Myths and Other Impossible Things

By PaBurke

Summary: A very unexpected sequel to Hunters and Prey. Years into the future, Spencer is looking for answers about a paper and a professor. He finds so much more.

Spoilers: Ignoring most of Season 4 of Supernatural, it's still long into the future. Writing different chapters of the same story concurrently can help and sometimes it can hurt the process. I'd like to think that it assisted me this time. Post- Season three of Criminals Minds, no spoilers for anything more.

Rating: PG-13

A/N: It wasn't until word 2,068 and a whole other chapter elsewhere that I figured out how I was going to end this. Until then, I had feared that this would be yet another abandoned work on my USB drive never to see the light of day.

With a grin, the local resident had told FBI Agent Spencer Reid that he couldn't miss the drive and now pausing at the entrance to Singer's Salvage…

There were giant, steel Igargoyles/I on either side of the drive. They looked incredibly lifelike for being something out of an artist's imagination. The teens in the area probably used this property to scare themselves. After one last look admiring the art, and Spencer pulled into the long driveway. Further in was a steel wolf that was too big and too nasty to be a regular wolf. Then there was the tall thin humanoid creature, something about it screamed 'predator.' Spencer had seen and survived some of the worst humans could dish out to each other and still the sculpture chilled him to the bone. Nearer to the house was a pair of almost see-through, muscular, black dogs. The artist must have beaten the steel so thin to achieve that effect.

This place must be popular at Halloween.

Finally, he arrived at the farmhouse that had been made wheelchair accessible long ago and the huge garage. He knew from the IRS records that Garcia had pulled that there were four ways the owners were pulling in money. The first way was from the line of shiny classic cars under the barn roof in various states of repair. Rumor was that the mechanic could fix any of them and could get a hold of parts from companies long defunct. He also –for a very hefty fee- could change the engine of an old gas-guzzler to something more fuel-efficient. Again a rumor that Garcia had dug up indicated that though the mechanic could change it, he didn't like to. Said that it felt like he was 'betraying the old gals.'

The mechanic used the junkyard in the back both to sell salvageable parts and as raw materials for his sculptures. The final income came from the second occupant listed at the rural address. Samuel Karr was a professor of mythology and the occult at the local university, responsibly dabbling in psychology and sociology. He was remarkably well informed and had published. Spencer had referenced his work several times.

The agent parked the car in front of the garage and wished for Morgan or Hotch or (truly wishful thinking) Gideon. Though he wasn't here for a suspect, there was just something of the sculptures that had him wishing for backup. The parade of monsters meant something, but Spencer didn't have enough information to guess as to what. He didn't think it was to scare away potential customers. He yearned for another profiler to bounce ideas off of. All of his old friends (family, really) had moved on from the FBI BAU long ago. Penelope Garcia was still in her office and Spencer didn't know if he would have survived to this point without her and her stubborn and interfering comments that prompted him to get onto the experimental medicine that mitigated the affects of schizophrenia. He was still sane and had a job thanks to her. The higher ups wanted Spencer to teach at Quantico, but he was putting them off. He liked co-leading a BAU team.

The mechanic stepped out of the garage, wiping his grease-stained hands on a rag. He was younger than Spencer by about ten or fifteen years. He eyed the agent with sharp brown eyes.

Spencer stepped out of the car and called out to the man. "Ben Braedon?"

"Who wants to know?"

"I'm Dr. Spencer Reid. I would like to talk to Dr. Karr about his last paper."

"Could 'ave called," Braedon grumbled.

"You don't answer the phone or return messages," Spencer reminded, using Gideon's calm tones.

Braedon grinned a bit and stepped forward to stand in front of Spencer. "You're not a customer and Sam doesn't need to talk to his Ipeers/I." Braedon shifted. "You look like a Fed to me."

Spencer blinked. It was rare for him to be tagged as a federal agent, even though he had been one for five-ninths of his life. "I am that too."

Braedon grunted and, with his body language, ushered the agent back a step or two. "Sam's not here."

In the garage, Spencer could hear the hiss of acetylene torch. With a move he had learned from Morgan, Spencer sidestepped Braedon and hurried into the garage before Braedon could stop him. He slid to a stop before a welder working on yet another… creepy creature. He really needed to take pictures of all of the sculptures to show Garcia. She'd love them.

Braedon grabbed Spencer's arm and pulled, not gently. "You are not welcome on our property."

"I just want to talk to Mr. Karr."

