SPN/CM - I See a Darkness - Ch 1/?
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.
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.
NOW
Perhaps blasting Metallica wasn't the best choice at the moment. Dean recognized as much, but his fingers refused to pry from the steering wheel. Clicking out the tape would be admitting there was a problem, that this little ride was different from any of the ones before. And Dean wasn't in the mood for the inevitable silence.
Sam, however, was. He reached forward, breaking Metallicar rule numero uno. The cassette clicked out. For half a second, he tensed, ready to toss it over his shoulder in aggravation, but he thought better of it.
It probably wouldn't do to hit their backseat passengers with a flying object. Kidnapping was a bad enough charge without the added assault.
"So," Sam cleared his throat.
Nothing followed.
Dean could feel his brother's eyes on him, asking a silent question, and damned if he had an answer. This was his own fault, Dean knew that, but his little brother had went along with the move. And now they were both regretting the call.
Why the hell didn't they just run for it? Wasn't like Cupcake and the Scarecrow were going to catch up with the Impala before they got off the beaten path.
But running would have meant leaving the job behind. For the Feds to take care of. Two of which were currently nestled in the backseat wearing handcuffs - Dean had told Sam he hadn't picked those up just for kinky stuff - and silent as mute Church mice. The quiet part, that was unnerving in and of itself.
Dean's shoulders tightened when he saw headlights in the distance, beaming through the rain. He couldn't see the make of the car. Narrow green eyes darted up to the rearview mirror, watching their hostages. The kid, sad eyed and slouched, looked longingly at the oncoming vehicle but didn't make a move to alert the driver. Dean released an anxious breath when the car passed without slowing.
"Caleb's cabin?" Sam asked.
Dean jumped slightly, caught himself, and pretended it didn't happen. Jesus. He was wound tighter than a two dollar watch. Grunting, he nodded.
When they'd first arrived in town, they'd decided on the motel instead of the cabin for the simple reason that it had been a near decade since they'd last seen the old shack. Electricity, plumbing, those things were up in the air.
"Don't have much of a choice," Dean replied. "We're going to need somewhere secluded."
The woman behind Sam whimpered slightly. It was strained, as if she'd been trying to hold in the sound far too long. Dean took his eyes off the road for a split second.
"Calm down, Penelope," he said, flashing her what he hoped was a non-predatory smile. "You're gonna be just fine."
"It's not too late." Her voice was higher, pinched. A plum glossed lip quivered slightly. "You could just leave us here…You don't have to do -" She hesitated at the wording, looking desperately to the young man at her side, but the agent was unusually quiet, his brown eyes pleading. Penelope shook her head, the messy ball of blond at her crown bouncing with the movement. "You don't have to do whatever you're planning to do," she finished.
She looked defeated, knowing the words hadn't been enough. Sam was nearly turned in his seat, staring back at her with an apologetic half-smile on his face.
Dean watched the road. Even the desperation in the woman's voice was more welcoming than the quiet settled over the seat behind his. "Hey, kid," he called, not looking up. The agent had called himself something when Sam had asked… Dean's brow wrinkled when he recalled the title. "Got a name other than Dr. Reid?" Dean tried to put a smile in the question and failed. "Seems a little too formal for this situation."
Nearly a minute passed. Dean could practically hear the wheels turning in the young agent's mind. Finally, a reply came.
"Spencer."
Chapter 1
Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
"When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~Antisthenes
THEN
Attalla, Alabama
Waiting and watching. He was always waiting and watching. That was his earliest memory. Standing behind a door, looking above the first set of rusted hinges, watching Daddy get piss drunk in the living room.
Fists pumped at his sides, anger built a fortress inside him. Ricky didn't like those memories. Not at all. No waiting. No more waiting.
Even on a Friday night, there were barely a dozen out for the midnight showing at the dusty two-plex, a relic of a time when Attalla promised to grow out of a shabby town and into a bigger, better city. That time had passed as soon as the steel factories had chose a better location, but The Dixie Theater remained. A crowd moved out of the front double doors, all teens, throwing leftover popcorn at each other. The air filled with them: giggles, curses, whines. Sickening.
