Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds or Supernatural. Written for fun, not profit.

A/N: Those aren't our dearly disturbed Unsubs, Ricky and Glenn...

Chapter 7

We Ate Your Porridge, Bitch

"You're sure, Walt?"

"Damn it, Roy, I trust Creedy, and if he says it's them…"

"Sure. Ok. I'll take care of it."

Roy Bridges pocketed the cell phone, the weight of the rifle across his thigh suddenly ten times more of a burden. The call had been too short and too long. What surprised Roy most, though, was that he was still going to follow through, even with doubt nearly clouding his vision, he was going to do exactly what Walt said… Goddamn Walt. Walt, his back-up. Walt, his partner, still hours out of state and in the middle of an arms' trade. Walt, who said the decision was an easy one.

"Take 'em out, Roy."

Like it was something common, killing your fellow hunters. But these weren't just any hunters. These were the Winchesters. When folks got too close to the Winchesters, they ended up dead or worse. Roy'd heard their daddy was a pretty good fella when it came to finishing a job, and a couple years back, rumor had been the same about the boys he'd raised. But, things had changed.

Who would have imagined that he'd run into the two of them camping out in the old safe house? In, of all places, that dead hunter, Caleb's, place - another one of the Winchester's fatalities by association.

Jesus, the gall they had showing up here.

Roy ran gloved fingers over gaunt cheeks, worried and wishing for a shot of liquid bravery.

The new rumor about the renegade hunters wasn't rumor at all. It was fact. Putting aside the assortment of maybes - the maybe Sam Winchester was actin' a bit funny in the head, the maybe the Winchesters were involved in ol' Stevie Wandell's death a few years back, the maybe those dead loons Gordon and Kubrick were spot-on when they said Sam Winchester was gonna bring Hell on Earth - all that aside, the facts remained. Sam and Dean Winchester were responsible for the most recent Hell's Gate catastrophe.

And, there was the thing about Dean Winchester dying last summer. Funny, though, how he was chattin' it up on the porch, then, not three minutes ago.

Course, the most telling fact of all was about the youngest. Sam Winchester. What he'd been spotted doing to a demon. And with a demon.

Roy raised the rifle and put the devil in his sights, a choking prayer at his lips.

The bright winter sun had sent the reflection his way a second too late. Dean took the dive out of instinct, grabbing his brother on the way down. He hadn't even hit the floor when it registered, really registered, that the bullet would have passed through Sam's chest. If Dean had frozen up. If he'd still been wrapped up in talks with his hostages. If he'd been another foot to the left.

Too many damn ifs for his liking. Anger welled up inside of him at the sudden flood of possibilities, but he pushed it down to get his bearings.

"Son of a bitch," Dean growled as soon as he caught his breath. He took a solid second to shove his chin into his shoulder and glanced down the length of his body. The second declaration was louder. "Son of a bitch!"

He was gonna kill 'em.

Not only was there blood dripping down from his arm, but there was blood dripping onto his leather jacket. Which was currently sporting a fresh tear at the upper right arm, almost directly along the seam. Dean winced…Leather was a such a pain in the ass to sew. Another damn.

Yup. "Gonna kill 'em," Dean confirmed.

"Did the FBI find us?"

Dean glanced up, relief flooding over him as he heard Sam's voice. He reached out, even though his arm was screaming for surrender, and grabbed his brother by the shoulder. Suddenly it, that little wall between them - the one made of secrets and deals and powers - disappeared, as if it had never existed. All Dean could see was his brother. Unscathed. Which maybe meant that he wouldn't have to kill the idiot shooting at them.

"Sammy, you okay?" he asked, drawing his brother's panicked gaze.

Sam nodded, trying to scoot himself closer, a difficult feat with his long legs in the way. He grabbed hold of Dean by the elbow, locking him in a man's handshake as he held his brother's arm still. "Jesus, Dean, you're shot."

