow-eyed demon."
"It killed our mother," Sam said quietly. "It killed the woman I would have made my wife."
"Their mother was our cousin," Gwen said.
Ciaran nodded, expression pensive. "I see. And you thought Anna and I were - what, spawn of this demon?"
Sam shook his head and explained his theory about the demon's chosen psychic kids.
Understanding crossed Anna's face. "And you thought, because of the fire in our eyes when we cast magic, that we would be like you?"
"I was hoping," Sam began. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I need to know what the demon's planning for me. And the others like me. I'm afraid -"
Ciaran and Anna exchanged looks. Ciaran gnawed on his bottom lip for a moment. "Here's the thing about fate. People can plan things for you, fate things for you. Sometimes in your attempts to avoid something you've glimpsed, something you think is fated, you just make it come true."
Anna reached out and squeezed his hand, smiling gently.
"But you need to ignore it. Make plans for yourself and go for them. Sometimes what you want is what someone else has fated for you. Sometimes you disrupt what someone has fated for you. However it turns out, fate isn't set in stone. It's all a probability game, what is most likely to happen given the efforts others have put forth over time, the schemes they've deployed and the machinations they've engaged." Ciaran smiled at Sam. "So forget what others have planned for you. Make a plan for yourself, and stick to it."
"You sound like you've been fated before," Gwen said.
"Have been, will be." Ciaran shrugged. "If I'm fated for something I like, then I roll with it. If they say I'm fated for something I don't like, well, I keep fighting for what I like."
Mark eyed Ciaran for a long moment. "What are you fighting for?"
"Old friends," Ciaran said.
"Who are you?" Dean demanded.
Ciaran's grin turned sly. "Given the aliases you two chose, I thought you might have figured it out. I never really had much taste for a beard except in disguises, and now I keep hearing people refer to my beard like it's some kind of epithet."
Mark looked confused. Dean felt confused. Gwen looked like she was on the cusp of understanding the allusion Ciaran was hinting at. Sam's jaw dropped.
"No way," Sam said. "So when you were asking about Lance and Elaine and Gwen --"
"Some of us were in the old country," Anna said. "But some of us ended up here. This time around, we don't want it to end so badly."
Dammit. Ciaran, Anna, and Sam were talking some kind of code.
"You know what?" Dean shook his head. "Cryptic chats later. You two aren't really twins."
Sam looked ready to protest the interruption, but Anna was nodding.
"Correct."
"And Yellow-Eyes didn't kill your parents."
"Correct."
"And you don't prey on humans."
"Also correct."
"And you don't want to hurt us."
"Goodness gracious no," Anna said. "We'd have been up a creek without a paddle over this tennis tournament without the two of you. Four of you," she amended, when Mark bristled.
"Then you know what? Let's finish this tennis tournament and get out of here." Dean reached out and grabbed one of the glasses of water, downed it in a single go.
"What are we going to do about Agent Hotchner?" Gwen asked.
Ciaran smiled. "Leave that to us."
Mark raised his eyebrows.
Ciaran lifted a hand to forestall comment. "We won't hurt him. Don't worry. He won't remember anything you don't want him to remember. As far as he'll know, you two are FBI agents, and you two are tennis pros, just like us."
Dean set down the glass and took a deep breath. "Dammit, Sammy. That was a real long climb for a real short slide."
Sammy was gazing at Ciaran with cautious awe. "I, uh, I don't know what to say. When I was kid, Dean used to read me comics about - about --"
Ciaran slapped his list down on the coffee table. "Enough about us. More about tennis. Who's calling dibs on who?"
"I thought we couldn't call dibs on people," Dean said.
Anna shrugged one shoulder, smiling. "Maybe just this once."
* * *
The majority of the conference-goers had turned out for the tennis tournament. Aaron was surprised and impressed, and he wondered how much of the enthusiasm had come from the Chief himself, who was seated on the front row of the bleachers set up just beyond the tennis court fences. His wife sat beside him, beaming at Aaron.
