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 2

Two in the Hand

Dean leaned down, staring at his reflection in the wood framed television as if expecting something to jump out of the curved glass. He reached out, turning the knob, and a tunnel of light flashed across the screen, bringing it to life. His face lit up almost as quickly.

"Hey, check it out, Sammy," he called, "tube works."

Sam hummed a response, stepping around the sparsely furnished cabin. A single full-sized bed, extra cot folded against the wall, small sofa, breakfast table… He reached the kitchenette and tried the water. It gushed forward, surprisingly clear.

"Someone's been staying here. Often." Sam looked up, darkly, letting those words sink in for Dean.

Big brother only shook his head. "Not here now, though," he commented. "And hopefully we won't be here long enough to see who's taken over the place."

Because they weren't exactly on speaking terms with a good chunk of the hunting population of late. And with Caleb unable to vouch for them from beyond the grave, meeting up with whoever had taken to keeping the cabin kept up might not be pleasant. Dean took a step back, sitting on the edge of the bed. It creaked with his weight, and he grinned, despite himself.

It was probably the same mattress he'd jumped on in their last stay, when he was chasing Sammy across the room. They'd been kids then, and it was one of the rare times when their dad was actually staying in town to take care of a job instead of dropping them off at a motel. Caleb hadn't minded them staying on the property, so long as the pantry and toiletries were restocked - if memory served, Caleb, a fan of arms deals, had mostly done work of the non-hunting variety from the tiny cabin. Hell, Dean and Sam hadn't even known Caleb very well back then. He was just another name.

"Damn long time ago," Dean muttered with the thought. Longer still after how he'd spent his summer vacation. He held down the shudder that came with that realization.

Sam was staring his way, but to Dean's surprise, there was no deep chick-flick meaning to the look. He was simply avoiding looking at the opposite wall, where their two guests were currently secured to two table chairs. Dean didn't blame him. Neither of the brothers needed to voice how deep shit creek had gotten over the past hour.

"Dean." Sam let out a breath. "Dean, maybe we should drop this case."

"Think we kinda made a commitment here, Sam." Dean gestured to Penelope in particular. He cocked his head. "Unless you're just trying to get out of this because you think…"

"That we have bigger and badder concerns?" Sam scoffed. "Yeah, Dean. Actually, that's exactly it."

Dean shook his head, standing. "Bigger and badder than saving lives?"

"This morning, you were complaining that you didn't think this was our kind of case, Dean. And nothing at the Hamilton's really changed any of that." Sam hesitated, "Is there something you're seeing that I'm not? Some special reason for taking this one?"

"What, so suddenly an EMF reading is worth writing off? Bo - " Dean paused, glancing the Feds and deciding that not using Bobby Singer's real name was probably a good idea, "We wouldn't have been given this case if there wasn't something to it. And, you know as well as I do that the earlier murders showed a lot of the usual signs."

Dean saw it out of the corner of his eye, the sight movement against the wall.

It looked as if Dr. Reid had found his comment interesting. When the agent realized he had their attention, he shifted forward, as much as the rope around his chest would allow.

Dean jerked his thumb in his direction. "See, they don't even know about the earlier ones yet, Sam. We're ahead of them on this."

"Dean." The voice was so foreign that Dean almost didn't recognize it. His eyes shot to Spencer just as the younger man opened his mouth to speak again. "Dean, your brother is right." He chewed his lip for a split second before continuing, his wording careful. "You can leave this case to us. We can handle it - let us handle it. There's nothing here for you to hunt."

Dean blinked, confused for a moment before he realized what "good cop" here was getting at. The play-along game. Great. He took a step toward the agent, but Sam reached a hand out to block him. Dean shrugged it off.

"Alright then, Spencer, I suppose we should just pack up, hit the road and drop you two off in front of the police station with a letter of apology?" Dean smirked, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "Sorry, Kid, not gonna happen." He took a breath, leaning forward. "And for your information, no you cannot handle it. The last FBI agent who thought he could ended up going down bloody, so forgive me if I'm not all that willing to leave it in your capable hands."

Wide, brown, guilt-inducing puppy dog eyes stared up at him. Damn. Dean wondered if Sam even realized that other humans possessed that same super-powered gaze. If Dean didn't know better, he'd say the agent was waiting for a blow. Which made Dean feel a little worse. The hunter straightened, softening his expression slightly, and clearing his throat.

"You two just sit tight and let us get this thing done. It'll be over before you can recite your handbook."