One of these, one of these had to be right.
An icy breeze crawled over him, hesitating at his neck like a cold touch. But even it didn't stop the fresh sweat from pasting his blond hair to his forehead.
"Patience, little brother." A hand rose beside him, pale white in the darkness. A finger straighten, pointing out two of the girls who had separated from the others. "There she is. Did you send it yet?"
Ricky nodded, his southern drawl was more pronounced than his brother's. "Sure did."
"Then let's get a front row seat."
Ricky smiled.
The girls weren't laughing with the rest. Lily, Lily was her name, Ricky remembered. Lily had red hair cut below her ears and a sour expression on her face. Severe. Severe was the right word for her. And she was older than most the others, right out of her teens but still dressed in the same high school wardrobe.
"Have you spoken to Galvin since you got home?" the other girl asked.
Lily snorted. "Nicky," she groaned. "You know, as soon as he calls and apologizes for stealing from me, I'll talk to him. Until then…"
"It was twenty bucks two months ago," Nicky smiled. "Does he even know you're in town?"
"A stolen twenty bucks, and we've gone longer than two months without talking." Lily shook her head, bitter. Her eyes were downcast, focused on digging her phone out of her purse. "And of course he knows I'm here. He knows I only spend every other weekend at the college."
"He's your brother."
Lily came to a stop, shaking her head. "And you're an only child, Nicky. Come to me when you have a pain in the ass sharing DNA with you." The phone in her hands chirped, and she glanced down with a frown. "Speak of the devil…"
Nicky smirked, taking a step back when she saw the other teens piling into their cars. "Well, my ride's headed out. Call you."
Lily nodded, not acknowledging the girl's goodbye as she fumbled with the phone. Her feet had a mind of their own, leading her to the side of her own car, away from the rest.
Separate from the herd. Ricky didn't like to wait, but he was getting more and more excited about the watching part.
Lily didn't see him crouched low against the hedges. Couldn't know he was there. And yet her eyes widened with horror. Fingers shaking, she held the screen of her phone closer to her face.
"Galvin," she whispered. Her free hand came up, holding her lips closed to stop whatever else was about to leave her mouth. "Oh God," still managed to escape. "Oh God, Galvin. . ."
Her fingers went to work, fumbling for the 9. Then 1. Another. She didn't make it to send when the phone went dead, its power drained without warning. Confusion crossed her face the moment she looked up. It didn't register at first. Ricky could tell, she didn't understand what had just happened.
And she certainly didn't understand how the man standing in front of her had approached without her noticing. But the expression changed in an instant to one of pure terror. Lily didn't have time to scream.
Ricky stood from his crouch, watching his brother with pride. Some days, it was good to be the one watching.
"Worth the wait," he muttered, grinning.
Penelope Garcia had come to one conclusion about this particular Sunday afternoon: it sucked. Sure, being called into work because mutilated bodies were discovered was never a good thing, but Penelope had expected it to, at the very least, be business as usual. No such luck. Her lovelies had just returned from one trying case, ready to go home and unpack when J.J. had stopped them with that this-is-a-bad-one look in her eyes. So Penelope had found herself an energy drink and went to the briefing with the full intention of helping the team in any way possible. She hadn't realized that "any way possible" meant getting on the jet and traveling south with them.
"What is it with crazies and videotapes?" she asked, knowing each of the profilers would be quick to give her an answer she already knew. Thankfully none of them were around to do so. God love them, but she didn't always care to travel into a murder's sick mind.
Penelope stepped out of the motel room, wincing when she put weight on her left side. As if two case assignments in a forty-eight-hour period and a trip to the middle of nowhere wasn't bad enough, she'd twisted her ankle walking up the steps to the sheriff's station at the center of town.
Not that she was going to tell the others that she'd actually managed to injure herself within half an hour of arriving.
Thankfully, Hotch had sent her and Reid to check in at the motel. "Before they give away our rooms" had been his exact words, but Garcia, judging from the two cars and a motorcycle parked in front of the ground level building, somehow doubted there would be any chance of that actually happening. Thinking of the youngest G-man, she glanced the window shades to the next room over. They'd been closed already. No doubt, Dr. Reid was actually taking advantage of the few hours of sleep he was going to get before the others arrived from visiting the parents of the last victims.
