SPN/CM crossover fic: As You Are Now, So Once Was I (4/?)
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: 3877
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 | 3 |
As You Are Now, So Once Was I
Part IV
April 11, 2017, 12:11 P.M.
Schoolcraft County Police Department
Manistique, Michigan
“What do you mean you have a hit?” Morgan asks, floored. “Already?”
Garcia nods quickly. “Came in as soon as I put up the bug.”
“About what, Garcia?” asks Prentiss, fearing the expression on the technical analyst’s face.
“Um…” She’s not really sure how to put this. “Looks like FCI Edgefield reported a-well, one of their prisoners escaped.”
Morgan and Emily exchange a wary glance. “Dean?” Emily inquires cautiously.
Garcia looks apologetic, even though it’s far from her fault. “Yeah. Sorry,” she says, retreating back inside the police station to let her colleagues sort it out.
“What do you want to do?” Emily asks Morgan, looking at him like he’s supposed to have all the answers.
He’s at a loss. “We can’t do anything,” he says finally. “I’ve seen all there is about that guy-no one but him is going to know why he escaped jail, and I’m betting the only way anyone’s going to find him now is if he wants to be found. I’m-I’m sorry this didn’t pan out, Emily.”
Emily takes a breath and holds it, folding her arms over her chest. “It was a long shot anyway,” she says stiffly. “I have no idea why I thought trusting a criminal would turn out well. I should have just been helping solve this the right way. And I shouldn’t have dragged you into it.”
He laughs lowly. “Stop it, Prentiss,” he says. “I was on board with this just like you were. If it makes you feel better, we’re not nearly the first people Dean’s fooled.”
Emily glares. “It doesn’t,” she answers. Her posture visibly straightening, she schools her voice. “Well? We’ve got time to make up, Morgan. They’re expecting us to think up with something useful.”
Morgan recognizes Emily’s acerbity for the front it really is and pulls open the door, motioning for her to go first. “Yes, ma’am,” he says without a trace of sarcasm. “Nose to grindstone it is.”
April 11, 2017, 1:58 P.M.
Hendersonville, North Carolina (Ish.)
Dean had forgotten how much he loves the open road.
Prison, both internal and governmental, had slowly but surely hammered out the feelings he used to get when speeding down the freeway in his car, the memories. Being in ADMAX does that to a person.
He’s not in his car now, just this old clunker he’d hotwired at a Gas-’N-Go right outside of Edgefield, but if he pretends hard enough, he can imagine he’s racing down the road in his Impala, vintage Metallica blasting through the speakers; hell, can even imagine that Sam, pre-vessel Sam, is beside him, a flashlight held in his teeth as he looks at a map of the U.S. in search of their next hunt.
The façade is immaculate enough to last Dean up through this point, and is still going strong. While prison hadn’t been helpful towards keeping nice remembrances, it had augmented the ability to create illusions, and Dean never does anything half-assed. His illusions are frickin’ perfect.
Which, had he chosen to ruminate on that, he’d have realized just how sad it is.
Dean doesn’t even pay attention to the mileage signs, like he might have in times past. He doesn’t care one iota that the scenery on either side of him is flat, boring, agricultural fields with no sign of life except the occasional cow or farmhouse.
He doesn’t make many stops, only to get siphoned gas or food, and once to steal a pair of clothes out of a parked truck bed and change out cars. His legs were getting cramped (he’d started to feel sympathy for what Sam must have always gone through, what with his freakishly tall stature, and then his heart sent a stop-thinking-about-Sam jab throughout his body, so he switches topics), and, while he didn’t think anyone would have reported the car missing yet, he is a fugitive (again), and it’s better safe than sorry. He spotted it off the freeway, and since it wasn’t in any state of disrepair beyond being about twenty years old, Dean surmised it had had some mechanical difficulty and its owner decided to walk to the nearest house to get some help.
It took Dean about five seconds to deduce that the battery must have died, another three minutes to find a screwdriver in the glove compartment and switch out the Jeep Cherokee’s battery with the clunker’s, and, two stripped wires later, he was back on the road. The owner would come back to the freeway with a hell of a surprise, but Dean really can’t gather the emotion to care. After what Dean’s been through, he feels his conscience should be sated enough for a two tiny little car thefts.
As he heads into Findlay, Ohio on I-75, his eye does catch one mile marker:
Michigan-Ontario Border - 420 miles
Much like years and years ago when the Impala was freshly restored, Dean smiles and presses down on the gas. The Cherokee doesn’t make the same soothing guttural sound that the Impala does, but even the Jeep’s engine revving is enough.
He’s not going to Canada, and in fact Manistique is a little longer than 420 miles away, as he’d found out when he bought (read: stole) a map and discovered it’s about the smallest town you can get while still maintaining your own zip code. In other words, a sign telling him where the Canadian border is is as good of an estimate that I-75 will allot.
