Criminal Minds/Supernatural Fic: When You Are Done 2/6
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
At any other time, Sam might feel slightly guilty for storming out of the Crivitz police station (and for snapping at the BAU agents his subconscious helpfully added). He called Bobby again, “It’s Sam-you hear anything new?”
Bobby growled in response. “Boy, I ought to hang up on you for that question. What the hell you been doing in Wisconsin-bashing your head against the wall? Only way I figure you lost so many brain cells in such a short time.”
“Right,” Sam replied sheepishly.
“Castiel check in yet?”
“No, I left another message on his phone though,” Sam replied, grateful for the change of subject. “Though I’m not sure how much help he’ll be; it’s not like he can find Dean with the protection runes he marked us with.”
Bobby was silent. “It’s times like this that truly make me wonder why Dean calls you the smart one in the family. If nothing else, he’ll be able to tell you if Zachariah snatched him up. According to my sources, there aren’t any new spikes of demonic activity. The demons would be celebratin’ by now it they had him.”
A heavy pit settled in Sam’s stomach. It had been over six hours since he rolled over and found the bed across the room cold and empty. He’d assumed his brother had run over to the attached diner to grab breakfast. Dean had been rhapsodizing over their cherry pie for the last three days; he’d apparently charmed Gloria, their waitress the last three mornings, into saving him a piece for morning.
“Sam, are you sure the case didn’t have anything to do with this?” Bobby asked slowly.
“Not our kind of case,” Sam replied. “Handed it off to the feds this morning.”
“Doesn’t mean the two aren’t related.”
“The creep goes for brunette women in their early twenties. As much as Dean likes those criteria, he doesn’t exactly fit them,” Sam said drily.
“As long as your brother didn’t stumble onto anything,” Bobby said ominously.
“He was only gone for…” Sam started to say before thinking better of it.
Bobby snorted, realizing where Sam was headed with that statement. “Your brother’s always been able to find trouble with his eyes closed and it’s only gotten worse since he noticed women.”
Sam grimaced, remembering the hours of training he’d endured alongside his brother when their father had declared if they had so much excess energy to burn, they might as well use it constructively.
“I can be there in under ten hours, less if I speed and the ‘please excuse an old cripple’ act works on any state troopers,” Bobby offered.
“Give me another hour to look around,” Sam said finally. “Maybe he just followed some girl home and hasn’t come up for air yet.”
It was a weak excuse and they both knew it. Dean’s self-professed “skill with the ladies” notwithstanding, even his typically thoughtless older brother would have checked in by now.
“You got yourself an hour, boy,” the older man agreed before hanging up. More likely than not, he had already packed his bags and was making arrangements for Rumsfeld and the new puppy, Clinton. Sam was pretty sure that when he called Bobby next, the man would have “just left” his home in Sioux Falls.
Sam pulled at his tie irritably. Why had he even bothered to put the stupid thing on this morning? Maybe Dean had a point about relying on costumes, though those protests only seemed to come up when he was forced to wear a suit or coveralls. Next time, Sam decided, they were posing as screenwriters or journalists. No ties required.
Grabbing his jeans and the warmest clean base layers he could find, Agent Reid’s explanation of a Wendigo floated through his head again. Why had the man’s words seemed eerily familiar?
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It hadn’t taken long to find Laurine Nichols’ small house on Louisa Street. Prentiss almost felt embarrassed for taking the rental car for the two-minute drive, but even though she had teased Reid about his complaints on the weather earlier, it was freezing and she had no desire to walk if she didn’t have to.
Prentiss and Morgan sat awkwardly on the floral loveseat as Laurine brought a pitcher of water out from the kitchen. The house was small, but tidy with pictures of two smiling blondes dotting the mantle over the fireplace. Laurine sat in the ottoman with her own glass of tea and followed Prentiss’ gaze. She smiled sadly at the photographs before asking, “I’m sorry, why did you say you wanted to talk to me again?”
“We’re here about the disappearance of your sister.”
“Look, I already talked to the other agents and the police. Why can’t you just talk to them?” she asked plaintively. She paced the small living room several times before calming down. “And why now? I couldn’t get this kind of interest when Grace went missing-they claimed she had runaway even though I told them that wasn’t Grace’s style. If she’d’ve left town, people would still be talking about it-girl liked to make an exit.”
“We’re investigating your sister’s case as a part of a routine investigation,” Prentiss said soothingly.
Morgan guided Laurine back to the couch. “Any details you have would be really useful.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“Details?” Roxanne Miller repeated blankly. “What is there to say that hasn’t been said a hundred times already?”
