SPN/CM - I See a Darkness - Ch 4 & 5
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
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 4:
Following the Breadcrumbs
Dreams could hurt. They always did.
"Glenn?"
Ricky swallowed down a whimper, holding his arm with one small, sweaty hand. Gina liked to pinch him there, in the crook of his elbow, liked to leave bruises behind. It made her chuckle, made her cigarette breath swirl over his face. But the pinches… the pinches always ended when Glenn stepped in. When Glenn made her pay attention to him instead. So, when Ricky stared out at the blackened room, looking for some sign of movement in his brother's bed, he didn't whimper in fear for himself. He whimpered in fear of who might be rustling those tea-stained sheets.
"Glenn?"
Ricky was ten. Ten was old enough. Ten was plenty old enough for him to take a few pinches without being a cry-baby. Glenn had taken it. Gina, too, from Dad. Ricky wanted to tell his brother as much, tell him that he didn't need protecting anymore. The words always bubbled to the surface before they broke into little fragments.
"Just me, Ricky." His brother's voice was distant, but it was enough to comfort Ricky.
"Was that Gina?"
Glenn rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. He was older, filled out, his teenage growth spurts beginning at long last. One bare arm was thrown over his forehead. Ricky realized that one arm was wider than both of his. So wide it should have been able to throw off Gina nowadays.
"Gina's a bitch," Glenn replied. His eyes didn't move from the shadows. They were cold, those orbs, stony as the rest of his face. Emotionless.
Ricky watched his brother. "At school," Ricky said, "this girl, her name's Marcy, she says she has a big sister. But, her big sister buys her things, takes her shopping. She's nice. Not all sisters are like Gina."
Glenn sat up, his body tense. "Ricky, tell me you didn't say anything."
Ricky shook his head so quickly it made him dizzy. "No, Glenn. I'd never tell."
His big brother was sated by the answer. Glenn let out a breath, licking his lips. "Ricky?" he said, catching the little boy's attention again. "Ricky, big sisters are supposed to protect you."
"You protect me, Glenn."
The statement hung in the air. The moment of silence between the two was not silent at all. In the dark, through the walls, they could hear the television on, abandoned on a sports recap. Daddy was yelling something. At Gina.
Shouting.
Snapping.
Screaming. Right before it went quiet. Real quiet. Footsteps passing in the hall. Gina calming Daddy down, like she always did. Like that would make it better.
Glenn and Ricky ignored the sounds, hearing only their own breathing on opposite sides of the room.
Glenn rolled over onto his side. "I wish Gina would die."
"Me, too, Glenn." Ricky like to pretend it was so. That Gina and Daddy were gone. That it was just the two of them, real brothers. No more too loud moments, no more too quiet moments. "I wish they both were."
"I'm gonna kill her one day."
"Promise?"
Ricky woke, Glenn's reply still echoing through is ears: "I promise."
He wiped the sweat off his brow and onto the pillowcase, pushing himself up off of his bedding. It was chilly, but not cold enough for the thick blanket draped over him. He wished he'd slept on it instead. The floor wasn't comfortable, not in the least. But Glenn had said this was the best place for them, the safest place. And Ricky trusted Glenn.
"Please."
The word was far away. It made Ricky wince, remember tea-stained sheets. It took him a moment to realize that the child's voice belong to the little boy in the other room, in the cage.
The boy had no reason to beg, no reason to cry. But, he hadn't shut up, not since Ricky had pushed him into his new home.
"I'll give you a reason to cry," Ricky whispered. It was one of his father's favorite lines. He licked his lips, pleased with how the words sounded coming from his own mouth.
"Did you sleep well?" Glenn asked.
His brother's form appeared a few feet away, blinking in and out of existence a few times before it became solid. Cold, pale, but undeniably solid. To the eye. Ricky smiled up at him, nodding.
"Good." Glenn echoed the expression, though it never met his dead, foggy eyes. He reached down, brushing the hair off of Ricky's sweaty forehead. The caress was gentle, a reminder of what it was all for. Their purpose. Their drive. "We should get the room ready for Thomas."
Yes, Thomas. Ricky remembered the boy's name now. Little Thomas, the youngest one so far, the youngest of the youngest. They'd have to be careful not to break him too soon, before his big brother learned his lesson.
"And, Ricky?" Glenn took a step forward. His curling lips had become a straight line but something remained, some hint of glee in his gaze. "Thanks for this."
"Anything for you, big brother."
Sam stared down at his cell phone, his thumb gliding over the numbers but never quite pressing them. He swiped his chin, chewed his bottom lip, but it was a pair of eyes on his back that helped him decide against placing the call. He pocketed the phone, looking over his shoulder to where he'd moved the agent.
The dawn light spilled across the floor, overly bright from a thin layer of frost covering the world outside. Past it, in the shadows closest to the electric heater, Dr. Spencer Reid was once more tied to the wooden chair. This time, though, the chair beside him was empty, Penelope still lounged out on the bed under a pile of blankets, one arm stretched out above her.
Sam figured she'd be asleep for a few more hours, and Dean was still out, no doubt cruising around to clear his head. There was enough time, plenty, for him to step outside onto the front porch, call Ruby back. If it wasn't for the FBI agent watching him as if he'd grown two heads. And then, somehow, the guy would bring it up in front Dean. And Sam would get that look.
No. Later. He'd call her later. When they were done with this town and ready to get back to the real job.
"Sam?" Reid called, his voice soft, mindful of the woman on the bed. "Sam, could I have some water?"
Sam felt like an idiot. Of course he was thirsty - Sam had completely forgotten that the agent hadn't had a drink all night. He walked to the cooler, grabbing a fresh bottle and pulling the box closer to the chair so that he could perch on its hardtop.
"Dean'll bring us some breakfast," Sam assured him, holding the bottle to the agent's mouth. "Hope you like bad coffee and grease."
Reid took a deep drink before nodding. Sam pulled it away, sitting it down at his feet.
"Thanks for not gagging us, Sam."