Fine by him. He’s got a destination, a Coke, a full tank of gas, and he’d even found a rock radio station. He’s running on about two hours of sleep total over the past three days, but right now, he couldn’t be more energized. He’s on a hunt, and to top it all off, he knows the people he’ll be meeting in less than half a day are going to provide him with some immensely amusing facial expressions.
All in all, pretty much the best day he’s had in seven years.
April 11, 2017, 11:35 P.M.
Schoolcraft County Police Department
Manistique, Michigan
“My eyes are crossing,” J.J. says, massaging her temples and inhaling the hot, thick scent of her umpteenth cup of bad coffee.
It’s been hours that they’ve scoured the case notes, crime scene pictures, and interviewee depositions, and although J.J. was the only one to voice it, her thoughts are the same as everyone else’s. Even Reid had dwindled on his stats reciting around nine. Garcia had fallen asleep on her keyboard, and as a result had pressed the letter Z a thousand times before Morgan noticed and gently moved her head off the offending key. She’d squirmed but hadn’t woken, so with a soft chuckle, he patted her head and went to the P.D. kitchenette to refill his, Emily’s, and Hotch’s cups of caffeine.
The sheriff had come into their conference room a few times to tell them to get some rest and come in fresh the next morning, but after a while, he’d just given up, heading home himself. The BAU usually puts on personas of geniality to officers, witnesses, and the like, but when they’re tired, frustrated, and annoyed, the best option is to run like hell.
At J.J.’s words, they all gives mumbles of assent. Before anyone can say anything else, Rossi commands, “J.J., why don’t you and Hotch go on a food run. I personally could use some pizza. Or Chinese. Really, at this point, military rations would suffice.”
“No, I’ll stay-you and Reid go,” Hotch says, ever the stoic unit chief.
Emily rolls her eyes. “You’ve been doing twice our work, Hotch,” she says. “You need some air.”
It’s a testament to their weariness that Hotch doesn’t put up any more of a fight and, taking a last sip of his coffee, he follows J.J. out to the SUVs. Manistique doesn’t exactly have a surfeit of restaurants, let alone ones that are open past ten, but right now, they’d take a McDonald’s. (As it happens, Manistique doesn’t have one of those either, but that’s rather beside the point.)
“Okay,” says Rossi, continuing with his temporary reign of power, “let’s regroup. Morgan, take the whiteboard, erase everything. We’re starting over. What do we know?”
None of the four really want to rehash all of it, primarily because they know everything so thoroughly it’s practically memorized, but Emily’s had enough experience with this to know that sometimes, writing it all out again does help. She and Reid list off the vitals first, the facts they’d known since the very beginning, and then go into the details, including new aspects they’d gleaned-and extrapolated-from the files. The restarting has a second benefit, actually: when the P.D. assembles again in the morning, they’ll have a profile to work with.
“Looks like a male, aged twenty-five to thirty-five,” starts Emily, not needing to look at anything. “A woman wouldn’t be so all over the place with victimology; not to mention, the level of sadism is way too high. A woman would go more for the quieter kill-poison, suffocation-than breaking every bone in someone’s body, or force-drowning.”
“Athletic, probably handsome as well,” inputs Reid, “considering Levin was an avid basketball player, and Beltway participated in the Michigan triathlon every year. And since none of the victims were shot or strangled, it looks like they would have seen their attacker, talked with him, and people have a much higher chance of sticking around if a stranger is attractive.”
“It doesn’t appear that the unsub stalks or specifically chooses his victims; he goes for randomness, convenience,” concludes Rossi. “Beltway goes for a run every night, Levin’s family is in Nevada, and Jansen is single and lives alone…they’re relatively low-risk.”
Morgan’s tight handwriting fills the board, the descriptions penned under each victim’s photo or crime scene, the profile off to the side. He caps the marker and takes a seat next to Reid, his stare joining his coworkers’. “Guess I’ll say the obvious,” he says, looking between Reid, Rossi, and Emily. “We can’t find a motive that would tie the vics together, and apart from maybe Beltway, we can’t figure out how they could have been killed. Seriously-how the hell could someone manage to murder Levin and Jansen?”
Reid has to agree. “Coroner said Jansen’s injuries are characteristic only to jumpers,” he says. “He couldn’t come up with an alternate explanation.”
They’re silent for a while, entering a sort of fugue, and are jostled out of it when J.J. and Hotch return, their arms full of Coke, plates, and three boxes of pizza. “Pepperoni, Hawaiian, and veggie,” J.J. remarks, setting the corresponding boxes on the table.
Grateful, Morgan starts doling out the pizza, piling three slices for himself, and refills mugs with the Coke. After many minutes of talk-free eating, they’re all feeling somewhat better now that they have some sustenance. Their morale is still low, but at least their blood sugar is now to scratch, their hunger pangs gone. The pizza’s greasy and sits heavily in the stomach, but it’s good, and, to be honest, they’re all of similar mind as Rossi-they would have settled for combat rations, so pizza’s a step up.
