SPN/CM crossover fic: As You Are Now, So Once Was I (3/?)
Title: As You Are Now, So Once Was I
Fandom(s): Supernatural, Criminal Minds
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Hotch, Rossi, Morgan, Prentiss, J.J., Reid, Garcia
Summary: Sequel to “ All the King’s Horses.” When Dean catches J.J’s press conference on the news about a current case and notices a few...inconsistencies, he realizes the BAU is definitely going to need his help. Again.
Warnings/Spoilers: Future fic, spoilers through season five of both shows.
Word Count: 3388
Disclaimer: While I really wouldn’t object to having Dean and or Morgan, I alas do not own them or any of their cohorts.
Previous:
1 | 2 |
As You Are Now, So Once Was I
Part III
April 11, 2017, 10:10 A.M.
Schoolcraft County Police Department
Manistique, Michigan
Emily hangs up her phone, reeling not minimally, and quickly locates Morgan, entering the interrogation room. Chin in his hand, Morgan is intent on the computer screen, occasional blue flashes coming over his face from whatever video is playing. Stepping in, Emily knocks belatedly.
Morgan looks up at her, stalling the video, and Emily’s nothing short of surprised at the mixture of solemnity and indecision on his features. In all the time she’s known him, Derek Morgan has never been unsure. Maybe not willing to bet his life on a theory or suspect, but never indecisive. So the expression now is, frankly, startling.
“How’d it go?” he asks, clearing his throat.
Emily laughs dismally. “Awful,” she answers. “But I can say one thing for Dean-he’s one of the most persuasive people I’ve ever met.”
Morgan doesn’t disagree. “I’ve been looking at absolutely everything there is about him,” he says. “And it’s…strange.”
“How so?” Emily inquires, taking a seat next to him. On the computer is what looks like a newscast, apparently from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, but she can’t deduce much more than that.
Morgan gestures vaguely to the stilled image. “Dean’s FBI and police files, not to mention Henricksen, were all convinced to the death that Dean’s an endangerment to society,” he relays. Emily waits. “Except, all the testimonies recorded from witnesses say the opposite. Everyone from a credentialed detective in Baltimore to a bank manager-this Milwaukee bank, actually-say that Dean and Sam saved their lives. So for the life of me, I can’t figure out what the fuck is going on here.”
Emily cracks a smile at his exasperation. “Welcome to the club,” she replies. “I guess we can both see now why the Winchesters nearly made Henricksen go crazy, huh?”
If he weren’t above hitting women, Morgan would give Emily a good punch on the shoulder. “Thanks for that,” he replies sarcastically. “That really isn’t helping.”
“What do you want me to say, Morgan?” Emily replies tiredly. “Obviously we need Dean on this, and I told him I’d find a way to fly him over here. You’re welcome to try and talk me out of it, but you know it won’t do any good.”
Morgan would like to, very much so, but Emily’s preaching gospel as far as he’s concerned, in regards to her tenacity. “Well, if anyone can get a serial killer out from behind bars, it’s you, Prentiss,” he smiles.
She’s not sure what to say to that, so instead she gestures to the computer. “Apart from frustration, did you get anything useful in there?”
Morgan groans and slams shut the screen with more force than Emily is sure Garcia would appreciate. “No,” he says. “Found out Dean’s more of a smartass than Hotch let on, and that he’s on a hair trigger whenever Sam’s name is mentioned, but other than that, nothing. I have hand it to them, though-considering how many times they escaped capture or prison, they’re definitely as skilled as their demeanor asserts.”
“I think we decided that in Illinois,” Emily chuckles. Standing up reluctantly, she says, “I should probably go make those calls. Get Dean out of there for a couple days. You try and think of ways to keep this as quiet as possible. We might end up having to let someone like Hotch know, but I’m hoping that between you, me, and Dean, no one has to be aware of this.”
Morgan looks skeptical, but latches onto Emily’s confidence. “You got it,” he says, getting out of his chair and picking up the computer. “I’ll give this back to Garcia. Maybe she’ll have some suggestions on the security front.”
“Good idea,” iterates Emily, pulling out her cell phone. “Reconvene in an hour or so?”
Nodding, Morgan heads toward the door. “Let’s just hope this goes as we plan.”
Emily sincerely doubts it will, but she keeps up the assured front. “Yeah. Here’s hoping.”
Exhaling heavily, Emily presses in a number on her phone, silently thanking the fact that she knows some of her mother’s contacts, and that she has the Prentiss name going for her. She despises what childhood was forced upon her, but sometimes she has to admit that her mother’s ambassadorship has some upsides.
