Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds or Supernatural. Not written for profit. Unless there's some way to cash in reviews for Facebook points…

A/N: I know other agents ask the BAU to help with profiling suspects and just can't get the image of Henricksen being that grating, annoying guy who kept pestering the team about his little obsession over the years…

Chapter 5

Dead Men Drive Kick Ass Cars

The roadways were slick, the temperature outside dropping quickly. Yesterday, they'd arrived to unseasonable warmth. Rain had met them by sunset and a light, barely-existent snow by morning. Emily hoped that didn't mean ice was next on the weather's agenda.

"Alabama winter," Officer Collins excused, as if he'd been able to read her mind. "Kinda likes to go from one extreme to the next."

Emily shot him a polite smile. Slick black hair and a square chin; the statey would have been attractive it weren't for the wedding band pressing against the steering wheel. He didn't take his eyes off the road, the state police vehicle teetering with the speed limit. Emily turned away from him, looking over her shoulder at the backseat passenger.

Michael Gravitt was staring out the window, watching the trees pass by. He was tall for his age, well built. She would have easily mistaken him for fourteen, at least, if it weren't for the pout at his lips. It was almost a comical expression, but the circumstances were anything but funny: he was trying to keep himself from crying. Emily recognized as much and had the good grace not to bring it up.

"Hey, Michael?" she called. "How are you doing, buddy? What do you want me to get you to eat when we get back to the station? Anything you want."

Michael shrugged, his eyes never leaving the outside world. "Whatever."

Prentiss had only known the kid for a few hours and she'd already heard the one word response five times. "You like burgers?"

"Sure."

Emily bit down her smile. She'd always thought kids were more talkative, but she had a feeling that Michael was always this quiet, even on days that didn't include his little brother being kidnapped. Maybe it had to do with the father… Prentiss was no longer fighting a smile, her lips set in a thin line at the mere thought of the man who'd reported his son missing, angry instead of afraid, blood alcohol level through the roof. Between his hostile attitude and Michael's responses about his homelife, Emily had a feeling that neglect, at the very least, played a bit part in Michael's flippant behavior.

"How much longer?" Emily asked.

Officer Collins didn't so much as blink. "Seven, eight more minutes," he chirped. "Don't worry, Agent Prentiss. I got a full tank and no reason for stopping between here and there." He shot Michael a kind glance through the rearview mirror. "You'll like Sheriff McKinney, Michael. If you ask real nice, he'll probably let you use a stun gun on Deputy Barnel."

Michael sucked in a quick breath, but it wasn't from excitement.

"A man." Michael's voice was high, afraid. Emily turned in her seat, staring back at him. Michael had pushed himself as far back as his seat belt would allow, nearly to the center of the car, one raise finger pointing out the window. "There was a man out there - did you see him?" His blue eyes were wide. "There-there was something wrong with him…"

Emily opened her mouth to reply when the radio beat her to it, letting out a loud squeal. Static followed, the lights on the dash blinking in unison with the rise and hiss of the sound.

"What the hell?" Collins muttered.

Emily reached out, trying to stop the sound when she heard the officer shout out in surprise, his arms twisting as he turned the wheel from the lane and hit the brakes. Prentiss braced herself against the door on instinct, seconds before the car bounced upward, hitting the gravel. The tires slid against the ice, jackknifing the vehicle tail first into the ditch beside the pull-off.

Prentiss slammed back against her seat, the breath knocked out of her for a moment. Her eyes blinked furiously at the windshield. A few seconds of silence passed, just long enough for her to tame her swimming thoughts.

"What just happened?" Emily asked, grappling for her seat belt release. Though they hadn't flipped, the feeling of tilting backwards was disorienting. She felt heavy, especially with her frantic heart playing the congas in her chest. "What just happened?" she repeated, louder. "Officer Collins?"

The officer groaned, but not from injury. He was shaking his head, confused. "There… there was a man."

Emily ran a hand across her face, trying to clear away the deja vu. Wasn't that what Michael said, just a moment ago? Michael. Emily jerked in her seat.

"Michael, buddy, are you alright?"

There wasn't an answer. Her seatbelt popped free, and she turned, staring back. She was met with an empty seat and cool breeze from the open door.

"Michael?" she called, staring dumbly at the door a moment longer before she struggled with her own, slipping and sliding as soon as her feet hit the ground. She toppled out, not waiting for Officer Collins to follow her lead. Her eyes roamed the snow dusted grass of the ditch below the open door.