Tucking the ice bucket and a clear plastic bag under her arm, she moved down the line of doors, eyes searching for the vending area. If this motel actual had one. Not that she was a hospitalities snob, but this place was no where near one-star. Flower themed rooms that looked as if they were decorated in the late seventies, the constant scent of mildew and cigarettes… It had taken all of her willpower not to gag when she stepped over the used condom lying across the sidewalk like an abandoned banana peel.
"No, not recommending the Emperor's Inn," she muttered.
The sign for ICE was positioned at the end of the building. Lovely, more walking. Penelope hobbled toward it, listing in her head all the things she could possibly be doing with her evening that didn't involve a very cheap hotel and a data file of videos and pictures starring torture victims. It was somewhat disappointing how short that list actually was, though. She and Kevin had been playing the "I'm mad at you but not willing to talk about it" game for the past two weeks and most of her social calendar involved the other agents who would still be stuck in this town, hunting down a murderer, with or without her.
"Well, sigh," Penelope commented, turning the corner. Her brow shot up. "Or not."
Because, just when she thought the evening would only get better after a hot shower and a few hours on a lumpy mattress, low and behold a delicious backside in denim.
The legs beneath said-backside shifted, as if realizing they had an audience and wanting to show off. After a second, a man pulled his upper torso free from inside the ice box, dragging an overfilled bucket up with him. He dumped the contents into a cooler sitting at his feet before looking up. The white panty-dropper smile he flashed turned Penelope's brain to mush.
"Why, hello there," he said in a husky voice. And the smile didn't fall when his roaming eyes took her in within the length of one gulp.
Penelope resisted the urge to look down and check what she was wearing. Apparently, the pink sundress and sweater combination was enough to keep a guy's interest. Or maybe it was just the low-cut top. Yup. That was probably it. Because Penelope refused to believe a guy that…well, built, could be genuinely interested past a second glance.
She blinked dumbly at his bent over form before finally flashing her own grin. "Hello yourself," she returned.
His lips twitched, amused by the delayed response. "Well, sweetheart, I hope you're not looking to cool down any time soon."
You little flirt, you. Garcia raised a brow at the statement, letting her mouth drop open slightly.
He straightened up, stretching out his broad shoulders and resting one elbow on the top of the machine. With a little wink, he added, "Cause the machine's on the fritz. Barely a bucketful left inside. But I suppose I could share."
"Oh, I wasn't that interested in ice anyhow." Garcia shrugged, letting her eyes drop on the ice-dampened front of his black t-shirt. "Mainly came to see the sights."
He coughed down the response that had been brewing, thrown off. When his green eyes found her steady smile again, though, they widened slightly. His expression was one she recognized often, though usually she was only on the receiving end when solving an especially complicated computer problem. Hot Flirty Stranger was impressed.
Bad, Penelope, bad, she chided, but sauntered forward. Well, would have sauntered forward if her ankle hadn't chosen that moment to send a shock of pain up her leg. She winced, stumbling instead.
A thick arm caught her around the waist, holding her steady, "I usually have a first name before I get this close to a woman."
Penelope snorted. Fat chance. But she let him guide her toward a rickety looking aluminum chair unfolded beside the machine. He kicked the ash tray beside it out of her way and gently lowered her down. His fingers snatched her bag away before she had a chance to ask.
"I'm Dean," he said, scraping together a couple handfuls of ice.
Deciding to play along, "Penelope."
Dean twisted the top of the bag and bent down to one knee. "You need to elevate this, Penelope," he replied. Before she could stop him, his fingers were lifting the heel of her shoe. He carefully pushed the ice against her foot. "How's that feel? Better?"
Penelope hissed through her teeth, but the throb in her ankle was quickly numbing. She nodded along, a blissful curl to her lips. She cocked her head, looking down at the man knelt in front of her like a regular prince in torn denim. A slight sigh of regret left her mouth.
"Where were you a year ago?" she mused, painfully aware that she now had a boyfriend. A real one, not a digital one, who was back home, waiting for her.
