SPN/CM - I See a Darkness - Ch 6 & 7
Title: I See a Darkness
Fandoms: Criminal Minds/Supernatural
Rating: T/PG-13, but ventures into show level M/R
Warnings: Later mentions of child abuse, murder, violence--basically everything you'd get from watching either of these shows.
Summary: Working a case, Dean and Sam run into a problem, and they make the worse decision possible: they kidnap two members of the BAU. Between Fedsitting and hunting a killer who's collecting siblings, the boys aren't having their best day ever. Gen.
Links: Chapter 1 + Chapters 2 & 3 + Chapters 4 & 5
Setting: Season 4 for both shows, though time doesn't exactly line up. After "Wishful Thinking" for SPN, after JJ returns for CM.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or Criminal Minds. Or Attalla, Alabama (real place, but fully fictionalized for this story). I am making no money off of this story. Written for fun only.
Chapter 6:
Monsters We Have Known
The wetness at his fingertips was salty, clear. Tears. Not his own. Soon it would be different. He would walk away, and it would be blood smeared across his skin. A metallic flavor, not quite sweet but almost. Ricky had tasted it once, when his curiosity had gotten the better of him. There was power in blood. And danger. That was one of the reasons he was drawn to it.
The tears were glistening on his fingertips. He rubbed his thumb over them before wiping them off on his jacket.
"I'll kill you!"
Ricky was shaken from his thoughts by Michael's venom. The boy was at the room's corner, struggling against the ropes holding him against the wall. Ricky had tried many different techniques when it came to restraints, but most of them were too complicated. Too much trouble.
The thin nylon ropes made the boy look as if he were covered in fat thread, a ball of it. The thought made Ricky smile. Michael was in a standing position, forced into it by the pull of the knots. Ricky had taken an industrial staple gun from his last workplace. It was surprising how well it held the restraints to the sheetrock of the wall, like Frankenstein's staples holding down the crown of his skull.
One would pop free, then another, but never enough, never enough staples to give the boy the chance to free one arm, one leg. This new method wouldn't work on an adult. Glenn had pointed it out to Ricky, but that didn't really matter. What mattered was the project of the moment. These two. These brothers.
And Ricky wanted to make sure Michael stayed standing. Stayed aware, on his feet. So he could have a good view.
"Did you hear me?" Michael spat. His cheeks were shaking with rage, but his face was pale, clammy. Afraid. A twelve-year-old's face. "I said I'll kill you, you creep. Let me go!"
Ricky shook his head, looking around the room. Wanting Glenn to be there. To take over. "I just spoke with Thomas," Ricky said, as if he were mentioning the melting snow outside. "He's mighty upset."
Michael grew still, forgetting that he was trying to pull the ropes free. His eyes widened. "You're… you're the one who took my little brother," he said. His wet lashes dropped the years from his face, making him look more like his sibling. "Please… I take it back. I'll… if you let Tommy go, I won't be mad. I won't tell."
Ricky shook his head. "Where were you?" he asked, his voice lower. "So brave, so concerned. Where was that concern when Thomas needed you last night?"
Michael bottom lip quivered. "I just… I didn't mean to leave him."
"But you did, didn't you? You left him."
"I didn't think."
"Don't lie!" Ricky snapped, livid. He stomped forward, gripping Michael by the jaw. "You wanted to get rid of him. You didn't care if -" Ricky broke off, shaking his head. The anger seemed to evaporate off his face. When his voice returned, it was casual, explanatory. "You don't understand yet. But you will. We'll teach you." He smiled down. "Glenn and I, we'll teach you what it means to be a good big brother."
Sam reached the porch and stopped to balance his hands on his waist, surveying the dead landscape of woodland around him and holding back the shiver the icy wind brought to surface. One breath, one moment of composure, then he rounded on his brother. Dean shrugged his shoulders into his coat and quietly shut the door behind him, confusion wrinkling his forehead when he stared down his little brother.
"What the hell's your problem, Sammy?" Dean snapped.
Sam's eyes widened. "My problem, Dean?" he asked. "My problem would be the way that guy's trying to manipulate you."
Dean blinked, gesturing back into the house. "Spencer?" he asked, surprised.
Sam raised his chin. "Yes, Spencer. Otherwise known as Dr. Reid, the FBI agent - just in case you've forgotten that part. Dean, you need to quit talking to him."
Dean raised a hand to stop his brother. "Dude, what the hell, did he sleep with your demon chick or something? What happened while I was out?"
Sam ignored the mention of Ruby, taking a calming breath through his nose. "Dean, I don't get it. You've always known how to handle yourself around the police in the past, and suddenly you're flushing the manual? How can you not see what that agent's trying to get you to do. He's watching your every move, trying play into your 'delusions.' I've got a twenty that says he'd probably say he believed in demons if you went in and asked him right now."
Dean shook his head, a small smile on his face. "What, and you don't think I know he's playing along? I'm not an idiot," he snapped. "It's not like I'm handing Spencer a sawed-off and expecting him to watch my back, Sam. We might be looking for a human criminal here, and he's an expert on finding those. What, you want me to just lock him in a closet and ignore anything he says?"
Sam bit back whatever was about to leave his mouth and pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, Dean," he managed. "That's not what I'm saying. I just want you to remember who these people are. Anything we say in front of him right now, he can use against us later."
"I'll be sure to bring that up to my lawyer."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean."