April 11, 2017, 11:00 A.M.
Federal Correctional Institution, Edgefield
Edgefield, South Carolina
An hour after Emily’s phone call, and Dean is still in a relative state of disbelief over it, thankful that being back at his job of folding sheets doesn’t require much thought, leaving him to muse on things very not linen-related. 13192 is still his folding-mate, which is unfortunate because, much as Dean tries to ignore it, the man keeps flicking his eyes up as if in question. Dean has no misgivings whatsoever that people know to whom he was talking; Dean’s already an enigma, and now people find out he’s communicating with an FBI agent?
It’s cause for suspicion. As if Dean doesn’t already have enough issues to deal with right now.
“You wanna say something, just spit it out,” he says finally, fed up. “Or else stop fucking staring at me.”
13192 doesn’t look abashed, not at all, but shrugs. “What yous doin’ talkin’ to the Feds?” he asks, tossing a creased sheet onto the ever-growing pile. “You gots us wond’rin’.”
“It’s not any of your business,” Dean replies harshly. “I can talk to who the fuck ever I want.”
For all the idiocy that 13192 projects, his liquidy gray eyes are sharp. “Yous a killer,” he says, as if Dean weren’t aware of that charge. “But you ain’t talkin’ ’bout time. Somethin’ ’bout a case?”
Dean clenches his jaw, fingers curling in on the fabric, knuckles slowly turning white. “It isn’t your business,” enunciates Dean again. “Fuck off.”
13192 shrugs again. “Just tellin’ you t’ watch your back, Winchester,” he says. Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes at the intended menace. “We don’ take kin’ly to snitches.”
“Your attempt at a pissing contest ain’t gonna do you any good,” Dean says. “If you’ll remember, I kicked your boy’s ass when I got thrown in here. You want that to happen again?”
It’s clear the prisoner hadn’t forgotten-in truth, convicts have pretty flawless memories-and it’s written on his face. “Just tellin’ you,” he settles. “That Fed get you outta here an’ you come back, you ain’ gettin’ it easy.”
This time, Dean actually does roll his eyes. “Promises, promises,” he mutters, going back to the folding.
Not that he’ll ever admit it, but 13192 had a point. (Sort of.) Sure, Dean really doesn’t care what will “happen” to him in prison, since he knows he can more than defend himself. No, what just started to eat at him is what the schematics would be after the case gets solved, provided Emily could actually have him sprung in the first place, that is.
Dean’s stomach feels vaguely hollow at the fear that arises. The fear that, if he were able to experience society again, the kind of moral society of the BAU, the people who have the same intentions as he and S-as he did. Back when he was hunting. He’s afraid that a small part of him wouldn’t want to return to lockup. He’s more than positive he’d still want to be by himself, be alone, but…but would he want the ability to go out if he had such a desire? Even setting aside the potentiality that there’s still a bounty on his head (police bounty; the demons’ had all but expired seven years ago), would he want to be more or less free again? It’d only be physical freedom, but…maybe that’d be enough?
No.
It’s dangerous to entertain those thoughts. Dean clamps a hold of them, pushes them away. Burns them. He isn’t here for recreation. He’s here to kill that goddamned son of a bitch, help out Agent Prentiss and her team, then get back to emptiness. That’s the way it’ll be. The way it has to be. Because if it were to change, if the status quo were to change…well. It can’t. It just can’t.
He’ll wait for Emily’s call, wait for her say-so, be at her authority. Period.
April 11, 2017, 12:02 P.M.
Outside the home of Kari Jansen
Manistique, Michigan
“Well, this was a total bust,” says J.J., sighing as she slides into the passenger seat. “We weren’t able to get anything from the scene that we couldn’t from the pictures and reports.”
“Which is almost more troubling than the crime itself,” comments Hotch. Starting the ignition and pulling out onto the road, he continues, “To my memory, there’s never been a scene from which we couldn’t profile anything.”
Reid looks out the window, his face both as if he’s thinking harder than normal, and distressed, like he’s almost ashamed he wasn’t able to locate something in the house. Not just Jansen’s, but the other two victims’ as well. Levin’s was just as ordinary as Jansen’s, and although they did take some journals with what looked like writing akin to doctor shorthand from Beltway’s apartment, they don’t think it’ll come to much.
“It just means we’ll have to profile the victims more thoroughly,” he says, trying to be optimistic.