Dean chuckled, but it was stiffer than before. "Running from Hell," he replied, smirking, "and look at that, I found Heaven. How about you and me get a drink, Penny?"
Oh, pumpkin, I wish. Penelope frowned, an apology at her wrinkled brow. There was absolutely no way she was going on a date with a too-attractive-for-words stranger. She'd been down that path. At the end of it there was a handgun and an unattractive scar. The memory made the ice's deep touch seem all the more chilling.
"Or maybe another time," Dean said, letting her off the hook.
Penelope nodded, thankful, and knowing that his "another time" meant the same as hers: never.
"Garcia? You weren't in your room..."
Spencer rounded the corner, coming to a quick stop when he took in the scene.
Penelope's eyes shot from one man to the other, blood rising to her cheeks just as quickly. She chided herself: just a stranger touching her leg, nothing to feel guilty about here, no sir-ree.
"Nope, pudding-cakes, I was out here."
But Penelope's happy expression dropped when she noticed Reid take an automatic step back, his eye's wide. He quickly shook his head, clearing his throat. "Um, sorry to interrupt," he coughed, "Hotch called. With, um, an update. We should," he took an unsteady breath, "we should head back to the room and call him back."
Penelope shook her head, confused, and it grew tenfold when she turned to give her goodbyes to her new acquaintance. Dean's focus was no longer on her, though the ice was still pressed firmly on her ankle. His eyes had narrowed slightly, brow dropped, body angled toward the agent.
"Dean?" She laughed, nervous, but he didn't seem to hear her. "Dr. Reid? Hello? Did I miss something?"
The moment he'd spotted her checking him out, Dean knew she wasn't the type who'd come back to the room with him. She had "sweetheart" written all over her colorfully accented face. And, if he was honest with himself, that made it a touch easier to play the flirt. But before he'd even noted that she was cute as a button, she'd pulled out her own cards.
Frisky. Damn. Which kinda made Dean wish she was that kind of girl. And Penelope… he didn't have any Penelopes listed on his phone yet. He'd held down his sigh with a fresh smile. Another place, another time. He was resigned to their fate.
And then the kid had stepped in.
"Garcia? You weren't in your room..."
Didn't take an expert to spot the gun openly displayed on the young man's belt. And, even without the accompanying badge, that sent one clear message: law enforcement. Dean stopped himself from reacting automatically. He'd run into plenty of police officers in the past without being recognized, especially of late. This guy didn't quite rub him as a cop, though, more of the mathletes type. He'd almost forgotten that the real Feds were supposed to be arriving in town.
Still, even most Feds didn't keep up with twice-dead criminals. Except for maybe this one.
The agent tried to stop himself from reacting. But the expression on his face was one Dean recognized - like he'd seen a ghost. Which, hey, Dean was supposed to be dead. So, understandable.
Dean's gaze narrowed, waiting for him to make a move.
"We should head back to the room and call Hotch back," the agent finished.
Props, kid. Get the girl out of the way first. Dean had to give him that. Still, Penelope didn't budge, and Dean knew that the kid had realized his own reaction had not went unnoticed.
Slender, twitching fingers made their way closer to the belt holster.
Dean couldn't help the slight frown on his face when the kid's eyes widened in horror. No doubt a presence in the shape of a gun barrel was making itself known to the agent's spine. Sam was getting good at scaring the shit out of people. And, apparently, sneaking up behind Feds.
Dean watched his little brother close the distance between himself and the agent's back. The kid's hand was still hovering over his own piece.
"Not a good idea," Sam warned him, and shot his brother an angry glance that clearly said, "I'm blaming you for this one."
Six murders in five weeks. When the sheriff had first called the team, there had only been four dead. The last two bodies had been found mere hours before the BAU's plane had landed.
Agent Hotchner ran his fingers under his chin, studying the board with more energy than he should have had left after the past week. He was going to put it to good work, if at all possible.
Without realizing it, he glanced up, hearing J.J.'s voice, but she was a room away, on the phone with the local news station, trying to keep out details that had managed to make their way out after the last murders. It would be hard to keep a handle on the torture aspect, though. It always was. Hotch didn't envy her job.