The welder turned off the torch, stood, pushed back his face shield and revealed a scarred face and piercing green eyes. "Ben?" He was reaching for a cane. The man looked somewhat familiar and concerned.

"It's nothing, D… Dad. The Fed wanted to bother Sam, but he's leaving now."

Spencer's mind was spinning. Trying to tell him something that he should know. The obvious: only two people were listed as residents at the address and three lived here.

"Do we have visitor?" A new voice asked.

Spencer was being yanked in that direction anyways, so he tore his eyes away from Ben's father. (He believed that it was true, but Garcia had found 'Father Unknown' on Braedon's birth certificate.) Sam Karr stood in the garage door, age had paid its toll on his body as well, but he was still well above six feet tall. This white-haired man pinged a memory too. He had seen this man's picture before, a long time ago. The picture had been matched with the other older man.

The clues were all there.

Sam and D. D and Sam. Though the sculptures were all sold under Ben's name, a stylized version of DW was always signed on the art. The two letters were in the shape of a long gun. Karr was a name of gun manufacturer, so was Smith & Wesson, Colt, and… and IWinchester/I.

"Dean and Sam Winchester?" Spencer blurted out. This was… crazy. The BAU had chased the brothers for three months and through fourteen states before being yanked off the case. Morgan, a hand-to-hand FBI instructor, had especially wanted to catch them since they had managed to subdue him without pointing a weapon at him and then restrained him with his own cuffs. Now Spencer had stumbled across them years later. In all of their profiles of Dean Winchester, the term artist had never, ever been mentioned. Nor had they expected the brothers to settle and put down roots and have steady employment, though the self-employment wasn't a surprise. Dean's injury must have been severe enough to end their nomadic life. How had they ever collected the money to buy this land? Why hadn't they changed the name of the garage? Singer had been the previous owner.

His mind sped through what he could remember about the Winchester case which had first been linked to yet another case full of unanswered questions.

He wanted to laugh but he was being stared at three very serious pairs of eyes. "I have so many questions. What was really in that house? Where had the victim been held? What drugs did the UNSUB use? What happened to the UNSUB?"

Now Dean was really looking confused. "Dude. What are you talking about?"

"Michael Durgon. Troy, Michigan. October 2003."

Dean glanced at Sam with an eyebrow raised.

Sam thought about it and then answered. "Fall, we cleared the house in the middle of a forest and the vic's son was watching through the window."

Dean remembered and grumbled about kids. Steve Durgon had shaken Dean's confidence a bit. More so than before, Spencer believed that Dean wasn't a serial killer. They had proved it before, which was why the BAU had been taken off the case. They had actual serial killers to track down, not people who impersonated federal agents and had assaulted one. The statute of limitations had expired on many of their crimes, but he would have to read their file again. Had anyone else added to it?

"And you are?" Sam prompted.

"Oh," Spencer stepped forward and held out his hand to Sam. He still had to dodge Ben who was standing menacingly nearby. "I'm Dr. Spencer Reid."

"FBI agent," Ben added pointedly. He didn't like that he had been out-maneuvered by someone who was old, geeky and could threaten his family.

"Would you like some coffee?" Sam offered as they shook hands.

Spencer grinned. "Love some."

"It's time for Dean's break anyway." Sam led the way into the house. Spencer noticed the occult symbols on the floors and the walls and even the ceilings. There were reference books everywhere. Spencer itched to sit down and read, but Sam was in the kitchen and Ben was waiting there. The son was very protective of his father and uncle. Spencer knew that he would have to deal with the young man. Dean hobbled into the house and made his way to the kitchen.

Four glasses of water were already on the table. Spencer took a sip to be polite. A dark wing outside the kitchen window caught his attention. Spencer put down the glass and edged closer for the full view of the sculpture. He saw a winged man, firm, formidable, steady, facing the flat land with a sword ready. Spencer got the impression of protection, no matter the cost. Then the sun came out from behind a cloud, touched the artwork and Spencer was blinded by the reflection. He ducked his head and rubbed his eyes. Lens and mirrors had to be behind the impressive effect.

The Winchester men were waiting for him to recover at the kitchen table. Spencer joined them. He didn't know which question he wanted answered first. He tried the Gideon Gambit first. "Why is your best artwork in the backyard, Dean?"

Dean had a… wistful smile on his face. "That's for a friend." A gift waiting to be delivered? Why was it placed as an artist would position it if it wasn't staying long?

