Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or Criminal Minds. I am making no money off of these stories. Written for fun only.

Chapter 3

Waiting for the Sun

Above, pale gray clouds on a midnight blue backdrop danced without their usual music. A moment of silence between one heavenly wave "hello" and the next as they passed. But the world below was neither as quiet nor as peaceful as the sky.

Glass shattered, the exclamation mark on the final scream enough to still the lone possum dining at the bottom of the aluminum trash barrel.

The woman who stormed out was young, too young to be the child's mother. Her make-up was a charcoal smear beneath the tangled mass of bottle blond and hairspray, her fingers strained around an overfilled bag spewing skirts too short for the season and lace too synthetic to be undergarments.

A shoe dropped free, clattering against the wooden planks. She didn't turn back for it.

The child stepped off of the stairs, out of her way before she could storm down, trip over his small, hunched form. She was blind to him, either purposely or because rage made her so. By the light of the moon, the smaller form took shape: a boy, too short and too quiet for his nine years.

The woman held no interest for Ricky. The child on the other hand was, in a word, perfect.

There was not a soul inside the house aside from the father, and yet the old man's gravelly voice could be heard, calling out a name. Anger wrapped in that single word.

The child looked over his shoulder, gaze drawn to the slammed door, fear crossing his face for a split second before numb indifference took its place. He took a step back, crouching down beside the stairs to the porch, hiding there while fading red taillights brightening the old country road.

The woman gone. The father too lazy to follow.

Ricky had lowered himself to the boy's height, crouched low on the damp earth, but he was too far away to be seen or heard by the child. A crooked smile on his face, Ricky leaned forward, his lean silhouette breaking free of the bushes.

"Perfect, isn't he?"

Ricky nodded. "Exactly what I was thinking. You're never wrong, big brother."

He could feel Glenn kneeling beside him, a shade made of ice touching his arm. The contact with his sibling comforted him, left him caressing his own fists like a thief in a goldmine. His fingertips brushed the ring on his finger and the grin became less maniacal, almost gentle. "Someone needs to be there for him," Ricky agreed. His body trembled slightly. "When?"

Glenn seemed to fall backwards, disappearing both from view and from existence in an instant. Ricky smiled when he saw his big brother's form further away, pale as moonshine, behind the cowering child. The unknowing child.

Glenn looked as he had in death, a flannel over a loose shirt, jeans. Blood. Too much of it. But it had lost its color, appearing to be black and gray shadows on the colorless flesh of his forehead. And Glenn was young, too, younger than Ricky now. Or, at least, he looked it.

Head cocked in study, Glenn's lips moved, though no sound came out. Ricky knew, though, what it was he mouthed to the child: "Soon."

Sam wasn't a fan of taking hostages for precisely the same reason he didn't enjoy babysitting. Voluntary responsibility over another human's life? Hunting was about stopping monsters and saving people, as his brother had drilled into his head a number of times. Not about endangering them. And not about providing supervised bathroom breaks.

Not that he was actually supervising. Sam felt heat in his cheeks at the mere thought. Which was odd in itself. As much as Dean liked to poke fun, he hadn't been "shy Sammy" in a long time. The flush from the other side of the door startled him into awareness, his shoulders lifting off of the door before the knob twisted.

Penelope peeked out, a strained, nervous grin crossing her face for a split second. Most the makeup had been washed from her skin, though a cherry stain on her lips remained.

"All done," she announced.

Her blond hair was hanging loose around her round-cheeked face, a thin green-dyed highlight curling against her neck, the fuzzy barrette abandoned somewhere. Sam leaned over her, seeing the elastic on the edge of the sink. He sighed, putting his hand out, beckoning for her to relinquish her prize.

Penelope frowned, hand in the figurative candy jar, and dropped a bobby pin onto his palm.

Sam stood firm. "The rest of them."

She sighed, reaching up to yank two more off the bra strap she'd secured them to. Sam coughed down his chuckle at her pout when she relinquished the hair accessories.

"Do you even know how to pick a lock?"

She raised a plucked brow. "Can't be that hard."

"That's a no."

Penelope shrugged, the voice of defeat. "I was just planning to poke you really hard."

