I find that there is no point in denying the truth, for it always comes out. Here we go: I'm crap at writing legitimate stories. I have so much to say about everything and I just want to spew out an entire world on the paper but I can never do that. Every time I try to write a full length multi-chap, I end up abandoning it because I've lost the drive to continue it. I'm sorry that some of you are having difficulty with my time-skips, but I don't know how to write a story any other way.

To better explain my feelings, I cannot write Sam's life in a single story, and I find myself unable to write multiple. Therefore, I spew out the details that I love onto the page and how that it's coherent. Aside from that, I already finished writing this and am merely stuttering my updates. It's got a total of six chapters.

And to the guest, Youya, thank you very much. Your comment made my day and for that I am thankful. I'm glad that you're enjoying my stories and hope that you will continue to do so.

If Chuck were to look down at Samuel Alexander Reid the day he was accepted in the FBI Academy, he would be overjoyed. He would have looked down and smiled a smile that was too large. He would have marvelled and the wondrous brothers that he had helped to shape. It had been Chuck's idea to offer Sam a place in the Reid home, a chance at a stable life and family. And Chuck was glad that Fate had accepted his suggestion and spun the pair's path in that direction.

As per Sam's request, Chuck had taken off about four inches of height. Once towering high above all others, he now was taller than most. The guy was right, though. Being smaller and skinnier would come as an advantage to the tactic-driven warrior.

Likewise, Chuck and Fate swirled up Sam's appearance a bit, too. In his previous life as Sam Winchester, the man had been 6'4 with shaggy, dark hair and dark eyes. Strong facial features and a developed form. But now as Sam Reid, he was only just above average with slightly auburn hair and eyes that changed. Gold turned to green and brown, changing with the light. He looked a lot like Spencer.

It was always nice to just be a brother, rather than the adopted one.

Chuck did watch Sam the day he became an FBI cadet. He watched if only to see the explosive smile light up the boy's face as he took the call. Indeed, Sam became the second youngest FBI cadet of all time, Spencer being the youngest. Chuck smiled at Sam's reaction.

"The FBI are looking for two types of people," Reyes had said. "The smart and the intimidating. And kid, you are ever the first one."

The Academy was quite difficult. Even for a pair of geniuses with a few too many brain cells. But Spencer and Samuel Reid graduated together and became part of the same Unit on the same day. Assigned to the BAU after a ferocious inter-Unit turf war over who got them.

(Chuck lent a hand at making them on the same Unit, too. A single idea planted - jeez, they work well together; the same unit would be good - and bamn! Probationary Agents Dr. Samuel Reid and Dr. Spencer Reid were the subordinates of SSA Aaron Hotchner. Within a few months, both were full agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.)

Whenever the Behavioural Analysis Unit was deployed, the brothers grinned slightly at the vague horror on the local officer's faces at their spouting of facts and extreme knowledge of the areas. For a particularly notable case involving a serial killer leaving messages in Enochian, Sam translated the sigils to discover that the Unsub was leaving Bible verses that he thought were relevant behind. One of them had been a particularly amusing.

Sam burst out into laughter with a vaguely scandalised expression.

A sharp look had him translating the sigils.

"You breed with the mouth of a goat," he translated, grinning like he expected everyone to burst out into laughter. "It's funnier in Enchian."

"Hey kid," Morgan had said from the back of the group, talking to Spencer. "How the hell does your brother speak Enochian?"

Spencer looked back. "He just does. I can't explain it. But he's totally accurate with it, I can assure you."

A hunter came through town a day later, exorcising the demon. The killings stopped and the BAU was forced to move on. There was a case with missing children, and they brought back twin sisters who were pulled into their mother's arms and hugged desperately. The Reid brothers took a vacation not long after and went to visit their Mama, who recited for them one of the Brother's Grimm fairy tales, a more obscure one. Later they both commented on the logic behind the stories before returning to their job. In Texas there was a series of kidnappings that ended with suicide by cop.

And every so often, something slipped by Sam's barrier of protection. An open window would slam shut suddenly, or a door doing the same after Sam made his way through it.

But the incidents were rare and largely went unnoticed.

If Chuck were to look down then, he would have smiled and been proud of the brothers.

Unfairly early on February fifth, 2007, the Quantico Behavioural Analysis Unit arrived in a suburban neighbourhood of Atlanta where a family had been murdered in their homes by a partnership. Two distinct voices over a nine-one-one call, that of the scared submissive partner and that of a ferocious dominant partner.