Dean rolled his eyes. "No shit, Sherlock." He could feel his brother's grip tightening and forced a small smile. "Mr. Sharp Shooter missed, Sammy - it's just a graze. Promise."

Dean was mostly sure that was true. His mind circled back to his brother's first question, and he opened his mouth to answer when another shot rang out, busting out the upper panel of the window. The shot was wide, aiming for nothing in particular. Just enough to keep us crawling. The scream that followed the sound was enough to make Dean's heart jump into his throat. He'd almost forgotten the civilians.

"Not FBI," he bit. One shot, sure, leave that to the authority figures. The second said something different entirely. "Sam, get Penelope and Spencer down. Now."

Dean could hear Sam's argument before it left his mouth, so he shook his brother, forcing him to crane his neck, look past the table leg. They couldn't see much of the two through the furniture, but Dean got a glimpse of Penelope's face, her cheeks streaked with tears, cheeks trembling.

Sam must have seen her too, because he sucked in a breath, holding back what he was going to say, and lunged across the floor, taking half the journey on his hands and knees, the other half on his belly. It seemed like Sam reached her before Dean had a chance to blink. Her chair tilted backward, Sam cradling her head as he pushed her down. Dean realized what he was doing and nodded to himself, sliding a foot over to see if he could spot Spencer's expression.

The agent was still upright and unhurt, his head dipped low, as if he could make it disappear into his tense shoulders. His body was rigid with fear, but he hadn't cried out. Dean had a sudden memory cross through his mind, of a bank in Milwaukee, of a man whose trust he'd gained. Of a shot through a window. Not the same, Dean assured himself. He bit back his own outraged shout at the thought of his hostages getting hurt because an asshole (that asshole's name being Dean Winchester) had tied them up, and instead concentrated on the situation, on where the danger was coming from.

Dean trailed the direction of the shots, noting that Spencer was safe in his current location, as safe as he could be when a weapon was firing. His chair was angled so that it remained behind most of the appliances in the kitchenette, steel between him and the wall the gunman was firing toward. Penelope was angled outward though, but Dean sucked down his panic when he saw that his brother had already pulled her, still attached to her chair, gently to the floor and was currently trying to loosen her bindings - not an easy task from the angle.

Safe. At least for the next few minutes.

Which meant it was time for Dean to get to work. He patted himself down, pleased to find he'd left his revolver in his pocket when he'd stepped outside with Sam, even if the weapons bag and the unpacked sawed-off were laying across his cot. Dean pulled the revolver free and pushed himself up onto his elbows, ignoring the hot flash of pain across his arm.

The assault on the cabin said a few things about their attacker. Namely that there was only one. Two gunmen would have taken a different approach entirely. Which led Dean to his second conclusion - the shooter was dumb as hell to just open fire. It sure wasn't the way he or Sam would have approached the situation. Especially, outnumbered. Especially, when it would have been too damn easy to just wait for him or his brother to step outside and pick the hunters off one by one.

Dean's final conclusion was that a dumb-ass had still managed to shoot him. It did nothing for his ego.

"Winchester!"

"Shit," Dean muttered. Because the shout had come from outside. The shooter knew who they were. Didn't that just figure? Somehow, it wasn't a complete surprise that someone trying to kill them knew their name.

Dean had ground-crawled his way to the counter separating the kitchen from the rest of the cabin and pushed himself tight against it. The blown open window was only a few feet away and the cold winter was invading the room with all the quickness of a spirit.

"Kinda rude, isn't it?" Dean bellowed. He licked his lip and waited a moment before continuing. "You know our name, but we don't know yours."

The loudness probably wasn't necessary. The cabin was so quiet that Dean could have sworn he could pick out the shallow breaths of each of the three behind him. So, when Sam began to move, the floor boards practically sung. Dean winced, looking over his shoulder in pissed-off inquiry.

Sam shot him a pleading glance, telling him a plan in those two seconds of silent stare-off. Penelope was at his side, his arm around her as the two slid further away from the front wall. Sam tapped the floor once. Dean nodded in response.