Hotch leaned forward intently. “If you could just go over when you discovered Sharon missing one more time…”
Roxanne sipped at her coffee cup, clearly gathering her strength. “She had just turned twenty-two. Had a big party with her two best friends from high school-they went to Green Bay for a long weekend. She was picking up an extra shift from Janie Mueller in addition to her own. I had to get to the office at eight and Sharon’s never been a morning person.”
She breathed deeply. “She was scheduled to work until midnight. I don’t normally stay up that late, but I wanted to know if she’d changed the oil on the car like I’d asked her to after the trip. But she just didn’t come home…”
“Had she been complaining about anyone unusual or threatening before she disappeared?” Rossi asked.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“No, not that she mentioned,” Jessica Grothman replied to the seated FBI agents. “Jennifer was still in school, she didn’t really go out much but she would have said something if someone was bothering her.”
“What about new friends? A new boyfriend?” Reid asked gently.
“Not that she mentioned,” Mrs. Grothman replied. “I wish I could be more helpful.”
“You did great,” JJ assured. “Thank you again for talking to us.”
She exchanged the usual pleasantries as she gave Mrs. Grothman her card, asking her to call if she remembered any additional information. She doubted there would be any forthcoming, however. “Nothing new,” she said disgustedly when they were both in the car and out of earshot.
“No signs of depression, she followed her normal routine and hadn’t reported any suspicious activities recently. Just went missing sometime between six a.m. and two p.m.,” Reid summarized softly.
“How does that compare to the other victims?” JJ asked.
“No common time-frame as far as I can tell.”
JJ hit the steering wheel of her SUV several times. It made her feel slightly better, though not by much. “Who the hell is this guy?”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“The man in my phone told me you had left me several messages,” said a solemn voice when Sam answered his phone. Sam really regretted deciding to jump over his brothers’ chosen bed to pick up the phone on its second ring-Castiel’s was not the voice he had been hoping to hear.
And the stubbed toes stung like a bitch.
“So?” Sam asked impatiently, rubbing his toe through his sock carefully. “Have you heard through Angel CNN or whatever if Zachariah has Dean?”
“Dean is missing?”
Sam sighed. This was like teaching his father about cell phones all over again. “Cas, did you check your messages before calling me back, or did you just call when you saw I left messages.”
“The latter. There was a voice that informed me I had five missed messages and I hastened to call you back. I thought it prudent to not waste time listening to messages.”
Sam suspected Castiel didn’t know how to access his voicemail properly, but this wasn’t the time to press. He put the information into the back of his brain, the same place he remembered the time his father returned from a hunt with green hair and the time he found Jess singing the “Gummi Bears” theme song. Potential embarrassing information was a currency he’d been trading in for years.
“Dean’s missing,” he finally said. “He left the room sometime early this morning, hasn’t come back. I just wanted to know if you knew if Zachariah had nabbed him.”
“I have not heard anything. How did you lose your brother,” Castiel asked, his tone suggesting Sam was like a five year-old who had lost his favorite action figure.
“I didn’t lose him,” Sam protested, grabbing a nearby pair of jeans and yanking them over his hips, cradling the phone against his shoulder to free a hand to root around for a towel. “He’s missing. Been missing for several hours now and I don’t have any leads.”
“I fail to see the difference,” Castiel said flatly. “Where are you currently?”
“The Platter Restaurant and Motel in Crivitz, Wisconsin,” Sam replied. He had wanted to stay at the Best Western just outside the town, but he’d somehow lost rock-paper-scissor. Dean always threw scissors-always, so why had gone with paper this time? Sam looked around the room in disgust, he was sure that in addition to free wi-fi, the Best Western had better taste in interior decorators.
“What room?”
“Room eight,” Sam replied cautiously, toweling his hair vigorously. “Why?”
There was a knock at the door.
Of course.
Sam tossed his phone back onto the nightstand and grabbed a clean shirt from his duffle. He could not believe he’d cut his shower short (and stubbed his toe) for this. Sighing, he unbolted the door to let the angel in.
“I cannot spare the minutes to continue our conversation over the phone,” Castiel said, looking around the room curiously.
Sam frowned. “You’re on a minute plan? Seriously, you should just go with an unlimited plan…”
Castiel glared at him. “When exactly did you lose your brother, Sam?”
“I told you, I didn’t lose him,” Sam protested again. “I woke up, he was gone. Haven’t been able to find him, Bobby hasn’t heard anything. I called you because I didn’t know if Zachariah had taken him. Again.”
“With the angelic runes you both wear, I cannot locate Dean for you,” Castiel replied seriously. “What does the prophet say?”