“You didn’t happen to come up with any epiphanies while you were out,” Morgan hopes through a mouthful of pepperoni, flicking his eyes between Hotch and J.J.
J.J. shakes her head regrettably, her hair tied haphazardly in a ponytail. “Only way I can think of that someone got into Jansen’s house is that they could go through walls,” she says facetiously. “I mean, she had an alarm, which wasn’t deactivated, and there was no forced entry.”
Emily’s shoulders drop. “Fantastic,” she says, dropping her forehead on the table. It’s the same answer they’d gotten hours ago, and her head is spinning once more, pizza or no. “That’s just great.”
April 11, 2017, 12:00 P.M.
Federal Correctional Institution, Edgefield
Edgefield, South Carolina
“What should we do now?”
Stephan Sanders, the primary warden for the institution, looks at the, for all intents and purposes, rent-a-cop. “Remind me exactly what happened again?” he asks through gritted teeth, looking at the computer screen that’s blinking red, and the klaxons ringing throughout the prison.
The guard bites his lip, straightening. “Cell Block B was out for rec time. When their hour was up, we called them all back in, but one was missing.”
“Dean Winchester,” says Stephan, deadpan.
“Yes, sir.”
“The same Dean Winchester who’s been convicted of mass murder? Among countless other charges?”
“Yes, sir.”
Stephan squeezes his nose with his fingers. He doesn’t know why he wanted the confirmation of Dean’s escape for the third time, as though if he kept asking, the facts would change and the guard would tell him that Dean’s safe in his cell.
“We already sent out an alert,” he says with a sigh, “to all law enforcement agencies in the country. If Dean’s out there, we’ll catch him.”
The guard nods, trusting in Stephan’s seniority that the words are true. Stephan orders him away, to go do his rounds. As for him, he leans against the desk, shoulders tense.
It isn’t so much the simple fact that Dean escaped. He knows he shouldn’t feel too horribly about that; after all, Dean had done the same from a supermax prison before, from the custody of the FBI to boot. Edgefield, being a meager medium-security prison, wouldn’t have posed much of a threat. Don’t get him wrong, Stephan’s duly chastised himself that Dean had busted out on his watch, but he’s confident that the law will once again catch the felon. And this time, Stephan knows, Dean won’t be granted the same luxuries. Supermax until the end of Dean’s days, if Stephan has any opinion on the matter.
What’s more troubling to Stephan is the reason behind Dean’s escape. Judging by the incredibly short amount of time (not to mention the fluidity with which it was done) it’d taken to bust out, Dean could have made his move any time in the past four years. Before that, too, Stephan wagers. So why now? It’s such a random time. It’s not even like someone Dean knows had made contact with him. Oh, sure, Stephan had heard of Dean’s call to an FBI agent, but he hadn’t thought anything of it. Dean had consulted with the agency a while back, Stephan knows that as well; he was probably calling the agent to try and negotiate some other housing possibilities.
Stephan can’t imagine Dean would break out just for that. Dean’s not one of the stupid sociopaths Stephan’s run across before-he’s smart. Almost scarily so. Had Dean wanted to get transferred somewhere else or, crazily enough, released, there’s no way he’d escape. If anything, he’d be on even better behavior than he already was.
As Stephan stares at the scrolling alert on the computer, he runs a hand over his face. Dean may not be in his domain anymore, but he has a dreaded feeling that he hasn’t heard the end of this. Needless to say, he’s going to have to prepare what he’ll say to the inevitable question of how he managed to let one of the most famous murderers back out into society.
Fuck.
April 12, 2017, 2:16 A.M.
Peninsula Pointe Hotel - Room 217
Manistique, Michigan
After Reid had passed out literally in the middle of speaking, Hotch decided it was time they head back to the hotel. They’d stayed awake for longer before, but then, in those investigations, they’d usually had more progress than they do now. They’d all protested initially-sans Reid and Garcia, of course, who didn’t look like they’d wake up even if a nuclear bomb went off-but had relented, glad the hotel was only a minute and a half away. If it were much farther, they feasibly would have had to pay for property damage from falling asleep while driving.
Emily had gotten a room next to Morgan and J.J., with Hotch, Rossi, and Reid taking the ones across from them. Emily had barely the motivation to brush her teeth, wash off her makeup, and throw on some pajamas before falling into bed, unable to concern herself with hanging up her clothes or move her bag and shoes from the middle of the room. She didn’t even set her alarm, counting on someone else to get her up in the morning.
She’s just getting to sleep, feeling the wonderful wisps of REM invade her mind when she hears a knock on the door. She ignores it at first, pulling a pillow over her head as if it would shoo away the intruder, but it keeps up, insistent. Finally, so pissed off she’d kick a puppy, she throws the covers from her body and walks to the door, not bothering to make herself even remotely presentable, the better to show that she’s really not pleased to be disturbed.