Anna and Sam were perched on high seats parallel with the nets on each court, to act as judges, and Dean and a promoted ball-girl were manning the scoreboards for the audience to see. Aaron glanced over his shoulder and saw Agent Finch and Freya at the tabulation table, signing in players and handing out bottles of water. Beside them, Ciaran had a medic booth, complete with towels, more bottles of water, and a first aid kit.
"Ready, Agent Hotchner?" asked Agent Fletchley.
"I am. Please, call me Hotch. More economical on the court."
"Okay. I'm Mark," he said.
Aaron shook his hand. "Thank you. Now, let's do the best we can."
Mark was silent during any bouts that weren't theirs, studying their opponents with a ferocity that was a little unnerving for a friendly competition, but then he was young and ambitious, and he seemed to have a tendency to want to prove himself in everything, not just in investigative work. He and his partner had been very willing to help with the SWAT drills, posing as dangerous criminals who had potential hostages in their midst.
When it was Aaron and Mark's turn, Aaron stepped onto the court. He'd spent the previous match limbering up, but he shook out his limbs one last time just in case.
Sam was judging their game. Aaron and Mark had the first serve. Aaron let Mark take the serve and settled in, ready to return fire. Gideon wasn't much one for anything more strenuous than swing dancing, and he didn't much think of the comparison when Aaron said tennis was like speed chess, but it was. The question of to whom and when and where to return a ball had to be calculated in an instant, played against the skill and speed of the other team.
Maybe Aaron had been watching his opponents more closely than he thought.
Sam called the game, and Mark slammed his serve into the opposing team's ad court. Adrenaline sparked in Aaron's nerves, and then he was in the zone, darting back and forth, firing the ball back over the net. It took a bit, but then he and Mark were on the same wavelength. All they needed were their names and mine and then they were all over the ball. Mark was fast, had excellent reflexes, but Aaron had better technique, could get his racket into places Mark couldn't.
Aaron wasn't keeping track of the score, he was just keeping track of the ball.
And then Sam was saying, "Match goes to the Feds!" and the audience was cheering. Chief Seegmiller and his life were the loudest.
Aaron heard a, "That's my boy!" from the Chief. No one had called him a boy in years. Unless the Chief was referring to Mark?
Agent Finch emerged from behind the tabulation table to ply Aaron and Mark with drinks and towels to wipe themselves down as much as possible.
"You looked great out there," she said. "Definitely through to the next round. Keep it up."
For all that there was a conference going on, the tournament had consistently good attendance. Some of the club's regular patrons were in the audience as well. They were excited to see their new tennis pros really let loose and compete. Aaron didn't envy Sam and Anna, perched high up in the hot sun for hours on end. He wondered how well they would fare in the final round.
After a long day of tennis, Aaron was invited out to dinner at a fine restaurant in town to eat with the Chief, his wife, and the other local LEO leaders and their spouses. He did his best to represent the Bureau well. He was tired, but he'd earned it, and he'd missed, so much, the fierce energy of competitive tennis. When he got home, he'd make time to play with Haley on his team again, come hell or high water.
* * *
"Hear that, Sammy?" Dean asked.
The final round between the cops and the lawyers had just finished, and the cops, led by the formidable FBI duo, had won. The stands were ringing with cheers and adulation, the boos and hisses of the lawyers completely drowned out.
"That's what you'd have to look forward to you if you'd stayed at Stanford," Dean said.
Sam didn't flinch at the reference to his old life. "We need to get out of here, and fast. Move on. Find a real hunt."
"Are you asking me to throw the game?" Dean demanded. "What kind of a man do you think I am?"
"The kind of man who hits on a married woman, gets her drink thrown in his face, and then gives my name to her husband," Sam said without missing a beat.
"But I'm not dishonorable."
Sam arched an eyebrow.
"Sammy..."
"It's Sam," he said. "Come on. There are other hunts out there. Other leads. But we need to keep moving." If we stand still, he meant, fate will catch up to us.
"Fine," Dean said, "but at least give it your all against Anna and Ciaran."
Sam snorted. "If we win, don't think for a second it wasn't because they didn't let us."
"Who are they, anyway?" Dean asked.