Sam stared at him blankly. “The prophet?”
“Chuck Shurely,” Castiel prompted. “He is tasked with recording your journeys.”
“And getting rich off them,” Sam mumbled, still irritated that his life had been written and sold as a crappy paperback series.
Castiel ignored his grumbling. “He is very attentive to detail.”
Sam felt like hitting himself when the implication of the angel’s words finally hit. “I’ll be right back. Don’t touch anything.”
He grabbed a jacket and stepped outside the room while searching for Chuck’s number in his contacts. It was bad enough that he was going to have to deal with Chuck, no way was he going to try to deal with Chuck and Castiel concurrently. He waited impatiently for the phone to be picked up.
“Hello?” a female voice asked.
Crap. “Um, hi. I’m calling for Chuck. This is a friend of his, Sam.”
“I know who you are silly,” she replied. “Sam, I can’t believe you don’t recognize my voice!”
“Becky?” he asked tentatively, hoping he was wrong.
“I knew you’d figure it out Sam! You’re so smart and brave and…”
Sam cut her off, knowing from past experience she could go on for hours. “How’re you doing?”
“Well, Chuck and I moved in together. Obviously, I mean I wouldn’t just answer his phone like I lived here unless I did. He’s such a great guy,” she gushed. “But it’s kind of annoying how no one likes my future fic now. I mean, I’m including Cas and everything, but everyone keeps calling him a Gary Stu and that is totally not fair because I have been really careful to show that even though he’s an angel, he’s a complex character. AND people are accusing me, ME, of being unfaithful to the brothers’ code! Can’t a girl expand her…”
“Becky, I really need to talk to Chuck. Really,” Sam finally interrupted when it looked like Becky might not finish her monologue anytime soon. Or worse, continue to talk about the people out there who thought he was the perfect match for his brother. He shuddered at the thought then wondered absently why Becky was writing about Castiel in the first place. No, it was better not to know.
“Fine,” Becky sniffed. “Here’s Chuck.”
“Hello?”
“Chuck? It’s Sam Winchester.”
Chuck laughed nervously. “I gathered. What’s this about? I promise, I turned down that convention invitation. Didn’t even consider it.”
Sam frowned. “That’s not why I’m calling, but good to hear. Do you know where my brother is?”
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. “No, why? Did you lose him?” Chuck finally asked.
“Shouldn’t you? I mean, isn’t that your job, to know what’s going on in our lives?” Sam demanded, heroically restraining himself from a diatribe asking why the world seemed to think he could lose his brother.
“Calm down there Sparky,” Chuck said. “I don’t get everything you know.”
“Really?” Sam asked doubtfully. “Then why’d you stick sex scenes in there?”
“Those were included,” Chuck protested. “I thought I just had a really vivid imagination, it’s not like I like knowing I basically transcribed your sex life!”
“But if you know that, then why can’t you tell me where my brother is?”
“I can’t control what I get to see Sam. In the earlier books I would just start getting inspiration when it was case related…I mean when you were working a case. God this is such a mess,” Chuck muttered.
“We’re working a case now,” Sam said.
“News to me,” Chuck responded. “Angels must not think it’s important enough to beam into my brain. I don’t know what else to tell you, I haven’t heard a peep for the last week or so. Been kind of nice actually. I finally finished up the living room renovation.”
“Great. Thanks for all your help,” Sam ground out as he hung up the phone. He resisted the urge to throw his cell against the wall, but just barely.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“Well, that was a bust,” Prentiss said when Laurine Nichols finally closed the door behind them.
Morgan opened the door to their SUV. “We’ll get there Prentiss.”
“I know,” Prentiss replied. “It’s just…”
“Just what?” Morgan said as he started the ignition. He rubbed his hands in front of the heater futily, knowing as well as she did it wouldn’t heat up for a few minutes at least. “Close the door, would you? It’s not exactly balmy out there. We need to get over to Atwood’s. Laurine said that Grace’s boyfriend, a Jerry Lundegaard, will probably only be there another hour or so.”
Prentiss was staring down the empty street contemplatively. “You go ahead,” she said slowly. “I’ve got an idea and it’s only a five minute walk back to the police station.”
Morgan lowered his sunglasses to look her in the eye. “You sure?” At Prentiss’ nod, he flipped his sunglasses back up and simply said, “See you at the station in an hour then.”
The library had caught her eye when they’d arrived at the small brick house. When she and Morgan had carefully examined Grace’s well-preserved bedroom, full of nature photography, maps, and travel books, Prentiss could understand why the police suspected she had simply runaway. Her own bedroom in Saudi Arabia had been the same, though in her case the maps had been interspersed with posters of Siouxsie Sioux and The Cure. A small stack of books on the corner of Grace’s desk with a green sticky note stuck to the top had given her an idea.
