Author's Note: Reading Point of Know Return before reading No One Together is required.

Supernatural Season 5, Criminal Minds Season 12

Spencer Reid didn't need an eidetic memory to identify the man behind the counter as Sam Winchester. He didn't need to be a genius to know Sam was going by Keith for a reason. He didn't need to be a profiler to see that Sam was in a very bad, very dark place.

Given that Spencer Reid was a genius profiler with an eidetic memory, Sam's miserable state was painfully apparent.

"Keith, how about a Coke for an old friend?"

Sam looked up in surprise as Spencer sat down at the bar and slid a five over.

Spencer offered a weak smile. "Just a Coke. That, and some company when you get off." He shrugged his shoulders. "I mean, if you want to. You don't have to. Just… I've had a rough couple of weeks, and I could use a friend."

While his statements were true, Spencer had no intention of seeking comfort from Sam. However, he knew Sam wouldn't willingly open up about his problems, and that meant a little manipulation was in order.

It hadn't taken Spencer long at all to peg Sam as the martyr type—someone with a 'burden complex' for lack of a better term—but Sam would help someone in need, especially if he identified with them. Spencer could turn the conversation around once Sam was hooked.

"Uh, yeah." Sam looked at the clock on the wall. "I get off in half an hour. You mind waiting?"

Spencer gave him a weak, almost bitter smile. "Not if you don't mind refilling this Coke every five minutes."

Sam returned the smile, and while his was brighter, it didn't go all the way to his eyes. "You got it, man."

So, Spencer sat and waited. He watched Sam move through the bar and restaurant, bussing tables, serving drinks, doing essentially anything that was asked of him without complaint. Dean was nowhere in sight, and Sam wasn't checking his phone. He didn't even appear to have a phone on him.

Spencer looked down at his own phone. No one to text. He sipped his Coke. They must have split up. Question is, for how long? Did one run from the other, or was it mutual?

Spencer almost thought the answer would be 'neither.'

Because Sam smiled and acted appropriately when someone interacted with him—customer or coworker, it didn't matter—but when he thought no one was watching, his face would change. It was an expression Spencer was very familiar with, as he had both seen and worn it many times. He could read the shame and the guilt and the slow but steady collapse under a weight that couldn't be defined or lessened, and it made Spencer think Sam might have been kicked out.

I didn't think Dean was capable of that. But Spencer didn't really know the man. Then again, he didn't really know Sam. Then again, Spencer and Sam were the same, while Spencer and Dean were not. Then again, maybe it would be best to just wait and ask Sam when his shift was over.

I mean, what else am I going to do?

He wasn't going to text Morgan, afraid he would disturb the precious few hours of sleep a new dad was actually able to get. He couldn't text Hotch, or whoever Hotch was legally pretending to be, for obvious reasons. JJ, with her two little boys and full-time job, well… he didn't want to bother her. He thought about texting Emily, but Hotch's disappearance had forced a lot of past grievances to the surface, and there was a flicker of anger in his chest he thought he had long ago extinguished. He couldn't call his mother… couldn't hear her voice, or see her smile, or feel her hands, or smell her faint perfume, or… ever again.

Spencer sniffed hard and shook the thoughts away.

SMS: Garcia… you awake?

Spencer sipped his Coke and glanced around, but Sam was nowhere to be seen. Must be in the back. He glanced at the clock. Only twenty minutes left. His phone buzzed.

SMS: for you, always. what's up?

Spencer allowed a weak smile to pull at the corner of his mouth, fingers wandering idly from button to button.

SMS: Just wanted to see how you are.

SMS: I shouldn't have left. It was selfish.

SMS: Sorry.

Spencer set his phone down and dropped his chin into his hand, staring into his fizzing drink. He would have tried Rossi, but he was afraid the older man was asleep. His eyes slowly closed, and he heaved a sigh. I'd probably just make it worse, anyway.

"Man, you weren't kidding."

Spencer jumped, nearly spilling his Coke. "Huh?"

Sam held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Oh, nothing, just watching you spiral into a pit of despair." He smiled briefly, but then his expression softened, and he lowered his voice. "Have you…?"