J.J. tries to stow her cynicism. Tries to banish the thoughts that the way they have no leads on this case is starting to remind her of that one four years ago. Which, given what caused their eventual success in that one…she really needs to banish those thoughts. A moment later, she does. She thinks she just had a massive moment of weakness. There’s no reason to fault their skills now. They’re only a couple days into the investigation. They have plenty of time. As long as-
“We just have to work fast,” says Hotch stiltedly. “We’ve got next to no info on this unsub so far, or what his next move’ll be. It looks like we might have a six-day window, but like Prentiss said, that doesn’t necessarily mean a pattern. We can’t solely rely on that.”
“Then lets get back to the police station,” says J.J. “Maybe Prentiss, Morgan, and Garcia have found something.”
Rossi sighs. “Let’s hope.”
Considering the size of the town, it takes but five minutes to return to the station, and the four try to not look any of the local officers in the eyes. Even if they weren’t profilers, the accusation and expectation would be clear. And if there’s anything a behavior analyst hates, it’s failing at their craft. Luckily for Morgan and Garcia, the distraction allows just enough time to close out any windows and files pertaining to the Winchesters, and even put up a smokescreen of innocent seriousness.
“Tell me you found something,” says Morgan. Despite the fact that everything Dean-related is shut down, it’s as though he can feel the man’s smarmy mug shot smile grinning up at him. It’s really rather irking.
“You thought our luck would start now?” gripes J.J., her face taut.
“Come on, anything,” begs Morgan, leaning on the table.
Hotch shakes his head. “There was nothing out of the ordinary,” he says. “If there weren’t a woman lying dead, I would have thought everything was just fine.”
Morgan sighs. “All right, well, where do you want to go from here?”
“You’re saying you guys haven’t had any luck either?” asks J.J., sounding at the end of her rope. “What the hell?”
Morgan feels Garcia’s glance at him, and prays that her willpower is strong enough to keep this under wraps. At least for now. If there’s any remotely good time to break the news that Emily had been in contact with Dean, it sure isn’t now. Not when the team is more wound than a tripwire.
“Not really,” he settles, figuring it’s not entirely a lie. After all, Dean hadn’t so far given them anything useful, nor has Emily yet gotten anywhere with the BOP.
And regardless of how incredible Garcia’s hacker skills are, she hadn’t been able to come up with anything technologically viable that could aid them. He himself would kind of like to apprise the rest of the team about Emily’s hare-brained plan, thinks that maybe it’d pan out better if there were more minds at work, but then there’s also the too-many-cooks adage. Right now, Morgan can see that they’re at the stage of aggravation, but not total despair quite yet. Which means that should Morgan let them know that they’re in talks with Dean, it would go over about as well as Hiroshima.
Hotch sighs, and Morgan knows all too well what the new expression on his face means. The determination, the hardness, the resolve. “I’ll speak with the Chief,” says Hotch, and there it is. The SAIC persona that is never one whit away from perfect.
“Press statement,” is all J.J. manages, and she strides away to contact news outlets. Morgan wonders how she does it all without wanting to murder all the media hounds herself.
Rossi looks at Morgan, his eyes penetrating. “Nothing?” he asks. There’s no leeriness, for which Morgan’s grateful, but beseeching is almost as bad.
“Nothing solid,” Morgan replies carefully. “Prentiss is following up with some co-workers and classmates, but she’s not getting much. Garcia and I’ve been over credit card records, past addresses, rap sheets…”
Rossi waves a hand, cutting off Morgan’s very uninspiring (and mostly false) news. “Yeah,” he says despondently. “Well, keep us posted if you do find something.” To Reid, he offers, “We got those journals from Beltway’s; you and I can look through those, try and make some sense of them.”
Reid doesn’t look too optimistic, but agrees. “Worth a try,” he comments, following Rossi into one of the interrogation rooms.
This time, Morgan meets Garcia’s stare. “I don’t like this,” she says with a frown, looking-Morgan’s sure against her will-adorable. As if sensing Morgan’s amusement, she says more forcefully, “I’m serious. I don’t like secret-keeping. You know what they say: ‘secrets, secrets are no fun, secrets, secrets hurt someone.’”
Morgan holds up his hands. “Take it up with Prentiss,” he says. “It was her idea.”
“Typical,” Garcia comments haughtily. “Men not owning up to anything.”
“Watch it,” replies Morgan. Putting a hand on her shoulder, he exhales. “Just-just tell me if there’s even one dot on the radar that has to do with Dean Winchester.”
Garcia nods. “Consider him bugged.”
“That’s my girl.”
“I don’t give a shit about channels!”