“Morgan, I swear to God,” she seethes loudly, walking across the room. She doesn’t consider it’d be anyone else, given that Morgan would be the only one with the death wish-or balls-to knock on Emily Prentiss’s door when she’s sleep deprived. “Do you seriously want to be shot? Because-”
She stops short as she opens the door and she sees her visitor. Correction, she doesn’t just stop short, she thinks her jaw drops open, too. “Hello…Agent Prentiss. Can I come in?”
Emily, still speechless, steps aside, vaguely noting what an irresponsible move it is. Her eyes sharp, she finds her voice. And her gun. “What the hell are you doing here?” she demands, her pistol pointed directly at his heart.
“A ‘Hi, Dean, nice to see you again,’ would have been a lot more neighborly,” says Dean lightly. Noting the pile of clothes on the floor, Dean grins, “Well. Wouldn’t have pegged you as the red lace type. But it’s a nice surprise.”
Emily’s determined not to flush, and keeps her gun focused on Dean, wishing she’d taken the time to at least put on some sweatpants. It’s rather cold. “What the hell are you doing here?” she demands again, watching Dean as he sits on her bed, thoroughly unafraid of her piece.
“I don’t suppose you could lower your gun,” Dean says, eyeing it. “I feel like it puts us on somewhat uneven ground.”
“No.”
Dean grants her that. He hadn’t expected anything less. “Fine then,” he says. “I’m guessing by now your analyst figured out I escaped.”
“Yes,” Emily replies, not wanting to get into just how Dean knew that. “And I’m not going to ask again-why did you come here? At two in the fucking morning?”
Laughing, Dean glances over at the clock, as if he hadn’t realized the time at all. “Funny that you’re more concerned about the time of night than having a serial killer in your hotel room,” he comments shrewdly.
Emily shrugs one shoulder, thinking longingly of how her fellow agents must be deep in dreamland by now. Whereas here she is, holding a pistol on a man who, just a few hours ago, she’d thought to be tightly behind bars, in scant nightclothes, and, to add insult to injury, beyond enervated.
She’s not a happy camper.
“Dean, so help me, I will put a bullet through your brain,” she says impatiently, her aim more than corroborating her words. “Either get to the damn point or get out of my room and stay away.”
Not only because of her threats, but mainly because Dean’s fatigued himself (fourteen straight hours of driving will do that to you), he gives up on the games. “I just came to help,” he answers. “I told you that I couldn’t do anything for you in prison.”
“So you broke out and drove a thousand miles?” Emily asks, for a moment caught off-guard. She’d believed that Dean honestly did want to help them, but she hadn’t thought he’d be that devoted.
Dean nods simply, as if breaking out of prison and stealing cars is a regular occurrence. Which, she allows, was probably par for his course once upon a time. “When I’m on a hunt, I don’t do well in confined spaces,” he replies. “I had to get out of there.”
Emily, much as she would prefer to distance herself from him, kind of gets where he’s coming from. When she straps on her Kevlar vest, pulls her hair into a ponytail, takes her gun out of its holster and approaches an unsub’s residence, the adrenaline and excitement flowing through her veins makes even the car ride over seem too long and too claustrophobic. Dean’s use of the word “hunt” is a little odd, but then, this is Dean. She imagines he’s got more than a couple screws loose.
Telling herself it’s not just because she wants to go to bed, Emily sighs and lowers her weapon, setting it on the nightstand. She has a feeling that if Dean wished her harm, he could have already done so. Moreover, the dark circles underneath his eyes, the rumpled-thieved-clothes sitting loosely on his frame, and the slouched way he sits tell her he’s just as exhausted as she is.
Besides, she knows nothing she can say would convince him to leave Michigan. “All right,” she relents. “I’ll…I’ll find some way to explain this in the morning. But right now, I need to get to sleep.”
Dean nods, and gives her a half-smile. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. Hitching a thumb in the general direction of the door, he goes on, “I’ll just spend the night in the car, catch up with you tomorrow.”
He starts to leave, when the phenomenally less rational part of Emily’s mind decides to take control of her mouth. “Wait,” she says, and Dean turns around, confused. “Just crash here for tonight. The chair turns into a bed, I think; it won’t be all that comfortable, but it’ll be a hell of a lot more so than the backseat of a car.”
He stares at her like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it doesn’t. Grateful, Dean nods. Not deigning to even kick off his shoes, he grabs an extra blanket from the closet and pulls out the quasi-bed, dropping himself gracelessly into it. Even as Emily watches, it’s mere seconds before Dean’s body loses the majority of its tension, his breaths even out, and he de-ages fifteen years.
Commanding herself to stop the thoughts lest they make her even more sympathetic towards him than she already is, she walks over to the wall and shuts off the light, climbing once more into her bed. She’s so tired she can’t quite muster up the awkwardness she should feel that Dean Winchester is not but ten feet away from her on the chair, softly snoring.
She closes her eyes, barely registering the generic soapy (with an afterthought of leather) scent that she realizes must be from Dean, and this time, her slumber is blissfully uninterrupted.