Spencer shook his head. "I want to." He scoffed and shook his head. "I even bought some a couple weeks ago. But I threw it out. I never used."

Sam smiled, and for once, it got to his eyes. There was a pride there, the kind of pride only someone who walked the exact same road could offer; the acknowledgement of suffering and how much effort had to be expended to make it out alive, let alone victorious over the darkness.

"Good." Sam wiped the counter a few times even though it was already clean. "Do you, uh, do you have a ride?"

"Dude, a ride is all I have." Spencer smirked slightly. "I've been driving for days. I just keep driving and driving…" He stared into his glass. "I don't really know where I'm going. I'm hoping I'll know when I get there."

Sam snorted softly. "If that works, let me know. Maybe I can try it."

Spencer laughed weakly. "Yeah." He leaned forward slightly and peered up at Sam, looking for his eyes. "Sam," he whispered, "what are you doing here?"

Hazel hues were immediately glassy, a telltale sign Sam had been on the edge of a meltdown for hours. "I don't know." His words were barely audible. "I…" He blinked rapidly to clear away the moisture and then sniffed, clearing his throat. "I don't know."

"Then let's leave." Spencer nodded his head over his shoulder. "Let's go right now. You know you're not going to stay in this town, with this name and this job."

Sam shook his head and cleared his throat again. "I need to stop running."

"Says who?" Spencer argued, sliding his glass aside so he could lean forward a little more. "Sam, whatever happened, what you're doing here isn't going to fix it any more than running away."

"How would you know that?" Sam replied, his voice a harsh whisper.

"Because you're standing still. Standing still is what lets the past catch up with you; running away is how you move on." Spencer's throat tightened briefly, years and years of success and failure flashing before his eyes. "You can't waste your life trying to make things go back to the way they were. They will never go back to the way they were. They can be similar, they can be good, they can be better, but they can't be the same. That's just time, Sam, that's how it works. We can't change that."

Sam bit his lip and looked down at the countertop, slowly shaking his head. He looked over his shoulder at the door leading into the back, and then he looked back down.

"You don't understand, Spencer."

"Explain it, then." Spencer leaned back and sipped his Coke. "Explain it while we drive away, destination unknown."

Sam snorted out a bitter laugh. "What happens when you kick me out of the vehicle?"

Spencer noted the use of 'when' instead of 'if' but made no comment, polishing off his drink. "Sam, at this point, you could tell me you're the Zodiac Killer, and I would still let you ride along." That was how warped his priorities were. That was how tired of life he was. How desperate for a friend.

"It's worse than that." Sam wiped the counter again. "It's… so much worse."

At first, Spencer thought Sam was joking, but one look in those haunted eyes told him differently. His stomach churned at the thought of what Sam might have done, but the sensation was short-lived.

"Sam… do you regret it?"

Sam's face crumbled, and it took several deep breaths not to break right then and there, but he managed a nod and a whispered, "Yes."

Spencer leaned in slightly, lowering his voice but refusing to whisper as Sam had. "Then. Let's. Run."

Sam looked at Spencer for another moment, looked over his shoulder, and then shook his head. "You don't want me to come with you, Spencer. Just—"

"Don't tell me what I want, Sam Winchester." Spencer gave him a hard look, and for a moment, he thought about hounding him a little more. In the end, he decided on sipping his Coke and waiting in silence.

Sam resisted for a little while longer, and then his hand slipped away from the rag that had polished the bar into oblivion. He took off his apron and pulled out his tips, shoving them into his pocket and pointing at the door.

"I need my things from my apartment."

"Sure." Spencer stood up and pulled out his keys, a soft smile curling the corner of his mouth. "You can start telling your story on the way."

Moving as fast as they could without looking suspicious, both men exited the bar and crossed the parking lot. Spencer felt a small surge of pride when Sam regarded his vehicle with approval.

It was a beauty, Spencer knew, but it was so much more to him. It was home.

Rossi helped him restore the 1956 Mustang Fastback—which he chose because it shared his mother's birth year—and sometimes he could still hear a soft, rasping voice explaining the mechanisms of the old car in a way no manual ever could.