No footprints. Not a one. And then a thought occurred to her, one that stopped her in her place: the back doors couldn't be opened from the inside.

Michael Gravitt had been taken. In a split second.

"… And those were their last known whereabouts…"

Penelope Garcia knew monsters existed. She'd seen her team capture their fair share of them. But when she was a child, she'd believed in the real deal. Claws and fangs. Glowing eyes and cold spots.

"…Though, that's not taking into account…"

Deep down, a little part of her still believed in those things.

So, she could understand how someone else could believe in monsters, too. How someone could take that belief too far.

"…If we were to look through the records for…"

"Reid, honey." She had to pause, wait for him to stop speaking. His dark eyes danced over her, waiting for a reaction. They softened, and she could tell Reid was afraid he'd said too much. "That's enough… I really, really," she forced a tight smile, "don't want to hear any more of their backstory."

Because it hurt to hear it. Two little boys, a grieving father, a dead mother. A mission to save people from things that go bump. A criminal record. Fake IDs and credit card scams. Hospital records and grave desecration. And she knew what Spencer was skimming over, too. The murder. Murders. Alleged. Mostly, though, she kept circling back to the two little boys part.

When it came to judging people at face value, Penelope Garcia had been wrong in the past. Oh boy had she been. She had the scars to prove it. But she still hadn't quite convinced herself that that little spark behind Dean Winchester's smile, or Sam Winchester's wide, puppy-dog eyes, was entirely sinister.

"Are you sure, Reid?" Penelope asked. Not because she doubted him as a profiler. Not a chance. But Penelope had noticed the way he was speaking. Like he doubted the very words coming out of his mouth. "I mean… I know you've already said that Henricksen got some things wrong about the Winchesters. But are you really sure they're the bad guys here? I mean obviously, not good guys, but... Are we sure they're who we're looking for?"

Reid licked his bottom lip, not meeting her eyes entirely. "Fits," he managed.

She raised a brow. He looked up at her with a small frown.

"Maybe not all of it," he amended. Reid hunched forward, his voice low. "But, can we take that chance?"

Penelope was saved from having to answer. There was a sound outside, rumbling and mechanical. Quickly becoming familiar. It was Winchester's car. The Impala. Their abductors were already returning.

Something about that car, about the image of those two young man stepping out of it, reminded her of something she'd heard once.

"This is going to sound weird, Reid," Penelope warned, her voice at a whisper, "but this kinda reminds me of a story."

Spencer raised a brow, but his eyes were already tracing the distance between the door and their chairs.

"One Kevin told me about," she continued. "He reads this book series, and he's been harping at me for not picking them up… I just haven't had the chance, you know? Anyway, I could have sworn…"

But Reid wasn't listening. The voices outside were getting louder. The door knob turned. Whatever Penelope was going to say faded away, lost. Because she suddenly remembered her own belief in smiling monsters. And the fact that she was still a hostage. Suddenly some old book's plotline didn't feel relevant.

"Damn it, how're we supposed to get anything done with FBI agents spilling out of the woodwork?"

Dean trudged into the cabin, carefully stepping over the salt line. Sam was at his heels, the younger brother's arms filled with a stack of files. The trip hadn't been a complete bust, but the coroner's had been a let down. Between the locals, the state officers, and the feds, there wasn't much room for their extensive selection of fake ID s.

Sam was wearing a sour expression, and Dean was about to point out "bitch face," when his little brother sighed and sat down the load next to his computer. "After what happened this morning, I think you were right about this case," he announced.

Dean cocked his head. "We already went over this, didn't we?"

Sam gave him a sheepish shrug in response. "Yeah, well, Dean," he released another breath, "I wasn't really sure if you were…" His voice broke, his eyes shifting to the room's other occupants as if he'd forgotten them. "You know what, never mind. So, a ghost…"

Dean shook his head. The tight smile at his lips was teasing, but Dean knew his brother could read the intensity in his eyes. "Suddenly bashful, Samantha? Come on, what were you going to say?"

Sam rolled his jaw. "Fine. I wasn't really sure if you were a hundred percent on this case. Especially after Tommy Gravitt was taken. Man, I know how you are about kids." He shook his head, breaking eye contact. "You were always the one telling me that we only stick to our kind of work, but I thought, maybe, you were just going to use this boy's abduction as an excuse to stay on."