He turned his gaze to Penelope. The woman's face had paled, making her heavy eyeliner and near-purple lipstick stand out. Judging from the tremble of her chin, she was very close to shedding a few tears. Shit. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to mention a dead agent. Somehow, two grown adults were making him feel like he'd just kicked a little girl's puppy. It wasn't exactly a good feeling. He opened his mouth, ready to warn them that gags were in their future if Dr. Reid gave any more suggestions, and gave up before the words left his mouth.

Dean sighed, throwing his arms in the air in surrender and turned his back the hostages in defeat. "You know what, Sammy, next time, you give 'the talk'."

Sam was hiding his grin with one hand. The humor drifted, his brow wrinkling in its place, as if an idea had just struck him. "Penelope?" he asked. "What exactly do you do for the FBI?"

She gathered her courage, taking a shaky breath. "I'm a computer technician for the BAU."

Dean looked over one shoulder. "What's the BAU?"

Sam stepped forward before she could answer, a little too quick in his reply. "Behavioral Analysis Unit. They're criminal profilers."

"Ah, Sammy, I'd forgotten about your little FBI phase - kept trying to convince Dad he was chasing a serial killer. Was that before or after you decided you wanted to be a magician?"

Sam glared at him a split second before pushing the warning home. "Dean-" an unspoken 'did you hear me, dude?' between one word and the next, "-profilers."

Dean shook his head, somehow managing to sound nonchalant. "Day just gets better and better. Step out for ice, end up with Computer Hacker Barbie and Clarice Starling. Wonderful."

Penelope's scoff was so low, he barely heard it. "Barbie?"

The night was brightened by the gray clouds looming above, holding back the heavy rain for a few moments. Already, though, a light mist was falling once more. Beggars couldn't be choosers, though; Derek was simply happy the downpour that had arrived while he was finishing up at the dumpsite was on temporary leave.

He hid the phone with his free hand, boots splashing through the puddles before he found sanctuary beneath the overhanging in front of the motel. One wide palm swiped the dampness off his dark brow and down his near-smooth head, before he turned his attention back to the conversation.

"Nope, Hotch. Like I said, nothing different than the previous dumps, except for the location. Forested area, right off a main highway. High ravine against the road." Derek paused, shaking his head. "What gets me is that no one has seen this guy in action. Unloading one body is hard enough, but two? And without a single shoe print? Something's not adding up."

Lifting his chin, he read the room number off the closest door, walking toward it with a wide stride. The hum of Hotchner's voice could barely be heard over the rolling clouds above. "Yeah, well, be careful on the roads. Got a feeling the storm's not over yet."

Room 36 came into view. Derek closed his phone with a snap and pocketed it. He raked his knuckles over the blue door, listening for movement inside. "Hey, baby girl, it's Derek," he called.

No reply.

He rolled his eyes, a small grin at one corner of his mouth. If Garcia was on the same wavelength as him, she was probably hitting the shower right about now. He hoped she'd had the foresight to hand the other room keys off to Reid first, or the rest of the team was going to have a hell of a time getting into their quarters.

Derek took another step down. A sliver of light was spilling out between the mostly-closed curtains of Reid's room. Another tap. The agent hesitated before knocking harder.

Nothing.

"Damn," he muttered, turning back to face the parking lot. A split second later he remembered that Garcia and Reid had left the rest of the team with the rentals, getting a ride to the motel from Deputy Barnel.

That ruled out them hitting the town, not that he suspected either of them were in the mood to do anything more than sleep. Or that Attalla had anything to offer past sunset.

The manager's office was still open. Good. Maybe they were in the small lobby. At the very least, the manager might be able to get him another key.

Still, Derek didn't make a move toward the office. Something about this felt off. He glanced over his shoulder, staring at Garcia's door, a frown on his face. What if…? Derek shook his head, stopping the paranoia before it could dig its claws deeper. Check the office first, then worry, he told himself. Nevertheless, his hands dug back into his pocket, pulling free the cell phone.

Garcia's was the number he dialed most, so he pressed call without thinking. His steps toward the office were slow, deliberate, as if they were timed with each ring. Chewing his bottom lip, he waited for the voice message telling him to "bestow the keeper of all knowledge" his "offerings." Even that wasn't enough to loosen the hard frown on his face.

"Garcia, I'm at the motel." He hesitated, resisting the panicked question at the tip of his tongue. "Call me," he finished, instead, ending the call.

Reid's number was next.

Ring.

Morgan was nearly at the end of the building, the office separated from the long wing of the L-shaped motel.

Ring.