Had Emily not been outside the police station for the last three calls she made, there would undeniably be a squadron sprinting over to see if she’d slaughtered someone. Even so, Emily’s hand around her cell phone is so tight the plastic is creaking in protest. And needless to say, the man on the other line, for no reason beyond that he’s the umpteenth one with whom Emily’s spoken, feels like he’s the one being interrogated.
“Ma’am, Mr. Winchester has committed every crime in the book,” he says warily, now understanding why local P.D.s always hate Feds taking over cases. “Including mass murder. He has already been moved from ADMAX to a medium-security facility, against all recommendation. Look, Agent Prentiss, I would like to help you, but there’s nothing we can do. We can’t just let out this guy.”
Emily breathes in and out through her nose, holding the phone away from her ear for a moment. “He could be imperative to an investigation!” she objects vehemently. “He was already imperative to one four years ago, and we feel he could be again. You can have him back after, I don’t care, but we need him in Michigan. Now.”
“I’m sorry,” says the man, incredibly glad he’s safe in Atlanta. “I cannot release this man into your custody, even for a federal investigation.”
Were Emily able to strangle him through the phone, she would. “Screw you,” she snaps unprofessionally, jabbing the End button forcefully.
Finding the wall, she leans against it, closing her eyes. She knows she shouldn’t have expected anything more, that when she called the BOP, this is exactly what they would say, but it doesn’t make the rejection any less infuriating. What makes it even worse is that she’s pretty sure Hotch would be able to sway them to release Dean temporarily.
Maybe she should…
“Prentiss?”
She doesn’t move at Morgan’s voice, just stays where she is, taking even breaths, thinking that those crackpot anger management counselors don’t know what they’re talking about when they say deep breathing helps. Because it really doesn’t.
“Emily,” Morgan tries again, shutting the door and walking in front of her. “You all right?”
Well, that does it. Peering at Morgan angrily, she bites, “No, Derek, I am not. I’ve been hitting roadblock after roadblock for two hours with these stupid fucking prison bureaus, and have gotten nowhere. Every minute Dean’s in corrections is another minute our unsub has to orchestrate his next attack. I’m almost thinking that…that Hotch might…”
“No,” Morgan interrupts. “No. You know we can’t do that. If we tell Hotch, he’s not going to agree to keeping this quiet. He’s going to want to at least tell the rest of the team. And if we do that, we’ll have to convince them that this is a good idea.”
“I convinced all of you last time,” Emily says half-heartedly.
Morgan wonders just when he became the one fully on board with this Dean thing. For all the intelligence he has, he can’t logic that out. “All right, listen,” Morgan says gently, “I know this is frustrating. Not just because of the BOP guys-they’re as annoying as Homeland Security-but because of this unsub. And…much as Dean is far, far from my favorite person, I think you’re right. We do need him.”
“Which we can’t do if these assholes keep this up.”
“Stick with it, Emily,” says Morgan with a small smile. “You’ll get through.”
“Yeah. Sure,” she says dubiously. “While we’re waiting for that to happen, did Garcia get anything?”
Morgan shakes his head ruefully. “Not anything more than-”
The back door opens with a slam, to reveal the woman in question. “Morgan, Emily!” she says hurriedly. “We’ve got a problem.”
“Now what?” Emily groans.
Garcia looks between the two agents nervously. “Uh…you know that alert I put up?” she asks, directing it toward Morgan.
“You just told me three minutes ago,” he says, would have said it with a laugh had Garcia’s face not been so serious.
“I got a hit.”
April 11, 2017, 11:50 A.M.
Edgefield, South Carolina
Seeing J.J.’s most recent press conference told Dean all he needed to know. She didn’t actually say there was another murder, but he saw the strain in her face. To his eyes, it was displayed plain as day. He may not have been actively pondering this route before, hadn’t considered it at all, actually, but casing a place, is a habit you just don’t break.
It was easier than Dean would’ve thought, to be honest. He guesses people had just learned to ignore him after all this time of him being a fairly passive inmate. His reputation is legendary, but at this point, the majority of them have similar thoughts as those of Bela a decade ago: Interesting how the legend is so much more than the man.
Dean’s almost disappointed it was so simple. Almost. He didn’t even have to do any negotiating with the guards. Dean’s cell block got out for rec, and he went out to the yard this time, unassuming as you please. No one even noticed him, their eyes just sliding right on past as if he really were the ghost he’d been prior to meeting Emily Prentiss.
Forty-five minutes later and his block was called back in, called into a line where they were counted and searched. Thirty-nine prisoners accounted for. One missing.
Dean’s well out of sight when he hears the alarm bells ring, and as he takes a second to get his wind, he does something he hasn’t in a long time.
He smiles.
Human potential, though not always apparent, is there waiting to be discovered and invited forth.