"Thanks for the heads up." Sam smirked, tilting his head in the direction of the main room. Penelope took the hint, walking in front of him.

Sam was surprised to see that his brother had untied their other guest as well. Meaning both of their "hostages" were currently unsecured. A dangerous move. An un-Dean-like move. Sam huffed, aggravated by the barely contained smile on his brother's face. Because, somehow, Dean found something about this situation damned funny.

Sam was not as amused.

The older Winchester was sitting on a stool beside the lone bed, a fake seriousness to his wrinkled brow as he posed an important question to the FBI agent laying flat backed on the mattress like a psych patient on a sofa.

"So up?" Dean asked, yanking Dr. Reid's arm skyward to indicate the iron railed head of the bed. "Or down?" Dean dropped the lanky arm down beside the mattresses, where the skeletal bed frame was exposed. "Up or down, man? Not rocket science - up or down? Doesn't take a genius. Though, since you are one, this should be an easier decision."

Reid blinked, confused by the movement and opened his mouth to speak. Dean interrupted him.

"Up?"

It took all of Sam's strength not to slap his own palm against his forehead. Or, more likely, against the back of Dean's head. God, I shouldn't have let Dean have dibs on the extra coffee this morning. Sam reached out, gently taking hold of Penelope's arm to keep her from getting too close to her fellow agent.

"Down?"

Sam had a feeling Dean had already asked this question. Multiple times if the exhausted expression on Spencer's face was any indication. The young agent tilted his head up and opened his mouth once more, ready to reply when Dean glanced Sam and jerked Spencer's arm up as if he were a Raggedy Anne doll, cuffing him to the pole on the head board. The momentum pushed Reid's head back down onto the pillow. One leg rebelled, laying sprawled off the side of the mattress.

"Up it is," Dean chirped. At Spencer's frown, he nodded his head and grabbed the guy's foot, tossing it against the other. "You're a back sleeper. Trust me."

Sam rolled his eyes, deciding to let his brother's inappropriately good mood go unchecked. "So, I'm guessing they're getting the bed?"

Dean moved to the foot of the bed, jerking Reid's shoes off with a swift move, his eyes still on his brother. But Sam's had moved to the agent, noticing the split second of panic on the man's face at the action. Sam raised a confused brow, not wanting to consider what the expression was about, and waited for Dean's reply.

"Sorry, Princess," Dean smirked. "Hope it doesn't interfere with your beauty sleep."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam couldn't help the smile across his face, happy when it was reflected in Dean's eyes. He'd had to go without that endearment for too long. And for a while, he'd thought he'd never hear it again. Sam was vaguely aware of the odd looks he and his brother were currently receiving, but didn't mind. Their two hostages already thought the Winchesters were murderous psychopaths. Reputed potty mouths were the least of their problems.

Dean clapped his hands once, ending the moment. "Unless," his eyes drifted to Penelope. He wisely chose not to wiggle his eyebrow suggestively. "Unless Penny isn't comfortable with laying so close to her co-worker. If Spencer here is a little grabby, you could take the cot and we could duct tape the good doctor to the sofa…"

"No," Penelope interrupted. She blinked, as if flustered by the choice. Apparently, kidnapping wasn't supposed to come with options. "Um, thank you, the bed is fine."

"Settled then," he shot Sam a look, "dibs on the cot."

Sam didn't have to glance up to know the cot was closest to the front door. And also appeared to be older than either of the Winchesters. "Dean…"

Deans waggled a finger to stop him. "Your freakishly long legs are just going to have to cramp up on the sofa, Samsquatch. Now, tuck Penelope in already." He gave her a quick wink. "And don't let her talk you into anything I wouldn't do."

Sam ignored the statement. "There's a little research I wanted to do before bed."

Dean looked up. "No, Sammy." The mirth in his voice disappeared. He rolled his shoulders, stretching out an ache that seemed constant these days. "We're not going to have much time before their friends get a description on us. Better get in all the rest we can."

Before we've got to run.

Sam grimaced. Demons and angels were bad enough. Now the FBI would be on their case. Again. Fake deaths just didn't last as long as they used to. Much like real ones.