His brow wrinkled when he heard an echo of the ring in the distance. Pulling the phone away from his ear, he turned a full circle, eyes searching the barely lit parking lot. The rain was falling again, throwing the sound in every direction. It took him a moment to focus, to hear it again, to figure out where it was coming from. When he did, he realized his back was to it.

Derek came to a dead stop, staring at the small breezeway separating the front half of the building from the back. A vending machine that looked as if it hadn't been restocked in a decade, a Coke machine, and to the opposite side, a blue and white ice box. A plastic bucket had been abandoned on the wet sidewalk below, mostly melted chips floating in a tied-off plastic bag beside it.

And the ringing had stopped. Not before Derek had heard where its muted tone was coming from: the box itself.

Derek knew why the hairs on the back of his neck were standing, and he wished to God they'd end their salute. He had enough scenarios going through his head without his subconscious throwing up red flags. He licked his lip, reaching out. His distorted reflection stared back at him from the pitted silver doors of the box.

"No," he whispered, without meaning to.

No to those thoughts. About what could be past those doors. What was waiting. Why two of the people he was most protective of in this world weren't answering their phones. No. Plain and simply put, No.

His fingers latched on to the pull. One yank and it slid open. The contents were shadowed, Derek's body blocking the bright light above him. But he could see clearly enough. No bodies. No blood.

Derek pushed a painful breath from his chest, but those pesky hairs were still standing on his neck. At the corner of the box, abandoned on the last bit of remaining ice, were two cell phones. He didn't need to pick them up to know who they belonged to. He caught his mouth with one hand, pinching his lips with his fingers. Thoughts flooded him, but only one formulated well enough for him to take action. He lifted his own phone again, waiting for an answer.

By, God, there better be an answer. If their wasn't, he'd…

"Morgan?"

"Hotch," Derek breathed, pushing the emotion down. "I think we've got a problem."

"Morgan, what's wrong?"

There was an urgency in Hotch's voice that Derek wanted to rebuke. After all, he wasn't sure. Not yet. Couldn't be, not until he checked their rooms. Was absolutely certain that…that they were gone.

"Hotch, I'm still at the motel, but Garcia and Reid…" Derek's eyes had drifted downward, following the spill of water from the broken-down ice machine. His feet had a mind of their own, taking him to the backside of the motel, where another line of rooms waited, no cars parked in front of them. But there, on the sidewalk a few rooms down from the vending area, was a single feather.

"Morgan, are you still there? What's happening?"

Derek took to one knee, reaching down for it. He rolled it between two fingers, vaguely aware of Hotch's voice in his ear. It was sunflower yellow. Short as his little finger. Fuzzy. Just like the ones on Penelope's hair barrette.

"Has something happened to Garcia and Reid? Morgan, talk to me."

Derek's voice was distant when it finally returned. "Hotch, they're missing," he said, as calmly as he could manage. His body grew rigid, nearly shaking. "Hotch, you...somebody needs to get here before I start kicking in doors."

And he closed the phone with a snap.

For all the training, for all the profiling, there was no sure-fire way of dealing with two people as delusional as the Winchesters. Especially when his hands were tied, literally, his gun taken, his friend in danger. But, Spencer remembered what Gideon had taught him: the profile, that was his real weapon. The only one he currently had at his disposal.

Spencer really wished this was his first time in this situation. That the terror crawling over his skin like spider legs was completely new to him. But it wasn't, not in the least.

Without meaning to, he found himself staring at Penelope. If the brothers would just leave the room, the both of them, for just a moment, he could tell her that she'd be alright. That he'd get her out of this, somehow. Because that's what someone like Morgan or Hotch would say. What he wouldn't tell her, of course, were the details of the Winchesters' files. What they had, what Dean Winchester had, reportedly done to those women in St. Louis.

Spencer watched the younger brother, Sam, scoot forward from his makeshift seat on the cooler, holding the water bottle's straw closer to Garcia's mouth. She arched her neck, taking a hesitating sip before pulling away from him again. Sam was distracted, though, glancing over his shoulder, watching his brother lay the laptop and notes out on the small breakfast table, scooting a floor lamp closer to the work area. The cabin itself wasn't very well lit, especially now that night was fully upon them, but there was enough light to see by.

Spencer shared a glance with Penelope, hoping that she'd understand. Her lips opened again, and she let her eyes trail Sam's face.

"Thank you."

Sam startled, haven forgotten the bottle in his hand. He lowered it, sitting it down on the floor beside her chair.