Sam stared at the man a moment, unable to stop the small smile on his mouth from forming. If Sam had ever thought he and Dean were too unconvincing as fake FBI agents, those doubts were now vanquished. Awkward, lanky, and at least as young as Sam, Spencer Reid simply didn't look the part.
"No problem," Sam replied, wiping condensation off on his jeans. "Listen," he cleared his throat, "you won't have to be here much longer, alright. If you just sit tight, you'll be fine, Spencer, you and Penelope both. I know you probably don't believe that, but it's true."
"It's not that I don't believe you," Spencer replied, cocking his head slightly, "I, well, I just - I'm not sure that you'll have any say in whether we'll be released."
Sam blinked. "What do you mean by that?"
Spencer's brown gaze was wide, imploring, as if he were the one asking a question. "Your brother might not want to release us." Before Sam could open his mouth, Reid continued. "I know that Dean says he will, but - Sam, your brother does things without you sometimes, doesn't he? Maybe when you're not around. Surely, he doesn't tell you everything he's planning?"
Sam bit down a bitter smile, deciding not to tackle that directly. This guy didn't need to know the secrets he and Dean kept from one another. "Trust me, Dean's not planning on hurting either of you."
"But -" Reid took a breath, starting over. "Sometimes, Dean does hurt people, doesn't he?"
Sam almost wanted to answer: "Sometimes I do, too." But he knew how that would sound, how civilians would misinterpret what the two of them had to do on a regular basis.
"I know what you're doing, Spencer. You need to stop before you go too far," Sam replied.
Reid opened his mouth, but Sam shook his head, cutting him off.
There was something sad and likable about the agent's crooked frown and wet stare. And Sam really wanted to like the guy. He could already tell that his brother had a soft spot for their supposed "hostages". Dean was more lax than he should ever be around them. But, Sam couldn't be that way. One of them had to keep control, and Sam decided it was probably going to be his place.
He wasn't sure how Dean could ignore the obvious, but Sam was far too aware. Too completely aware that Spencer Reid was a trained manipulator. That there was no way the agent would believe a word out of his mouth. That Reid and the tech girl believed without a doubt that his brother was bat shit crazy and homicidal.
"Let me guess," Sam said, his smile mocking, eyes downcast, "your plan is to thank me until I consider the two of us buddies. Then you'll start to talk to me about my dear, disturbed brother, explain to me how I'm normal Joe-Victim who's been wrapped up in my family's delusions all my life. How I tried escape them by going to Stanford, but was pulled back into this way of living by Dean. How I can still get out and save myself - if only I release you and Penelope and turn Dean over to the police." Sam eyes were slightly darker when they lifted. "How am I doing, Dr. Reid? Am I missing anything?"
Spencer swallowed. "No," he replied, after a long pause. "I'm aware of your background, your previous arrests. You have too much experience with this type of situation for me to attempt to convince you to turn on Dean."
"Then what's your end game?" Sam snapped. "I know you have one. You're a profiler."
Spencer pushed his back against the chair, blinking up at the other man. "What was your brother dreaming about this morning?"
Reid must have noticed the change in Sam's expression because his changed as well. The anxiety left his brow, leaving his face softer, pitying.
"Something changed recently."
Sam was almost surprised by the confidence in the other man's voice. The sureness. It didn't match the timid personality he was becoming used to. Sam's gaze narrowed, his lips a narrow, straight line. Yet, he couldn't force an answer, an explanation.
Reid's voice was nearly a whisper when he leaned forward. "What's wrong with Dean, Sam?"
He's not strong anymore. He left something behind. Sam hated that voice, feeding him answers. He ignored it, letting his frustration out on the agent instead. "None of your damn business, Dr. Reid," he replied. There was a forced, dangerous calm to his voice. Sam stood, made to turn, and looked back. "Mention it again, and I will gag you."
"Latest news has gone national," J.J. announced, sitting on the edge of the desk, her arms crossed over her chest.
Hotch didn't to ask the specifics. He knew she was referring to Thomas Gravitt's abduction. It was amazing how quickly news could travel, but the media had been eying the small town closely since the second pair of bodies were found, waiting for the next lead. The third pair of abductions had only managed to stay quiet because the youngest hadn't been close to his immediate family, a rebellious young man, and he'd, unfortunately, not been reported missing in time for word to reach his sister.
"I managed to convince my contacts to leave out details on the status of the sibling." J.J.'s heavy stare bluntly announced that those contacts wouldn't keep quiet long. She went on, "Any word from Prentiss yet?"
"Michael Gravitt is in her custody," Hotch replied. They'd found Thomas's big brother one county over, staying at a friend's house. He'd reportedly had a fight with his father the previous night and hitched a ride. A dangerous move for a twelve-year-old, but perhaps one that had saved him from the abductor who took his little brother. "She's questioning him and the friend's family right now. We'll have the boy moved here when she's done."
J.J. shook her head, releasing a breath. "Could protecting Michael put Thomas in more danger?"
"Possibly," Hotch replied. He could read her expression well. It was the same one he had when he allowed himself to think about his son while on a case. "It depends on how long it takes for the unsubs to realize we have him in our custody. When they realize their needs can't be met, they may decide to dispose of Thomas early."
J.J. stood, stepping up to the board. "Thomas is younger than the others have been. Nine. Nine-years-old." She turned her back to Hotch, her shoulders tight. "Hotch. . . Sometimes this job really sucks." When she moved back into his line of sight, her eyes were a little redder. "I don't get it, Hotch. Why'd they abduct again so soon? They took Reid and Garcia yesterday afternoon and moved by evening? And they probably chose Thomas, right?"
Controlling one victim was hard enough. Three… There was a better possibility that the abductors had disposed for their last two before beginning again. Hotch hated himself for thinking it, and he certainly wasn't going to share the thought with J.J. Not until he had a reason to do so.
"We assumed the unsubs were locals, but they were staying at a motel," Hotch voiced, instead. His brow wrinkled. His own words had surprised him. "Local," he repeated, glancing the board. "Familiar with the area, with the dump sites, the abduction sites. The people. The unsubs have a large location, separate from a permanent living quarters. Somewhere they take their victims. A location that feels secure, far from neighbors."