"No one dangerous to us. Let them be."
"Fine. I will. Except on the tennis court." Dean spun his racket on his palm and was inordinately pleased when it didn't fall after half a second. "Ha! See? I got this. We got this."
Sam gazed across the tennis courts at where Agent Hotchner and Mark were talking to Gwen and Freya. "I hope so."
Dean grinned. "Let's go get us some marshmallow hearts from those Lucky Charms."
* * *
Anna and Ciaran were fast, fierce tennis players. They moved like a well-oiled machine and it was almost like they could read each other's minds. Maybe when he got back to HQ, Aaron would ask Reid what he knew about twins and their quasi-psychic connections. Sam and Dean were fast, strong, and feral, almost desperate on every ball they managed to return, but best as Aaron could tell, they were giving the game their all. If they won, they'd desperately need the dinner break to recover and get their strength back.
Sam and Dean prevailed by the skin of their teeth. Anna and Ciaran put up a good fight, and when they shook hands with their opponents over the net, it was with genuine friendship.
"Think you can take them?" Agent Finch asked.
"Hell yes," Mark said.
Aaron fought down an amused smile. "I think so."
Agent Finch grinned at her partner and nudged him. "Good luck, Markie Mark."
That earned her a scowl.
Dinner was a light affair, because Aaron didn't want to get too full to run around, but he made sure to take down enough carbs so he'd have energy to burn. Mark, on the other hand, ate like there was no tomorrow. After the meal, Aaron hurried upstairs to change into fresh clothes. There were several text messages from Garcia and the rest of the team wishing him luck in the final round. He smiled and fired off his thanks, and then he headed to the tennis court. Surely Strauss wouldn’t fault him for telling Garcia about the tennis tournament last night.
The bleachers were overcrowded, and the club staff had set out folding chairs as additional seating. The audience was divided between the conference participants cheering for Mark and Aaron and the country club patrons cheering for their tennis pros. Sam and Dean looked fresh-faced and eager. Dean was shadow-boxing to warm up; Sam was stretching and limbering up one last time.
Mark and Aaron went to meet their opponents at the net. Anna climbed up to the perch to judge, and Ciaran took over manning the scoreboard.
"Good luck," Sam said, utterly sincere as he shook hands with Mark.
Dean's grin was fierce. "Bring your A-game."
"You're on," Mark said. His grip on Dean's hand was white-knuckled, but Dean didn't even flinch.
Aaron met Sam's gaze and was startled by the intensity in Sam's gaze. "Good luck," Aaron said.
"Thank you. And to you." For one second, Sam's eyes were the same brilliant green as Dean's. Then he was peeling back and heading for his end of the court, spinning his racket and flourishing for the audience crowded up close to the fence.
Anna had a bullhorn to be heard over the din of the audience. "Players, take your marks!"
Aaron trotted to his end of the court and settled onto his half.
Chief Seegmiller was given the responsibility to handle the coin toss.
"Heads or tails?" he asked Aaron.
"Heads," he said.
The Chief tossed the coin, caught it, paused. Then he peeked at it. "Heads!"
The conference side of the audience cheered. A shy, blushing teenage girl handed Mark a tennis ball. He bounced it a few times, testing it. Anna called the game.
Mark bounced the ball one more time, tossed it up, and slammed it across the net.
Sam and Dean rarely called to each other. They tended to divide coverage of their half of the court evenly, and they had an excellent sense of when the ball belonged to one or the other. What Aaron and Mark needed to do was send the ball right into where their coverage mingled, get them confused, in each other's space.
For the first game, Aaron and Mark kept feeding the ball right down the middle. Dean was the dominant personality, so Aaron wasn't surprised when Dean muscled his way into Sam's space to make sure the ball didn't make it past them. Sam had a wicked backhand, but Dean's hits had more raw power, and more than once Mark had dodged the ball rather than take it on, which cost them the first game.
For the second game, Mark and Aaron started setting the brothers up by firing a ball down the middle for Dean to scramble after, then returning the ball onto Dean's undefended side. After a while Dean caught on to the strategy, but Sam, who was used to Dean covering the middle, let several balls in the middle go, and Mark and Aaron took the game.
