Day nineteen of his exile. Sam sighed heavily as he dumped his bag behind his desk and slumped into his chair. Okay, so he wasn't really exiled – it just felt like it. Between the endless paperwork involved in wrapping up the case, the two weeks' mandatory desk duty Morgan had slapped him with, the cold case reviews, and the relative quiet of late that meant no new cases, Sam spent the majority of his 8 to 5 day at his desk. Given that the rest of his team was also wading hip-deep through bureaucracy, they weren't interacting very much.

Sam snorted to himself. Most thought being an FBI agent was glamorous and action-packed, like they showed on TV. Always running around with a badge and a gun, kicking ass and taking names. But the reality was far less entertaining. Sure, his job had its moments, but as with any government job, most of the time Sam earned his paycheck doing paperwork.

Jeffers caught the snort and looked up from his computer with a knowing smirk. "Ah, the continuing high action adventures of Sam Winchester, star FBI paper pusher."

Sam rolled his eyes and flicked a finger at the stack of forms threatening to bury his inbox. "Number one cause of global warming and deforestation right here."

Hodkins gasped dramatically. "So Al Gore didn't invent global warming – he helped cause it!" Snickers briefly wafted through the bullpen, then quiet settled again as they got to work.

Two hours later Sam printed out yet another form in triplicate and pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to stave off the threatening headache. He reached for his coffee, only to find an empty mug. Mournfully looking down at the last stray drops clinging to the cup, he decided now was a great time for a break. Not break room coffee though – whoever made that sludge must have burned away their taste buds, because it bore an eerie approximation to motor oil.

However, the cart down in the lobby served real coffee, which probably accounted for their brisk business; Sam swore by their double shot lattes. Tossing his cup in the trash, he bypassed the elevator and headed for the stairwell. Taking the stairs down also gave him the opportunity to stretch his legs and back, which always cramped when he sat too long.

Upon reaching the lobby, Sam instinctively scanned his surroundings, taking in the various armed agents, couriers rushing around importantly, tourists off to the side herded by perky tour guides, and the security guards discreetly watching everything. The coffee cart didn't have a line for once, so Sam half-hurried in that direction and smiled automatically at the barista as he placed his order.

It's funny how life turns out, Sam mused as he watched the girl steam the milk, feeling the comforting weight of his badge on his belt. For most of his life, his family had avoided Washington D.C., leery of the law enforcement and federal agencies congregated there. Ten years ago, he would never have believed he'd be living here, let alone working for the FBI.

Then again, his team now would never believe that ten years ago, he used to hunt ghosts.

Occasionally he wondered what his father would think of him now. He hadn't seen John in nearly ten years, and the last time, while memorable, hadn't exactly been stellar. Sometimes he could still hear those final yelled words echoing in his ears, especially on the long nights when a case haunted him and he had trouble sleeping.

If you walk out that door, don't bother coming back!

He hadn't. And most the time, he didn't regret it.

He'd like to think that maybe John would be proud, but he still wondered. John was so devoted to the hunter's lifestyle, the one he'd dragged both his boys in to, that the mere mention of Sam doing something else less hazardous used to send them into screaming fights. Part of it was his father's inability to accept that he couldn't control everything, but now with wisdom born of a decade of separation, Sam acknowledged that his own stubbornness played a part in those as well.

Maybe John would be proud of his FBI son, more so than if Sam had stayed on his original path as a lawyer. It wasn't as if Sam just buried his head in the sand and blinded himself to all the bad things in the world. He still fought bad things, made a difference in people's lives, and he did it legitimately. The badge was his own, earned through hard work and talent, not stolen or faked like the ones John carried on occasion.

Sam accepted his hot coffee from the girl with a dimpled smile, wondering if John had kept tabs on him. After he first left, he thought not, that John had decided to deny his deserter son completely. But as the years passed, he'd noticed a few things that indicated that someone might be keeping track of him – hidden faint scratches of protection wards on lintels and windowsills, the occasional loiterer around his home and classes, a hang-up phone call. Little things that most people would dismiss.

Heading back upstairs, he mentally counted back. Nine years since he'd last seen John, six (or five, depending on how he counted) since he'd seen Dean, five since he'd had any contact with the hunting world. Six months since he last checked on John's whereabouts. Purely for self-preservation, of course.

As he walked back to his desk, he glanced around the bullpen at his teammates. McDowell was absorbed in a file, Jeffers was cursing at his computer, Hodkins had disappeared for the moment, and Morgan was in his office, deep in a phone conference and clearly not very happy about it. Making the decision, Sam set his coffee by his keyboard, quickly shut off the keystroke capture on his computer, and pulled up Lexis Nexis.