The bed was uncomfortable. Morgan really hadn't expected any different. He leaned his head back, missing the stack of pillows and hitting the wall. Heavy lids wanted to stay down, but he cracked his neck, keeping his gaze wide, watching the small motel room as if something might appear from one of the shadowed corners.

He'd searched it. Thoroughly. And, yet, her, Garcia's, largest bag remained untouched, still zipped up from the flight down. She'd be angry if he went through her things, if he lost one single earring.

Because she would be back. She would. And, she'd want to wear one of her favorite pairs.

"Miss you, baby girl," he said.

This hadn't been his first stop either. Two hours ago, he'd been in Reid's room, sitting back in the very same position. As if the abductors had left some message behind. But, they hadn't. Garcia and Reid hadn't had the time to unpack their shower items or settle in, so, in all likelihood, the abductors had never even seen the inside of the rooms.

Derek had went to them, nevertheless, after everyone had forced themselves to retire for the evening.

The knock at the door was faint, barely a tap, but it jerked him to awareness.

"Morgan?" The call matched the knock, but the sound was enough for him to make out the owner. Prentiss.

He shook his head, ashamed that he had thought, even for an instance, that it might be someone other than his accounted-for teammates. Morgan opened the door for her, stared out at the chill night. Prentiss didn't so much ask for an invitation as push her way in, rubbing the cold out of her arms.

"Thought you might be here," she said.

Morgan straightened. "Did something happen? Hotch didn't call…"

She shook her head, stopping him before he could get his hopes up. "Nothing like that." Emily stared at the open space, her eyes stopping on the wrinkled bed linen where he'd been propped. "I woke up a little early," she excused, leaving out the 'few hours' part. "Looks like you never woke up at all."

"I got some sleep," he defended.

Her frown said she didn't believe a word of it. With a shake of her head, she gestured for him to take a seat on the edge of the bed with her. The mattresses grunted at the give, but silence owned the room in seconds.

"Know why you're here?" Emily asked.

Morgan snorted, shaking his head. "As in, why I'm here on earth? Haven't the foggiest."

Emily cast him a glare. "In this room." She paused, weighing her options, before she continued. "Before I went to bed, Rossi said you were in Reid's room. Do you know why you've spent the night in their rooms?"

Derek wasn't in the mood to answer, but his mouth opened. "Studying the victims," he said, nearly at a whisper, "like I would in any other case."

She shook her head but didn't contradict him. "They aren't any other victims, though."

"Emily?"

Prentiss turned, watching his hunched form with wide, wet eyes. "Yes?"

Derek clasped his hands together, letting them hang down between his knees. "Garcia," he said, "Garcia's not trained for this." He licked day old coffee off his bottom lip, not letting his gaze raise. "And we know what these unsubs do to them, to the people they take. We've seen the damn videos, the photographs. We know." He turned to face her. "I wish we didn't. Know."

Emily reached out, gripping his shoulder. "Derek, Reid's been here before. He'll take care of Penelope. I'm trusting in that. In him. You need to do the same."

Morgan nodded, but his eyes had darkened slightly, emotion making them shine in the faint light. "Sure, the kid knows what to do. He'll take care of her." He raised his hands higher, as if in prayer. "For as long as he can."

Reid had a hard time staying asleep, and he doubted it had much to do with the cuff holding his hand above his head. He'd drifted in and out, craning his head to see that Penelope was having no such problems, no doubt emotionally exhausted by the events, her head angled towards him, hair spilled out as if to reach him. She'd placed her free hand over his. Though he usually found himself uncomfortable with physical contact, the warm comfort was one he appreciated, even if it had been done subconsciously.

Each time he had stirred and turned to check on her, his second move had been to twist his head toward the opposite wall. Dean and Sam had been awake sometime longer than they'd expected, contrary to what the oldest brother had stated. Finally, though, Sam had disappeared onto the sofa, his socked feet hanging off one end, his brown hair spilling over the opposite arm. Dean had laid back on the ancient cot, each movement sending a loud metal whine He'd grown still, fully clothed, a hand on his stomach, another tucked behind his head. Dean's eyes, though, had been open each time Reid had glanced his way, as if the man were in deep thought.