For the third and final game, Mark and Aaron did their best to keep Sam and Dean on their feet, but Sam and Dean had caught on to their tricks. They started talking to each other, calling the balls down the middle, and they'd dart back to cover their halves of the court once the ball down the middle was called. They'd started firing balls over to Mark in ad court, and Aaron quickly realized why. Mark tended to favor his right shoulder ever so slightly, but as the tennis games had worn on, he must have been favoring it more, and the brothers had noticed.
The final serve was Sam's. He bounced the ball a couple of times, murmured something to Dean. Dean nodded, twirled his racket, then settled himself into a stance that left him ready to spring in any direction.
"Ready?" Mark asked.
"Ready," Aaron said.
Sam tossed the ball up. Aaron felt like time had slowed down. The ball hovered in midair. Sam leaped, higher than any human ought to be able to leap, arced his racket toward the ball.
Thock.
There was a heartbeat. Another heartbeat. The ball sped toward Mark's bad side. Mark lunged.
A cry rose up from the audience. Mark hit the ground with a grunt.
Aaron dashed toward him.
Sam looked horrified.
On the other side of the court, Dean was diving for the ball, racket outstretched.
Thock.
Dean tumbled to the ground.
The ball was coming toward right where Aaron had been standing.
Another cry rose up from the audience. Anna was calling the end of the game. Mark heaved himself up to his feet, wincing and clutching his shoulder, racket forgotten.
"Are you okay?" Aaron asked.
Mark nodded, expression tight, face pale. Ciaran abandoned the scoreboard and trotted over to see what was going on. On the other side of the court, Sam was helping Dean to his feet.
They met at the net again, Dean grumbling but allowing Sam to support his weight, Mark radiating waves of don't touch me. But they all shook hands and murmured platitudes of good game.
"Really," Sam said, smiling at Aaron. "Good game."
Mark shoved Dean in the shoulder. "I want a rematch."
"Later, Timberlake," Dean said, and smirked.
Mark swatted at him, but the gesture was without malice. In fact, it was almost brotherly. "Later," he agreed.
Gwen stepped up, and Mark allowed her to support his weight even though she was a full head shorter than him. "Let Ciaran check you over, and then we'll get you cleaned up and maybe a little drunk." She grinned at Aaron. "You should drink with us."
Aaron thought of those hungover students during the first keynote speech of the conference and considered. But something about Gwen's smile reminded him of Greenaway, of his first days in the BAU with Gideon, and he nodded before he could think about it further.
Aaron remembered going to a local bar where the crowd was considerably younger than him but the agents and tennis pros blended in. They fed him a steady stream of drinks, and then Dean and Gwen fleeced him at cards. He managed to take Sam and Ciaran in a game of pool, but then Mark and Anna ruined him in a game of darts. Where Aaron managed to take them all, however, was on the bar's trivia quiz machine.
"See, Dean," Sam said, "if I'd gone to law school, that coulda been me."
"If you'd gone to law school," Dean replied, "you could bail me out when I do stupid stuff."
Sam clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm here to make sure you don't do stupid stuff. You do that, right Hotch? You make sure your team doesn't do stupid stuff."
"I try," Aaron said.
"Try not," Gwen intoned. "Do or do not. There is no try."
"Star Wars!" Sam cried. "You really are my people."
Aaron couldn't help but laugh. He wondered if Sam and Reid would be friends if they ever met.
After the trivia quiz machine game, Aaron's night was a bit of a haze, but when he woke up the next morning he didn't feel particularly hung over, he wasn't missing any clothes, and he didn't have any extraneous tattoos, piercings, or other body modifications, so he figured the others had sent him home safe. He'd passed Strauss's test, he was sure of it.
* * *
The end of the conference was nothing to write home about. When Aaron returned to FBI headquarters, Strauss congratulated him on his tennis win. The next year, when he heard on the news about Agent Henricksen being killed in an explosion at a Colorado police station, he mourned for the loss of a colleague, but he didn't closely at the details of the story. If he had, he might have recognized Henricksen's deceased quarries as a pair of tennis pros he'd competed against at a tennis tournament the prior year.