Morgan had taken time out of his busy schedule to help Spencer pick the color. They decided on a dark, dark shade of red—which Spencer still insisted was actually reddish purple—with two white strips splitting the middle in classic Mustang fashion.

Garcia had given him purple fuzzy dice, a hula girl, Doctor Who seat covers, and various other… embellishments… that suited both his personality and hers. JJ had purchased a sturdy container and filled it with emergency preparedness items, such as a first aid kit, a blanket, a spare jacket, an umbrella, bottled water, snacks—even deodorant and a set of clean clothes.

His glovebox had his registration, The Narrative of John Smith, and Love Conquers All, along with a few heavily worn pictures.

Spencer hadn't been exaggerating when he said his ride was all he had. It was as close to his family—as close to normalcy—as he could get, and it was precious to him.

"Sweet ride," Sam said as he got in on the passenger side.

"Thanks," Spencer replied as he got in on the driver's side.

Maybe someday Spencer would tell Sam all about it. Maybe.

"Give me directions to your apartment, and then start from the beginning."

Sam heaved a sigh and pointed toward the road. "Um, turn right onto the main road, and it's just a couple blocks away on the left. Big building, gray on the outside with, uh, with a red fire escape."

Spencer nodded and put the car in gear, maintaining silence to remind Sam of his expectations.

"Okay, so…" Sam took a deep breath and held it, shaking his head as if he couldn't quite believe what he was about to do.

Spencer waited patiently, keeping an eye out for Sam's apartment complex.

"It all started when a demon named Azazel attacked a convent and used the dead nuns to talk to Lucifer, who was locked in the Cage in the pit of Hell."

To Spencer's credit, he didn't wreck.

"…so, I called Dean, and I told him about Lucifer, and he… he's just really convinced we need to stay split up, and—and I don't know, maybe he's right, but I… have no idea what I'm supposed to do… and I'm kinda freaking out."

Spencer pursed his lips and tapped the wheel as he drove, endless miles of empty interstate stretched out in front of him, and he thought. Because Sam had given him a lot to think about.

Spencer had long ago accepted the idea of the supernatural, and after the last Winchester Incident, he had done a hefty amount of research. He dove headfirst into aspects of the paranormal he had never believed, revising his worldview as he went. Sure, there were many things he still wasn't convinced about, but Sam had talked for more than four hours, and during that time, Spencer gradually set aside his reservations about the truth in what Sam was saying.

Everything Spencer knew about human behavior said Sam wasn't lying, and true or not, the angels and the demons and the monsters… Heaven and Hell and everything in between… those weren't the problem. If nothing supernatural were involved, Sam would still be in the state he was in, just for a different set of reasons, and Sam's health was Spencer's priority.

Spencer could pick Sam's brain later. Spencer could struggle with a reality shift later.

"Well," Spencer started, pausing for a few moments before finishing his thought. "For as long as we've been driving, there haven't been any apocalyptic catastrophes—unless you count the paint job on that minivan in Taloga—and Lucifer hasn't made contact. So, first order of business, we need to create a system wherein you never stop driving."

Sam looked at him for a long time, his expression fluid, eyes glassy. He opened his mouth to speak but cut himself off, pressing a fist to his lips and turning to look out the window. His shoulders jerked with quiet gasps, and Spencer quickly realized Sam was crying.

He was silencing it, and hiding it, and biting it back, and stuffing it down, and fighting it with every fiber in his being, but he was crying.

"Sam?" Spencer reached over with one hand and shook Sam's shoulder. "Sam? Geeze, I'm sorry. I was trying to make you laugh."

This is why you can't have friends, Spencer.

Sam shook his head and pressed his hands to his face, taking a deep breath and getting enough control over his voice to reply. "No, I know, Spencer. I know. I…" He shook his head and ran his hands through his hair, swallowing another sob, and then he managed some more words. "I've seen… disappointment and anger and pity… sympathy and confusion… hatred… fear…" He shook his head again. "No one has ever responded by trying to make me laugh."

Spencer chewed on his lip for a moment and contemplated the words. "So, that's… a good thing, right?"

Sam laughed softly, wiping his eyes to clear away the evidence of what he considered weakness. "Right."