"Sam," Dean mocked. He took a quick step forward. "Look me in the eye and tell me what this is really about. I somehow doubt you drug me out here to give me a lesson from Hostage Taking 101. So, spit it out already."
Sam let his head drop, as if he were exhausted by the discussion. His gaze ventured out at the woods and he felt that chill across his back again. This time it wasn't the cold. Though he didn't see any movement in the shadows, he had the strangest feeling that someone was watching him. Ruby? Sam licked his bottom lip on instinct but quickly brushed off thoughts of his "demon chick" and her little offerings, a small part of him afraid that his brother might become a mind reader over the next ten seconds.
He pulled his gaze back to Dean, surveying that expected kiss-my-ass expression that was so familiar. No way of getting through that thick skull, Sam reminded himself, but he opened his mouth, nevertheless. "We give up so much." His voice was low, almost lost. "We sacrifice so much to save people. You went to Hell, Dean. For me." Sam's eyes lifted. "So, yeah, I'm having a hard time stomaching someone who whole-heartedly believes you're some depraved serial killer. It's not fair to us. It's not fair to you."
Dean chewed his gum, looking away to avoid the wetness gathering in his lids. "Sam… They're not all wrong. I… I'm not exactly innocent."
"But, we're not what they think we are," Sam insisted. He clenched his fists at his sides. "And it's not fair, Dean. It's not fair that you'd probably do whatever you could to save those two in there, if they were ever in trouble, but they'd put you away for it. It's not fair that they don't know…"
Dean raised a finger, cutting him off. "No, Sam." Dean locked his jaw, shaking his head. "I wouldn't want them to know. Let them go on thinking that they've already seen the worse they've got to fear. Let them believe I cut up girls for kicks. It's better than screwing their lives up by trying to convince them the boogeyman exists." He paused, taking a breath before he caught his brother's eye again. "Because I don't know if you've noticed this yet, but when civilians get involved, they tend to die."
Sam looked down, frowning. "Fine." He smiled, half amused by his brother's declaration. Even if he did think it was total crap. He'd drop the subject, if only for the moment. "But do you really have to act so chummy with them?"
"Suddenly the human Care Bear has a problem with me being a good host? Guess I should scare the hell out of them even more?" Dean snorted, shaking his head. "Do me a favor, Sam. Just give Spencer, give Dr. Reid, a break. There's only so many intense stares one man can take before he starts fearing for his virtue."
"Dean," Sam warned.
"Seriously, Sam, all that sexual tension. It's embarrassing poor Penny. I'd tell you to take it to the back room if we had one. No such luck. But, hey, maybe I'm getting my readings wrong. Maybe all that stress is just from lil' Sammy getting a tad bit jealous cause Spence is receiving all my cool brotherly attention." Dean chuckled when Sam's fist bounced off his arm. It was quickly followed by a wince when he dodged the second blow. "Ouch, the truth does hurt."
Sam huffed. "You are such a jerk."
Dean's grin was gleaming. "And, apparently I'm bat-shit crazy, too. Quite the package, right? Speaking of which, have you noticed Penelope's -" Dean moved to raise his hands to his chest.
"Shut up, Dean." Sam brushed back his hair, determined to keep the annoyance plastered on his face. Because he sure as hell wasn't going to let Dean see how much better a few jokes made him feel. "Just, shut up."
In an age of security cameras, spotting a classic car in a small community should have proved easier. Hotch had called when Morgan had left the second station, updating him on the search status. They'd found two people who had described seeing such a vehicle on the town's main drive earlier in the morning, but the witnesses didn't have much to report on the drivers or the tags. And, unfortunately, Attalla was such a small town that street cameras weren't a viable option.
Morgan had done a double take at the information. These had to be either the stupidest or cockiest unsubs he'd been after in a long time to take out the same vehicle they used to kidnap federal employees. And, yet, they'd blended in, hiding in plain sight. Maybe the cockiness was well deserved.
To say Morgan was pissed by the time he reached the third gas station, the final stop he'd be making before reporting back to their makeshift office in the Sheriff's department, was a grave understatement.
"Yeah." The attendant scratched his stringy brown hair before scooping it behind one pierced ear. "Yeah, saw it this morning actually. Drove in right after opening. Pretty damn early for anyone who's not a trucker or headed out to the chicken plant for the shift change."
Morgan blinked, surprised at the confirmation. "Get a look at the driver?"
The attendant, Paul, as he'd muttered at the sight of a badge, leaned down onto the counter, glancing out the glass doors of the convenient store. "Sure, man. Dude paid cash, though, so no records." He pointed at the farthest pump. "Parked that cherry right there, filled her up, and came in. Bought a shit-load of food. Guess he had the munchies."
Morgan could feel his pulse throbbing against his throat. "How much food exactly?"
Paul shrugged, his eyes distant. "We got a hot bar in the morning. He waited for the food to finish cookin', then bought six or so biscuits, four orders of potato rounds. Dude bought a little bit of everything and a couple sweets, too. Which I thought was kinda weird since there wasn't any passengers in that cherry with him. Guessed he was either takin' it back home for the family or going on a long ride."
Morgan pulled out his phone on instinct, ready to call it in, but he hesitated. "Tell me you've got a security camera in here, Paul."
It was iffy. The other two stations had been big chains, but this one was the definition of Maw and Paw, live bait in a back room and a pinball machine in the corner. The shake of Paul's head wasn't entirely unexpected.