- William W. Purkey
Next
Fandom(s): Supernatural, Criminal Minds
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Hotch, Rossi, Morgan, Prentiss, J.J., Reid, Garcia
Summary: Sequel to “ All the King’s Horses.” When Dean catches J.J’s press conference on the news about a current case and notices a few...inconsistencies, he realizes the BAU is definitely going to need his help. Again.
Warnings/Spoilers: Future fic, spoilers through season five of both shows.
Word Count: 3388
Disclaimer: While I really wouldn’t object to having Dean and or Morgan, I alas do not own them or any of their cohorts.
Previous:
1 | 2 |
As You Are Now, So Once Was I
Part III
April 11, 2017, 10:10 A.M.
Schoolcraft County Police Department
Manistique, Michigan
Emily hangs up her phone, reeling not minimally, and quickly locates Morgan, entering the interrogation room. Chin in his hand, Morgan is intent on the computer screen, occasional blue flashes coming over his face from whatever video is playing. Stepping in, Emily knocks belatedly.
Morgan looks up at her, stalling the video, and Emily’s nothing short of surprised at the mixture of solemnity and indecision on his features. In all the time she’s known him, Derek Morgan has never been unsure. Maybe not willing to bet his life on a theory or suspect, but never indecisive. So the expression now is, frankly, startling.
“How’d it go?” he asks, clearing his throat.
Emily laughs dismally. “Awful,” she answers. “But I can say one thing for Dean-he’s one of the most persuasive people I’ve ever met.”
Morgan doesn’t disagree. “I’ve been looking at absolutely everything there is about him,” he says. “And it’s…strange.”
“How so?” Emily inquires, taking a seat next to him. On the computer is what looks like a newscast, apparently from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, but she can’t deduce much more than that.
Morgan gestures vaguely to the stilled image. “Dean’s FBI and police files, not to mention Henricksen, were all convinced to the death that Dean’s an endangerment to society,” he relays. Emily waits. “Except, all the testimonies recorded from witnesses say the opposite. Everyone from a credentialed detective in Baltimore to a bank manager-this Milwaukee bank, actually-say that Dean and Sam saved their lives. So for the life of me, I can’t figure out what the fuck is going on here.”
Emily cracks a smile at his exasperation. “Welcome to the club,” she replies. “I guess we can both see now why the Winchesters nearly made Henricksen go crazy, huh?”
If he weren’t above hitting women, Morgan would give Emily a good punch on the shoulder. “Thanks for that,” he replies sarcastically. “That really isn’t helping.”
“What do you want me to say, Morgan?” Emily replies tiredly. “Obviously we need Dean on this, and I told him I’d find a way to fly him over here. You’re welcome to try and talk me out of it, but you know it won’t do any good.”
Morgan would like to, very much so, but Emily’s preaching gospel as far as he’s concerned, in regards to her tenacity. “Well, if anyone can get a serial killer out from behind bars, it’s you, Prentiss,” he smiles.
She’s not sure what to say to that, so instead she gestures to the computer. “Apart from frustration, did you get anything useful in there?”
Morgan groans and slams shut the screen with more force than Emily is sure Garcia would appreciate. “No,” he says. “Found out Dean’s more of a smartass than Hotch let on, and that he’s on a hair trigger whenever Sam’s name is mentioned, but other than that, nothing. I have hand it to them, though-considering how many times they escaped capture or prison, they’re definitely as skilled as their demeanor asserts.”
“I think we decided that in Illinois,” Emily chuckles. Standing up reluctantly, she says, “I should probably go make those calls. Get Dean out of there for a couple days. You try and think of ways to keep this as quiet as possible. We might end up having to let someone like Hotch know, but I’m hoping that between you, me, and Dean, no one has to be aware of this.”
Morgan looks skeptical, but latches onto Emily’s confidence. “You got it,” he says, getting out of his chair and picking up the computer. “I’ll give this back to Garcia. Maybe she’ll have some suggestions on the security front.”
“Good idea,” iterates Emily, pulling out her cell phone. “Reconvene in an hour or so?”
Nodding, Morgan heads toward the door. “Let’s just hope this goes as we plan.”
Emily sincerely doubts it will, but she keeps up the assured front. “Yeah. Here’s hoping.”
Exhaling heavily, Emily presses in a number on her phone, silently thanking the fact that she knows some of her mother’s contacts, and that she has the Prentiss name going for her. She despises what childhood was forced upon her, but sometimes she has to admit that her mother’s ambassadorship has some upsides.
April 11, 2017, 11:00 A.M.
