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 6

Monsters We Have Known

The wetness at his fingertips was salty, clear. Tears. Not his own. Soon it would be different. He would walk away, and it would be blood smeared across his skin. A metallic flavor, not quite sweet but almost. Ricky had tasted it once, when his curiosity had gotten the better of him. There was power in blood. And danger. That was one of the reasons he was drawn to it.

The tears were glistening on his fingertips. He rubbed his thumb over them before wiping them off on his jacket.

"I'll kill you!"

Ricky was shaken from his thoughts by Michael's venom. The boy was at the room's corner, struggling against the ropes holding him against the wall. Ricky had tried many different techniques when it came to restraints, but most of them were too complicated. Too much trouble.

The thin nylon ropes made the boy look as if he were covered in fat thread, a ball of it. The thought made Ricky smile. Michael was in a standing position, forced into it by the pull of the knots. Ricky had taken an industrial staple gun from his last workplace. It was surprising how well it held the restraints to the sheetrock of the wall, like Frankenstein's staples holding down the crown of his skull.

One would pop free, then another, but never enough, never enough staples to give the boy the chance to free one arm, one leg. This new method wouldn't work on an adult. Glenn had pointed it out to Ricky, but that didn't really matter. What mattered was the project of the moment. These two. These brothers.

And Ricky wanted to make sure Michael stayed standing. Stayed aware, on his feet. So he could have a good view.

"Did you hear me?" Michael spat. His cheeks were shaking with rage, but his face was pale, clammy. Afraid. A twelve-year-old's face. "I said I'll kill you, you creep. Let me go!"

Ricky shook his head, looking around the room. Wanting Glenn to be there. To take over. "I just spoke with Thomas," Ricky said, as if he were mentioning the melting snow outside. "He's mighty upset."

Michael grew still, forgetting that he was trying to pull the ropes free. His eyes widened. "You're… you're the one who took my little brother," he said. His wet lashes dropped the years from his face, making him look more like his sibling. "Please… I take it back. I'll… if you let Tommy go, I won't be mad. I won't tell."

Ricky shook his head. "Where were you?" he asked, his voice lower. "So brave, so concerned. Where was that concern when Thomas needed you last night?"

Michael bottom lip quivered. "I just… I didn't mean to leave him."

"But you did, didn't you? You left him."

"I didn't think."

"Don't lie!" Ricky snapped, livid. He stomped forward, gripping Michael by the jaw. "You wanted to get rid of him. You didn't care if -" Ricky broke off, shaking his head. The anger seemed to evaporate off his face. When his voice returned, it was casual, explanatory. "You don't understand yet. But you will. We'll teach you." He smiled down. "Glenn and I, we'll teach you what it means to be a good big brother."

Sam reached the porch and stopped to balance his hands on his waist, surveying the dead landscape of woodland around him and holding back the shiver the icy wind brought to surface. One breath, one moment of composure, then he rounded on his brother. Dean shrugged his shoulders into his coat and quietly shut the door behind him, confusion wrinkling his forehead when he stared down his little brother.

"What the hell's your problem, Sammy?" Dean snapped.

Sam's eyes widened. "My problem, Dean?" he asked. "My problem would be the way that guy's trying to manipulate you."

Dean blinked, gesturing back into the house. "Spencer?" he asked, surprised.

Sam raised his chin. "Yes, Spencer. Otherwise known as Dr. Reid, the FBI agent - just in case you've forgotten that part. Dean, you need to quit talking to him."

Dean raised a hand to stop his brother. "Dude, what the hell, did he sleep with your demon chick or something? What happened while I was out?"

Sam ignored the mention of Ruby, taking a calming breath through his nose. "Dean, I don't get it. You've always known how to handle yourself around the police in the past, and suddenly you're flushing the manual? How can you not see what that agent's trying to get you to do. He's watching your every move, trying play into your 'delusions.' I've got a twenty that says he'd probably say he believed in demons if you went in and asked him right now."