"Had one. Some sort of insurance requirement, but the recorder screwed up a few weeks ago." He frowned, rubbing the back of his neck and muttering the next part. "Someone kinda spilled some slushie drink on it." At Morgan's disbelieving expression, Paul stood a bit straighter. "But, I saw the guy. Like I said, we didn't get many customers this morning, so he stood out. I can give you a pretty good description.. 'Bout my age and height, sandy hair cut short…"
Morgan's scowl cut him off. The agent looked down at his phone, shaking his head as he scrolled through a few items. The words "long shot" didn't begin to cover it, but Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that he was right. He paused, almost rethinking the action, before holding the mobile out to the attendant.
"Paul, is this the man you saw?"
Paul huffed out a laugh. "Hells yeah, man. That's the same dude."
Morgan pulled the phone back, staring down at the picture himself. "You're absolutely sure?"
The other man's nod was dizzying. "Same shit-eatin' grin and all - didn't know they'd let you make that face when you're gettin' booked. Wicked." He said the last part with an air of respect.
Morgan frowned, giving his thanks and promising to return in a moment. His feet were already taking him outside to the oil-stained cement. Thankfully, the lot was empty, because his own eyes were glued on the cell's screen, where he'd drawn up a nearly two year old picture of one Dean Winchester.
"You've got to be kidding me…" Morgan sucked in a deep breath of cool air and tried to come up with a rational explanation as he pressed in Hotch's number. "I've got something," he began. "I know who we're looking for, Hotch. You're not going to believe this."
Spencer hadn't heard much of the fight taking place outside, but the raised voices had made their way inside as muffled shouts. He and Penelope shared a glance as they strained to make out words, especially words like "let's get rid of them."
The brothers' voices grew quiet, which was somehow more frightening than hearing them yell at one another., because it probably meant they'd come to some sort of agreement.
"Reid, honey," Penelope's own voice was at a whisper when she leaned forward, a slight tremble at her lip when she said the endearment. "I don't think you've made the best impression with the youngest Winchester. In fact, I think you might have pissed him off. Just a tad."
Spencer swallowed. "I noticed." Then, just as quickly, he shook his head in disagreement. Sam's behavior played back through his head, moment by moment. "Actually, I'm not sure if he was mad at me."
Penelope raised a brow.
Reid stared at the door, willing it to stay closed. "Not entirely. I know he was mad at me, but I think Sam was angrier with Dean. He's surprisingly aggressive toward him, but he's trying to hold it back."
"Why? Did Dean drink the last apple juice or something?"
He cocked his head to one side, his brow wrinkled. "It could mean we're getting to Dean. Or that Sam thinks we are. Maybe that's what's troubling Sam. Perhaps it isn't protectiveness so much as self preservation for Sam. You heard what Sam said about there being 'bigger and badder hunts.' If Dean's having doubts about what he's doing, or Sam thinks his brother should be doing more - "
Reid's voice broke off when he saw the door knob turn. He could almost hear the woman beside him holding her breath. Dean and Sam pushed through at the same time, both of them shaking off the chill of the winter world outside. Sam, at the very least, had lost some of the tension in his shoulders, and Reid hoped that was a good sign. And that it didn't mean that Sam had gotten his way.
Spencer watched as Dean's gaze raised, found his. For a moment, they simply locked eyes, studying one another. Then the oldest Winchester burst out laughing.
"What?" Reid couldn't stop the question from slipping out of his mouth. He turned to Garcia, wide-eyed. She shrugged, obviously not in on the joke.
"Nothin'," Dean promised, biting his cheek to hold his chuckle at bay. "Just had a funny chat about you and my little brother."
Sam elbowed him as he walked past, shooting him a glare. Dean sobered up, but not because of the gesture. His eyes had drifted back to the newspaper clippings he and Sam had collected. The faces of the two deceased Hamilton siblings were staring back at him. A hollow expression set his lips in a line, left his eyes empty. "We need to get back to work," he muttered.
Sam nodded along but crossed the room instead of stopping at the table. He switched on the television and made his way back to his seat. Knees bent, he hovered for a moment, ready to sit down, before straightening back up and grabbing Dean's shoulder.
"Look."
Reid had been so absorbed in watching the two that he hadn't heard what was playing over the television. He quickly turned to see a reporter switching over to a photograph of a sleek black car: "…Two male suspects driving what is believed to be a 1967 Chevy Impala…"
"Shit, Sammy," Dean groaned. "Looks like we're going to need to borrow another car."
Sam chewed his lip. "Easier said than done, Dean. We're kind of in the middle of nowhere."
Penelope huffed, "Borrow, you say?"
Dean shook his head, sharing a glance with his brother. "Dude, I swear, remember that kid at the motel, the one with his hands glued to the video game? Kept trying to take pictures of my baby when we first rolled in?"
Sam gave a snort of disbelieve. "Sure, Dean. Blame it on him."
Reid pulled his attention away from the television screen, considering his next move. "In a town this small, it was only a matter of time before someone spotted your car, Dean," he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. The Impala itself had been a detail that was at the back of his mind until now. It raised a few questions to which Reid immediately formulated answers, all of them rather interesting. It would be easy to assume the Winchesters kept the car because their egos led them to believe they'd never be caught, but Reid somehow doubted this to be the case. Innocently, he continued, "Why don't you get a different vehicle? One less conspicuous."
Dean shot him a look of betrayal. "Why don't you just ask me to cut off my arm while you're at it."
Sam glanced back at Spencer, a smile in his eyes, as if the animosity he'd sent the agent's way was all but a memory. "Don't bother, Spencer. He's impossible to reason with."