Federal Correctional Institution, Edgefield
Edgefield, South Carolina
An hour after Emily’s phone call, and Dean is still in a relative state of disbelief over it, thankful that being back at his job of folding sheets doesn’t require much thought, leaving him to muse on things very not linen-related. 13192 is still his folding-mate, which is unfortunate because, much as Dean tries to ignore it, the man keeps flicking his eyes up as if in question. Dean has no misgivings whatsoever that people know to whom he was talking; Dean’s already an enigma, and now people find out he’s communicating with an FBI agent?
It’s cause for suspicion. As if Dean doesn’t already have enough issues to deal with right now.
“You wanna say something, just spit it out,” he says finally, fed up. “Or else stop fucking staring at me.”
13192 doesn’t look abashed, not at all, but shrugs. “What yous doin’ talkin’ to the Feds?” he asks, tossing a creased sheet onto the ever-growing pile. “You gots us wond’rin’.”
“It’s not any of your business,” Dean replies harshly. “I can talk to who the fuck ever I want.”
For all the idiocy that 13192 projects, his liquidy gray eyes are sharp. “Yous a killer,” he says, as if Dean weren’t aware of that charge. “But you ain’t talkin’ ’bout time. Somethin’ ’bout a case?”
Dean clenches his jaw, fingers curling in on the fabric, knuckles slowly turning white. “It isn’t your business,” enunciates Dean again. “Fuck off.”
13192 shrugs again. “Just tellin’ you t’ watch your back, Winchester,” he says. Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes at the intended menace. “We don’ take kin’ly to snitches.”
“Your attempt at a pissing contest ain’t gonna do you any good,” Dean says. “If you’ll remember, I kicked your boy’s ass when I got thrown in here. You want that to happen again?”
It’s clear the prisoner hadn’t forgotten-in truth, convicts have pretty flawless memories-and it’s written on his face. “Just tellin’ you,” he settles. “That Fed get you outta here an’ you come back, you ain’ gettin’ it easy.”
This time, Dean actually does roll his eyes. “Promises, promises,” he mutters, going back to the folding.
Not that he’ll ever admit it, but 13192 had a point. (Sort of.) Sure, Dean really doesn’t care what will “happen” to him in prison, since he knows he can more than defend himself. No, what just started to eat at him is what the schematics would be after the case gets solved, provided Emily could actually have him sprung in the first place, that is.
Dean’s stomach feels vaguely hollow at the fear that arises. The fear that, if he were able to experience society again, the kind of moral society of the BAU, the people who have the same intentions as he and S-as he did. Back when he was hunting. He’s afraid that a small part of him wouldn’t want to return to lockup. He’s more than positive he’d still want to be by himself, be alone, but…but would he want the ability to go out if he had such a desire? Even setting aside the potentiality that there’s still a bounty on his head (police bounty; the demons’ had all but expired seven years ago), would he want to be more or less free again? It’d only be physical freedom, but…maybe that’d be enough?
No.
It’s dangerous to entertain those thoughts. Dean clamps a hold of them, pushes them away. Burns them. He isn’t here for recreation. He’s here to kill that goddamned son of a bitch, help out Agent Prentiss and her team, then get back to emptiness. That’s the way it’ll be. The way it has to be. Because if it were to change, if the status quo were to change…well. It can’t. It just can’t.
He’ll wait for Emily’s call, wait for her say-so, be at her authority. Period.
April 11, 2017, 12:02 P.M.
Outside the home of Kari Jansen
Manistique, Michigan
“Well, this was a total bust,” says J.J., sighing as she slides into the passenger seat. “We weren’t able to get anything from the scene that we couldn’t from the pictures and reports.”
“Which is almost more troubling than the crime itself,” comments Hotch. Starting the ignition and pulling out onto the road, he continues, “To my memory, there’s never been a scene from which we couldn’t profile anything.”
Reid looks out the window, his face both as if he’s thinking harder than normal, and distressed, like he’s almost ashamed he wasn’t able to locate something in the house. Not just Jansen’s, but the other two victims’ as well. Levin’s was just as ordinary as Jansen’s, and although they did take some journals with what looked like writing akin to doctor shorthand from Beltway’s apartment, they don’t think it’ll come to much.
“It just means we’ll have to profile the victims more thoroughly,” he says, trying to be optimistic.