But, now, it appeared as if Dean Winchester was fully asleep, rolled out of his stiff position and onto his side, facing the bed.

A soft noise disturbed the silence of the room.

Reid raised a brow, surprised that it had been a short gasp from the older brother. He was having a dream. If the sheen of sweat on his brow, the clenching fingers over his blanket, weren't indication of a nightmare, then the grimace on his face surely was. By moonlight, his quiet struggle with his sleep made Dean Winchester appear almost childlike. Innocent.

But Dean Winchester wasn't innocent. Reid knew that, though he wasn't exactly sure what one could consider the two brothers. Sick. Sick was the word hospitals and defenders would use. Deranged would be the word the public would label them with. Delusional is what Spencer Reid had chosen.

Spencer had never been quite so thrown by the background of an unsub. Usually, a file was helpful, but, obviously, Agent Henricksen's wasn't doing much good. Perhaps that was what was throwing him off. He needed to sort through what he knew, throw out what was conjecture on Henricksen's part, put together what he had gathered over the hours with the brothers.

And he had to do it fast.

The Winchesters might be delusional, but the murders committed around Attalla were the work of a serial. Which meant, the need to kill wouldn't be sated by a change in their fantasies.

Dean moved slightly, his head ducking down, chin pressed into his chest as if to protect himself. The muscles of his face tensed.

The call was hoarse, quieter than a whisper. Reid wouldn't have heard it at all if he hadn't been watching the man's lips form the choked name.

"No, Sammy…"

Reid heard the creak that followed, raising his head slightly to see that he wasn't the only one awake. Sam was propped up on the arm of the sofa, watching his brother with a hollow expression. Not a single emotion left naked on his face.

The small audience jumped when Dean jerked in his sleep, his eyes wide, a pant at his lips. Reid laid back, trying to close his eyes enough to look as if he hadn't been watching, but Sam remained exactly as he was, unashamed of his spying.

Dean locked eyes on his brother, guilt leaving his face paler.

Reid wasn't quite sure what that expression indicated, his own brow knitted in confusion. Reid caught the answer before it could leave his mouth, swallowing down the need to tell his theory on the matter. Because the team wasn't there to hear it and the Winchesters wouldn't like it very much.

Guilt. That was important. A missing piece.

Guilt because he was killing siblings? Punishing others because the two siblings he really wanted to hurt… Every bit of evidence on the Winchesters suggested that Dean was highly protective of his little brother. Even an uncontrollable urge to kill might not allow him to harm Sam, at least not at first, but, if that was what Dean wanted, to murder his little brother… That would explain why he was taking out his frustrations on siblings. But it didn't explain why he killed the older sibling as well.

Unless the older sibling represents Dean himself, Reid mused.

Perhaps Dean was breaking from his father's instilled delusions. Perhaps he was beginning to recognized what he and his brother were actually doing. To innocent people. Reid sucked in a quick breath, holding back a tremble at the thought. If he was correct, if Dean was that self-destructive, there would be no reasoning with him. A man ready to kill himself, to kill the very person he was raised to save, was beyond dangerous, beyond predictable, especially when one didn't know which delusions he was still acting out and which had already crumbled away, out of his reality.

Spencer wove his fingers through Penelope's, gripping on to her in fear.

"Want to talk about it?" Sam asked.

Dean snorted, shrugging off the question. "It's nothing, Sammy."

"Nothing?" Sam's jaw tightened. "Sure," the man bit. He rolled back onto the sofa, pounding down his pillow with one arm in frustration.

Dean had already turned his attention from his brother, staring at the bed. Spencer opened his eyes fully, knowing he'd lost the facade. He expected Dean to be angry at the invasion of privacy, but only the guilt remained in his eyes.

There was something else there, too. Shame. It made Spencer nauseous.

"Sorry I woke you, kid," Dean whispered, his voice hoarse again. "Go back to sleep."

Reid somehow doubted that was going to happen any time soon, not with a dozen new questions filling his mind. When he opened his eyes again, daring to look out, Dean Winchester was slipping out the front door, a leather jacket over his shoulders.