Spencer was pleased with the response. He readied himself to slip in another observation about the vehicle being their father's when he caught Dean's expression. The man had turned away from the agent in disgust, looking out the window as if he were willing a magic "borrowed" car to appear. Then, out of no where, his eyes had widened, his body suddenly stiff as a board. It was a split second reaction, one Reid barely had time to contemplate. It was fear, alarm, anger, all wrapped into one.
Dean dove into his brother's side, shoving him down, out of the way of the window. The sound of the bullet seemed to register after the shatter of glass, after the spray of blood, after the thud of their bodies hitting the wooden floor.
___________________________________________
Chapter 7:
We Ate Your Porridge, Bitch
"You're sure, Walt?"
"Damn it, Roy, I trust Creedy, and if he says it's them…"
"Sure. Ok. I'll take care of it."
Roy Bridges pocketed the cell phone, the weight of the rifle across his thigh suddenly ten times more of a burden. The call had been too short and too long. What surprised Roy most, though, was that he was still going to follow through, even with doubt nearly clouding his vision, he was going to do exactly what Walt said… Goddamn Walt. Walt, his back-up. Walt, his partner, still hours out of state and in the middle of an arms' trade. Walt, who said the decision was an easy one.
"Take 'em out, Roy."
Like it was something common, killing your fellow hunters. But these weren't just any hunters. These were the Winchesters. When folks got too close to the Winchesters, they ended up dead or worse. Roy'd heard their daddy was a pretty good fella when it came to finishing a job, and a couple years back, rumor had been the same about the boys he'd raised. But, things had changed.
Who would have imagined that he'd run into the two of them camping out in the old safe house? In, of all places, that dead hunter, Caleb's, place - another one of the Winchesters' fatalities by association.
Jesus, the gall they had showing up here.
Roy ran gloved fingers over gaunt cheeks, worried and wishing for a shot of liquid bravery.
The new rumor about the renegade hunters wasn't rumor at all. It was fact. Putting aside the assortment of maybes - the maybe Sam Winchester was actin' a bit funny in the head, the maybe the Winchesters were involved in ol' Stevie Wandell's death a few years back, the maybe those dead loons Gordon and Kubrick were spot-on when they said Sam Winchester was gonna bring Hell on Earth - all that aside, the facts remained. Sam and Dean Winchester were responsible for the most recent Hell's Gate catastrophe.
And, there was the thing about Dean Winchester dying last summer. Funny, though, how he was chattin' it up on the porch, then, not three minutes ago.
Course, the most telling fact of all was about the youngest. Sam Winchester. What he'd been spotted doing to a demon. And with a demon.
Roy raised the rifle and put the devil in his sights, a choked prayer at his lips.
The bright winter sun had sent the reflection his way a second too late. Dean took the dive out of instinct, grabbing his brother on the way down. He hadn't even hit the floor when it registered, really registered, that the bullet would have passed through Sam's chest. If Dean had frozen up. If he'd still been wrapped up in talks with his hostages. If he'd been another foot to the left.
Too many damn ifs for his liking. Anger welled up inside of him at the sudden flood of possibilities, but he pushed it down to get his bearings.
"Son of a bitch," Dean growled as soon as he caught his breath. He took a solid second to shove his chin into his shoulder and glanced down the length of his body. The second declaration was louder. "Son of a bitch!"
He was gonna kill 'em.
Not only was there blood dripping down from his arm, but there was blood dripping onto his leather jacket. Which was currently sporting a fresh tear at the upper right arm, almost directly along the seam. Dean winced…Leather was a such a pain in the ass to sew. Another damn.
Yup. "Gonna kill 'em," Dean confirmed.
"Did the FBI find us?"
Dean glanced up, relief flooding over him as he heard Sam's voice. He reached out, even though his arm was screaming for surrender, and grabbed his brother by the shoulder. Suddenly it, that little wall between them - the one made of secrets and deals and powers - disappeared, as if it had never existed. All Dean could see was his brother. Unscathed. Which maybe meant that he wouldn't have to kill the idiot shooting at them.
"Sammy, you okay?" he asked, drawing his brother's panicked gaze.
Sam nodded, trying to scoot himself closer, a difficult feat with his long legs in the way. He grabbed hold of Dean by the elbow, locking him in a man's handshake as he held his brother's arm still. "Jesus, Dean, you're shot."
Dean rolled his eyes. "No shit, Sherlock." He could feel his brother's grip tightening and forced a small smile. "Mr. Sharp Shooter missed, Sammy - it's just a graze. Promise."
Dean was mostly sure that was true. His mind circled back to his brother's first question, and he opened his mouth to answer when another shot rang out, busting out the upper panel of the window. The shot was wide, aiming for nothing in particular. Just enough to keep us crawling. The scream that followed the sound was enough to make Dean's heart jump into his throat. He'd almost forgotten the civilians.
"Not FBI," he bit. One shot, sure, leave that to the authority figures. The second said something different entirely. "Sam, get Penelope and Spencer down. Now."
Dean could hear Sam's argument before it left his mouth, so he shook his brother, forcing him to crane his neck, look past the table leg. They couldn't see much of the two through the furniture, but Dean got a glimpse of Penelope's face, her cheeks streaked with tears, cheeks trembling.
Sam must have seen her too, because he sucked in a breath, holding back what he was going to say, and lunged across the floor, taking half the journey on his hands and knees, the other half on his belly. It seemed like Sam reached her before Dean had a chance to blink. Her chair tilted backward, Sam cradling her head as he pushed her down. Dean realized what he was doing and nodded to himself, sliding a foot over to see if he could spot Spencer's expression.