J.J. tries to stow her cynicism. Tries to banish the thoughts that the way they have no leads on this case is starting to remind her of that one four years ago. Which, given what caused their eventual success in that one…she really needs to banish those thoughts. A moment later, she does. She thinks she just had a massive moment of weakness. There’s no reason to fault their skills now. They’re only a couple days into the investigation. They have plenty of time. As long as-
“We just have to work fast,” says Hotch stiltedly. “We’ve got next to no info on this unsub so far, or what his next move’ll be. It looks like we might have a six-day window, but like Prentiss said, that doesn’t necessarily mean a pattern. We can’t solely rely on that.”
“Then lets get back to the police station,” says J.J. “Maybe Prentiss, Morgan, and Garcia have found something.”
Rossi sighs. “Let’s hope.”
Considering the size of the town, it takes but five minutes to return to the station, and the four try to not look any of the local officers in the eyes. Even if they weren’t profilers, the accusation and expectation would be clear. And if there’s anything a behavior analyst hates, it’s failing at their craft. Luckily for Morgan and Garcia, the distraction allows just enough time to close out any windows and files pertaining to the Winchesters, and even put up a smokescreen of innocent seriousness.
“Tell me you found something,” says Morgan. Despite the fact that everything Dean-related is shut down, it’s as though he can feel the man’s smarmy mug shot smile grinning up at him. It’s really rather irking.
“You thought our luck would start now?” gripes J.J., her face taut.
“Come on, anything,” begs Morgan, leaning on the table.
Hotch shakes his head. “There was nothing out of the ordinary,” he says. “If there weren’t a woman lying dead, I would have thought everything was just fine.”
Morgan sighs. “All right, well, where do you want to go from here?”
“You’re saying you guys haven’t had any luck either?” asks J.J., sounding at the end of her rope. “What the hell?”
Morgan feels Garcia’s glance at him, and prays that her willpower is strong enough to keep this under wraps. At least for now. If there’s any remotely good time to break the news that Emily had been in contact with Dean, it sure isn’t now. Not when the team is more wound than a tripwire.
“Not really,” he settles, figuring it’s not entirely a lie. After all, Dean hadn’t so far given them anything useful, nor has Emily yet gotten anywhere with the BOP.
And regardless of how incredible Garcia’s hacker skills are, she hadn’t been able to come up with anything technologically viable that could aid them. He himself would kind of like to apprise the rest of the team about Emily’s hare-brained plan, thinks that maybe it’d pan out better if there were more minds at work, but then there’s also the too-many-cooks adage. Right now, Morgan can see that they’re at the stage of aggravation, but not total despair quite yet. Which means that should Morgan let them know that they’re in talks with Dean, it would go over about as well as Hiroshima.
Hotch sighs, and Morgan knows all too well what the new expression on his face means. The determination, the hardness, the resolve. “I’ll speak with the Chief,” says Hotch, and there it is. The SAIC persona that is never one whit away from perfect.
“Press statement,” is all J.J. manages, and she strides away to contact news outlets. Morgan wonders how she does it all without wanting to murder all the media hounds herself.
Rossi looks at Morgan, his eyes penetrating. “Nothing?” he asks. There’s no leeriness, for which Morgan’s grateful, but beseeching is almost as bad.
“Nothing solid,” Morgan replies carefully. “Prentiss is following up with some co-workers and classmates, but she’s not getting much. Garcia and I’ve been over credit card records, past addresses, rap sheets…”
Rossi waves a hand, cutting off Morgan’s very uninspiring (and mostly false) news. “Yeah,” he says despondently. “Well, keep us posted if you do find something.” To Reid, he offers, “We got those journals from Beltway’s; you and I can look through those, try and make some sense of them.”
Reid doesn’t look too optimistic, but agrees. “Worth a try,” he comments, following Rossi into one of the interrogation rooms.
This time, Morgan meets Garcia’s stare. “I don’t like this,” she says with a frown, looking-Morgan’s sure against her will-adorable. As if sensing Morgan’s amusement, she says more forcefully, “I’m serious. I don’t like secret-keeping. You know what they say: ‘secrets, secrets are no fun, secrets, secrets hurt someone.’”
Morgan holds up his hands. “Take it up with Prentiss,” he says. “It was her idea.”
“Typical,” Garcia comments haughtily. “Men not owning up to anything.”
“Watch it,” replies Morgan. Putting a hand on her shoulder, he exhales. “Just-just tell me if there’s even one dot on the radar that has to do with Dean Winchester.”
Garcia nods. “Consider him bugged.”
“That’s my girl.”
“I don’t give a shit about channels!”
Had Emily not been outside the police station for the last three calls she made, there would undeniably be a squadron sprinting over to see if she’d slaughtered someone. Even so, Emily’s hand around her cell phone is so tight the plastic is creaking in protest. And needless to say, the man on the other line, for no reason beyond that he’s the umpteenth one with whom Emily’s spoken, feels like he’s the one being interrogated.