The team, easily set up in their jet after years of practicing. Sam settled next to his brother and Hotch, sitting on a side table that went down the left side of the plane. Morgan, Prentiss and Gideon had taken the chairs that surrounded a table, on which sat the computer that was likely about to scream to life with one Penelope Garcia, the queen of sass and hacking. JJ had settled a little away from everyone else, watching with calm blue eyes. Morgan let out a huffing sigh.

"This is a bad one, isn't it," Prentiss asked as the glanced over at the dark-skinned man next to her. Emily Prentiss had only recently joined their team and whilst Sam didn't dislike her, he also wasn't all that fond of the black-haired woman. The daughter of an ambassador, Prentiss had been raised into a high social status that she made painfully clear how much she hated. Which, of course, Sam could sympathize with. Moving around wasn't easy for anyone, let alone a child just trying to fit in.

Unlike Prentiss, Sam held a great fondness for Supervisory Special Agent Derek Morgan with whom he'd been working alongside for a few years. The dark skinned man had been born in Chicago where he'd worked as a police officer before joining the FBI. He was also a former bomb squad member and the local expert on all things dangerous, holding a black belt in Judo.

"Unsub's with a cause are never good." He tapped something on the computer and Garcia popped to life on it with a smile. She was always smiling.

"Pets?" The strange woman asked. "I just got the 9-1-1 call from the Georgia State police."

A cool, professional voice came over the computer and, just like in the movies, stated the well-known words. "9-1-1 what's your emergency?"

The second voice held a tremor and, Sam being something of an expert at analyzing any sort of psychology, noted a few key pieces of the speech. "I'm at 1527, Chestnut Drive."

"I know where you're calling from sir, what's your emergency?"

"He thinks they're too greedy. They have too much."

Sam's frown deepened as he exchanged a glance with his only slightly younger brother. Never before had either heard of a killer calling about people having too many items, though such calls weren't uncommon with 9-1-1 calls. Again though, murder wasn't common with 9-1-1 calls at all.

"Too much what?" Confusion laced the dispatcher's voice, the professional edge beginning to slip.

"Stuff. Possessions. Things they don't need!" Sudden emergency entered the Unsub's voice,

This time the professional edge was gone. "Are you calling because they have too much stuff?"

"No! I'm calling because Rafael-"

"That's enough."

There was no hesitation between the switch of voices, nothing to discern the phone having swapped hands. Perhaps it was placed on a table on speaker phone? The third vice, Unsub #2 as Sam mentally dubbed him, was as cold and as harsh as ice, instantly shutting down the first speaker.

Unsub #1 spoke this time. "I don't want to."

"He's calling because Rafael is going to kill the sinners that live here."

"I'm sorry did you say that someone is killing someone?"

The line went dead and it was Prentiss who spoke. "Well Unsub 1 definitely sounds frightened maybe he's doing this against his will."

"I doubt it," Gideon murmured. Among the founders of the BAU, Jason Gideon was the oldest member of their team and likely also the wisest. He'd learned a harsh lesson the hard way when he'd made a bad call that ended in the deaths of six FBI agents. After that he'd suffered a breakdown and ended up spending several months teaching at the Academy. Whilst Sam wished that his mentor had been with the team with them through that time, he understood the agent's decision and respected it.

Prentiss shot him a glance.

"He whispered," Gideon replied as though it changed everything.

Hotch, the Unit Chief, nodded in agreement. "He could have called out to save her rather than calling 9-1-1."

Even more serious than he appeared, Aaron Hotchner had been another early member of the BAU. With dark hair and a permanent scowl, he did an excellent job even if he was a bit of a drill sergeant at times. Overall, Sam was rather found of the guy. He held back emotions well enough to be able to do what needed to be do, Sam having been the unfortunate creature on the other end of his kicks during a case involving a long distance serial killer.

"Not if he had a gun to his head," Morgan tried to reason as Sam winced.

"If he had a gun to his head," Gideon pointed out, "Why would he have dialed 9-1-1?"

It was JJ who spoke next. "The second Unsub said 'Rafael is going to kill someone.' Is there a third?"

Jennifer Jareau was the person on the team that Sam was closest to, Spencer excluded. She was a little bit shorter than him and had blonde hair and blue eyes. Something about her gave off a comforting effect and Sam knew that he felt drawn to her on occasion for no logical reason aside from that aura. Admittedly, he wasn't fond of such an impulse but it wasn't exactly harmful either. The woman was their media liaison, ensuring that none of the agents had to deal with the press and that everything was arranged so that they could best catch the Unsub.