J.J. cocked a brow. She'd heard as much before, during the preliminary profile, but it seemed more relevant at the moment. "Maybe the guys at the hotel weren't the abductors?"
"Possibly." But he sounded doubtful. He reached up, resting his fist against mouth while he mused it over. Two brothers, young, who'd paid for a room and disappeared before they could stay. At approximately the same time his team members were abducted.
There was something he was missing, he could feel it. "Either the two motel visitors were unrelated to the previous abductions or the unsubs had already planned to abduct someone from the FBI. The Emperor's Inn is the only motel remotely close to town. It would be a good assumption that we'd be staying there. A town this small, gossip would have announced our arrival before the media."
J.J. eyes widened as she followed his train of thought. "If it was planned…"
There was a greater chance that Garcia and Reid were still alive, not dumped in a ditch somewhere. Hotch didn't voice the rest of the statement though. Or that there was another possibility entirely. That, as completely unlikely as it was, Garcia and Reid's disappearance might have nothing to do with the other murders.
"We need to run this by Morgan," J.J. muttered. "Is he still with Rossi?"
Hotch nodded. "At the motel again."
They'd left less than an hour ago, checking out the Gravitt home before returning. Hotch wasn't honestly sure that Derek would leave peacefully if ordered away from the motel without a solid lead.
Hotch nodded. "I'll call."
Dean nearly flew through the front door, tossed the grease-speckled brown bag onto the table, and firmly decided he wasn't going to ask what the hell had happened while he was out. And, judging from the stare-down between Spencer and Sam, Dean was certain something had happened. But, there wasn't time for that, not at the moment.
"Turn on the TV," he barked.
Sam didn't question him, switching the box on. It was already on the local channel - actually, Dean wasn't sure that the ancient bunny ears picked up more than the local channel - and the news broadcaster was showing an enlarged yearbook picture of a child, a boy.
"Heard it on the radio on my way here," Dean explained, a deep frown set on his face.
Dean glanced the rest of the room, noticing what he'd interrupted. Sam was in the middle of tying Penelope to her chair. She was half secured, her upper arms, shoulders held against the back of the chair, hands still free, but she didn't make a move, glasses-clad eyes focused on the screen instead.
Dean moved to the bag he'd tossed. "A kid was taken some time last night. Tommy Gravitt. He was discovered missing after his dad got spooked by - get this - an 'electrical disturbance' in his house. I asked the guy at the gas station about the Gravitts. Said he knew them personally. Tommy's got a big brother, but the news isn't mentioning him. Hell, I haven't even heard his name brought up."
Sam looked over his shoulder, his brow wrinkled. "Why not?"
Dean shrugged. "Maybe 'cause the other kid hasn't been kidnapped yet? Don't know. We need to find him, though, make sure he's safe. Because he's next in the pattern."
Sam shot Reid a look. "I'm sure the FBI are ahead of you on that, Dean."
Dean shook his head, looking at the kid on the television. Round cheeked and dressed in a concert tee that was twice his size. He reminded Dean of Ben a little. Lisa's Ben. Hell if he would leave the cops to protect a kid from the supernatural. "Yeah, maybe, but they're probably expecting their big bad wolf to be a human. I somehow doubt they're putting him a circle of salt."
"If it's a ghost," Sam supplied.
"If it's just a ghost," Dean corrected, frowning at the implication. "Told you there was a job here, Sammy. Might not be a spirit- this thing's showing up on EMF, but he's traveling way more than Casper should."
Sam sighed. "Unless the spirit's attached to something that's moving," he replied. Then nodded, consenting. Dean recognized that he'd won and smirked.
After a moment, Sam crossed the room, catching Dean by the sleeve. "Actually, we could use this."
That wiped the smirk off of Dean's face. "So help me, if you say we use that kid for bait, I'll kick your ass."
"Not directly," Sam replied, wincing before he leaned forward in appeal. "Hear me out, Dean. If the cops already have the kid, then we're not going to be able to get to him, but we can keep an eye out. Catch anything that tries to get too close. In the meantime though, another abduction means that the Feds won't be paying as much attention to…"
"Snoops," Dean supplied. "Another kid - plus a few of their own - missing, and they're probably running around like ganked chickens. We might finally get to make a move on the coroner's office without getting busted."
"Actually, I was thinking of hitting up the county records." Sam gave the room a forlorn expression. "Because I'm not exactly getting wi-fi out here."
Dean snorted when he saw Penelope perk-up from her corner of the room at the mention. The amusement left him though when his eyes drifted over to Reid, who was studying him with more intensity than a fat kid watching fudge harden. Since he somehow doubted the agent felt that way about him, Dean cocked a brow. Then it hit him.
Shit.
Dean had been a second away from mentioning his own alibi to the two when he'd realized how early he'd slipped out of the cabin. He'd needed a breath of fresh air. He'd needed a place to shut his eyes where he wouldn't have an audience. The Impala had done just fine. Unfortunately, he was also out of view at the exact time Thomas went missing.
Spencer and Penelope weren't going to believe he and Sam weren't behind the other abductions any time soon.
Dean shook his head, pissed at himself - wrong damn place, wrong damn time - and picked up the heavy bag cooling on the table. "Who's up for some breakfast?"
Morgan could feel Rossi's eyes on his back, but the older man didn't voice whatever concerns were on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he stood back a few feet, nursing a paper cup brim-filled with coffee, black. Morgan was aggravated. Even though he knew the other agent had done nothing, even though Derek knew the emotion boiling up inside him wasn't meant to be aimed in Dave's direction.
"I know," Morgan snapped, standing up from where he'd been crouched in front of the ice machine. He shook his head, pursing his lips. "I know, I should be back at the station, looking into the kid."
Rossi raised a thick brow, pulling the cup from his lips. "Not necessarily," he finally answered.
The response surprised Morgan. He gave the man a questioning glance. They'd spent a good chunk of the morning being briefed on the Thomas Gravitt abduction, and Morgan knew what the stats said, that abducted children didn't have long. They were on a tight timeline, if, if Thomas was to be found alive.