He'd almost forgotten the trap door. Leave it to Caleb to install an extra hole in the floor for them to have to salt. In truth, it wasn't so much a door as a few strategically placed planks that could be lifted at once. Caleb hadn't planned for it to be a means for escape, so much as a large place to tuck away his unlicensed and more unusual weapons if the locals stopped in with questions. It was also where Sam had once hidden when he'd gotten into a fight with their dad. Dean had almost throttled the kid until Sam had pointed out that he'd obeyed his big brother - he'd never left the room, after all.

Dean really should have seen the lawyer phase coming after that.

More cold air filled the room when the planks lifted. Dean could see only shadows from where he sat, but, if he remembered the layout correctly, there was a three walled box beneath the floor. It opened up into the tight crawlspace beneath the building. Dean hoped there was still an opening at the backside of the cabin, one large enough for a person to escape through.

Sam held tight to Penelope's arms as she went feet first into the hole, giving the youngest Winchester a quick, thankful glance, before whispering something into his ear. Sam nodded and put a hand on her head, pushing her the rest of the way down. He slid the planks into place and moved to turn back to the FBI agent still strapped down to a chair.

Another shot stopped him.

"I know what you are, Winchester! You and your brother."

Dean glared at the window. "Good for you," he snapped.

Something Sam had brought up earlier surfaced, the comment about the cabin being taken care of, the utilities being turned on, as if someone had been using it regularly. No great surprise there. When Caleb had been alive, he'd loaned the place out to plenty of other hunters…Double shit. Their history with their fellow hunters wasn't something to brag about.

Dean suddenly understood how Goldilocks must have felt when the three bears arrived home.

Dean raised his head slightly, trying to get a decent glance at the outside world. All he could see was a graying land and cloudscape. He pulled the revolver up with him, before opening his mouth again, hoping the shooter would make the mistake of moving closer so he could take aim.

"If you know we're hunters, then why the hell are you shooting at us?"

"I don't think a dead man should be too worried about getting shot at."

Sam had frozen on the floor at those words, watching his brother.

Dean shut his eyes, a deep breath leaving him with nostrils flared. "It isn't what you think. You've got it all wrong." Dean swallowed, suddenly wishing the FBI agent was beside him and feeding him lines. Something told him Spencer would know how he could talk his way out of this one. Dean bit his lip when he realized the shooter moving closer also meant they weren't going to be able to move Reid to the trap door in time to hide him. "Listen, man, we've got a civilian in here with us. We need to talk about this before we both do something we'll regret."

The suggestion was met with silence. Dean swallowed the curse on the tip of his tongue, his voice strong when he opened his mouth again. "Come on, man. We're all in the same trade here, and if you knew about this cabin, then you knew Caleb. I covered his ass more than once - he ever tell you that?"

"Caleb's dead because of you Winchesters."

"No." Dean was sure the reply came out as more of a growl. He took another second to calm himself down. "No, Caleb is dead because a demon slit his throat. And, you obviously didn't know the guy too damn well if you think he'd want his friends killed in his frickin' safe house!"

Another moment of silence passed, this one longer, and Dean was sure he'd lost the guy.

"Throw out your weapons, and we'll talk. You make a wrong move, and I'll put down you, and your civilian, too. Caleb's wishes be damned."

Dean wasn't sure why the wording pissed him off so much, but it did. Something told him the hunter didn't really care what the Winchesters had to say, that he was only playing along for kicks. And that he'd probably kill Spencer just as quickly as he'd put down the brothers once the agent saw his face. Dean kept the anger out of his voice. "You've got a deal," he called, despite himself.

The words meant something else entirely.

Sam caught his brother's eye, made sure he was watching when he slowly reached up and tucked his own pistol behind the old television set. Dean's smile was tight when he tossed his revolver out the window and stood to his feet, his palms faced out in surrender when he slowly stood, putting himself in the shooter's sights.