Dean wasn't an idiot. One look at his Sam's face told him he was lying. That the comment his little bro had meant to make involved the big trip downstairs. Dean chewed his jaw, considered not letting it go, and decided against being the stubborn SOB this round. It would come up again, he knew, but not now. Not while a kid was in danger.

"But now?" Dean asked, instead.

Sam flipped back through the files, pulling out a map between them. "Like I said, I think you're right. But we're going about finding this thing the wrong way." He took a seat, eyes tracing the lines on the paper. "While we were at the archives department, remember the two officers we heard talking about the case? They mentioned what the profilers had said about suspecting two abductors now."

Dean raised a brow. "You think we have two spirits?"

Sam shook his head. "No, I think we have one ghost, but…Remember what we said about ghosts not traveling unless they're attached to something? What if the ghost is attached to something another person is carrying around? With the victims all being siblings…"

"Wait, you," Dean broke off, blinking, "you're saying some person out there is helping their dead brother or sister kidnap and torture people for kicks?" His eyes widened at Sam's nod. "What the hell, dude?" He huffed, slouching down onto the bed. "What kind of freak does…?" He paused midway through the question, his eyes staring off at the floor as if it had opened up in front of him. He swallowed, his throat shaking with the motion, and licked his lips. "So, how's this change things?" he asked, his voice lower.

Sam remained quiet, eyes following his brother's movements. Finally, he cleared his throat and turned back to the pile of paperwork. "Well, for starters it narrows things down. We're looking for a death years ago that left behind a sibling. And my guess is, that sibling is going to be disturbed enough to stand out in a crowd."

Dean groaned and fell back against the mattress, holding himself up on his elbows. "Okay, then, Sammy, answer me this: why were the murders so spaced out before five weeks ago?" He nodded at the files. "We get a couple deaths over a span of years and then suddenly a whole chain of deaths. Something doesn't add up."

A small cough drew their attention.

"A stressor."

"A stressor."

Reid regretted the attention as soon as it shifted to him. When the Winchester's turned to stare in his direction, though, he licked his lips and went on. "What we call a stressor. Something traumatic took place in the unsub's life. It could have been a death, an illness, a change in living conditions…"

His gaze rose to meet Sam's without meaning to. Sam's lips were pursed, his brow lowered, warning the agent. But Reid noticed that Dean's expression was open, curious. The older man had sat up straight, hands cupping his knees as if he were preparing to stand.

"Is that how you'd track him?" Dean asked. "That how we can find the guy?"

Reid shook his head, fidgeting against the ropes around his chest. "Doubtful," he replied. He ignored Penelope's indignant snort - yes, she could probably use the tid-bit of information to do miracles, if she had her set-up. "We take that information into consideration, but it alone isn't enough. What might be a stressor to an unsub might appear to be something ordinary to anyone else. Or it might be an event that was never made public."

Spencer could feel the glare burning a hole through him. Sam Winchester would be able to give Hotch a run for his money when it came to withering stares, but Spencer wasn't going step down, not when he had been presented such an opening. Something, something happened to Dean recently, something that was haunting him, and Reid was determined to find out what it was. Because knowing everything he could, having a full profile, was what was going to get him and Penelope out alive.

"In some cases, only the unsub himself can tell us what actually happened…"

Dean cocked a brow. "There you go using that word again: unsub. What's that mean?"

Reid opened his mouth, but Sam cut him off. "Unknown Subject." At Dean's expression of disbelief, Sam shrugged. "You need to watch more TV, Dean."

Dean pushed himself up to his feet. "Alright, so something set the guy off, got it." His fingers swiped his lips, wiping away the dampness there. "This dick and his dead Obi Wan decide they need to spill a little more blood in the water in order to make themselves feel better. So, they quit spacing out their kills, don't leave any time between kidnappings anymore. . ." His voice trailed off, and he took two quick steps toward the agent.

Reid's eyes widened at the move, his body stiffening in preparation for a blow. But Dean only pushed the cooler up to his chair, taking a seat in front of him.

"Alright, Spencer, I need to ask you something."

"Dean, don't," Sam groaned from the table. He slapped the map down on the wood, annoyance dripping from him. "Seriously, dude. Don't talk to him."

Dean waved his brother off. "Spencer's going to help us out, aren't you?"

Penelope's chair moaned as she twisted to see what was happening beside her. "Dean," she muttered, but Reid was already shaking his head to stop her.

"What did you want to ask me?" Reid asked, his voice soft.