Rossi shrugged, as if he could hear the other agent's thoughts. "Derek," he began, "what would you do if this wasn't Garcia and Reid. If these were just two other victims."
The tenseness dropped from Morgan's shoulders, leaving his arms feeling heavy. "The same thing," he replied, still frowning. It was true, but it didn't make him feel any better for some odd reason. Derek took a break, shaking out his fingers, as if could flick out all the emotions running through him. His eyes ran over the small space. "I'm one of the unsubs…" he began anew.
Rossi nodded, taking another step back, watching the man work.
Morgan glanced around, noticing the chair unfolded beside the ice machine. He'd found the ice bucket, the water-filled plastic bag beside it, on the sidewalk. Here, he thought, stooping to run his fingers over the cool cement beneath the spot. The ice bucket had been missing from Penelope's room.
"I see Penelope here," Morgan says, focusing on the unsub's frame of mind.
"Why Garcia?" Rossi questions. "Why not Reid?"
"She's the one who came out for ice," Morgan replied, pushing himself to his feet. "Garcia tripped yesterday, twisted her ankle. She didn't say anything, but she was limping a little before Hotch told her and Reid to head to the motel. She must have went for ice after she settled in. Reid either followed her or came afterwards." Morgan didn't like where the exercise was taking him. "Garcia's vulnerable. She's sitting, checking on her leg. Reid comes into the picture. He's got his gun on him…"
Rossi's gaze narrowed. "You leave the cell phones behind, but not the gun."
Morgan nodded. "Not because I need a weapon - I already had one. It's the only way I could have controlled two adults at once."
"And you're not alone," Rossi added. He frowned, stepping up to Morgan, pretending to be behind him. "If one of them circled around behind Reid…"
Morgan nodded, following the thought, and moved out onto the sidewalk, where he'd found Penelope's feather. The room the two brothers were in was only a few down. The hotel manager had told him that only two of the rooms on the back side of the motel were in use, but that the brothers had requested a room back here.
Morgan's mouth opened, finishing the theory, "…A room in the back. Fewer witnesses." His eyes scanned the empty parking lot. It was smaller than the one up front, hidden by hedges on two sides. "No one notices the vehicles back here either." His footfalls quickened. He ducked under the crime scene tape, staring into the room. "Take the time to clean the area…"
Motel rooms were notoriously bad crime scenes for evidence teams. Too many prints, too much DNA. But this room had been wiped down, for the most part. Morgan eased himself down into the pulled chair at the small breakfast table, looking out through the half-closed blinds. Hotch had mentioned the possibility that the kidnapping was planned. If so, this area was chosen because it was hidden, not because it gave them the chance to spy their prey.
Morgan stood, and paused. He reached out, running his finger along the windowseal. The grit collected on his skin and he rubbed it between two fingers.
Rossi cleared his throat. "Salt," he provided. "The team collected some earlier. Just normal salt. It was spilled out along the window and door. Not much, though."
Morgan's brow was knitted in confusion. Not much, Rossi had said…But to Morgan, the streaks of movement in the salt seemed to indicate that it had already been cleaned up. "At the door, too?"
As if in response, their was a quick, knuckled knock on the open door. The hotel manager stooped under the tape, holding his curling back as if he expected it to break. The old man's jaw waggled, preparing to speak.
"Mr. Pierce, can we help you?" David asked.
"Uh, Agent, uh, Rossi?" he asked, stepping closer. His eyes widened a bit and he nodded to himself in confirmation. Even if Morgan hadn't been told that the manager's eyesight was failing, he would have realized it soon enough. "You, uh, you…"
"We're just checking the area again," Morgan replied. He gestured down to the table. "Mr. Pierce, do these rooms come with a set of salt and pepper shakers?"
Mr. Pierce blinked, as if his vision had failed completely, and then shook his head. "Why, no, son, don't come with them. These old units don't even come with a microwave." He gave a wet cough before reaching down into the pocket of his pleated khakis for a napkin. "But, uh, I ain't stopping in to be nosey. I just wondered if you got that there picture I sent your way."
"What picture?"
Rossi's pocket vibrated in answer. The agent picked it up, muttering about the reception, before he flipped it open. He shot the manager a glance. "What's this, Mr. Pierce."
"That there family," Mr. Pierce nodded, "the one staying a few doors down. I done told you they left on their vacation before your people got taken, but they called back earlier today. Their little boy lost one of his games and wanted to know if it was in his room. Got talkin' to his daddy, and the man said his boy had taken a picture on his phone. That picture," he said, poking one knobby finger at Rossi's phone. "Kid thought the car was real fine. I asked him 'bout it, and he said it was parked on this side o' the building."
Morgan found himself over Rossi's shoulder in an instant, staring down at the screen. It was a side shot of clean black lines, a classic. Nothing reflective in the background that would give them a tag number, but the model…The model looked like it would be easy to find.
"Send it to Gar-" Morgan's voice broke; he shook it off. "Sent it to Hotch," he corrected. "I think he's getting Kevin Lynch for tech consultation. He might be able to get something off of this." His eyes shot up, focusing on the manager. "And we're going to need to call this family back. See if they spotted anything else during their stay."
The old man hobbled back out, nodding to himself. "I'll get the number for ya."
Morgan shook his head, staring down at Rossi's cell again. "Kind of looks like an old Chevy…"
"Impala," Rossi agreed.
Morgan tilted his head, eyes narrowed at he studied the vehicle. It sparked something, a memory of a conversation he'd once had with another agent. "A '67..." he muttered.
"Maybe," Rossi replied. He shot Morgan a glance. "That mean something to you?"
Morgan licked his lip, trying to scratch at the memory. "No," he replied, "I don't think so." He shook his head. "Nah, I was just thinking of this agent I used to know. He had a bit of an obsession with a black Impala."
But Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that the vehicle should mean something to him. Something specific. He groaned. Some days he'd sell his soul for Reid's memory.