The agent was still upright and unhurt, his head dipped low, as if he could make it disappear into his tense shoulders. His body was rigid with fear, but he hadn't cried out. Dean had a sudden memory cross through his mind, of a bank in Milwaukee, of a man whose trust he'd gained. Of a shot through a window. Not the same, Dean assured himself. He bit back his own outraged shout at the thought of his hostages getting hurt because an asshole (that asshole's name being Dean Winchester) had tied them up, and instead concentrated on the situation, on where the danger was coming from.
Dean trailed the direction of the shots, noting that Spencer was safe in his current location, as safe as he could be when a weapon was firing. His chair was angled so that it remained behind most of the appliances in the kitchenette, steel between him and the wall the gunman was firing toward. Penelope was angled outward though, but Dean sucked down his panic when he saw that his brother had already pulled her, still attached to her chair, gently to the floor and was currently trying to loosen her bindings - not an easy task from the angle.
Safe. At least for the next few minutes.
Which meant it was time for Dean to get to work. He patted himself down, pleased to find he'd left his revolver in his pocket when he'd stepped outside with Sam, even if the weapons bag and the unpacked sawed-off were laying across his cot. Dean pulled the revolver free and pushed himself up onto his elbows, ignoring the hot flash of pain across his arm.
The assault on the cabin said a few things about their attacker. Namely that there was only one. Two gunmen would have taken a different approach entirely. Which led Dean to his second conclusion - the shooter was dumb as hell to just open fire. It sure wasn't the way he or Sam would have approached the situation. Especially, outnumbered. Especially, when it would have been too damn easy to just wait for him or his brother to step outside and pick the hunters off one by one.
Dean's final conclusion was that a dumb-ass had still managed to shoot him. It did nothing for his ego.
"Winchester!"
"Shit," Dean muttered. Because the shout had come from outside. The shooter knew who they were. Didn't that just figure? Somehow, it wasn't a complete surprise that someone trying to kill them knew their name.
Dean had ground-crawled his way to the counter separating the kitchen from the rest of the cabin and pushed himself tight against it. The blown open window was only a few feet away and the cold winter was invading the room with all the quickness of a spirit.
"Kinda rude, isn't it?" Dean bellowed. He licked his lip and waited a moment before continuing. "You know our name, but we don't know yours."
The loudness probably wasn't necessary. The cabin was so quiet that Dean could have sworn he could pick out the shallow breaths of each of the three behind him. So, when Sam began to move, the floor boards practically sung. Dean winced, looking over his shoulder in pissed-off inquiry.
Sam shot him a pleading glance, telling him a plan in those two seconds of silent stare-off. Penelope was at his side, his arm around her as the two slid further away from the front wall. Sam tapped the floor once. Dean nodded in response.
He'd almost forgotten the trap door. Leave it to Caleb to install an extra hole in the floor for them to have to salt. In truth, it wasn't so much a door as a few strategically placed planks that could be lifted at once. Caleb hadn't planned for it to be a means for escape, so much as a large place to tuck away his unlicensed and more unusual weapons if the locals stopped in with questions. It was also where Sam had once hidden when he'd gotten into a fight with their dad. Dean had almost throttled the kid until Sam had pointed out that he'd obeyed his big brother - he'd never left the room, after all.
Dean really should have seen the lawyer phase coming after that.
More cold air filled the room when the planks lifted. Dean could see only shadows from where he sat, but, if he remembered the layout correctly, there was a three walled box beneath the floor. It opened up into the tight crawlspace beneath the building. Dean hoped there was still an opening at the backside of the cabin, one large enough for a person to escape through.
Sam held tight to Penelope's arms as she went feet first into the hole, giving the youngest Winchester a quick, thankful glance, before whispering something into his ear. Sam nodded and put a hand on her head, pushing her the rest of the way down. He slid the planks into place and moved to turn back to the FBI agent still strapped down to a chair.
Another shot stopped him.
"I know what you are, Winchester! You and your brother."
Dean glared at the window. "Good for you," he snapped.
Something Sam had brought up earlier surfaced, the comment about the cabin being taken care of, the utilities being turned on, as if someone had been using it regularly. No great surprise there. When Caleb had been alive, he'd loaned the place out to plenty of other hunters…Double shit. Their history with their fellow hunters wasn't something to brag about.
Dean suddenly understood how Goldilocks must have felt when the three bears arrived home.
Dean raised his head slightly, trying to get a decent glance at the outside world. All he could see was a graying land and cloudscape. He pulled the revolver up with him, before opening his mouth again, hoping the shooter would make the mistake of moving closer so he could take aim.
"If you know we're hunters, then why the hell are you shooting at us?"
"I don't think a dead man should be too worried about getting shot at."
Sam had frozen on the floor at those words, watching his brother.
Dean shut his eyes, a deep breath leaving him with nostrils flared. "It isn't what you think. You've got it all wrong." Dean swallowed, suddenly wishing the FBI agent was beside him and feeding him lines. Something told him Spencer would know how he could talk his way out of this one. Dean bit his lip when he realized the shooter moving closer also meant they weren't going to be able to move Reid to the trap door in time to hide him. "Listen, man, we've got a civilian in here with us. We need to talk about this before we both do something we'll regret."