Dean shook his head, a small smile on his face. "What, and you don't think I know he's playing along? I'm not an idiot," he snapped. "It's not like I'm handing Spencer a sawed-off and expecting him to watch my back, Sam. We might be looking for a human criminal here, and he's an expert on finding those. What, you want me to just lock him in a closet and ignore anything he says?"

Sam bit back whatever was about to leave his mouth and pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, Dean," he managed. "That's not what I'm saying. I just want you to remember who these people are. Anything we say in front of him right now, he can use against us later."

"I'll be sure to bring that up to my lawyer."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean."

"Sam," Dean mocked. He took a quick step forward. "Look me in the eye and tell me what this is really about. I somehow doubt you drug me out here to give me a lesson from Hostage Taking 101. So, spit it out already."

Sam let his head drop, as if he were exhausted by the discussion. His gaze ventured out at the woods and he felt that chill across his back again. This time it wasn't the cold. Though he didn't see any movement in the shadows, he had the strangest feeling that someone was watching him. Ruby? Sam licked his bottom lip on instinct but quickly brushed off thoughts of his "demon chick" and her little offerings, a small part of him afraid that his brother might become a mind reader over the next ten seconds.

He pulled his gaze back to Dean, surveying that expected kiss-my-ass expression that was so familiar. No way of getting through that thick skull, Sam reminded himself, but he opened his mouth, nevertheless. "We give up so much." His voice was low, almost lost. "We sacrifice so much to save people. You went to Hell, Dean. For me." Sam's eyes lifted. "So, yeah, I'm having a hard time stomaching someone who whole-heartedly believes you're some depraved serial killer. It's not fair to us. It's not fair to you."

Dean chewed his gum, looking away to avoid the wetness gathering in his lids. "Sam… They're not all wrong. I… I'm not exactly innocent."

"But, we're not what they think we are," Sam insisted. He clenched his fists at his sides. "And it's not fair, Dean. It's not fair that you'd probably do whatever you could to save those two in there, if they were ever in trouble, but they'd put you away for it. It's not fair that they don't know…"

Dean raised a finger, cutting him off. "No, Sam." Dean locked his jaw, shaking his head. "I wouldn't want them to know. Let them go on thinking that they've already seen the worse they've got to fear. Let them believe I cut up girls for kicks. It's better than screwing their lives up by trying to convince them the boogeyman exists." He paused, taking a breath before he caught his brother's eye again. "Because I don't know if you've noticed this yet, but when civilians get involved, they tend to die."

Sam looked down, frowning. "Fine." He smiled, half amused by his brother's declaration. Even if he did think it was total crap. He'd drop the subject, if only for the moment. "But do you really have to act so chummy with them?"

"Suddenly the human Care Bear has a problem with me being a good host? Guess I should scare the hell out of them even more?" Dean snorted, shaking his head. "Do me a favor, Sam. Just give Spencer, give Dr. Reid, a break. There's only so many intense stares one man can take before he starts fearing for his virtue."

"Dean," Sam warned.

"Seriously, Sam, all that sexual tension. It's embarrassing poor Penny. I'd tell you to take it to the back room if we had one. No such luck. But, hey, maybe I'm getting my readings wrong. Maybe all that stress is just from lil' Sammy getting a tad bit jealous cause Spence is receiving all my cool brotherly attention." Dean chuckled when Sam's fist bounced off his arm. It was quickly followed by a wince when he dodged the second blow. "Ouch, the truth does hurt."

Sam huffed. "You are such a jerk."

Dean's grin was gleaming. "And, apparently I'm bat-shit crazy, too. Quite the package, right? Speaking of which, have you noticed Penelope's -" Dean moved to raise his hands to his chest.

"Shut up, Dean." Sam brushed back his hair, determined to keep the annoyance plastered on his face. Because he sure as hell wasn't going to let Dean see how much better a few jokes made him feel. "Just, shut up."

In an age of security cameras, spotting a classic car in a small community should have proved easier. Hotch had called when Morgan had left the second station, updating him on the search status. They'd found two people who had described seeing such a vehicle on the town's main drive earlier in the morning, but the witnesses didn't have much to report on the drivers or the tags. And, unfortunately, Attalla was such a small town that street cameras weren't a viable option.