With Morgan at the dump site with a crime scene team, taking advantage of the last few rays of daylight, Hotch had sent Rossi with Prentiss to speak with the parents of the second pair of victims. He, himself, had already spoken with the parents of Galvin and Lily Marks - they'd just left the station, still shaking with rage and tears. It had been too soon for them.
It would always be too soon.
Hotch turned back to the photographs. The ages differentiated, as did the gender, but there was one clear, undeniable tie between all of them. They were siblings. The Unsub was tormenting and killing off siblings in pairs, starting each cycle by abducting the youngest out of the two.
Between the torture and the video-taping, he'd been inclined to suspect sexual sadism, but it seemed the images weren't intended as a means to relive the act, but, instead, made purely for the sake of instilling fear in the second victim of each pair. The older sibling, forced to see the younger in pain. There was a statement to be made here.
"You ever seen anything like this before?"
Hotch glanced over his shoulder. Sheriff Jesse McKinney was standing a few feet away, distancing himself from the FBI's workspace. The man was surprisingly young and looked the part of a short, kind-faced deputy, but judging by how Hotch had seen him interact with his men, he was well regarded in the community and respected as a figure of authority. Sheriff McKinney ran a hand over his short black hair, his olive-tone skin washed of color by the white lighting above.
"I mean, like the tapes, the pictures. Killers sharing their…work like this," the Sheriff finished. "Does that happen often?"
Hotch nodded, the Hankel case coming to mind immediately. But, in truth, they were no where near the same. The unsub was sending a message, sure, but not to the world as a whole. He didn't care about the world.
"A case in Florida," he finally replied. "The Unsubs were sending video tapes to parents of the victims being tortured and raped."
Jesse swallowed. "That's what you meant at the preliminary profile your team gave." The profile had been quick but efficient: male, white, still youthful in his experimental methods, mid-twenties to early thirties. And then there was the sibling connection to consider. There was a history there, a violent one. "About him focusing on the eldest?"
The Unsub wasn't sending parents any word of their children's whereabouts. In the first case, an envelope of pictures had been sent to the victim's brother right before the man himself was abducted. The police had only found out after the bodies were discovered and the residence searched. In the second pair, it had been a recorded DVD. And the third, Lily Marks, had received a video clip on her phone mere moments before police found her car with its door open, phone and purse abandoned on the pavement.
The Unsub was learning, his skills advancing quickly. Hotch was glad he'd decided to bring Garcia on this one. If there were any breadcrumbs to be followed on the phone message, she'd find them, but, more importantly, if they found the unsub's home and not his latest victims, she would be invaluable in going through his workstation.
But not tonight. Hotch had sent her to the motel with Reid before sundown - neither of them had gotten much rest after the last case. They had one night, that much all of them were sure of. The Unsub might have been progressing, a smaller window between each pair, but he would still need time to find the next perfect pair. Two siblings who fit his needs.
The team had one night. Hotch was certain, though, that they wouldn't have two.
It had started to rain somewhere between entering the Hamilton home and exiting it. Emily Prentiss's eyes drifted up to the ominous clouds, and she knew the storm was just beginning. It had been too mild for winter when they'd arrived, but it appeared their luck with the weather would soon be changing. She took a quick step down the stairs to the sidewalk, falling into place beside Agent Rossi, squinting through the raindrops.
Their feet splashed through the puddles as they slipped into the black sedan parked against the curb.
Agent Prentiss took a breath, wiping the water off her face before turning to Rossi. Her lips formed a tight line when she saw him shaking his head. "Want me to make the call?" she offered.
Rossi's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "You mean about our Agent Fogerty?"
"Too bad he doesn't exist." Prentiss had already pulled her phone free. She released a breath when her boss picked up. "Hotch, we've got a problem. The Hamilton family claims a man was here this morning, asking them questions about the case. He told them he was an F.B.I. agent."
She shot Rossi a quick glance when he snorted, half amused, half annoyed. "Agent Tom Fogerty… Wasn't that the rhythm guitarist for Creedence Clearwater Revival?"
LINK TO CHAPTERS 2 & 3