Dean rolled his shoulders, as if to shrug off an ache. Reid had noticed him make the move several times. An ache in his shoulders, an ache in his legs, an ache in his neck, as if Dean were remembering some old pains. Reid knew it wasn't caused by any injuries, but he wasn't about to call attention to the movements. Not yet. He waited for Dean to continue.

"That kid who was taken early this morning. Tommy Gravitt. He has a brother named Michael." Dean shook his head, angry gaze downcast, but Reid knew the emotion wasn't intended for anyone else. This was what Spencer had seen before Dean had disappeared in the night: guilt. "They got to the other kid before we could track him down," Dean continued. "That's all everyone was talking about when we went into town. Michael Gravitt was snatched up while he was being moved to the Sheriff's office."

"Only hours after Thomas was abducted," Reid muttered, his brow knitted.

Dean gave a crooked smile. "And once again, I was out of the room. Gotta work on having better alibis…" He cleared his throat, seriousness taking over. "Spencer, I need you to do your job, alright? I need you to tell me how long these kids have left." He chewed his lip. "Or… or if you think they might already be dead."

Reid had to stop the statistics from falling out of his mouth. Dean Winchester wouldn't care about the percentage of children found alive if recovered in the first twenty-four hours. He wouldn't care that every hour missing the percentage dropped. He wouldn't care because he was the one responsible.

Right?

It was hard to believe, staring into those sincere green eyes. Watching the tension cross Dean's face at the mere mention of the children dying. A part of Reid wanted to believe that these two brothers, as delusional as their histories made them out to be, were simply in town by coincidence. Hunting down another pair of serial killers they'd convinced themselves were supernatural beings. But the chances of that… Reid didn't need to remind himself. The possibility, the likelihood that they were stowing away victims, that Dean and Sam were responsible…

Unless he looked at the facts. The ones he could see from where he sat. They almost told a different story. And then there was Penelope's reaction to them. Not that she was a profiler, but, still…

Reid shrugged off the thought. There wasn't time for contemplation, not while he had Dean's attention. He couldn't risk it.

"Dean," Reid wanted to try reasoning with him. Just once. He'd thought, for a split second, that he might be able to reach Sam, but the attempt had fizzled before it could begin. But he hadn't really pushed Dean, not yet.

Spencer looked over Dean's shoulder, at Sam. The young man was shaking his head, still warning him.

Maybe now wasn't the time. Reid fell back on playing along. If he could convince Dean that the kids were alive… Maybe he'd keep them that way.

"When Michael was taken," Reid caught his breath, not realizing he'd lost it, "when he was taken, did the unsubs leave behind any pictures of Thomas? A video?"

Dean straightened. "No… I don't think so. If they did, the officers we overheard didn't mention it." He frowned. "Which I guess is a little off… These asshats sent their victims videos and pictures of their younger siblings being tortured in all the previous cases, but they…"

"Probably didn't have time," Reid fed him. "My guess is that they went off script because Michael was being moved to a safe place where they wouldn't be able to reach him. If that's the case, they didn't have time to torture Thomas."

"That's good and all, but how does it help us?"

Spencer leaned forward, his voice low, imploring. "Serial killers do what they do because they have needs that aren't being met. For some reason, these unsubs need to show the older siblings how the younger ones are suffering. They didn't have time for that with the Gravitt brothers." Reid could feel the restraints pinching at his skin, but he only pushed against them more. His whisper was so quiet that he doubted Sam could hear it. "This is good Dean. It means that they'll need to keep both boys alive longer. To show Michael whatever it is they want him to see. You've got time. You can save them."

Reid took a breath. He was tempted to turn to Garcia, give her a reassuring glance, but he knew she was following him. This was exactly what they'd talked about, the way the Winchesters saw danger, saw monsters, at every turn. She knew to play along.

"Penelope and I will do whatever we can to help you save them, Dean."

Dean nodded, slowly standing. "We've got time then. That's all I needed to know." He held his palms out in a quick, thankful gesture. "Remind me to buy you a drink after this, scarecrow."

Reid wasn't sure when Sam had stood, but the towering man was behind his brother in an instant. He reached out, grabbing Dean by his shoulder. Dean jumped slightly at the contact but hid the movement with a dismissive shrug.

"We need to talk," Sam said.

Dean raised one eye brow, taken aback. "Well, talk then. But if this gets chick-flicky, I'm exercising my right to press the mute button."

Sam shot Reid and Penelope a look before turning back to his brother. "I need to talk to you alone," he insisted.