Morgan had done a double take at the information. These had to be either the stupidest or cockiest unsubs he'd been after in a long time to take out the same vehicle they used to kidnap federal employees. And, yet, they'd blended in, hiding in plain sight. Maybe the cockiness was well deserved.

To say Morgan was pissed by the time he reached the third gas station, the final stop he'd be making before reporting back to their makeshift office in the Sheriff's department, was a grave understatement.

"Yeah." The attendant scratched his stringy brown hair before scooping it behind one pierced ear. "Yeah, saw it this morning actually. Drove in right after opening. Pretty damn early for anyone who's not a trucker or headed out to the chicken plant for the shift change."

Morgan blinked, surprised at the confirmation. "Get a look at the driver?"

The attendant, Paul, as he'd muttered at the sight of a badge, leaned down onto the counter, glancing out the glass doors of the convenient store. "Sure, man. Dude paid cash, though, so no records." He pointed at the farthest pump. "Parked that cherry right there, filled her up, and came in. Bought a shit-load of food. Guess he had the munchies."

Morgan could feel his pulse throbbing against his throat. "How much food exactly?"

Paul shrugged, his eyes distant. "We got a hot bar in the morning. He waited for the food to finish cookin', then bought six or so biscuits, four orders of potato rounds. Dude bought a little bit of everything and a couple sweets, too. Which I thought was kinda weird since there wasn't any passengers in that cherry with him. Guessed he was either takin' it back home for the family or going on a long ride."

Morgan pulled out his phone on instinct, ready to call it in, but he hesitated. "Tell me you've got a security camera in here, Paul."

It was iffy. The other two stations had been big chains, but this one was the definition of Maw and Paw, live bait in a back room and a pinball machine in the corner. The shake of Paul's head wasn't entirely unexpected.

"Had one. Some sort of insurance requirement, but the recorder screwed up a few weeks ago." He frowned, rubbing the back of his neck and muttering the next part. "Someone kinda spilled some slushie drink on it." At Morgan's disbelieving expression, Paul stood a bit straighter. "But, I saw the guy. Like I said, we didn't get many customers this morning, so he stood out. I can give you a pretty good description.. 'Bout my age and height, sandy hair cut short…"

Morgan's scowl cut him off. The agent looked down at his phone, shaking his head as he scrolled through a few items. The words "long shot" didn't begin to cover it, but Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that he was right. He paused, almost rethinking the action, before holding the mobile out to the attendant.

"Paul, is this the man you saw?"

Paul huffed out a laugh. "Hells yeah, man. That's the same dude."

Morgan pulled the phone back, staring down at the picture himself. "You're absolutely sure?"

The other man's nod was dizzying. "Same shit-eatin' grin and all - didn't know they'd let you make that face when you're gettin' booked. Wicked." He said the last part with an air of respect.

Morgan frowned, giving his thanks and promising to return in a moment. His feet were already taking him outside to the oil-stained cement. Thankfully, the lot was empty, because his own eyes were glued on the cell's screen, where he'd drawn up a nearly two year old picture of one Dean Winchester.

"You've got to be kidding me…" Morgan sucked in a deep breath of cool air and tried to come up with a rational explanation as he pressed in Hotch's number. "I've got something," he began. "I know who we're looking for, Hotch. You're not going to believe this."

Spencer hadn't heard much of the fight taking place outside, but the raised voices had made their way inside as muffled shouts. He and Penelope shared a glance as they strained to make out words, especially words like "let's get rid of them."

The brothers' voices grew quiet, which was somehow more frightening than hearing them yell at one another., because it probably meant they'd come to some sort of agreement.

"Reid, honey," Penelope's own voice was at a whisper when she leaned forward, a slight tremble at her lip when she said the endearment. "I don't think you've made the best impression with the youngest Winchester. In fact, I think you might have pissed him off. Just a tad."

Spencer swallowed. "I noticed." Then, just as quickly, he shook his head in disagreement. Sam's behavior played back through his head, moment by moment. "Actually, I'm not sure if he was mad at me."