The closer we are to danger, the farther we are from harm.
- Pippin
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: 3877
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 | 3 |
As You Are Now, So Once Was I
Part IV
April 11, 2017, 12:11 P.M.
Schoolcraft County Police Department
Manistique, Michigan
“What do you mean you have a hit?” Morgan asks, floored. “Already?”
Garcia nods quickly. “Came in as soon as I put up the bug.”
“About what, Garcia?” asks Prentiss, fearing the expression on the technical analyst’s face.
“Um…” She’s not really sure how to put this. “Looks like FCI Edgefield reported a-well, one of their prisoners escaped.”
Morgan and Emily exchange a wary glance. “Dean?” Emily inquires cautiously.
Garcia looks apologetic, even though it’s far from her fault. “Yeah. Sorry,” she says, retreating back inside the police station to let her colleagues sort it out.
“What do you want to do?” Emily asks Morgan, looking at him like he’s supposed to have all the answers.
He’s at a loss. “We can’t do anything,” he says finally. “I’ve seen all there is about that guy-no one but him is going to know why he escaped jail, and I’m betting the only way anyone’s going to find him now is if he wants to be found. I’m-I’m sorry this didn’t pan out, Emily.”
Emily takes a breath and holds it, folding her arms over her chest. “It was a long shot anyway,” she says stiffly. “I have no idea why I thought trusting a criminal would turn out well. I should have just been helping solve this the right way. And I shouldn’t have dragged you into it.”
He laughs lowly. “Stop it, Prentiss,” he says. “I was on board with this just like you were. If it makes you feel better, we’re not nearly the first people Dean’s fooled.”
Emily glares. “It doesn’t,” she answers. Her posture visibly straightening, she schools her voice. “Well? We’ve got time to make up, Morgan. They’re expecting us to think up with something useful.”
Morgan recognizes Emily’s acerbity for the front it really is and pulls open the door, motioning for her to go first. “Yes, ma’am,” he says without a trace of sarcasm. “Nose to grindstone it is.”
April 11, 2017, 1:58 P.M.
Hendersonville, North Carolina (Ish.)
Dean had forgotten how much he loves the open road.
Prison, both internal and governmental, had slowly but surely hammered out the feelings he used to get when speeding down the freeway in his car, the memories. Being in ADMAX does that to a person.
He’s not in his car now, just this old clunker he’d hotwired at a Gas-’N-Go right outside of Edgefield, but if he pretends hard enough, he can imagine he’s racing down the road in his Impala, vintage Metallica blasting through the speakers; hell, can even imagine that Sam, pre-vessel Sam, is beside him, a flashlight held in his teeth as he looks at a map of the U.S. in search of their next hunt.
The façade is immaculate enough to last Dean up through this point, and is still going strong. While prison hadn’t been helpful towards keeping nice remembrances, it had augmented the ability to create illusions, and Dean never does anything half-assed. His illusions are frickin’ perfect.
Which, had he chosen to ruminate on that, he’d have realized just how sad it is.
Dean doesn’t even pay attention to the mileage signs, like he might have in times past. He doesn’t care one iota that the scenery on either side of him is flat, boring, agricultural fields with no sign of life except the occasional cow or farmhouse.
He doesn’t make many stops, only to get siphoned gas or food, and once to steal a pair of clothes out of a parked truck bed and change out cars. His legs were getting cramped (he’d started to feel sympathy for what Sam must have always gone through, what with his freakishly tall stature, and then his heart sent a stop-thinking-about-Sam jab throughout his body, so he switches topics), and, while he didn’t think anyone would have reported the car missing yet, he is a fugitive (again), and it’s better safe than sorry. He spotted it off the freeway, and since it wasn’t in any state of disrepair beyond being about twenty years old, Dean surmised it had had some mechanical difficulty and its owner decided to walk to the nearest house to get some help.
It took Dean about five seconds to deduce that the battery must have died, another three minutes to find a screwdriver in the glove compartment and switch out the Jeep Cherokee’s battery with the clunker’s, and, two stripped wires later, he was back on the road. The owner would come back to the freeway with a hell of a surprise, but Dean really can’t gather the emotion to care. After what Dean’s been through, he feels his conscience should be sated enough for a two tiny little car thefts.
As he heads into Findlay, Ohio on I-75, his eye does catch one mile marker:
Michigan-Ontario Border - 420 miles
Much like years and years ago when the Impala was freshly restored, Dean smiles and presses down on the gas. The Cherokee doesn’t make the same soothing guttural sound that the Impala does, but even the Jeep’s engine revving is enough.
He’s not going to Canada, and in fact Manistique is a little longer than 420 miles away, as he’d found out when he bought (read: stole) a map and discovered it’s about the smallest town you can get while still maintaining your own zip code. In other words, a sign telling him where the Canadian border is is as good of an estimate that I-75 will allot.