Dean wondered if heaven was planning to scrape his pieces off the floor when this went south. He saw the reflection off the rifle as the hunter in the woods stood from his crouch, and Dean figured the junkless douche bags upstairs would probably just point and laugh instead.

"Roy?" Dean scoffed. "Well, this is just embarrassing."

"So, we're chasing ghosts?"

The team stood around the desk, each of them trading glances, and though it had been Emily to finally voice the question, it was a sentiment on each of their minds.

Morgan shook his head, surprised as any of them, even though he had been the one to first suspect the Winchesters' involvement. It hadn't been a particularly pleasant experience for the agent, breaking the news to his team over the phone. He'd only arrived back at the station minutes earlier, but he'd found that Hotch had already informed the others of the gas station attendant's confirmation. Morgan didn't particularly like any situation that left this team of professionals, his family, in stunned confusion.

"Looks like," he finally voiced.

The expression on Prentiss's face came closest to a tight, bitter smile. "Guess the hunch paid off, then. Where does this leave us exactly?"

Morgan had actually expected them to fight the theory. It would make sense. Witnesses weren't very reliable in most cases. The others could have laughed at the idea of two dead criminals having a hand in the kidnappings, but, instead, they'd almost beaten him to the punch in bringing up the vehicle, the aliases, the fact that two brothers were checked into the hotel.

"Faking your death once is hard enough, twice is nearly impossible," Rossi said, his voice unusually low, as if the comment was intended only for his own benefit. The older man pinched his mustache between two fingers, lost in thought. "Is there any evidence to suggest that the father, John Winchester, might be alive as well? "

Hotch shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. "There was no actual confirmation of his death. However, John Winchester's whereabouts don't seem to be related to our case. There's no reason to suspect he might have been involved."

"Then we're still looking at this as if it's one case?" Emily asked.

Hotch didn't have a chance to answer. J.J. stepped into the room and nodded once in Hotch's direction before handing him a stack of files and turning back to a projection screen the department had loaned them. She pressed the remote and it lit up, showing two wanted posters.

"The notorious Sam and Dean Winchester," she introduced with a frown.

"Did Kevin pull these up?" Morgan asked, taking one of the files.

J.J. shook her head. "He didn't have to - they were easy enough to find. Especially since I was in direct contact with the late Agent Henricksen." The answer, however, didn't seem complete, and Morgan raised a brow at it.

Hotch gave him a glance, sighing. "We'll be bouncing between a few other departmental techs at the moment. We're having… difficulties working with Kevin Lynch, and we may have to pull him from the case entirely. He's taking Garcia's abduction…"

"Badly," Morgan supplied. He felt that old rage swell up in him at the reminder that Penelope was out there, in danger. Probably hurt. Possibly dead. And now he had to two faces he could direct that anger at. His gaze was dark and steady as he watched the screen. "I don't blame Kevin," he finished.

"You know what I don't get…" Emily tapped the file with one finger, shaking her head in frustration. "I know these two men are dangerous and highly armed, but doesn't it seem a bit odd that they're attempting to control two adults and two children at the same time? Why put yourself in that situation?"

Derek pushed down the instinctive logic that told him that they wouldn't need to control four if they'd already killed two.

He felt Rossi's hand on his elbow, as if the older agent had read his mind. "We need to look at this with fresh eyes, their history in its entirely. If we have all the pieces, the profile will fit together."

Hotch gave him a curt nod and turned back to J.J. "We need to study the Winchesters from the beginning."

J.J. nodded, pressing another button for the next page. "To tell the truth, a good chunk of what Agent Henricksen provided was based on speculation. That's not to say his profiling was entirely wrong, but…"

"Fresh eyes," Rossi repeated, nodding in understanding. "We'll have to sort through it as we go."

Emily pursed her lips. "We don't have time for this," she said, her voice low.