Well versed in database searches, it only took Sam about thirty minutes to run down any traces of his father. Luckily for him, John had managed to stay under the radar for most of his life, with only a couple traffic violations, one drunk and disorderly, and a single invalid firearms permit on his record. Sam knew he'd been picked up for more than that, but always under fake names that hadn't been traced back to John Winchester, and therefore didn't show up on Sam's security clearance check. It would have been very difficult to pass the background checks necessary for agent status if his father had a record of impersonating federal officers.

As it was, John hadn't appeared on any law enforcement records for years, and nobody suspicious matched his description. No hits on his driver's license or social security number. The truck most likely had another license plate change, so Sam tracked it using the VIN, which showed an active registration in Ohio and basic insurance, both listing a PO box for the return address under the name John Smith.

Sam leaned back in his chair, mind more at ease. John was alive, somewhere, and whatever else he was doing, he wasn't attracting any attention to himself. That would have to do.

On a nostalgic whim he also tried tracking the Impala, just to see what had happened to it. He got the same results as he had for the last five years; the last official record was in a St. Louis police BOLO, where it became the location for a stakeout. After that, the car just disappeared. Who knew what John had decided to do with it.

Clearing out his search cache and eliminating every trace of his activity he could, Sam eyed his inbox, working out the most efficient way to get all that paperwork done. With a fortifying gulp of coffee, he got back to work.

*~*~*~*~*~*

"Winchester!"

Sam raised his head, blinking as his eyes readjusted from the brightness of the computer screen he'd been staring at for the last three hours. "Sir?"

"Need you in conference room 3, right now."

Sam's eyebrows threatened to crawl off and join his hairline. Supervisory Special Agent Erick Morgan, a former All-American college football star who turned his back on a chance to go pro in favor of joining the FBI, just pursed his lips and nodded. The guy was completely no-nonsense when it came to his job, and Sam didn't see a reason to question his temporary release from the desk and a respite from the mind-numbing, never-ending paperwork. Quickly he got to his feet and followed his boss.

Opening the door to the conference room, Morgan gestured for him to go in first. Sam complied and found himself face to face with another agent. Sam gave him a quick once over – polished shoes, sharp slacks, badge on the belt by the holstered gun, muscular build, dark skin, close-cropped hair and goatee, intense dark eyes scanning him the exact same way.

Morgan closed the door for privacy. "Sam Winchester, meet Special Agent Victor Henriksen." Sam shook the proffered hand, noting the firm grip without the need for a macho test of strength. All three men took seats around the conference table, and Henriksen set a folder down in front of him. "Winchester is our profiler."

Henriksen pursed his lips, looking aggravated. "Just for the record, I don't like profilers. Don't think they know anything more than what some good old-fashioned investigative work uncovers. Most of the time, I don't give a rat's ass about what the perp's childhood was like, whether his mommy breast-fed him or if he prefers dogs or cats. All I care about is how to catch the dirt bags."

Sam raised his eyebrows at the hostile tone, as did Morgan. Tamping down his irritation, Sam modulated his voice carefully. "That's what I'm interested in too, Special Agent Henriksen. I'm also a field agent. But profiling a subject, getting into his head, lets me predict what he'll do next. It's strategy, like a chess game, knowing which way they'll jump. That's what helps us catch them quicker."

Henriksen snorted. "Getting into his head? Sounds like psychic mumbo-jumbo to me."

"Is it?" Sam leaned forward to look Henriksen dead in the eye. "You do a bit of it too. Every time you observe someone's body language, their tone of voice, how they dress and speak and what they prefer, you're creating a profile of them. Just now when I walked in, you looked at my clothes, my walk, how I shook your hand, and you automatically, maybe unconsciously, started categorizing me. If this was an interrogation, you'd be observing for any tells, any weaknesses to exploit." Sam spread his hands. "It's human nature to observe and classify. Profilers are just trained to do it consciously."

Henriksen eyed Sam, as if reevaluating his opinion of Sam's competency and profession, then smiled slightly. "Okay, you were right," he said to Morgan, who quirked his own smile.

Sam frowned, looking between the two of them. "You were trying to rile me up?"

"Maybe." Henriksen tapped the folder. "I've had two other profilers look at this case – analysts, not field trained agents – and both of them gave me crap. I wanted someone who didn't have their head stuck in a textbook, who actually had some real-life experience. You came highly recommended. Sharp profiler, great instincts, good agent."