Morgan slouched down into the chair, studying the blown up photograph dangling from his fingertips. Even sharpened, it was still poor quality thanks to the source. Still, Morgan felt as if it were entirely too familiar.

"We've got their vehicle then?"

Morgan glanced up to see Prentiss approaching him. He straightened, shaking his head at her appearance. She wasn't supposed to be back quite yet. Something told him the headstrong woman had all but forced the EMT checking her out to release her with a clean bill of health. Hotch wouldn't be happy about that, though… Morgan looked past her, seeing Hotch on the phone as he strode next to Sheriff McKinney. The man had barely registered Prentiss's reappearance.

Prentiss turned, following Morgan's gaze. She rubbed at a crick in her neck. Morgan didn't comment on it. Or on the accident. Or on their second missing kid. Prentiss wouldn't appreciate the reminder.

"Hotch on the phone with Strauss?" she asked.

Morgan didn't reply, slouching forward instead, as if he were trying to lean into the picture in front of him. "We don't have a tag, but we have a possible make and model." He handed her the printout.

Emily frowned, shaking her head. "Any local hits?"

"Rossi's making a few phone calls. The closest city has a guy who gets in parts for classics, but this town's a bit dry on specialist mechanics." Morgan watched Prentiss's lip twitch, knowing that she was dying to interrupt. "So far, though? Kevin's searching the vehicle registry, but there's no listing for a local with a '67 Impala."

Prentiss shook her head, confused. "But we profiled a local. Someone who lived in this or the adjacent county, and what we've ended up with… Two guys staying at a motel? With a car that doesn't seem to be owned by anyone in the area? Morgan, this case is making less and less sense. We've profiled these guys all wrong." She sat on the edge of the table, arms crossed over her chest.

Morgan knew what she wasn't saying. She could have continued to argue her point, but it would involve pointing out one of the major flaws: Reid and Garcia hadn't been dumped, but two more had been taken.

"How's Officer Collins?" Morgan asked.

Prentiss released a breath through her nose, the slightest bit of annoyance in the shift of her eyes. "Shaken up, but he'll be fine," she replied. "He's still saying he drove off the road to avoid someone standing in his lane. Which I suppose has to be right…" She shook her head, unconvinced. "Especially with as fast as Michael disappeared. I swear, Morgan, I didn't even hear the back door open."

"You lost time," Morgan answered. "It happens in accidents."

Prentiss nodded, staring down through her near-black bangs. "It just seemed so fast." Her gaze found the printout stealing Morgan's focus and she held it up. "Huh."

Morgan raised a brow. "What?"

"Nothing," she muttered, "it just reminds me of… The alias at the motel - famous rock bands. Two brothers. A black Impala." She gave an unamused chuckle, rolling her tongue against her jaw in thought. "If I didn't know better…"

Morgan sat up straight, his body rigid. "This reminds you of that case, too?"

Prentiss frowned. "Who could forget? I think Agent Henricksen contacted J.J. on a weekly basis."

"He was even worse before you were put on the team. Obsessed over those brothers. And, from what I heard, his psych eval suffered, too," Morgan noted, rolling one wide palm over his head. "I think Reid was the only one he managed to get help out of. Kid had a hard time saying no." Morgan shook his head. "Man…I haven't thought of Victor in a while."

"Not since he died in that gas explosion," Prentiss agreed. With a cock of her head, she begrudgingly added, "and his suspects with him. Which rules out the Winchester brothers as our unsubs, I suppose. Though, if I didn't know better, I'd say our current unsubs could have studied criminal behavior under them."

But her colleague had quit listening.

"…Went up in a fiery blaze that killed a half-dozen." Morgan cradled his chin between two fingers, rubbing the bristled surface. "But, Emily, what if…"

Hotch opened the glass door to their work area, frowning at his two agents. "Rossi didn't find anything with the mechanics. We have officers asking about the vehicle, and J.J. speaking with the local news station right now."

"Hotch." Morgan stood, leaning over the table. He knew officers were already asking local businesses and water-holes about the vehicle, but they wouldn't be asking the right question. "I'd like to go ask the attendants at the gas stations myself. Start with the ones in the most rural areas first."

Hotch's gaze narrowed slightly but he nodded his consent. Morgan didn't have to turn to know that Prentiss's brow was raised, asking him what he had in mind. She and Morgan both already knew the answer to the question neither of them would dare pose to Hotch quite yet.

Morgan was looking for two dead men driving an Impala.