"Why did you choose this place to settle down out of your nomadic life? Why South Dakota?"

Sam answered. "Bobby –Robert Singer," he clarified, "was diagnosed with cancer about the time that Dean messed up his leg. Dean needed some place to recover and Bobby needed someone around so that he didn't have to live at the hospital."

"You had a previous history," Spencer filled in.

Sam nodded. "It was the least we could do for him. And Dean fought off several severe infections in his leg. Almost lost it at one point."

"Stubborn, old cuss took three years to die," Dean grumbled, changing the topic. Despite his words, Spencer knew that Dean still treasured that time.

"Then he left the place to me," said Sam.

Spencer looked at Dean, who harbored no hard feelings for the choice. "Why not both of you?"

Dean shrugged. "Sam would take care of his library."

But Dean would take care of the garage. It was simpler, leaving it to one person and Sam would always have room for Dean wherever he was. Up until the point where the boys stopped here, they had been on the road for all but fours years of their life. Sam had been stationary at Stanford as a young adult. Dean had lived behind a picket fence with his parents until his mother had been killed and his father had taken them off the grid. Sam had, at one point, as an adult, tried to put down roots. When his girlfriend had died in the same manner as his mother, it was only then that Sam had followed the footsteps of his father. Given another chance, Sam would probably have an easier time accepting the stability of a house more so than Dean.

"So you started creating art during your recovery?' Spencer asked the elder brother.

Dean nodded.

"What was your first piece?"

"Lilith."

Spencer searched his memory for conversations with Garcia. "I don't recall that one."

"And you have a photographic memory?" Sam prompted.

"Eidetic," Spencer corrected.

Dean snorted, "Bet that helps with FBI work."

"It does."

"So you could read Bobby's library and remember it all?" Ben asked. Interesting, that it was still referred to as 'Bobby's' and by the younger generation. The man had been dead for more than a decade. Why hadn't the Winchesters laid claim to the place they had lived in for so long? Did they expect that it would be taken from them? Did they respect the previous owner that much? Did they not believe that it belonged to them?

"Yes," Spencer said.

"What did you need from in there?" Sam asked. "Ben mentioned that you were here to see me about my research."

Spencer straightened. "Yes, you mentioned the psychological effects certain deity beliefs had on groups of Scandinavian people, where did you come up with the hard data? A journal? It sounded like first hand observations."

A squeak of a wheelchair was Spencer's only warning. "I was wondering if I had gone senile, hearing the voices of old friends."

Spencer turned, looked, and didn't believe his eyes. Then he nearly fell out of his chair rushing to his old friend's side. "Gideon? Gideon, is it really you?" The man was old, oh had he aged, but his bright, intelligent eyes had not dimmed. It really was Jason Gideon. Though time had caught the man firm in its grasp, the stresses of life seemed less. He was at peace, nothing like the frantic, desperate letter that Spencer could still remember without trying.

"Hi, Spencer. I hope you'll have time for a game of chess before you leave."

"Yes, yes, of course."

"And I hope you still trust me enough that when I tell you that you cannot tell Ianyone/I of what you learned here today, you will take me at my word."

Spencer nodded so fast, his head might fall off. The respect he had for this man had never dimmed much and with the responsibilities now in his lap, he could understand the pain that Gideon had carried so much better. "My lips are sealed," he promised. Then he backtracked. "Can I tell Garcia? Please? And Morgan?"

"Definitely not Morgan." Gideon was firm and Spencer didn't think he could defy this man or deny the order. "Garcia… she wouldn't be too surprised. I've called her for assistance several times through the years. If she didn't know my approximant location by now, she's lost considerable skills. As soon as you sent her pictures of Dean's sculptures, she would put it together immediately."

"Oh." And then Spencer could do nothing but stupidly grin at this man, this father figure that he had given up for lost decades ago. "It's good to see you."

"It's very good to see you too, Dr. Reid. So tell me, what PhD's have you added to your already impressive résumé?"

And so started a conversation that Spencer treasured. He didn't learn anything more about the Winchesters, any generation, since they politely excused themselves from the reunion. Sam worked on the computer in the library, searching though piles of books. Dean and Ben returned to the garage.

He was thrilled with the time and with Gideon. They had brought out a well-used chess set and competed. He left before dark and made plans to return. He reiterated his vow of silence.

Spencer never did get some satisfactory answers, but it was probably the most satisfying trip of his life.

*