Fine by him. He’s got a destination, a Coke, a full tank of gas, and he’d even found a rock radio station. He’s running on about two hours of sleep total over the past three days, but right now, he couldn’t be more energized. He’s on a hunt, and to top it all off, he knows the people he’ll be meeting in less than half a day are going to provide him with some immensely amusing facial expressions.
All in all, pretty much the best day he’s had in seven years.
April 11, 2017, 11:35 P.M.
Schoolcraft County Police Department
Manistique, Michigan
“My eyes are crossing,” J.J. says, massaging her temples and inhaling the hot, thick scent of her umpteenth cup of bad coffee.
It’s been hours that they’ve scoured the case notes, crime scene pictures, and interviewee depositions, and although J.J. was the only one to voice it, her thoughts are the same as everyone else’s. Even Reid had dwindled on his stats reciting around nine. Garcia had fallen asleep on her keyboard, and as a result had pressed the letter Z a thousand times before Morgan noticed and gently moved her head off the offending key. She’d squirmed but hadn’t woken, so with a soft chuckle, he patted her head and went to the P.D. kitchenette to refill his, Emily’s, and Hotch’s cups of caffeine.
The sheriff had come into their conference room a few times to tell them to get some rest and come in fresh the next morning, but after a while, he’d just given up, heading home himself. The BAU usually puts on personas of geniality to officers, witnesses, and the like, but when they’re tired, frustrated, and annoyed, the best option is to run like hell.
At J.J.’s words, they all gives mumbles of assent. Before anyone can say anything else, Rossi commands, “J.J., why don’t you and Hotch go on a food run. I personally could use some pizza. Or Chinese. Really, at this point, military rations would suffice.”
“No, I’ll stay-you and Reid go,” Hotch says, ever the stoic unit chief.
Emily rolls her eyes. “You’ve been doing twice our work, Hotch,” she says. “You need some air.”
It’s a testament to their weariness that Hotch doesn’t put up any more of a fight and, taking a last sip of his coffee, he follows J.J. out to the SUVs. Manistique doesn’t exactly have a surfeit of restaurants, let alone ones that are open past ten, but right now, they’d take a McDonald’s. (As it happens, Manistique doesn’t have one of those either, but that’s rather beside the point.)
“Okay,” says Rossi, continuing with his temporary reign of power, “let’s regroup. Morgan, take the whiteboard, erase everything. We’re starting over. What do we know?”
None of the four really want to rehash all of it, primarily because they know everything so thoroughly it’s practically memorized, but Emily’s had enough experience with this to know that sometimes, writing it all out again does help. She and Reid list off the vitals first, the facts they’d known since the very beginning, and then go into the details, including new aspects they’d gleaned-and extrapolated-from the files. The restarting has a second benefit, actually: when the P.D. assembles again in the morning, they’ll have a profile to work with.
“Looks like a male, aged twenty-five to thirty-five,” starts Emily, not needing to look at anything. “A woman wouldn’t be so all over the place with victimology; not to mention, the level of sadism is way too high. A woman would go more for the quieter kill-poison, suffocation-than breaking every bone in someone’s body, or force-drowning.”
“Athletic, probably handsome as well,” inputs Reid, “considering Levin was an avid basketball player, and Beltway participated in the Michigan triathlon every year. And since none of the victims were shot or strangled, it looks like they would have seen their attacker, talked with him, and people have a much higher chance of sticking around if a stranger is attractive.”
“It doesn’t appear that the unsub stalks or specifically chooses his victims; he goes for randomness, convenience,” concludes Rossi. “Beltway goes for a run every night, Levin’s family is in Nevada, and Jansen is single and lives alone…they’re relatively low-risk.”
Morgan’s tight handwriting fills the board, the descriptions penned under each victim’s photo or crime scene, the profile off to the side. He caps the marker and takes a seat next to Reid, his stare joining his coworkers’. “Guess I’ll say the obvious,” he says, looking between Reid, Rossi, and Emily. “We can’t find a motive that would tie the vics together, and apart from maybe Beltway, we can’t figure out how they could have been killed. Seriously-how the hell could someone manage to murder Levin and Jansen?”
Reid has to agree. “Coroner said Jansen’s injuries are characteristic only to jumpers,” he says. “He couldn’t come up with an alternate explanation.”
They’re silent for a while, entering a sort of fugue, and are jostled out of it when J.J. and Hotch return, their arms full of Coke, plates, and three boxes of pizza. “Pepperoni, Hawaiian, and veggie,” J.J. remarks, setting the corresponding boxes on the table.
Grateful, Morgan starts doling out the pizza, piling three slices for himself, and refills mugs with the Coke. After many minutes of talk-free eating, they’re all feeling somewhat better now that they have some sustenance. Their morale is still low, but at least their blood sugar is now to scratch, their hunger pangs gone. The pizza’s greasy and sits heavily in the stomach, but it’s good, and, to be honest, they’re all of similar mind as Rossi-they would have settled for combat rations, so pizza’s a step up.