Penelope raised a brow.

Reid stared at the door, willing it to stay closed. "Not entirely. I know he was mad at me, but I think Sam was angrier with Dean. He's surprisingly aggressive toward him, but he's trying to hold it back."

"Why? Did Dean drink the last apple juice or something?"

He cocked his head to one side, his brow wrinkled. "It could mean we're getting to Dean. Or that Sam thinks we are. Maybe that's what's troubling Sam. Perhaps it isn't protectiveness so much as self preservation for Sam. You heard what Sam said about their being 'bigger and badder hunts.' If Dean's having doubts about what he's doing, or Sam thinks his brother should be doing more - "

Reid's voice broke off when he saw the door knob turn. He could almost hear the woman beside him holding her breath. Dean and Sam pushed through at the same time, both of them shaking off the chill of the winter world outside. Sam, at the very least, had lost some of the tension in his shoulders, and Reid hoped that was a good sign. And that it didn't mean that Sam had gotten his way.

Spencer watched as Dean's gaze raised, found his. For a moment, they simply locked eyes, studying one another. Then the oldest Winchester burst out laughing.

"What?" Reid couldn't stop the question from slipping out of his mouth. He turned to Garcia, wide-eyed. She shrugged, obviously not in on the joke.

"Nothin'," Dean promised, biting his cheek to hold his chuckle at bay. "Just had a funny chat about you and my little brother."

Sam elbowed him as he walked past, shooting him a glare. Dean sobered up, but not because of the gesture. His eyes had drifted back to the newspaper clippings he and Sam had collected. The faces of the two deceased Hamilton siblings were staring back at him. A hollow expression set his lips in a line, left his eyes empty. "We need to get back to work," he muttered.

Sam nodded along but crossed the room instead of stopping at the table. He switched on the television and made his way back to his seat. Knees bent, he hovered for a moment, ready to sit down, before straightening back up and grabbing Dean's shoulder.

"Look."

Reid had been so absorbed in watching the two that he hadn't heard what was playing over the television. He quickly turned to see a reporter switching over to a photograph of a sleek black car: "…Two male suspects driving what is believed to be a 1967 Chevy Impala…"

"Shit, Sammy," Dean groaned. "Looks like we're going to need to borrow another car."

Sam chewed his lip. "Easier said than done, Dean. We're kind of in the middle of nowhere."

Penelope huffed, "Borrow, you say?"

Dean shook his head, sharing a glance with his brother. "Dude, I swear, remember that kid at the motel, the one with his with his hands glued to the video game? Kept trying to take pictures of my baby when we first rolled in?"

Sam gave a snort of disbelieve. "Sure, Dean. Blame it on him."

Reid pulled his attention away from the television screen, considering his next move. "In a town this small, it was only a matter of time before someone spotted your car, Dean," he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. The Impala itself had been a detail that was at the back of his mind until now. It raised a few questions to which Reid immediately formulated answers, all of them rather interesting. It would be easy to assume the Winchesters kept the car because their egos led them to believe they'd never be caught, but Reid somehow doubted this to be the case. Innocently, he continued, "Why don't you get a different vehicle? One less conspicuous."

Dean shot him a look of betrayal. "Why don't you just ask me to cut off my arm while you're at it."

Sam glanced back at Spencer, a smile in his eyes, as if the animosity he'd sent the agent's way was all but a memory. "Don't bother, Spencer. He's impossible to reason with."

Spencer was pleased with the response. He readied himself to slip in another observation about the vehicle being their father's when he caught Dean's expression. The man had turned away from the agent in disgust, looking out the window as if he were willing a magic "borrowed" car to appear. Then, out of no where, his eyes had widened, his body suddenly stiff as a board. It was a split second reaction, one Reid barely had time to contemplate. It was fear, alarm, anger, all wrapped into one.

Dean dove into his brother's side, shoving him down, out of the way of the window. The sound of the bullet seemed to register after the shatter of glass, after the spray of blood, after the thud of their bodies hitting the wooden floor.