"Right. Good. Cool." Spencer nodded a few times, thankful for the road giving him an excuse to not make eye contact. "I, uh, I wish I had more than a joke to give you, but this isn't really my forte."

"Paranormal activity?"

"People."

Sam laughed again, a little louder, and Spencer considered that a success. Unfortunately, continued success would hinge on Sam doing the healthy thing while he still could, while he was still safe, and that would be a far cry from laughing.

"Sam…" Spencer chewed on his lip and looked in his sideview mirror, switching lanes to go around an eighteen-wheeler. "Just because what you did was wrong, it doesn't make what everyone else did right."

Sam didn't say anything, but he shifted in his chair and sniffed again.

"I don't know how to put it into words in a normal… emotionally comforting way… but it's like…" He wet his lips and struggled for a moment more. "I worked a case once—well, more than once, but this was a specific incident—where a kid was going around killing his bullies and abusers. I… I really identified with him for… reasons, various reasons, and it was one of the only times I ever disobeyed orders in the field."

Sam remained silent, listening with rapt attention, which Spencer appreciated more than Sam would ever know.

Spencer wet his lips again, one hand resting on the gearshift while the other remained on the wheel. "I knew if I let them make the arrest, the kid would wind up dead, and that… that infuriated me. Yes, he was a killer, and yes, he had to be stopped, but… there were all these different players, some bigger than others, that helped to make him who he was… and all anyone cared about was finding the 'freak' and getting justice for genuinely cruel people." He felt an old rush of anger—there were those past grievances again—but he shook it off. "I detained him without anyone getting hurt, and… I never made a more difficult arrest."

Sam didn't say anything, but he was breathing a little harder.

"I guess… what I'm trying to say… is that I know your mistakes were the biggest… and I know the guilt is beating you down… but, Sam, you have to stand up for yourself. You have to say, 'Yeah, I screwed up, but you did, too, and I'm ready to fall on my own sword, but there's no way I'm falling on anybody else's.'" Spencer swallowed, reaching over for a fraction of a second to lightly sock Sam on the shoulder. "And when the time comes, I'll stand up for you, too."

That was, apparently, the breaking point.

Sam started to shake, shoulders spasming as he doubled over and buried his face in his hands. He was no longer flirting with the edge of a meltdown, he was diving headfirst into the middle, barely muffling the sobs rising in his throat.

Spencer kept his eyes on the road and focused on driving, making no contact and offering no words of comfort. Badge or no badge, Spencer was and always would be a profiler, and nothing about Sam's behavior said an outsider giving comfort would do anything but force his walls back up. That was the last thing Sam needed.

So, Spencer turned up the music a bit, humming quietly along with Beethoven, and kept on driving.

I knew this was going to happen.

Somehow, that didn't make him feel better, and the ceiling was temporarily blurred by tears. He blinked once, slowly, and inhaled through his nose, dismissing any evidence of watering eyes in a matter of seconds.

I knew Dean would call. I planned to take Sam back to him myself.

Spencer turned his head to look at the nightstand again, staring at the letter Sam had left behind before turning his gaze skyward again.

He was glad he had helped Sam—really, he was—and he was glad Dean had a change of heart. He was glad the two of them were together again, and he thought that was best not only for them, but for the world.

Unfortunately, that left Spencer on his own.

Again.

Spencer had neglected to mention to Sam that he was flying solo. He didn't tell Sam about Morgan leaving the BAU, about Hotch and Jack going into witness protection, about his mom dying… he really didn't tell Sam much of anything.

Which had been intentional. From the moment he saw Sam at the bar, he knew Sam needed help more than he did, and that was why he put the attention on Sam as soon as he could. But at the end of the day, Spencer hadn't known Sam would be at that bar. He walked in for another reason entirely, and that reason was still hanging over his head like a dark cloud.

Spencer needed help.

He was spiraling, and he was spiraling fast. He was tired and angry and withdrawn. He wanted his family back, wanted things to go back to the way they once were—of course, as he had told Sam not twenty-four hours earlier, things can never go back to the way they once were. Time, by nature, forced all things to continue to progress and change… all of which prevented the perfect recreation of a moment from the past.