“You didn’t happen to come up with any epiphanies while you were out,” Morgan hopes through a mouthful of pepperoni, flicking his eyes between Hotch and J.J.
J.J. shakes her head regrettably, her hair tied haphazardly in a ponytail. “Only way I can think of that someone got into Jansen’s house is that they could go through walls,” she says facetiously. “I mean, she had an alarm, which wasn’t deactivated, and there was no forced entry.”
Emily’s shoulders drop. “Fantastic,” she says, dropping her forehead on the table. It’s the same answer they’d gotten hours ago, and her head is spinning once more, pizza or no. “That’s just great.”
April 11, 2017, 12:00 P.M.
Federal Correctional Institution, Edgefield
Edgefield, South Carolina
“What should we do now?”
Stephan Sanders, the primary warden for the institution, looks at the, for all intents and purposes, rent-a-cop. “Remind me exactly what happened again?” he asks through gritted teeth, looking at the computer screen that’s blinking red, and the klaxons ringing throughout the prison.
The guard bites his lip, straightening. “Cell Block B was out for rec time. When their hour was up, we called them all back in, but one was missing.”
“Dean Winchester,” says Stephan, deadpan.
“Yes, sir.”
“The same Dean Winchester who’s been convicted of mass murder? Among countless other charges?”
“Yes, sir.”
Stephan squeezes his nose with his fingers. He doesn’t know why he wanted the confirmation of Dean’s escape for the third time, as though if he kept asking, the facts would change and the guard would tell him that Dean’s safe in his cell.
“We already sent out an alert,” he says with a sigh, “to all law enforcement agencies in the country. If Dean’s out there, we’ll catch him.”
The guard nods, trusting in Stephan’s seniority that the words are true. Stephan orders him away, to go do his rounds. As for him, he leans against the desk, shoulders tense.
It isn’t so much the simple fact that Dean escaped. He knows he shouldn’t feel too horribly about that; after all, Dean had done the same from a supermax prison before, from the custody of the FBI to boot. Edgefield, being a meager medium-security prison, wouldn’t have posed much of a threat. Don’t get him wrong, Stephan’s duly chastised himself that Dean had busted out on his watch, but he’s confident that the law will once again catch the felon. And this time, Stephan knows, Dean won’t be granted the same luxuries. Supermax until the end of Dean’s days, if Stephan has any opinion on the matter.
What’s more troubling to Stephan is the reason behind Dean’s escape. Judging by the incredibly short amount of time (not to mention the fluidity with which it was done) it’d taken to bust out, Dean could have made his move any time in the past four years. Before that, too, Stephan wagers. So why now? It’s such a random time. It’s not even like someone Dean knows had made contact with him. Oh, sure, Stephan had heard of Dean’s call to an FBI agent, but he hadn’t thought anything of it. Dean had consulted with the agency a while back, Stephan knows that as well; he was probably calling the agent to try and negotiate some other housing possibilities.
Stephan can’t imagine Dean would break out just for that. Dean’s not one of the stupid sociopaths Stephan’s run across before-he’s smart. Almost scarily so. Had Dean wanted to get transferred somewhere else or, crazily enough, released, there’s no way he’d escape. If anything, he’d be on even better behavior than he already was.
As Stephan stares at the scrolling alert on the computer, he runs a hand over his face. Dean may not be in his domain anymore, but he has a dreaded feeling that he hasn’t heard the end of this. Needless to say, he’s going to have to prepare what he’ll say to the inevitable question of how he managed to let one of the most famous murderers back out into society.
Fuck.
April 12, 2017, 2:16 A.M.
Peninsula Pointe Hotel - Room 217
Manistique, Michigan
After Reid had passed out literally in the middle of speaking, Hotch decided it was time they head back to the hotel. They’d stayed awake for longer before, but then, in those investigations, they’d usually had more progress than they do now. They’d all protested initially-sans Reid and Garcia, of course, who didn’t look like they’d wake up even if a nuclear bomb went off-but had relented, glad the hotel was only a minute and a half away. If it were much farther, they feasibly would have had to pay for property damage from falling asleep while driving.
Emily had gotten a room next to Morgan and J.J., with Hotch, Rossi, and Reid taking the ones across from them. Emily had barely the motivation to brush her teeth, wash off her makeup, and throw on some pajamas before falling into bed, unable to concern herself with hanging up her clothes or move her bag and shoes from the middle of the room. She didn’t even set her alarm, counting on someone else to get her up in the morning.
She’s just getting to sleep, feeling the wonderful wisps of REM invade her mind when she hears a knock on the door. She ignores it at first, pulling a pillow over her head as if it would shoo away the intruder, but it keeps up, insistent. Finally, so pissed off she’d kick a puppy, she throws the covers from her body and walks to the door, not bothering to make herself even remotely presentable, the better to show that she’s really not pleased to be disturbed.