Spencer caught Penelope's eye again, nodding slightly. Sam. Sam was the one they needed to concentrate on.

"For the drink," Penelope added, biting her lip slightly.

"Um," Sam gave her an awkward smile, "yeah, you're welcome." And then glanced up to see Spencer staring him down. "How about you? We've got some more water, beer…might even have a bottle of apple juice left." He was already standing again, ready to pop the cooler's lid open, when Reid shook his head.

"No, thanks," he said, swallowing.

Sam nodded, standing in place. After a moment, he sunk back to the edge of the cooler, propping his elbows on his long legs and leaning forward. His dark eyes glanced up for a moment, silently calling his brother's attention, but he turned his focus back on Reid a split second later.

"Back at the motel," Sam began, "you recognized Dean."

Spencer noticed how innocently Sam had managed to not make that into a question, giving him no room to claim otherwise. Spencer's fingers fidgeted above his legs. He nodded, his adam's apple bouncing in tune with the movement.

"Yes," he said. "He was on the Most Wanted list. All FBI agents are required to know the names of those individuals."

"Was," Dean chirped, coming up beside the agent. "Was on the Most Wanted. Kinda strange, though, you taking one glance at me and recognizing my face alone. Especially since I'm dead, according to you guys."

"You've died twice now," Spencer supplied.

As much as he knew he should be concentrating on the situation at hand, he couldn't help but let his mind flip through that information, digest it further. How had the Winchesters escaped alive? How had Dean faked his deaths, especially the one in St. Louis? There'd been coroner pictures of the body of the man standing in front of him. And, why? Why fake your death so elaborately if you're not going to stay under the radar?

Dean's gaze narrowed slightly at the reply, more questions behind those green eyes. Spencer could see the paranoia there. He realized too late that he should have kept his mouth shut. If the brothers thought he was too suspicious, if they turned him into a villain in whatever current fantasy they were playing out, he'd be endangering himself and Penelope even further.

Spencer caught those piercing eyes again. "I have an eidetic memory," he continued. The explanation wasn't enough, he knew. He needed to make himself accessible, make the brothers believe he could be convinced of the truth behind their delusions. Playing along was the safest course of action at the moment. It might be enough to buy the team time… Time for what? To find their two dead abductors?

No, he had to have more confidence in his team. They'd found him in the past. They'd do it again.

"I read through your file a few years ago for a Special Agent named Victor Henricksen." Spencer watched for the spark of recognition in Dean's eye and wasn't disappointed. "Agent Henricksen was obsessed with your case after the incident in St. Louis and called me several times to look over his profile." Reid paused, weighing his options, and deciding to take the chance. One of the things Henricksen had insisted on was that the oldest had quite the ego; Reid could work with that. "I told him that I doubted he'd be able to track down you and your brother. You'd lost him before, and you'd do it again. Judging from what I've read, you're very skilled at what you do. It's impressive."

Dean snorted at that, breaking eye contact. "What exactly do you think we do?" he asked, his voice low.

Spencer stilled. He'd been expecting some sort of confirmation of vanity, over-confidence, arrogance. Instead, Dean's physical reaction, aversion, had almost been self-deprecating. "I know what Agent Henricksen thought you did. But he was wrong about you." Spencer straightened, leaning closer. "He thought you were just killing people, but there was more to it than that, right, Dean?"

"Listen." Dean took a breath, his eyes finally drifting up from the floor enough to meet the other man's gaze. "If this is the part where you start bad-mouthing Henricksen because you think it's what I want to hear, you can just stop where you are. Victor was a good guy. He made assumptions that any sane person would, and, yeah, he was wrong. But he was a good man."

Spencer blinked, trying to hide his surprise. The reaction told him enough: at some point, Agent Henricksen had become part of Dean's delusions, but not as a monster. "Is he the agent who…died bloody?"

Aversion, again. Spencer felt the conversation slipping from his grasp.

Dean's brow wrinkled as he studied his own hands. "Yeah," he said, and stepped away, as if the notes he'd left on the table had suddenly become more interesting.

Spencer could feel Sam's eyes on him, glaring a hole through his skin. When he met the youngest Winchester's gaze, he was surprised at the anger there, restrained but present.

"Just because you read a file on us, doesn't mean you know us," Sam bit, standing. His looming height was unnerving, but whatever had been in his eyes disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. "If you change you mind about that drink, let me know."

He stepped away, joining his brother over a stack of papers. Reid and Garcia's eyes trailed him. Spencer released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The profile was his best weapon. Unfortunately, it looked like it was no where near complete.