The suggestion was met with silence. Dean swallowed the curse on the tip of his tongue, his voice strong when he opened his mouth again. "Come on, man. We're all in the same trade here, and if you knew about this cabin, then you knew Caleb. I covered his ass more than once - he ever tell you that?"
"Caleb's dead because of you Winchesters."
"No." Dean was sure the reply came out as more of a growl. He took another second to calm himself down. "No, Caleb is dead because a demon slit his throat. And, you obviously didn't know the guy too damn well if you think he'd want his friends killed in his frickin' safe house!"
Another moment of silence passed, this one longer, and Dean was sure he'd lost the guy.
"Throw out your weapons, and we'll talk. You make a wrong move, and I'll put down you, and your civilian, too. Caleb's wishes be damned."
Dean wasn't sure why the wording pissed him off so much, but it did. Something told him the hunter didn't really care what the Winchesters had to say, that he was only playing along for kicks. And that he'd probably kill Spencer just as quickly as he'd put down the brothers once the agent saw his face. Dean kept the anger out of his voice. "You've got a deal," he called, despite himself.
The words meant something else entirely.
Sam caught his brother's eye, made sure he was watching when he slowly reached up and tucked his own pistol behind the old television set. Dean's smile was tight when he tossed his revolver out the window and stood to his feet, his palms faced out in surrender when he slowly stood, putting himself in the shooter's sights.
Dean wondered if heaven was planning to scrape his pieces off the floor when this went south. He saw the reflection off the rifle as the hunter in the woods stood from his crouch, and Dean figured the junkless douche bags upstairs would probably just point and laugh instead.
"Roy?" Dean scoffed. "Well, this is just embarrassing."
"So, we're chasing ghosts?"
The team stood around the desk, each of them trading glances, and though it had been Emily to finally voice the question, it was a sentiment on each of their minds.
Morgan shook his head, surprised as any of them, even though he had been the one to first suspect the Winchesters' involvement. It hadn't been a particularly pleasant experience for the agent, breaking the news to his team over the phone. He'd only arrived back at the station minutes earlier, but he'd found that Hotch had already informed the others of the gas station attendant's confirmation. Morgan didn't particularly like any situation that left this team of professionals, his family, in stunned confusion.
"Looks like," he finally voiced.
The expression on Prentiss's face came closest to a tight, bitter smile. "Guess the hunch paid off, then. Where does this leave us exactly?"
Morgan had actually expected them to fight the theory. It would make sense. Witnesses weren't very reliable in most cases. The others could have laughed at the idea of two dead criminals having a hand in the kidnappings, but, instead, they'd almost beaten him to the punch in bringing up the vehicle, the aliases, the fact that two brothers were checked into the hotel.
"Faking your death once is hard enough, twice is nearly impossible," Rossi said, his voice unusually low, as if the comment was intended only for his own benefit. The older man pinched his mustache between two fingers, lost in thought. "Is there any evidence to suggest that the father, John Winchester, might be alive as well? "
Hotch shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. "There was no actual confirmation of his death. However, John Winchester's whereabouts don't seem to be related to our case. There's no reason to suspect he might have been involved."
"Then we're still looking at this as if it's one case?" Emily asked.
Hotch didn't have a chance to answer. J.J. stepped into the room and nodded once in Hotch's direction before handing him a stack of files and turning back to a projection screen the department had loaned them. She pressed the remote and it lit up, showing two wanted posters.
"The notorious Sam and Dean Winchester," she introduced with a frown.
"Did Kevin pull these up?" Morgan asked, taking one of the files.
J.J. shook her head. "He didn't have to - they were easy enough to find. Especially since I was in direct contact with the late Agent Henricksen." The answer, however, didn't seem complete, and Morgan raised a brow at it.
Hotch gave him a glance, sighing. "We'll be bouncing between a few other departmental techs at the moment. We're having… difficulties working with Kevin Lynch, and we may have to pull him from the case entirely. He's taking Garcia's abduction…"
"Badly," Morgan supplied. He felt that old rage swell up in him at the reminder that Penelope was out there, in danger. Probably hurt. Possibly dead. And now he had to two faces he could direct that anger at. His gaze was dark and steady as he watched the screen. "I don't blame Kevin," he finished.
"You know what I don't get…" Emily tapped the file with one finger, shaking her head in frustration. "I know these two men are dangerous and highly armed, but doesn't it seem a bit odd that they're attempting to control two adults and two children at the same time? Why put yourself in that situation?"
Derek pushed down the instinctive logic that told him that they wouldn't need to control four if they'd already killed two.
He felt Rossi's hand on his elbow, as if the older agent had read his mind. "We need to look at this with fresh eyes, their history in its entirely. If we have all the pieces, the profile will fit together."
Hotch gave him a curt nod and turned back to J.J. "We need to study the Winchesters from the beginning."
J.J. nodded, pressing another button for the next page. "To tell the truth, a good chunk of what Agent Henricksen provided was based on speculation. That's not to say his profiling was entirely wrong, but…"
"Fresh eyes," Rossi repeated, nodding in understanding. "We'll have to sort through it as we go."
Emily pursed her lips. "We don't have time for this," she said, her voice low.
Morgan could understand where Prentiss was coming from. She'd been in the car with the last kid, after all. He'd been her responsibility. Even if no one was blaming her, she was taking Micheal's disappearance hard, counting every minute he was gone. Derek ran a hand over his slick head, not sparing her a glance, his concentration once more on the two criminals painting the screen.
"We don't have a choice," he replied.