“Morgan, I swear to God,” she seethes loudly, walking across the room. She doesn’t consider it’d be anyone else, given that Morgan would be the only one with the death wish-or balls-to knock on Emily Prentiss’s door when she’s sleep deprived. “Do you seriously want to be shot? Because-”
She stops short as she opens the door and she sees her visitor. Correction, she doesn’t just stop short, she thinks her jaw drops open, too. “Hello…Agent Prentiss. Can I come in?”
Emily, still speechless, steps aside, vaguely noting what an irresponsible move it is. Her eyes sharp, she finds her voice. And her gun. “What the hell are you doing here?” she demands, her pistol pointed directly at his heart.
“A ‘Hi, Dean, nice to see you again,’ would have been a lot more neighborly,” says Dean lightly. Noting the pile of clothes on the floor, Dean grins, “Well. Wouldn’t have pegged you as the red lace type. But it’s a nice surprise.”
Emily’s determined not to flush, and keeps her gun focused on Dean, wishing she’d taken the time to at least put on some sweatpants. It’s rather cold. “What the hell are you doing here?” she demands again, watching Dean as he sits on her bed, thoroughly unafraid of her piece.
“I don’t suppose you could lower your gun,” Dean says, eyeing it. “I feel like it puts us on somewhat uneven ground.”
“No.”
Dean grants her that. He hadn’t expected anything less. “Fine then,” he says. “I’m guessing by now your analyst figured out I escaped.”
“Yes,” Emily replies, not wanting to get into just how Dean knew that. “And I’m not going to ask again-why did you come here? At two in the fucking morning?”
Laughing, Dean glances over at the clock, as if he hadn’t realized the time at all. “Funny that you’re more concerned about the time of night than having a serial killer in your hotel room,” he comments shrewdly.
Emily shrugs one shoulder, thinking longingly of how her fellow agents must be deep in dreamland by now. Whereas here she is, holding a pistol on a man who, just a few hours ago, she’d thought to be tightly behind bars, in scant nightclothes, and, to add insult to injury, beyond enervated.
She’s not a happy camper.
“Dean, so help me, I will put a bullet through your brain,” she says impatiently, her aim more than corroborating her words. “Either get to the damn point or get out of my room and stay away.”
Not only because of her threats, but mainly because Dean’s fatigued himself (fourteen straight hours of driving will do that to you), he gives up on the games. “I just came to help,” he answers. “I told you that I couldn’t do anything for you in prison.”
“So you broke out and drove a thousand miles?” Emily asks, for a moment caught off-guard. She’d believed that Dean honestly did want to help them, but she hadn’t thought he’d be that devoted.
Dean nods simply, as if breaking out of prison and stealing cars is a regular occurrence. Which, she allows, was probably par for his course once upon a time. “When I’m on a hunt, I don’t do well in confined spaces,” he replies. “I had to get out of there.”
Emily, much as she would prefer to distance herself from him, kind of gets where he’s coming from. When she straps on her Kevlar vest, pulls her hair into a ponytail, takes her gun out of its holster and approaches an unsub’s residence, the adrenaline and excitement flowing through her veins makes even the car ride over seem too long and too claustrophobic. Dean’s use of the word “hunt” is a little odd, but then, this is Dean. She imagines he’s got more than a couple screws loose.
Telling herself it’s not just because she wants to go to bed, Emily sighs and lowers her weapon, setting it on the nightstand. She has a feeling that if Dean wished her harm, he could have already done so. Moreover, the dark circles underneath his eyes, the rumpled-thieved-clothes sitting loosely on his frame, and the slouched way he sits tell her he’s just as exhausted as she is.
Besides, she knows nothing she can say would convince him to leave Michigan. “All right,” she relents. “I’ll…I’ll find some way to explain this in the morning. But right now, I need to get to sleep.”
Dean nods, and gives her a half-smile. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. Hitching a thumb in the general direction of the door, he goes on, “I’ll just spend the night in the car, catch up with you tomorrow.”
He starts to leave, when the phenomenally less rational part of Emily’s mind decides to take control of her mouth. “Wait,” she says, and Dean turns around, confused. “Just crash here for tonight. The chair turns into a bed, I think; it won’t be all that comfortable, but it’ll be a hell of a lot more so than the backseat of a car.”
He stares at her like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it doesn’t. Grateful, Dean nods. Not deigning to even kick off his shoes, he grabs an extra blanket from the closet and pulls out the quasi-bed, dropping himself gracelessly into it. Even as Emily watches, it’s mere seconds before Dean’s body loses the majority of its tension, his breaths even out, and he de-ages fifteen years.
Commanding herself to stop the thoughts lest they make her even more sympathetic towards him than she already is, she walks over to the wall and shuts off the light, climbing once more into her bed. She’s so tired she can’t quite muster up the awkwardness she should feel that Dean Winchester is not but ten feet away from her on the chair, softly snoring.
She closes her eyes, barely registering the generic soapy (with an afterthought of leather) scent that she realizes must be from Dean, and this time, her slumber is blissfully uninterrupted.
The closer we are to danger, the farther we are from harm.
- Pippin
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