Spencer reached out and grabbed his phone, swiping the screen to unlock it and reading Garcia's message for the twenty-second time.

SMS: Omg reid you have to stop saying sorry! You have to take care of yourself. We WANT you to take care of yourself. It's not your job to take care of everyone okay? We're big kids we'll be fine just… just FEEL better… just take care of yourself and feel better… okay? We love you!

Spencer heaved a sigh and tossed the phone aside again, once again resuming his staring contest with the ceiling. He didn't know how to make himself feel better. He kept driving, hoping he would stumble on something, but the only conclusion he had come to about his mental state was the need for a job. He needed something to keep him busy, needed a drive and a purpose, needed a reason to get out of bed in the morning. He needed something with tangible evidence of success, something he could really see affecting the world around him. He needed to pursue another degree, join a different area of law enforcement, do something to make the world a better—

Spencer stopped.

Hey… now, there's an idea.

Spencer knew how to handle a gun, knew how to impersonate FBI, and knew the ins and outs of law enforcement. He knew about the supernatural, and his love of Halloween gave him a brainful of lore and mythology. He was intelligent, good at thinking on his feet, capable of learning just about anything he put his mind to, and a much better liar than people gave him credit for. He knew two of the greatest hunters in the world, and most of all…

…he didn't have anyone to drag into the life with him.

Spencer sat up and grabbed his phone, eidetic memory pulling up the last line of Sam's letter.

P.S. If you can't reach me, call the number below. His name is Bobby Singer. He's the closest thing Dean and I have to a father, and he'll help you find us.

Spencer laughed a little as he dialed. Leave it to a Winchester to save someone without even trying. I wonder if they know how many people they've helped along the way… help that had nothing to do with monster hunting.

"Y'ello?"

"Bobby Singer? This is Dr. Spencer Reid, FBI. I got your number from Sam. I need someone to train me to be a hunter." He saw no reason to beat around the bush.

"Tch. Sam said you might call," a gruff voice replied. "He didn't say you were stupid."

Spencer expected nothing less from someone who reared two Winchester boys. "Is that a no? Because I'm hunting either way, but I would rather stupidly like to get some training if I can. I think it'll increase my chances of not dying."

There was a pause and a sigh. "Mother Mary on a motorcycle, now there's three of them."

Spencer laughed.

Spencer Reid Winchester.

He liked the sound of that.

"Yes, JJ, I'm eating. I'm sleeping, I'm showering, and I even change my underwear every week or two." Spencer laughed, leaning back against the rear end of his car. "I'm taking care of myself, I promise. I know things are kinda crazy right now… all the natural disasters and violence and… well, never mind." He shook his head and adjusted the phone. "My point is, I'm aware of the danger, and I'm being careful."

"I know, I know." JJ let out a soft sigh, and it sounded like she was moving things around. "I have to make dinner for my boys. You're going to get dinner, right?"

Spencer laughed again, a painful warmth spreading through his chest. "Yes, JJ, I will eat dinner tonight." He paused, a weak smile still lingering on his lips. "Tell Henry and Michael I'll come visit soon."

There was a small smile in JJ's voice when she replied. "I will, and you better come through. I want to see what you 'taking care of yourself' looks like with my own eyes." She chuckled, and then there was a beat of silence. "I love you, Spence. I miss you."

"I miss you, too." Spencer struggled with his tongue for a moment. "Um, and I love you." He swallowed hard and pushed off the back of the car, turning around to get back to work. "Uh, anyway, I have to go. I don't want to be out too long after the sun's gone down."

"I still can't believe you took up hunting." JJ laughed softly. "Mr. Yale in orange and camouflage with a rifle. It's just… unnatural."

"JJ…" Spencer grinned and grabbed his salt-round, sawed-off shotgun. "You have no idea."

Spencer grabbed the trunk lid and slammed it shut.

"Masquerading as a man with a reason,

My charade is the event of the season,

And if I claim to be a wise man,

Well, it surely means that I don't know.

On a stormy sea of moving emotion,

Tossed about, I'm like a ship on the ocean.

I set a course for winds of fortune,

But I hear the voices say..."

- Carry On Wayward Son, Kansas