Morgan could understand where Prentiss was coming from. She'd been in the car with the last kid, after all. He'd been her responsibility. Even if no one was blaming her, she was taking Michael's disappearance hard, counting every minute he was gone. Derek ran a hand over his slick head, not sparing her a glance, his concentration once more on the two criminals painting the screen.

"We don't have a choice," he replied.

Gray clouds had shifted and the afternoon sun was streaming in, warming the cooled cabin, ever so slowly, as the players moved across the board and into their places.

The single room was quiet but for the crunch of his boots against broken glass. He actually wished the footfalls would make even more noise. Though, he hadn't heard a peep yet, Sam was far too aware of the fact that Penelope was hiding beneath the floor boards. The only player going against the rules. One creak and the stranger would panic. All it would take was one absent shot downward and…

Sam wasn't going to think about that. Time to concentrate on the people with a gun still trained on them. Himself included.

He wasn't pleased with the turn of events. Or with his brother's decision to play along with the shooter. And he sure as hell wasn't happy when the shooter had the good sense to have them dump their weapons bag on the porch (Sam had taken a moment to knock the sawed-off under the blankets before he'd complied), but what really put the cherry on top were the words leaving his brother's mouth.

"So, Roy, how you enjoying your life?" Dean asked, a shit-eating grin breaking his face in two. "You know, the life you wouldn't have if we hadn't saved your ass a few years back?" Dean shrugged his left shoulder, favoring it. The move didn't go unnoticed by Sam, and it sent a flush of anger over his face. Roy, whoever-the-hell-he-was, had shot his brother. He'd pay.

"This is business, Winchester."

Dean gave a broken laugh. "Remember what I said about this being a thankless job, Sam? Meet exhibit A."

Roy wasn't taking the bait. The other hunter had barely stepped onto the porch, his body posed, ready to make a dive for it, when he'd asked that "both" brothers show their hands.

Sam had expected more, though he wasn't sure why. The man, wild-eyed and wet lipped, was thin, shorter than Dean, and scraggly, the hat on his head leaving his ears sticking out of his head. Not that you could judge a person based on their appearance. But, this was a human, and if his shots and strategy were any indication, an inferior hunter. Sam could understand his brother's earlier sentiments. This was embarrassing.

"So, you know each other?" Sam asked, directing the question at Dean. Because Sam sure as hell didn't recognize the guy. Which meant Dean had probably met him when he was either very young or after Sam had left for Stanford.

"Oh, yeah, Roy and I go way back," Dean replied, his tone that of a man sitting at the bar, kicking back a shot. If anything, Dean's natural cockiness found more fuel when he was injured. "Only met the one time, but it was a fairly significant one time, wasn't it, Roy?"

"Take a step back," Roy demanded. His rifle was hanging across his back now, traded in for a handgun. He pulled up the smaller weapon, aiming it at Sam, either because his size made him the bigger threat or because he suddenly didn't want to meet Dean's eye. "Back."

Roy pushed forward, cautiously.

Dean took a step back and a step over, trying to put himself in Roy's line of sight again. "See, Sammy, Roy here was chasing a chupacabra that had made its way into mid-Louisiana. Guess the goats weren't worth suckin' there, 'cause it had taken out a little old lady along with the livestock. Dad and I were passing through…gave Roy a hand. 'Course, Roy probably doesn't remember most of it since he was passed out and pretending to be puppy chow at the time…Heard you got yourself a partner to keep you from screwing the pooch again. A Walt Timber, right? Where is old Walt?"

"Shut up!" Roy's jaw tightened and he swung the weapon back on Dean.

"Got a feeling," Dean added, "that your buddy isn't close by or else he'd be here to back you up. How many hours out is he?"

Roy's eyes narrowed, his grip tight on the weapon. "He'll be here soon."

"Fair enough." Dean smirked at the move, pleased with himself. "Still, our dad saved your ass, Roy. This how you repay him?"