Gray clouds had shifted and the afternoon sun was streaming in, warming the cooled cabin, ever so slowly, as the players moved across the board and into their places.
The single room was quiet but for the crunch of his boots against broken glass. He actually wished the footfalls would make even more noise. Though, he hadn't heard a peep yet, Sam was far too aware of the fact that Penelope was hiding beneath the floor boards. The only player going against the rules. One creak and the stranger would panic. All it would take was one absent shot downward and…
Sam wasn't going to think about that. Time to concentrate on the people with a gun still trained on them. Himself included.
He wasn't pleased with the turn of events. Or with his brother's decision to play along with the shooter. And he sure as hell wasn't happy when the shooter had the good sense to have them dump their weapons bag on the porch (Sam had taken a moment to knock the sawed-off under the blankets before he'd complied), but what really put the cherry on top were the words leaving his brother's mouth.
"So, Roy, how you enjoying your life?" Dean asked, a shit-eating grin breaking his face in two. "You know, the life you wouldn't have if we hadn't saved your ass a few years back?" Dean shrugged his left shoulder, favoring it. The move didn't go unnoticed by Sam, and it sent a flush of anger over his face. Roy, whoever-the-hell-he-was, had shot his brother. He'd pay.
"This is business, Winchester."
Dean gave a broken laugh. "Remember what I said about this being a thankless job, Sammy? Meet exhibit A."
Roy wasn't taking the bait. The other hunter had barely stepped onto the porch, his body posed, ready to make a dive for it, when he'd asked that "both" brothers show their hands.
Sam had expected more, though he wasn't sure why. The man, wild-eyed and wet lipped, was thin, shorter than Dean, and scraggly, the hat on his head leaving his ears sticking out of his head. Not that you could judge a person based on their appearance. But, this was a human, and if his shots and strategy were any indication, an inferior hunter. Sam could understand his brother's earlier sentiments. This was embarrassing.
"So, you know each other?" Sam asked, directing the question at Dean. Because Sam sure as hell didn't recognize the guy. Which meant Dean had probably met him when he was either very young or after Sam had left for Stanford.
"Oh, yeah, Roy and I go way back," Dean replied, his tone that of a man sitting at the bar, kicking back a shot. If anything, Dean's natural cockiness found more fuel when he was injured. "Only met the one time, but it was a fairly significant one time, wasn't it, Roy?"
"Take a step back," Roy demanded. His rifle was hanging across his back now, traded in for a handgun. He pulled up the smaller weapon, aiming it at Sam, either because his size made him the bigger threat or because he suddenly didn't want to meet Dean's eye. "Back."
Roy pushed forward, cautiously.
Dean took a step back and a step over, trying to put himself in Roy's line of sight again. "See, Sammy, Roy here was chasing a chupacabra that had made its way into mid-Louisiana. Guess the goats weren't worth suckin' there, 'cause it had taken out a little old lady along with the livestock. Dad and I were passing through…gave Roy a hand. 'Course, Roy probably doesn't remember most of it since he was passed out and pretending to be puppy chow at the time…Heard you got yourself a partner to keep you from screwing the pooch again. A Walt Timber, right? Where is old Walt?"
"Shut up!" Roy's jaw tightened and he swung the weapon back on Dean.
"Got a feeling," Dean added, "that your buddy isn't close by or else he'd be here to back you up. How many hours out is he?"
Roy's eyes narrowed, his grip tight on the weapon. "He'll be here soon."
"Fair enough." Dean smirked at the move, pleased with himself. "Still, our dad saved your ass, Roy. This how you repay him?"
"This ain't about him," Roy said. "This is about you two. I know what you've done, and somebody's got to take care of the mess you made. Nothing personal to it. If John were around, he'd do the same."
"That's kinda vague, Roy," Dean replied. "Gotta be more specific. What mess? And how are you planning to clean it up?" There was a dangerous edge to Dean's smile, one Sam could spot with just a glance to his profile. Roy really shouldn't have said that last part. Not if he planned on making it out without losing a few limbs. "Oh, and what the hell is it you think you'd do like our dad?"
Sam slid his foot back, gaining a better stance. The options at the moment were pretty clear. Spare knife in the boot, sawed-off on the cot to his right, or the revolver behind the television behind them. Taking advantage of the options was the hard part, where Dean's go-to plan of "chat 'em up until they're sloppy" came into play. A part of Sam wondered if he needed the weapons. If there was some other way to handle Roy, some other use of his strengths… it worked on demons. He'd moved things before. With the practice Ruby had been giving him, maybe he could… Sam squashed the thought. No. No. He wouldn't try that. Not again. Especially not in front of Dean.
It happened before Sam had a chance to realize what his step backwards had done: Roy's eyes found Reid. The FBI agent who was still strapped to his chair, defenseless. Crap.
Reid was watching the three of them, his constant curiosity showing in the fold of his brow. Even though it was chilly, there was sweat glittering from the agent's temples. Sam suddenly felt a wave of guilt rush over him. The guy, the one he'd been shooting dirty looks for most of the day, was probably scared out of his mind right about now.
"Told you we had a civilian in here," Dean said, stopping Roy from sweeping his gun Reid's way. The glint in Dean's eye was begging the shoddy hunter to move forward, just a little further, so that he'd be within lunging distance.
Roy's lowered his head some, more wired than he had been earlier. His eyes quickly traced the floor, as if looking for a devil's trap before they shot back to the Winchesters. "If he's a civilian, why's he tied up?"