The Winchesters had secured them expertly, a little too well versed in the ways of detaining another human being for Penelope's liking, and they'd left for town after breakfast, warning the two of them to stay out of trouble. Opening the front door had sent a cool wave over the room, reminding her that it was winter in a rural community. Not exactly the best circumstances for an attempted escape.
Even though it was shut now, the chill remained in the large main room of the cabin. Penelope eyed the heater sitting between her and Reid's chair, wishing she had one arm free so she could turn it up. The weather had been so mild when they'd arrived that she hadn't thought twice about changing out of her dress. Now she was regretting the choice.
Granted, if she'd known kidnapping was on the agenda, she would probably have packed a completely different wardrobe. Foresight being 20/20 and all.
Penelope stared at the door, waiting for it to open as quickly as it had closed, but it didn't. There was a muffled sound from right outside. Raised voices. No doubt belonging to her capturers. But, she couldn't make out the words. They faded into the distance, the sound of an engine far away.
"Garcia?"
She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of the whisper. Reid was eyeing her, his gaze shifting from her chair to the door, as if he was waiting for the knob to turn as soon as he reopened his mouth.
"Penelope," he corrected himself.
Penelope knew he was trying to comfort her, but it didn't quite reach home. "Please tell me your genius mind has devised a way of getting us out of this cabin," she whispered back.
"I need you to listen to me." Reid took a breath, losing whatever authority he was trying to conjure. "I - I need you to promise me something, Penelope. If something happens…" He paused, glancing the door again, before he continued, "If something happens and you manage to get loose, I want you to run. I can slow them down, I think, but…"
Garcia shook her head. "Oh, you are so not suggesting I leave you behind," she hissed. "Doctor, for someone so intelligent, you're awfully stupid sometimes. I'm not going to leave you behind. Period."
Reid frowned. "Penelope, their reported history with women…" He chewed his bottom lip, considering the right words. "What do you know about the Winchesters?"
Garcia blinked. "Other than the fact that they obviously have no qualms about kidnapping federal agents, and they're probably the crazies we came to this town looking for?"
"Possibly," Reid agreed.
Garcia raised a brow, confused by the answer, but she didn't have time to question it. Staring into Spencer's solemn brown eyes, Penelope felt another chill run over her. This one wasn't caused by the breeze. "Well, that and what I've gathered while you were talking to them. What do you know about these two, Reid?"
Reid raised his head, as if trying to work up the courage to continue. "First," he began, "I should probably tell you what they believe in…what they were raised to believe in."
Penelope swallowed, her voice low, "I'm not going to like this story, am I, Reid?"
____________________________
Chapter 5:
Dead Men Drive Kick Ass Cars
The roadways were slick, the temperature outside dropping quickly. Yesterday, they'd arrived to unseasonable warmth. Rain had met them by sunset and a light, barely-existent snow by morning. Emily hoped that didn't mean ice was next on the weather's agenda.
"Alabama winter," Officer Collins excused, as if he'd been able to read her mind. "Kinda likes to go from one extreme to the next."
Emily shot him a polite smile. Slick black hair and a square chin; the statey would have been attractive it weren't for the wedding band pressing against the steering wheel. He didn't take his eyes off the road, the state police vehicle teetering with the speed limit. Emily turned away from him, looking over her shoulder at the backseat passenger.
Michael Gravitt was staring out the window, watching the trees pass by. He was tall for his age, well built. She would have easily mistaken him for fourteen, at least, if it weren't for the pout at his lips. It was almost a comical expression, but the circumstances were anything but funny: he was trying to keep himself from crying. Emily recognized as much and had the good grace not to bring it up.
"Hey, Michael?" she called. "How are you doing, buddy? What do you want me to get you to eat when we get back to the station? Anything you want."
Michael shrugged, his eyes never leaving the outside world. "Whatever."
Prentiss had only known the kid for a few hours and she'd already heard the one word response five times. "You like burgers?"
"Sure."
Emily bit down her smile. She'd always thought kids were more talkative, but she had a feeling that Michael was always this quiet, even on days that didn't include his little brother being kidnapped. Maybe it had to do with the father… Prentiss was no longer fighting a smile, her lips set in a thin line at the mere thought of the man who'd reported his son missing, angry instead of afraid, blood alcohol level through the roof. Between his hostile attitude and Michael's responses about his homelife, Emily had a feeling that neglect, at the very least, played a bit part in Michael's flippant behavior.
"How much longer?" Emily asked.
Officer Collins didn't so much as blink. "Seven, eight more minutes," he chirped. "Don't worry, Agent Prentiss. I got a full tank and no reason for stopping between here and there." He shot Michael a kind glance through the rearview mirror. "You'll like Sheriff McKinney, Michael. If you ask real nice, he'll probably let you use a stun gun on Deputy Barnel."
Michael sucked in a quick breath, but it wasn't from excitement.
"A man." Michael's voice was high, afraid. Emily turned in her seat, staring back at him. Michael had pushed himself as far back as his seat belt would allow, nearly to the center of the car, one raise finger pointing out the window. "There was a man out there - did you see him?" His blue eyes were wide. "There-there was something wrong with him…"
Emily opened her mouth to reply when the radio beat her to it, letting out a loud squeal. Static followed, the lights on the dash blinking in unison with the rise and hiss of the sound.
"What the hell?" Collins muttered.
Emily reached out, trying to stop the sound when she heard the officer shout out in surprise, his arms twisting as he turned the wheel from the lane and hit the brakes. Prentiss braced herself against the door on instinct, seconds before the car bounced upward, hitting the gravel. The tires slid against the ice, jackknifing the vehicle tail first into the ditch beside the pull-off.
Prentiss slammed back against her seat, the breath knocked out of her for a moment. Her eyes blinked furiously at the windshield. A few seconds of silence passed, just long enough for her to tame her swimming thoughts.
"What just happened?" Emily asked, grappling for her seat belt release. Though they hadn't flipped, the feeling of tilting backwards was disorienting. She felt heavy, especially with her frantic heart playing the congas in her chest. "What just happened?" she repeated, louder. "Officer Collins?"
The officer groaned, but not from injury. He was shaking his head, confused. "There… there was a man."
