Chapter 9: A Tale of Two Brothers

Sam could picture it as it once was, daffodil yellow and charming on its tiny lot, but now the house was a ruin thanks to years of neglect, left forgotten on a dead end street. Its paint was chipped and molded a pale green that even the pink, dusk sky above couldn't warm, and its old flower beds were broken mounds of overgrowth. The metal roof peeked at the front, a crooked vent in the attic above a single broken window at the ground floor, and a small, tucked away porch to one side hid the front door in shadows. Not very inviting. Also, not very occupied.

It took Sam less than ten minutes to figure as much out. Briars clung to his jeans as he tugged himself away from the side of the house, sighing at the barren rooms he'd spied through the other windows. Of course it couldn't be easy, could it? The condemned building notice on the creaking screen door had been his first clue that perhaps the Norris family's address wasn't exactly up to date, but he'd still made a round, hoping for signs of life inside.

Or death.

The EMF moaned miserably from his jacket pocket, and he fumbled to shut it off again. The heavy cables hanging over the property weren't helping with any readings the house was putting off. If there was anything to find here in the first place. A big IF, he was beginning to think. He was still certain that whatever happened to those siblings eight years ago had to be related to the other deaths, and the faster he could prove it and stop the murders the faster they could leave this mess behind.

He tromped back through the side of the property, avoiding the slight vibration from his other pocket. He already knew who was calling, and he wasn't ready to answer yet. Before he could get back to the road, he felt eyes on him, and cursed himself for getting distracted. He'd been careful, parking Roy's truck around the corner in fear that the FBI had put together the same clues, but he'd found no sign of their presence when he'd arrived.

Sam raised his head slightly, glancing over the brim of the stained ball cap he'd found in Roy's truck. His instincts hadn't been wrong. The closest neighbor was a few lots down and currently sitting on the steps of his front porch, a cigarette at his lips, his squinting eyes raking over Sam. The neighbor looked close to Sam's age, even if the mechanic's uniform and prickly blond scruff overtaking his face aged him another decade. Mostly, Sam noticed that the man didn't appear to have his phone out or be in any hurry to call the police. The option of walking on past with a nod and driving off was still on the table; even if the guy reported him, the local law enforcement had too much on their plates to make it here before Sam was in the wind. But Sam couldn't stifle his curiosity.

Sam approached, letting out a slow breath as he tried to think like Dean. Somehow, his brother had always been better at picking up their dad's lessons on small talk as a means of blending in.

"Hey, man, think we'll get any more snow?" Sam asked, mentally chiding himself for the awkward opening. The weather, really?

The guy tapped his cigarette on the porch rail and shrugged. "Doubt it. Wasn't even enough dust to piss on this mornin', but I'm sure the store's done out of milk and bread." He chuckled under his breath and jutted his chin at the yellow house. "You interested in the Trapp place? 'Cause the city's threatening to burn it down if no one steps up soon."

"No kidding? Has it been empty a while then?"

"Years, I guess. I mean, the guy who owns it hasn't actually lived there in a long time. Saw him checking on it a few weeks back, but he didn't seem to care about the notices. Hell, if I was Ricky, I wouldn't care either." He took a long drag off his cigarette before stomping out the butt on the steps. "I'd let it rot."

"Ricky?"

"That's who you'll need to get in touch with if you want to buy the place. Good luck with that, though." The man opened his mouth to say something else but hesitated. "Hey, I know who you are…"

Sam's eyes widened slightly.

The man snapped his fingers. "Yeah, you're that guy from the billboards in Birmingham. Fella who buys crap houses and fixes them up to sell, right?"

Sam opened his mouth to disagree, but realized he might be able to get what he wanted through gossip alone. He tilted his head, smiling. "Not exactly. I just look for properties for my brother."

"Lot of money in that?"

"Pays the bills," Sam said. "Hey, man, just guy to guy, the place looks stable, nice foundation, but the people who pointed me in this direction said it had a bit of a dark past. Said there was a family that was killed in it?"

The mechanic's expression turned sour. "Not in it," he said, as if that was somehow more scandalous. "I mean, shit, brother, that would've been dark. Nah, they died, most the Trapp bunch, but not in the house."

"But they all died at the same time?"

"Round 'bout." The guy glanced past Sam, frowning at the dilapidated house place. "I was a kid then, just a year older than Ricky, and he was the baby of the family. The mom had run out a long while back, left three kids with a drunk old man. The oldest, Gina, she was kinda known around the neighborhood, if you get me." He raised his eyebrows in a leer. "Momma always called her trash, but I don't like to speak ill of the dead…Maybe if the Trapps hadn't been trash, people would have been in more of an uproar over what happened, but you know how it is. All the church ladies clasped their pearls when they found the middle boy's, Glenn's, body, 'cause he was a teenager, but when Gina was killed two days later and the daddy stroked-out, the cops claimed the deaths were 'drug related', so it was old news…Better left forgotten." The man trailed off, averting his eyes from the house, as if he suddenly found his own front porch more interesting. "Anyway. That was years back. Nothing that would hurt the value of the house."

Sam blinked, momentarily forgetting his role. "Oh, uh, no. No, it shouldn't hurt the re-sale. But I'm curious. You said the siblings' deaths were drug related, but you don't sound convinced."

He shrugged. "I knew the Trapp bunch most my life, especially the boys. Had them over here all the time, when CPS wasn't trying to cart them off. When I was a kid, I remember telling my momma…I remember being so damn sure those boys had killed Gina. Don't know how I got the notion in my head, but it scared the piss out of me. Had nightmares for months. Silly, right?"