They were different than the rest. Older, but in better shape than the rest-no dog ears, the spines were relatively in tack, and most importantly, they had plastic-covered dust covers. That plus a library down the street meant a field trip was in order.
Maybe it wasn’t right to send Morgan to do the interview with the boyfriend alone, but Prentiss planned on savoring this trip to the library. She still thought fondly on the hours she had spent in the New Haven Public Library during her undergraduate years, drinking in the homey atmosphere of murmured conversation, the deep smell of old books, and the welcome feeling of being surrounded by hundreds of old friends.
She felt she’d earned the pleasure of keeping this experience to herself, especially after running into Sam Winchester earlier in the day. Simply seeing his face had caused all the feelings of despair and helplessness that had haunted her for months after their first meeting. He and his brother had tried, she granted, in their own way to help her recover. Through her layers, she rubbed her tattoo reassuringly as a strong wind raced down the street. It just hadn’t been enough to wipe the cold from her bones.
Prentiss held the beige door open for a haggard women struggling with three small children in bright snowsuits, each chattering happily and independently of each other, to their mother. Upon entering the library, she had to force herself to move away from the heat vent blasting the entryway. Even though she only had to walk across the street, the Wisconsin winter was nothing to sneeze at.
She walked up to the main desk, currently manned by a slightly overweight woman reading a magazine. Prentiss craned her neck, subtly trying to catch the title, but the older woman caught her. Grinning, she lifted the magazine up to expose the December 2009 issue of Wired.
“The article on engaging with Scientology is awesome,” the woman whispered conspiratorially. “How can I help you today?”
“My name is Special Supervisory Agent Emily Prentiss, ma’am. I’m with the FBI,” she said, holding her credentials out for inspection.
The woman at the front desk, Mary-Anne if the nametag was correct, stared at her in confusion. “How can I help you?”
“I’m investigating the disappearance of Grace Nichols and I noticed she had quite a collection of travel books. I was wondering if anyone in the library knew her and might be able to talk to me for a minute?”
Mary-Anne pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Well, I knew her, but only in the sense that I could recognize her and we went to church together. You’re going to want to talk to Flynn Carsen; his office is right through the back there.”
Prentiss followed in the direction indicated, thanking the woman absently as she edged her way past a group of senior citizens.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Sam took a few minutes to recover from his conversation with Chuck. Though he had to wave off a few curious passersby, probably wondering who the crazy kid standing out in the cold with wet hair and no jacket was, Sam needed to refocus before heading back into his motel room. When he finally reentered the room, he found Castiel standing in front of the single window examining it curiously. “Were you spying on me?” he asked curiously.
“No,” the angel replied in his standard rasping monotone. “Why?”
“It’s just...,” Sam started. “Never mind. Chuck’s a no go.”
“He’s not going where?”
This is why he left dealing with angels to Dean. “It’s an expression. It means Chuck can’t help,” Sam explained.
Castiel was still staring at the window. “Sam, can I ask you a question?”
“What?”
Castiel tilted his head, his staring continuing unabated. “Why is this room decorated with riddles?”
Sam wasn’t even sure where to start with that one. Could semi-fallen angels be delusional? “What do you mean?”
“Why would a bovine attempt to break atmosphere?” Castiel asked seriously, turning his speculative gaze on Sam. “It does not have wings. Surely it would realize such an attempt was futile.”
Sam frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Castiel looked back at the window.
It was just a window with another crappy view of the parking lot, the Impala angled to be visible from the room so Dean could ensure no one messed with it. No cows in sight, just concrete, a diner, and a half-empty parking lot. What was Cas talking about?
Sam brushed the curtain to one side, then froze. The curtain? He and Dean had stayed at so many crappy, themed motels throughout their lives that he tended to block the décor out subconsciously. He took another look around the room, noting Dean had managed to find the one motel obsessed with nursery rhymes in the greater Crivitz area, and more than likely, in the state of Wisconsin.
“The picture is a reference to a nursery rhyme for children. It’s not supposed to make sense,” Sam explained. “You can just ignore it.”
Castiel looked at him doubtfully, but finally stopped staring at the window and turned his attention the wall art.
“Sam, felines do not possess opposable thumbs. How would they play a violin?”
It took extraordinary willpower not to slam his head against the cats and the fiddles. Sam needed Dean back, not only to help him stop the apocalypse, but to deal with this kind of shit.
On to Part Three