Emily ran a hand across her face, trying to clear away the deja vu. Wasn't that what Michael said, just a moment ago? Michael. Emily jerked in her seat.
"Michael, buddy, are you alright?"
There wasn't an answer. Her seatbelt popped free, and she turned, staring back. She was met with an empty seat and cool breeze from the open door.
"Michael?" she called, staring dumbly at the door a moment longer before she struggled with her own, slipping and sliding as soon as her feet hit the ground. She toppled out, not waiting for Officer Collins to follow her lead. Her eyes roamed the snow dusted grass of the ditch below the open door.
No footprints. Not a one. And then a thought occurred to her, one that stopped her in her place: the back doors couldn't be opened from the inside.
Michael Gravitt had been taken. In a split second.
"… And those were their last known whereabouts…"
Penelope Garcia knew monsters existed. She'd seen her team capture their fair share of them. But when she was a child, she'd believed in the real deal. Claws and fangs. Glowing eyes and cold spots.
"…Though, that's not taking into account…"
Deep down, a little part of her still believed in those things.
So, she could understand how someone else could believe in monsters, too. How someone could take that belief too far.
"…If we were to look through the records for…"
"Reid, honey." She had to pause, wait for him to stop speaking. His dark eyes danced over her, waiting for a reaction. They softened, and she could tell Reid was afraid he'd said too much. "That's enough… I really, really," she forced a tight smile, "don't want to hear any more of their backstory."
Because it hurt to hear it. Two little boys, a grieving father, a dead mother. A mission to save people from things that go bump. A criminal record. Fake IDs and credit card scams. Hospital records and grave desecration. And she knew what Spencer was skimming over, too. The murder. Murders. Alleged. Mostly, though, she kept circling back to the two little boys part.
When it came to judging people at face value, Penelope Garcia had been wrong in the past. Oh boy had she been. She had the scars to prove it. But she still hadn't quite convinced herself that that little spark behind Dean Winchester's smile, or Sam Winchester's wide, puppy-dog eyes, was entirely sinister.
"Are you sure, Reid?" Penelope asked. Not because she doubted him as a profiler. Not a chance. But Penelope had noticed the way he was speaking. Like he doubted the very words coming out of his mouth. "I mean… I know you've already said that Henricksen got some things wrong about the Winchesters. But are you really sure they're the bad guys here? I mean obviously, not good guys, but... Are we sure they're who we're looking for?"
Reid licked his bottom lip, not meeting her eyes entirely. "Fits," he managed.
She raised a brow. He looked up at her with a small frown.
"Maybe not all of it," he amended. Reid hunched forward, his voice low. "But, can we take that chance?"
Penelope was saved from having to answer. There was a sound outside, rumbling and mechanical. Quickly becoming familiar. It was Winchester's car. The Impala. Their abductors were already returning.
Something about that car, about the image of those two young man stepping out of it, reminded her of something she'd heard once.
"This is going to sound weird, Reid," Penelope warned, her voice at a whisper, "but this kinda reminds me of a story."
Spencer raised a brow, but his eyes were already tracing the distance between the door and their chairs.
"One Kevin told me about," she continued. "He reads this book series, and he's been harping at me for not picking them up… I just haven't had the chance, you know? Anyway, I could have sworn…"
But Reid wasn't listening. The voices outside were getting louder. The door knob turned. Whatever Penelope was going to say faded away, lost. Because she suddenly remembered her own belief in smiling monsters. And the fact that she was still a hostage. Suddenly some old book's plotline didn't feel relevant.
"Damn it, how're we supposed to get anything done with FBI agents spilling out of the woodwork?"
Dean trudged into the cabin, carefully stepping over the salt line. Sam was at his heels, the younger brother's arms filled with a stack of files. The trip hadn't been a complete bust, but the coroner's had been a let down. Between the locals, the state officers, and the feds, there wasn't much room for their extensive selection of fake ID s.
Sam was wearing a sour expression, and Dean was about to point out "bitch face," when his little brother sighed and sat down the load next to his computer. "After what happened this morning, I think you were right about this case," he announced.
Dean cocked his head. "We already went over this, didn't we?"
Sam gave him a sheepish shrug in response. "Yeah, well, Dean," he released another breath, "I wasn't really sure if you were…" His voice broke, his eyes shifting to the room's other occupants as if he'd forgotten them. "You know what, never mind. So, a ghost…"
Dean shook his head. The tight smile at his lips was teasing, but Dean knew his brother could read the intensity in his eyes. "Suddenly bashful, Samantha? Come on, what were you going to say?"
Sam rolled his jaw. "Fine. I wasn't really sure if you were a hundred percent on this case. Especially after Tommy Gravitt was taken. Man, I know how you are about kids." He shook his head, breaking eye contact. "You were always the one telling me that we only stick to our kind of work, but I thought, maybe, you were just going to use this boy's abduction as an excuse to stay on."
Dean wasn't an idiot. One look at his Sam's face told him he was lying. That the comment his little bro had meant to make involved the big trip downstairs. Dean chewed his jaw, considered not letting it go, and decided against being the stubborn SOB this round. It would come up again, he knew, but not now. Not while a kid was in danger.
"But now?" Dean asked, instead.
Sam flipped back through the files, pulling out a map between them. "Like I said, I think you're right. But we're going about finding this thing the wrong way." He took a seat, eyes tracing the lines on the paper. "While we were at the archives department, remember the two officers we heard talking about the case? They mentioned what the profilers had said about suspecting two abductors now."
Dean raised a brow. "You think we have two spirits?"
Sam shook his head. "No, I think we have one ghost, but…Remember what we said about ghosts not traveling unless they're attached to something? What if the ghost is attached to something another person is carrying around? With the victims all being siblings…"
"Wait, you," Dean broke off, blinking, "you're saying some person out there is helping their dead brother or sister kidnap and torture people for kicks?" His eyes widened at Sam's nod. "What the hell, dude?" He huffed, slouching down onto the bed. "What kind of freak does…?" He paused midway through the question, his eyes staring off at the floor as if it had opened up in front of him. He swallowed, his throat shaking with the motion, and licked his lips. "So, how's this change things?" he asked, his voice lower.