"This ain't about him," Roy said. "This is about you two. I know what you've done, and somebody's got to take care of the mess you made. Nothing personal to it. If John were around, he'd do the same."

"That's kinda vague, Roy," Dean replied. "Gotta be more specific. What mess? And how are you planning to clean it up?" There was a dangerous edge to Dean's smile, one Sam could spot with just a glance to his profile. Roy really shouldn't have said that last part. Not if he planned on making it out without losing a few limbs. "Oh, and what the hell is it you think you'd do like our dad?"

Sam slid his foot back, gaining a better stance. The options at the moment were pretty clear. Spare knife in the boot, sawed-off on the cot to his right, or the revolver behind the television behind them. Taking advantage of the options was the hard part, where Dean's go-to plan of "chat 'em up until they're sloppy" came into play. A part of Sam wondered if he needed the weapons. If there was some other way to handle Roy, some other use of his strengths… it worked on demons. He'd moved things before. With the practice Ruby had been giving him, maybe he could… Sam squashed the thought. No. No. He wouldn't try that. Not again. Especially not in front of Dean.

It happened before Sam had a chance to realize what his step backwards had done: Roy's eyes found Reid. The FBI agent who was still strapped to his chair, defenseless. Crap.

Reid was watching the three of them, his constant curiosity showing in the fold of his brow. Even though it was chilly, there was sweat glittering from the agent's temples. Sam suddenly felt a wave of guilt rush over him. The guy, the one he'd been shooting dirty looks at for most of the day, was probably scared out of his mind right about now.

"Told you we had a civilian in here," Dean said, stopping Roy from sweeping his gun Reid's way. The glint in Dean's eye was begging the shoddy hunter to move forward, just a little further, so that he'd be within lunging distance.

Roy's lowered his head some, more wired than he had been earlier. His eyes quickly traced the floor, as if looking for a devil's trap before they shot back to the Winchesters. "If he's a civilian, why's he tied up?"

"He's just some guy who tried to report us," Sam answered, before his brother had a chance. "Got in our way while we were on a case, so we're keeping him here until we can get out of dodge. He's not a threat."

"Shit." The word had slipped from Roy. He chewed his cheek, losing some of the confidence. "Shit," he muttered again. His hand stayed steady, though, raising to train on Sam's forehead.

Sam realized where the rush of sudden panic was coming from. The idiot could be identified now. "We warned you there was a civilian in here," Sam bit. "You're the one who chose to ignore that fact."

"He's seen me," Roy said. His right arm twitched, as if begging to move, begging to point the gun back at the man tied to a chair.

Sam could feel Dean's body tighten, ready to make a move. Because in one tic, this guy had just went from threatening to hurt his brother to threatening to kill his brother and an innocent along with him. Sam felt his breath catch in his throat. Dean would sacrifice himself in an instant to stop Roy from making that move, of that Sam was certain.

God, Dean, just give me more time.

"You said we could talk!" Sam snapped, hoping it would break Roy from his thoughts. "Why the hell did you try to shoot us?"

"Fine." Roy turned his attention back to the brothers, raising his chin, suddenly confident in himself again. He tilted his head in Dean's direction. "You want to talk? Start by explaining how he's alive. Walt knows for a fact that Dean Winchester had a blow-out with some big-time demon 'bout last Spring. Killed and dragged down to Hell, is what they're saying. Lots 'a hunters been reporting back about you, too, Sam, how you were throwin' yourself around afterward, acting dangerous. And keeping strange company…"

Sam's back straightened. His glare alone was enough to push back most men, but Roy was too stupid or too stubborn to be stopped by a glare.

And Dean…

Dean started laughing.

"Christ, Roy!" Dean slapped his stomach, throwing his head back in amusement. He cleared his throat, as if trying to hold the chuckles inside. "Seriously? Seriously, is that what this is about?"

Sam was pretty sure he looked as puzzled as Roy, but the other hunter was staring at Dean now, even if the gun was still pointed at Sam.