* * *
Dean put down his fork after his last slice of pie at the Bumbleberry Café and sat back, rubbing his belly appreciatively.
"That really is the best bumbleberry pie I've ever had," he said.
Freya beamed at him. Then she looked at Sam. "How was yours?"
"Delicious." He rarely indulged in pie, and his smile was sincere. Freya had no clue that her gigantor crush had almost been taken down by the FBI.
"Too bad you have to go," Anna said. "You play a good game." Her gaze sparkled with amusement. Sam was right. Dean was under no illusions that Anna hadn't done anything but let them win. He suspected she was entertained by dangling them in front of a real FBI agent. Sam insisted that Ciaran was just making sure his spellwork had held.
"Well, our awesome tennis skills are needed elsewhere," Dean said. He'd found a hunt in Hollywood. He was so jazzed. Wannabe actresses as far as the eye could see. It would be awesome times. "Sammy and I hate to eat and run, but..."
"But you helped us, and we appreciate it," Ciaran said. "We couldn't have survived this tennis tournament without you."
"No problem." Sam smiled at Ciaran. "Good luck with your search. And if I ever run into the right people, I'll let you know."
"Thanks," Anna said.
Dean threw down enough cash to cover the meal and leave a decent tip for Freya, pushed himself to his feet. "We gotta go, Sammy. Daylight's burning."
"Thanks for everything." Sam actually hugged Freya, and then he followed Dean out to the car.
Where Gwen and Mark were waiting, dressed in regular hunter gear.
Gwen shoved a business card at Sam. "We'll keep an eye out for other psychic kids like you, all right?"
"Thanks." He pocketed the card. "It was good to meet you. We, uh, never knew much about our family growing up."
"Speaking of family," Dean said, "don't be strangers, all right? We got your back on a hunt if you need it."
"Speaking of family," Gwen said, "our family is pretty big. We'll call you about a reunion sometime. And Sam - I'll send you everything we've got on the Men of Letters. So you can learn something about your father, too."
Mom came from a family of hunters. Dad came from a family of hunter-haters. Dean was sure Dad hadn't known Mom was a hunter, that Dad hadn't even known what hunting was till after Mom died. Maybe Bobby knew something about these Men of Letters. Dean would have to find out.
But first, they had to take care of old Yellow Eyes.
Mark didn't say anything, but he did give Dean two things: a leatherbound journal, and a knife.
"Thanks," Dean said, accepting them warily.
"Your mother's," Mark said.
Dean's eyes went wide.
Mark grinned. "Call us." And then he straightened up and headed for Gwen's car.
Dean watched him go. "You know, Sammy, maybe this tennis thing wasn't so terrible after all."
"Maybe," Sam agreed. He and Dean watched their cousins pull out of the parking lot. Sam turned to Dean. "Did you know any of this? About Mom and Dad?"
Dean hated the hitch in Sam's voice. It was the same hitch in Sam's voice when he'd insisted there might be another way to save Madison.
"No."
Sam bit his lip.
"I promise, Sammy." Dean sighed. "I know me - and Dad - really clam up when it comes to, to Mom. But I swear. Now you know everything I know."
Sam nodded. "Okay."
"Hey, uh..." Dean held out the journal. "I'll drive. Why don't you read to me?"
"Okay," Sam said. "But maybe we should check out that vengeful spirit in Cedarville first."
"Nah. I already called it in to our cousins." Dean grinned. "Hollywood, here we come!" He gunned the engine and peeled out of the parking lot. There was so much to think about with all the new information about his family. There were so many questions left unanswered about the plans old Yellow Eyes had for Sam and the other kids. There were so many things Dean ought to say, because those shadows from Madison's death were still lingering in Sam's eyes. But Dean wasn't very good at offering comfort.
Dean Winchester was good at three things now, though: killing monsters, eating pie, and playing tennis (four if you counted seducing women; five if you counted fixing cars).