“Ma’am, Mr. Winchester has committed every crime in the book,” he says warily, now understanding why local P.D.s always hate Feds taking over cases. “Including mass murder. He has already been moved from ADMAX to a medium-security facility, against all recommendation. Look, Agent Prentiss, I would like to help you, but there’s nothing we can do. We can’t just let out this guy.”
Emily breathes in and out through her nose, holding the phone away from her ear for a moment. “He could be imperative to an investigation!” she objects vehemently. “He was already imperative to one four years ago, and we feel he could be again. You can have him back after, I don’t care, but we need him in Michigan. Now.”
“I’m sorry,” says the man, incredibly glad he’s safe in Atlanta. “I cannot release this man into your custody, even for a federal investigation.”
Were Emily able to strangle him through the phone, she would. “Screw you,” she snaps unprofessionally, jabbing the End button forcefully.
Finding the wall, she leans against it, closing her eyes. She knows she shouldn’t have expected anything more, that when she called the BOP, this is exactly what they would say, but it doesn’t make the rejection any less infuriating. What makes it even worse is that she’s pretty sure Hotch would be able to sway them to release Dean temporarily.
Maybe she should…
“Prentiss?”
She doesn’t move at Morgan’s voice, just stays where she is, taking even breaths, thinking that those crackpot anger management counselors don’t know what they’re talking about when they say deep breathing helps. Because it really doesn’t.
“Emily,” Morgan tries again, shutting the door and walking in front of her. “You all right?”
Well, that does it. Peering at Morgan angrily, she bites, “No, Derek, I am not. I’ve been hitting roadblock after roadblock for two hours with these stupid fucking prison bureaus, and have gotten nowhere. Every minute Dean’s in corrections is another minute our unsub has to orchestrate his next attack. I’m almost thinking that…that Hotch might…”
“No,” Morgan interrupts. “No. You know we can’t do that. If we tell Hotch, he’s not going to agree to keeping this quiet. He’s going to want to at least tell the rest of the team. And if we do that, we’ll have to convince them that this is a good idea.”
“I convinced all of you last time,” Emily says half-heartedly.
Morgan wonders just when he became the one fully on board with this Dean thing. For all the intelligence he has, he can’t logic that out. “All right, listen,” Morgan says gently, “I know this is frustrating. Not just because of the BOP guys-they’re as annoying as Homeland Security-but because of this unsub. And…much as Dean is far, far from my favorite person, I think you’re right. We do need him.”
“Which we can’t do if these assholes keep this up.”
“Stick with it, Emily,” says Morgan with a small smile. “You’ll get through.”
“Yeah. Sure,” she says dubiously. “While we’re waiting for that to happen, did Garcia get anything?”
Morgan shakes his head ruefully. “Not anything more than-”
The back door opens with a slam, to reveal the woman in question. “Morgan, Emily!” she says hurriedly. “We’ve got a problem.”
“Now what?” Emily groans.
Garcia looks between the two agents nervously. “Uh…you know that alert I put up?” she asks, directing it toward Morgan.
“You just told me three minutes ago,” he says, would have said it with a laugh had Garcia’s face not been so serious.
“I got a hit.”
April 11, 2017, 11:50 A.M.
Edgefield, South Carolina
Seeing J.J.’s most recent press conference told Dean all he needed to know. She didn’t actually say there was another murder, but he saw the strain in her face. To his eyes, it was displayed plain as day. He may not have been actively pondering this route before, hadn’t considered it at all, actually, but casing a place, is a habit you just don’t break.
It was easier than Dean would’ve thought, to be honest. He guesses people had just learned to ignore him after all this time of him being a fairly passive inmate. His reputation is legendary, but at this point, the majority of them have similar thoughts as those of Bela a decade ago: Interesting how the legend is so much more than the man.
Dean’s almost disappointed it was so simple. Almost. He didn’t even have to do any negotiating with the guards. Dean’s cell block got out for rec, and he went out to the yard this time, unassuming as you please. No one even noticed him, their eyes just sliding right on past as if he really were the ghost he’d been prior to meeting Emily Prentiss.
Forty-five minutes later and his block was called back in, called into a line where they were counted and searched. Thirty-nine prisoners accounted for. One missing.
Dean’s well out of sight when he hears the alarm bells ring, and as he takes a second to get his wind, he does something he hasn’t in a long time.
He smiles.
Human potential, though not always apparent, is there waiting to be discovered and invited forth.
- William W. Purkey
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