Penelope shook her head slightly at Spencer, obviously unnerved by the exchange. Reid had to remind himself that she didn't know the details. Didn't know what it was the Winchesters believed.

"That went well," she whispered.

Spencer echoed the sentiment.

The motel hadn't put money into new lighting in at least a decade, and yet it was, currently, standing out as a beacon in the night. Car lights, spotlights on the scene, flashlights: it was as bright as midday in the parking lot at the back of the building.

"Looks like half the town's here," Emily said, her eyes scanning the crowd.

Derek only nodded. He'd been a whirlwind for the past hour, but, finally, her words seemed to bring him to a stop. Dark eyes narrowed as the man studied the faces crowding the area, as if he'd noticed he wasn't alone in his search for the first time. He didn't speak, letting the moment of hesitation wash over him as quickly as it had arrived.

Emily frowned, knowing he was about to move again. She couldn't blame him for not being able to stand still, even if her own betraying legs currently felt like they were filled with lead instead of blood.

"Morgan," she began.

The sentiment at her lips didn't finish forming. Hotch and Rossi were approaching from the from vending area, their faces set. From their expressions alone, she knew they hadn't found anything they could use. Nevertheless, Morgan moved forward, his hard-muscled mass almost threatening in the quick movement.

"Hotch, were all the guests accounted for? Were the police able to locate them?"

Rossi raised his brow slightly, sharing a look with Emily. She wasn't the only one who had noticed how wired Morgan was, his voice high, clipped. Aggressive, even if that aggression wasn't aimed toward the team.

Hotch's expression was stony; the constant leader. "Sheriff McKinney's men located the man staying in room ten at the local diner. The family from room thirty-seven arrived back just a few minutes ago. Two individuals, however, are missing. The hotel manager says they paid in cash for two evenings, but it looks as if they've already moved out of the room."

The light caught Derek's eyes, brightening them. "Names? Descriptions?"

The rapid-fire questions were almost barked out. Hotch didn't comment, though, turning the floor over to Rossi. The older agent nodded once in the direction of the rooms. One door was wide open, Sheriff McKinney standing at the frame with an elderly man holding a ring of keys.

"The hotel manager, Berry Pierce, wasn't as helpful as we could have hoped for," Rossi sighed, shaking his head when the team's attention came back to him. "He's elderly and, unfortunately, doesn't believe in wearing the glasses his doctor prescribed. The description he gave us was rather vague. Both were male Caucasians, tall, dark haired, and, I quote, 'youngish.'"

Emily raised a brow. "You're kidding? That's it?"

"Did he get a name for either of them?" Derek bit.

Rossi scratched his ear, not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. "Not one we can use. They were signed in under Mal and Angus Young. Apparently, Mr. Pierce isn't much of an AC/DC fan."

Morgan looked as if he were ready to punch something. Emily understood his frustration. They all did. But she pushed down the aggravation, concentrating on the case at hand. The case… With all eyes peeled for Garcia and Reid, she'd almost forgotten why they were in this down in the first place.

"Should we assume that one or both of these men might be the Unsub we're looking for?" she voiced.

Hotch's jaw twitched, but his expression wasn't one of surprise. He'd been considering the idea, Emily knew. He had to have been, because coincidences weren't things they ran into often.

"There's a possibility," he said. "Multiple unsubs would explain the organization of the disposal sites, the ease of the abductions. If that's the case, then our unsubs might be siblings themselves, or at the very least, related."

Derek ran a hand over his mouth, wiping away the dampness at the corner of his lips. "But Reid and Garcia don't fit. They're not siblings. Neither of them even have siblings in the area. And they were taken together instead of apart. This doesn't feel planned." He winced, shaking his head. "Which means that, if the murderers and their abductors are one and the same, Garcia or Reid must have saw something that threatened the unsubs. Made them react."

Emily straightened, crossing her arms over her chest. "…Or they were recognized." At Rossi's puzzled expression she went on. "Not Reid or Garcia. I mean, one of them might have recognized the unsubs. If the unsubs picked up on it, they might have reacted with their most familiar course of action. Abduction."

The team grew quiet. Emily knew exactly what her words implied. Unplanned. A reaction to a threat. If that were the case, there was a good chance the unsubs had disposed of Reid and Garcia already.

Derek took a step back, walking away from the group without a word. Hotch stared after him.

"We'll find them," Hotch said. His frown deepened, contradicting the words. "We'll find them. If the unsubs did react in a panic, they'll have left something behind."

Rossi nodded. "And we'll find it."