To Sam's right, Spencer spoke. "Referring to ones' self in the third person is not uncommon for an Unsub. Uh, Ted Bundy gave thouroughly detailed accounts of his murders but he never actually admitted to doing it he'd just say 'the killer'." Sam nodded along, not much of a talker.

On screen, the flamboyant Garcia nodded. "Okay, so I'm gonna go ahead and run the name Rafael through the Georgia criminal database and our own."

"Thanks Garcia," Hotch informed her.

"Ever so welcome, my liege." Sam felt his eyes rolling.

Morgan cut the call.

Hotch's stern voice continued on with the rest of the team, giving orders. "We have a killing team on a mission in rural Georgia, and we all know what that means."

"They're not gonna stop until the mission's complete," Morgan nodded.

"We need to hit the ground running. JJ, we need an inside picture of the victims, victimology could be critically important in a mission-based spree." JJ nodded with the instructions and offered a short reply before hopping from her perch to head towards the back of the plane. "Prentiss, go where the bodies are, examine the wounds. They managed to kill to victims in four and a half minutes, we need to know how." The woman nodded. "I'm gonna set up at the Atlanta field office and go over case files from the state. It would be highly unusual for a first kill to be this efficient. Sam, you're with me."

Gideon nodded approval, claiming Spencer and Morgan as his lackeys.

"We land in less than an hour, everybody try to get some rest."

Sam was about to nod and claim a chair for his own when a drop of blood landed on his case file. With a frown, Sam brought a hand up to his nose and glanced down at it. His pale skin was smeared with blood. Spencer shot his brother a very distinct look, one that scream, 'You shouldn't be having so many nosebleeds." Inside, Sam agreed with his slightly younger brother but just shrugged, manoeuvering through the plane toards the bathroom.

As he left, Hotch's voice came through; "Does he get nosebleeds often?"

"No. Not since we were kids." Spencer's voice was distinct from Hotch's, laced with worry and confusion.

Years of practice allowed Sam to stem the bleeding quickly, returning to sit next to his brother, resting his head on Spencer's shoulder. As the auburn-haired young man settled down to rest, he took note of Hotch's gaze resting on him, disconcertingly dark eyes gazing into his very soul.

A moment later, Sam slipped into oblivion.

As a lucid dreamer, Sam normally ensured that his dreams were calm and allowed him to get a good night's rest. A favourite of his was on a rowboat, floating gently down a calm river with trees on both sides, the pebbled shore calm as the boat floated onwards.

Learning lucid dreaming had been easy for Sam, the drive of being unable to sleep enough to push him onwards until he was able to.

From sometime in his physics degree onwards, nightmares had plagued the young man like there would be no other time to plague him. Worst of all, they circled around death. Time and time again, Sam awoke panting and sweating with his hands clutching at the sheets after a night full of terror. A woman with blonde hair, pulled up to the ceiling by an invisible force, and the flames spreading from her body as Sam stared up from a bed. There was a man torn apart by what looked to be a werewolf, and an elderly man drained of all his blood like an animal.

Each death was unique and, most of the time, Sam had never seen the people in his dreams. The photographic memory he possessed allowed him to be 'sure' of that. The problem was that he must have been mistaken, as it was impossible for the brain to truly generate a unique face. Each character a person drew or wrote about had a basis in fact. A person they passed on the street, and extra in a TV show.

Death followed him like it followed the rats of the Black Death.

Most of the time, Sam held back the nightmares with his lucid dreams, but not that night.

That night, he was standing in a ramshackle cabin. The walls hung in disrepair, and gravestones rested in one corner. A stove was set nearby as well, a pan atop it containing something that smelt terrible. A rancid aroma of burnt meat wafted from it combined with the scent of decay. Sam choked on the scent, retching in the pale light. He turned around, gazing at the rest of the room. More falling walls, a door just barely on it's hinges, and a chair on which a boy sat, his hands cuffed to the seat.

Sam's sharp intake of breath betrayed his thoughts; a single voice screamed from within him, "Spencer!" But he could not speak.

Suddenly his twin was pleading desperately, and when Sam turned 'round again, there was a man standing there. The man had shaggy, brown hair cut just above his eyes and a slight beard just a little longer than stubble. He looked furious.

Something spilled out from the man's mouth but Sam, so desperately confused by the happenings, didn't quite catch it until the last words. "My message!"

Behind, Spencer kept begging. The man didn't listen.

Painfully fast, the next minutes flew by for Sam and he found himself staring down at a beaten, dead body. A scream rang through the air like the cry of a banshee.