"He's just some guy who tried to report us," Sam answered, before his brother had a chance. "Got in our way while we were on a case, so we're keeping him here until we can get out of dodge. He's not a threat."
"Shit." The word had slipped from Roy. He chewed his cheek, losing some of the confidence. "Shit," he muttered again. His hand stayed steady, though, raising to train on Sam's forehead.
Sam realized where the rush of sudden panic was coming from. The idiot could be identified now. "We warned you there was a civilian in here," Sam bit. "You're the one who chose to ignore that."
"He's seen me," Roy said. His right arm twitched, as if begging to move, begging to point the gun back at the man tied to a chair.
Sam could feel Dean's body tighten, ready to make a move. Because in one tic, this guy had just went from threatening to hurt his brother to threatening to kill his brother and an innocent along with him. Sam felt his breath catch in his throat. Dean would sacrifice himself in an instant to stop Roy from making that move, of that Sam was certain.
God, Dean, just give me more time.
"You said we could talk!" Sam snapped, hoping it would break Roy from his thoughts. "Why the hell did you try to shoot us?"
"Fine." Roy turned his attention back to the brothers, raising his chin, suddenly confident in himself again. He tilted his head in Dean's direction. "You want to talk? Start by explaining how he's alive. Walt knows for a fact that Dean Winchester had a blow-out with some big-time demon 'bout last Spring. Killed and dragged down to Hell, is what they're saying. Lots 'a hunters been reporting back about you, too, Sam, how you were throwin' yourself around afterward, acting dangerous. And keeping strange company…"
Sam's back straightened. His glare alone was enough to push back most men, but Roy was too stupid or too stubborn to be stopped by a glare.
And Dean…
Dean started laughing.
"Christ, Roy!" Dean slapped his stomach, throwing his head back in amusement. He cleared his throat, as if trying to hold the chuckles inside. "Seriously? Seriously, is that what this is about?"
Sam was pretty sure he looked as puzzled as Roy, but the other hunter was staring at Dean now, even if the gun was still pointed at Sam.
Sam could feel his adrenaline building, his body humming and ready to make a move as Dean became the distraction. He held tight for a moment, waiting for Dean to string the guy further along.
"Dude, you're only half right." Dean was grinning. It was the same smile he wore at the pool tables. "There was a hell of demon on my ass. Had a hard time shaking her, too, but we did. Faked my death, as a matter of fact. By the time she figured it out, I was long gone. Sammy and I had to keep separate for a while until we could take out her minions, but we were doin' fine." His green eyes lowered when he paused, the humor all but lost. "That was, until some dumbass with a cause decided I was one smokin' hot zombie."
Sam was ready.
The gunshot was a surprise. Roy had moved quickly, giving the Winchesters the first glimpse of his own abilities as a hunter. He put two bullets into the floor at Sam's feet, missing his boots by inches. Sam jumped back, his hands up in surrender, the lunge forgotten.
Roy had the gun raised again already, still on Sam, aimed far from his shoes this time. There was a grimace at his lips that said as clear as day that he was proud to be responsible for Sam's shocked expression. "I said don't move."
"No."
The word was heartbreaking and had dripped from Reid's mouth like a tear. Sam shot him a look, his own eyes as wide, if not as wounded as the agent's.
Penelope.
"Roy," Sam breathed the name. He knew what the agent had thought, too, that there was a chance the tech girl was somewhere beneath those wooden planks, bleeding out. Sam let out a broken sound, too hard to be a sob, and glared back at Roy. "That," he said, "was a mistake."
Roy's finger twitched, his shoulder hitching. He ignored Sam entirely. "Sure, Dean," he replied, his voice calmer than it had been. Arrogant and dead-set. "That's a possibility, I suppose, but it doesn't change the rest…it doesn't change the part where Sam's been playing around with evil, does it?"
Sam felt his blood turn to ice. Just for a moment, he thought Roy might actually know about his new habit.
"You let loose the demons at the devil's gate, didn't you, Sam? You're working with them… That's what Walt says, and I believe him." Roy didn't turn Dean's way when he addressed him. "I'm sorry, Dean. I hate to do this, but even if you're telling the truth, I can't let your brother go. And, I certainly can't let your civilian go until I know he's not one of your new demon buddies." Roy shook his head, his arm raising a half inch. "I really am sorry. Nothing personal," he assured.
The thud wasn't the sound of a trigger being pulled.
Roy's eyes rolled back into his head, his knees giving out beneath him. Sam dove for the gun before he even realized what had happened. Feeling the flesh-warmed metal against his palm, he glanced up from his spot on the floor in shock.
Penelope was standing a few feet from where Roy had been. She let the piece of firewood in her hands fall to the floor and took a step back, moving her dirty fingers up to her lips. Silent tears slid down her face and her body shook with a tremor that Sam was certain wasn't caused by the half-frozen mud caked onto her knees and elbows.
Dean whistled, impressed enough to circle to her side for a better view of the damage. He was holding his arm tight against his body. "Damn, Penny. You're like a hot Rambo."
Penelope's chin shook as she tried to control her voice. "Just," she begged, "please, t-tell me he's not dead."
Roy was already stirring, though. Sam straddled his back before he could get to his feet, holding the other hunter's arms against his spine at a painfully awkward angle. With a grunt, the youngest Winchester gestured for someone to hand him a few zip-ties. Roy let loose a slew of muttered curses, but Sam only smiled up at Penelope in return, looking a little dazed from the turn of events.
"Are you sure you're just a computer technician?"
READ CHAPTER 8