Sam could feel his adrenaline building, his body humming and ready to make a move as Dean became the distraction. He held tight for a moment, waiting for Dean to string the guy further along.

"Dude, you're only half right." Dean was grinning. It was the same smile he wore at the pool tables. "There was a hell of demon on my ass. Had a hard time shaking her, too, but we did. Faked my death, as a matter of fact. By the time she figured it out, I was long gone. Sammy and I had to keep separate for a while until we could take out her minions, but we were doin' fine." His green eyes lowered when he paused, the humor all but lost. "That was, until some dumbass with a cause decided I was one smokin' hot zombie."

Sam was ready.

The gunshot was a surprise. Roy had moved quickly, giving the Winchesters the first glimpse of his own abilities as a hunter. He put two bullets into the floor at Sam's feet, missing his boots by inches. Sam jumped back, his hands up in surrender, the lunge forgotten.

Roy had the gun raised again already, still on Sam, aimed far from his shoes this time. There was a grimace at his lips that said as clear as day that he was proud to be responsible for Sam's shocked expression. "I said don't move."

"No."

The word was heartbreaking and had dripped from Reid's mouth like a tear. Sam shot him a look, his own eyes as wide, if not as wounded as the agent's.

Penelope.

"Roy," Sam breathed the name. He knew what the agent had thought, too, that there was a chance the tech girl was somewhere beneath those wooden planks, bleeding out. Sam let out a broken sound, too hard to be a sob, and glared back at Roy. "That," he said, "was a mistake."

Roy's finger twitched, his shoulder hitching. He ignored Sam entirely. "Sure, Dean," he replied, his voice calmer than it had been. Arrogant and dead-set. "That's a possibility, I suppose, but it doesn't change the rest…it doesn't change the part where Sam's been playing around with evil, does it?"

Sam felt his blood turn to ice. Just for a moment, he thought Roy might actually know about his new habit.

"You let loose the demons at the devil's gate, didn't you, Sam? You're working with them… That's what Walt says, and I believe him." Roy didn't turn Dean's way when he addressed him. "I'm sorry, Dean. I hate to do this, but even if you're telling the truth, I can't let your brother go. And, I certainly can't let your civilian go until I know he's not one of your new demon buddies." Roy shook his head, his arm raising a half inch. "I really am sorry. Nothing personal," he assured.

The thud wasn't the sound of a trigger being pulled.

Roy's eyes rolled back into his head, his knees giving out beneath him. Sam dove for the gun before he even realized what had happened. Feeling the flesh-warmed metal against his palm, he glanced up from his spot on the floor in shock.

Penelope was standing a few feet from where Roy had been. She let the piece of firewood in her hands fall to the floor and took a step back, moving her dirty fingers up to her lips. Silent tears slid down her face and her body shook with a tremor that Sam was certain wasn't caused by the half-frozen mud caked onto her knees and elbows.

Dean whistled, impressed enough to circle to her side for a better view of the damage. He was holding his arm tight against his body. "Damn, Penny. You're like a hot Rambo."

Penelope's chin shook as she tried to control her voice. "Just," she begged, "please, t-tell me he's not dead."

Roy was already stirring, though. Sam straddled his back before he could get to his feet, holding the other hunter's arms against his spine at a painfully awkward angle. With a grunt, the youngest Winchester gestured for someone to hand him a few zip-ties. Roy let loose a slew of muttered curses, but Sam only smiled up at Penelope in return, looking a little dazed from the turn of events.

"Are you sure you're just a computer technician?"

End Chapter Notes: Yup, bad hunters. There sure are plenty of people in their line of business who want Dean and Sam on the chopping block. From Gordon, Kubrick, and Creedy earlier on, to the guys in "Free to be You and Me" and "Dark Side of the Moon." Speaking of which, that happens to be where I pulled Roy from. This little encounter is my excuse for how Dean recognized Roy's voice in "Dark Side of the Moon," and knew he had a partner named Walt.