Sam remained quiet, eyes following his brother's movements. Finally, he cleared his throat and turned back to the pile of paperwork. "Well, for starters it narrows things down. We're looking for a death years ago that left behind a sibling. And my guess is, that sibling is going to be disturbed enough to stand out in a crowd."
Dean groaned and fell back against the mattress, holding himself up on his elbows. "Okay, then, Sammy, answer me this: why were the murders so spaced out before five weeks ago?" He nodded at the files. "We get a couple deaths over a span of years and then suddenly a whole chain of deaths. Something doesn't add up."
A small cough drew their attention.
"A stressor."
"A stressor."
Reid regretted the attention as soon as it shifted to him. When the Winchester's turned to stare in his direction, though, he licked his lips and went on. "What we call a stressor. Something traumatic took place in the unsub's life. It could have been a death, an illness, a change in living conditions…"
His gaze rose to meet Sam's without meaning to. Sam's lips were pursed, his brow lowered, warning the agent. But Reid noticed that Dean's expression was open, curious. The older man had sat up straight, hands cupping his knees as if he were preparing to stand.
"Is that how you'd track him?" Dean asked. "That how we can find the guy?"
Reid shook his head, fidgeting against the ropes around his chest. "Doubtful," he replied. He ignored Penelope's indignant snort - yes, she could probably use the tid-bit of information to do miracles, if she had her set-up. "We take that information into consideration, but it alone isn't enough. What might be a stressor to an unsub might appear to be something ordinary to anyone else. Or it might be an event that was never made public."
Spencer could feel the glare burning a hole through him. Sam Winchester would be able to give Hotch a run for his money when it came to withering stares, but Spencer wasn't going step down, not when he had been presented such an opening. Something, something happened to Dean recently, something that was haunting him, and Reid was determined to find out what it was. Because knowing everything he could, having a full profile, was what was going to get him and Penelope out alive.
"In some cases, only the unsub himself can tell us what actually happened…"
Dean cocked a brow. "There you go using that word again: unsub. What's that mean?"
Reid opened his mouth, but Sam cut him off. "Unknown Subject." At Dean's expression of disbelief, Sam shrugged. "You need to watch more TV, Dean."
Dean pushed himself up to his feet. "Alright, so something set the guy off, got it." His fingers swiped his lips, wiping away the dampness there. "This dick and his dead Obi Wan decide they need to spill a little more blood in the water in order to make themselves feel better. So, they quit spacing out their kills, don't leave any time between kidnappings anymore. . ." His voice trailed off, and he took two quick steps toward the agent.
Reid's eyes widened at the move, his body stiffening in preparation for a blow. But Dean only pushed the cooler up to his chair, taking a seat in front of him.
"Alright, Spencer, I need to ask you something."
"Dean, don't," Sam groaned from the table. He slapped the map down on the wood, annoyance dripping from him. "Seriously, dude. Don't talk to him."
Dean waved his brother off. "Spencer's going to help us out, aren't you?"
Penelope's chair moaned as she twisted to see what was happening beside her. "Dean," she muttered, but Reid was already shaking his head to stop her.
"What did you want to ask me?" Reid asked, his voice soft.
Dean rolled his shoulders, as if to shrug off an ache. Reid had noticed him make the move several times. An ache in his shoulders, an ache in his legs, an ache in his neck, as if Dean were remembering some old pains. Reid knew it wasn't caused by any injuries, but he wasn't about to call attention to the movements. Not yet. He waited for Dean to continue.
"That kid who was taken early this morning. Tommy Gravitt. He has a brother named Michael." Dean shook his head, angry gaze downcast, but Reid knew the emotion wasn't intended for anyone else. This was what Spencer had seen before Dean had disappeared in the night: guilt. "They got to the other kid before we could track him down," Dean continued. "That's all everyone was talking about when we went into town. Michael Gravitt was snatched up while he was being moved to the Sheriff's office."
"Only hours after Thomas was abducted," Reid muttered, his brow knitted.
Dean gave a crooked smile. "And once again, I was out of the room. Gotta work on having better alibis…" He cleared his throat, seriousness taking over. "Spencer, I need you to do your job, alright? I need you to tell me how long these kids have left." He chewed his lip. "Or… or if you think they might already be dead."
Reid had to stop the statistics from falling out of his mouth. Dean Winchester wouldn't care about the percentage of children found alive if recovered in the first twenty-four hours. He wouldn't care that every hour missing the percentage dropped. He wouldn't care because he was the one responsible.
Right?
It was hard to believe, staring into those sincere green eyes. Watching the tension cross Dean's face at the mere mention of the children dying. A part of Reid wanted to believe that these two brothers, as delusional as their histories made them out to be, were simply in town by coincidence. Hunting down another pair of serial killers they'd convinced themselves were supernatural beings. But the chances of that… Reid didn't need to remind himself. The possibility, the likelihood that they were stowing away victims, that Dean and Sam were responsible…
Unless he looked at the facts. The ones he could see from where he sat. They almost told a different story. And then there was Penelope's reaction to them. Not that she was a profiler, but, still…
Reid shrugged off the thought. There wasn't time for contemplation, not while he had Dean's attention. He couldn't risk it.
"Dean," Reid wanted to try reasoning with him. Just once. He'd thought, for a split second, that he might be able to reach Sam, but the attempt had fizzled before it could begin. But he hadn't really pushed Dean, not yet.
Spencer looked over Dean's shoulder, at Sam. The young man was shaking his head, still warning him.
Maybe now wasn't the time. Reid fell back on playing along. If he could convince Dean that the kids were alive… Maybe he'd keep them that way.
"When Michael was taken," Reid caught his breath, not realizing he'd lost it, "when he was taken, did the unsubs leave behind any pictures of Thomas? A video?"
Dean straightened. "No… I don't think so. If they did, the officers we overheard didn't mention it." He frowned. "Which I guess is a little off… These asshats sent their victims videos and pictures of their younger siblings being tortured in all the previous cases, but they…"
"Probably didn't have time," Reid fed him. "My guess is that they went off script because Michael was being moved to a safe place where they wouldn't be able to reach him. If that's the case, they didn't have time to torture Thomas."