Unsure how to respond, Sam just nodded. "Okay . . . is there a reason you're stroking my ego? What's so special about this case?"

Henriksen pushed the file towards Sam, who opened it and quickly flipped through the pages as Henriksen spoke. "It's weird, that's what. There are eight separate cases there, all of them robberies. Banks, high-end jewelers, a couple armored trucks, big time stuff. The accountants figure that on average, the perp got away with over four hundred grand in each heist."

Sam frowned, skimming the autopsy report connected to one report. "Robbery and murder?"

"In a couple," Henriksen nodded. "Security guards catching them in the act. Some were beaten, some were shot."

Sam noted the locations and dates, mentally mapping out the path. "You have any leads on the guy?"

"Kind of." Henriksen gave a humorless smile. "In each case, we already know who the perp was."

Sam shook his head, puzzled. "Then what do you need my help for?"

Henriksen leaned forward. "Some local cop noticed a pattern, which quickly caught our attention. Each case," he tapped the file, "has the same MO. The exact same. Each time, it was a long-time employee, trusted implicitly, no family to speak of. No attempt to conceal their identity from the security cameras. And in each case, after the robbery, they went home, hid the loot, then committed suicide."

"What?" Sam glanced at Henriksen. "That makes absolutely no sense."

"Tell me about it." Henriksen pulled a couple sheets out from the back of the file. "As if that's not weird enough, then there's these. A coroner's report on one of the suicides indicated that the guy had actually been dead for two days before the robbery. Two other MEs concurred with the findings."

"How is that possible?" Morgan interjected, leaning towards Sam to read the report himself.

"You tell me." Henriksen tapped the second paper he'd pulled. "And maybe you can explain why this guy, who survived his suicide attempt, claims it wasn't him, that someone broke into his house, assaulted him, then made himself look like him before staging the suicide."

Sam barely suppressed the shiver of dread that ran down his spine and settled thickly in his stomach. "That's crazy."

"I know." Henriksen looked away for a second, tension evident in every line of his face. "I've been on this case two months already. In that time, another bank and an armored car were robbed. I've got next to nothing to go on." He snorted. "You wouldn't believe the nonsense the two profilers were spouting off. One was going on about this giant brainwashing conspiracy led by a criminal mastermind. I'm surprised he didn't mention a secret volcano lair."

Sam snorted a laugh, amused despite himself. "And the other?"

"Something crap about string theory or quantum physics explaining how it's possible it can all be just one massive coincidence."

"Now that's crazy." Sam eyed Henriksen speculatively as he gestured at the file. "What do you think?"

"Off the record? I think it's the same guy doing all of this." Henriksen leaned back in his chair as he met Sam's gaze evenly. "Don't have any evidence to prove it, though. Security feeds, physical evidence, witnesses, all point to the dead employees. Cops think it's open and shut, don't want to look any further. All I've got to go on is the MO and my gut." He spread his hands. "But honestly, there are only three possibilities. Either it's the world's biggest coincidence, a giant conspiracy, or it's all the work of the same person."

Sam nodded, finding the report on the latest crime and reading it quickly. He frowned. "Where are the interview notes for the last guy? Jon Cooper?"

"Behind the medical report, but there's nothing there. Did you see his contact information?"

Sam scanned the report. "Whiteshore Mental Hospital?"

"Yep. Between the suicide attempt and his insistence at seeing something turn in to him, they had him committed. Dunno how crazy he actually is, but the drug overdose sure did a number on him." Henriksen paused. "So, in your professional opinion, is it one guy? Or do I need to take this down to Mulder and Scully?" he finished sarcastically.

Sam finished reading through the case reports as he considered his answer carefully. Logically, there was no reasonable explanation to these cases. Instinctually, he knew this was the type of case he'd feared would come across his desk one day. But he wanted to be sure.

"I have to admit, it looks very suspicious. The evidence precludes the assumption of simplicity, at least until a reasonable explanation can be found for the anomalies. Personally, I think you're right. It could very well be a single person, perhaps two working together."

He bit his lip for a second. "Would it be possible for me to interview the survivor and a couple witnesses? They may know more than they think."

A moment's pause, then Henriksen nodded. "Okay by me. Anything that would help us catch this guy before he strikes again."

Sam glanced over at Morgan, who shrugged. "We're not on an active case right now, so go ahead. I'll call you in if we need you."

Sam smiled perfunctorily at the two men as he gathered up the file and stood. Here he'd thought this week would be boring.