"That's good and all, but how does it help us?"
Spencer leaned forward, his voice low, imploring. "Serial killers do what they do because they have needs that aren't being met. For some reason, these unsubs need to show the older siblings how the younger ones are suffering. They didn't have time for that with the Gravitt brothers." Reid could feel the restraints pinching at his skin, but he only pushed against them more. His whisper was so quiet that he doubted Sam could hear it. "This is good Dean. It means that they'll need to keep both boys alive longer. To show Michael whatever it is they want him to see. You've got time. You can save them."
Reid took a breath. He was tempted to turn to Garcia, give her a reassuring glance, but he knew she was following him. This was exactly what they'd talked about, the way the Winchesters saw danger, saw monsters, at every turn. She knew to play along.
"Penelope and I will do whatever we can to help you save them, Dean."
Dean nodded, slowly standing. "We've got time then. That's all I needed to know." He held his palms out in a quick, thankful gesture. "Remind me to buy you a drink after this, scarecrow."
Reid wasn't sure when Sam had stood, but the towering man was behind his brother in an instant. He reached out, grabbing Dean by his shoulder. Dean jumped slightly at the contact but hid the movement with a dismissive shrug.
"We need to talk," Sam said.
Dean raised one eye brow, taken aback. "Well, talk then. But if this gets chick-flicky, I'm exercising my right to press the mute button."
Sam shot Reid and Penelope a look before turning back to his brother. "I need to talk to you alone," he insisted.
Morgan slouched down into the chair, studying the blown up photograph dangling from his fingertips. Even sharpened, it was still poor quality thanks to the source. Still, Morgan felt as if it were entirely too familiar.
"We've got their vehicle then?"
Morgan glanced up to see Prentiss approaching him. He straightened, shaking his head at her appearance. She wasn't supposed to be back quite yet. Something told him the headstrong woman had all but forced the EMT checking her out to release her with a clean bill of health. Hotch wouldn't be happy about that, though… Morgan looked past her, seeing Hotch on the phone as he strode next to Sheriff McKinney. The man had barely registered Prentiss's reappearance.
Prentiss turned, following Morgan's gaze. She rubbed at a crick in her neck. Morgan didn't comment on it. Or on the accident. Or on their second missing kid. Prentiss wouldn't appreciate the reminder.
"Hotch on the phone with Strauss?" she asked.
Morgan didn't reply, slouching forward instead, as if he were trying to lean into the picture in front of him. "We don't have a tag, but we have a possible make and model." He handed her the printout.
Emily frowned, shaking her head. "Any local hits?"
"Rossi's making a few phone calls. The closest city has a guy who gets in parts for classics, but this town's a bit dry on specialist mechanics." Morgan watched Prentiss's lip twitch, knowing that she was dying to interrupt. "So far, though? Kevin's searching the vehicle registry, but there's no listing for a local with a '67 Impala."
Prentiss shook her head, confused. "But we profiled a local. Someone who lived in this or the adjacent county, and what we've ended up with… Two guys staying at a motel? With a car that doesn't seem to be owned by anyone in the area? Morgan, this case is making less and less sense. We've profiled these guys all wrong." She sat on the edge of the table, arms crossed over her chest.
Morgan knew what she wasn't saying. She could have continued to argue her point, but it would involve pointing out one of the major flaws: Reid and Garcia hadn't been dumped, but two more had been taken.
"How's Officer Collins?" Morgan asked.
Prentiss released a breath through her nose, the slightest bit of annoyance in the shift of her eyes. "Shaken up, but he'll be fine," she replied. "He's still saying he drove off the road to avoid someone standing in his lane. Which I suppose has to be right…" She shook her head, unconvinced. "Especially with as fast as Michael disappeared. I swear, Morgan, I didn't even hear the back door open."
"You lost time," Morgan answered. "It happens in accidents."
Prentiss nodded, staring down through her near-black bangs. "It just seemed so fast." Her gaze found the printout stealing Morgan's focus and she held it up. "Huh."
Morgan raised a brow. "What?"
"Nothing," she muttered, "it just reminds me of… The alias at the motel - famous rock bands. Two brothers. A black Impala." She gave an unamused chuckle, rolling her tongue against her jaw in thought. "If I didn't know better…"
Morgan sat up straight, his body rigid. "This reminds you of that case, too?"
Prentiss frowned. "Who could forget? I think Agent Henricksen contacted J.J. on a weekly basis."
"He was even worse before you were put on the team. Obsessed over those brothers. And, from what I heard, his psych eval suffered, too," Morgan noted, rolling one wide palm over his head. "I think Reid was the only one he managed to get help out of. Kid had a hard time saying no." Morgan shook his head. "Man…I haven't thought of Victor in a while."
"Not since he died in that gas explosion," Prentiss agreed. With a cock of her head, she begrudgingly added, "and his suspects with him. Which rules out the Winchester brothers as our unsubs, I suppose. Though, if I didn't know better, I'd say our current unsubs could have studied criminal behavior under them."
But her colleague had quit listening.
"…Went up in a fiery blaze that killed a half-dozen." Morgan cradled his chin between two fingers, rubbing the bristled surface. "But, Emily, what if…"
Hotch opened the glass door to their work area, frowning at his two agents. "Rossi didn't find anything with the mechanics. We have officers asking about the vehicle, and J.J. speaking with the local news station right now."
"Hotch." Morgan stood, leaning over the table. He knew officers were already asking local businesses and water-holes about the vehicle, but they wouldn't be asking the right question. "I'd like to go ask the attendants at the gas stations myself. Start with the ones in the most rural areas first."
Hotch's gaze narrowed slightly but he nodded his consent. Morgan didn't have to turn to know that Prentiss's brow was raised, asking him what he had in mind. She and Morgan both already knew the answer to the question neither of them would dare pose to Hotch quite yet.
Morgan was looking for two dead men driving an Impala.
LINK TO CHAPTERS 6 & 7