"But Glenn died first," Sam said, quietly.

The man shot Sam an annoyed glance. "Like I said. Silly. But you know how kids are, imagining things."

Sam nodded, hoping his strained smile came off as amused and not a grimace. He muttered a few more words, pulling himself away from the conversation as quickly as he could. His hands were already itching to pull his phone free and call Dean. If he was right, the earliest victims were not victims at all.

The creak of the bathroom door was what Reid was waiting to hear. The barely restrained tension on his face returned as he glanced over at Penelope. She was watching him already, as if she'd sensed he had something he wanted to talk to her about in private. He felt like he'd been waiting ages for Dean to step out of the room, even though Sam had been gone for less than half an hour. The tension Sam had left in his wake had kept the room eerily quiet aside from Dean's muttered cursing.

"I think we have a problem," Reid whispered, eyeing the back of the cabin carefully. While he didn't think Dean would react violently to this conversation, it definitely wouldn't help the situation if he knew what Reid had to say about him. "I'm afraid things are about to escalate."

Penelope blinked at him, as if dazed, then leaned forward, giving her restraints a test. "Spencer, sweetie, please don't tell me that a crazed gunman threatening our lives was the highlight of my day." Her hushed voice came out almost too fast for him to follow. "And I swear if you're about to chew me out for not taking off without you, Dr. Reid, I am going to -"

"No, I understand, your ankle was injured. An escape attempt would have been too risky," Reid interrupted, then lowered his voice. "Also thank you, for, well, saving my life most likely. Morgan is going to enjoy that part of my report, I think."

If he survived to type it, but Reid kept that part to himself.

Penelope's cheek twitched, like she was trying not to smile, then her expression dropped slightly. "Okay, why is it not comforting when you're being sentimental? What's wrong? Current tied-to-a-chair situation aside, I mean. Did something happen while I was getting cleaned up?"

Reid tilted his head, considering what he hadn't brought up when he'd confronted the brothers about Dean's supposed deaths. "No, but I noticed something on Dean, a strange shaped burn on his arm. It seemed to upset Sam… But no, what bothers me is the arrival of these new hunters. Sam and Dean also keep mentioning people involved in what they do, like the man who owned this cabin, and at first I assumed they were just integrating their associates into their fantasies, but Roy confirmed that there were more of them. People who believe they hunt demons and monsters. I'm starting to think there might be a subculture of hunters. Somehow Sam and Dean have been pushed out by the majority."

"Ghost hunters have their own reality tv shows, but this?" Penelope made a face. "But my time on the ick that is the dark web has taught me that everything, and I mean everything, has a subculture…" She sighed. "OK, I really don't want to suggest this, because I'm actually starting to like these guys a tiny bit, and don't give me that look, but do we think maybe they were kicked out of club demon slayer because they, you know, killed some people? Like real people?"

Reid shook his head. "Maybe but… I think it has more to do with something that happened to them. Either way, Roy said he had a partner on his way here, which means the Winchesters are about to be on the move again. And they'll have to decide what to do with us."

"That doesn't sound great, put that way." Penelope glanced over her shoulder, at the bathroom door. "They could still let us go. They said they would…"

"I don't think Sam and Dean are serial killers."

Penelope turned back, blinking at him in surprise. "Those words sound like my words and not your words. So, you don't think they took the kids either? I wasn't sure if you were just saying that stuff earlier to play along."

"I think the Winchesters are doing what they were raised to do. They're hunting monsters. Whatever they call monsters. And I think they're doing a good job of it, judging from Sam's research, but things are going to go very badly when they confront our real unsubs, and I'm afraid the missing kids are going to get caught in the middle."

"Oh god." Penelope let out a shaky breath. "Also us."

"Also us," Reid confirmed.

"This is not good."

That was an understatement, but Reid cut himself off when he heard the bathroom door opening. He sucked on his teeth, annoyed that he'd wasted what might be his last time to talk to Garcia alone for a while. There were other things they needed to discuss, like how they were going to get out of this in one piece.

Dean walked out of the bathroom without so much as glancing their way, his hand down at his side, gripping his cell phone. Reid assumed the man had tried to have his own private conversation in the other room and been just as unsuccessful from the look on his face.

Reid felt his stomach churn at the thought of Sam not answering, because a part of him hoped that meant the man had been captured when he'd ventured into town. Reid wasn't sure why that possibility worried him. Perhaps because he knew how often armed suspects weren't captured alive. Reid knew he was trained to be concerned with his own safety, and his teammates' safety, before the safety of the suspects, but he couldn't help the bit of nausea that crept in when he thought of the Winchesters going down. This wasn't the first time he'd felt this way; sympathy was one of the drawbacks of getting into the mind of a criminal.

"Is your arm hurting?"

Dean glanced over at him, like he was confused by the question. He straightened like he'd realized he was favoring one side. "I've had worse," he said, distracted. He glanced down at his phone's screen, like he was expecting it to light up. "Come on, Sam," he muttered under his breath.

"I noticed," Reid said, trying to catch his attention. "What happened to your other arm?"

Dean didn't look up at him. "It's a tattoo," he answered.

Dean was brushing him off, but Reid could tell the question had bothered him. Dean turned his back on the pair, digging around in the bag lying on the cot. He found what he was looking for, a half empty bottle of whiskey, and took a swig from it before plopping down on the thin mattress.

"Branding is an interesting form of body modification," Reid mused. "But then, humans have been modifying their bodies by means of piercing, scarring, and ink for thousands of years. Did you know there was an ancient Filipino city known for their full body tattooing? It was called "The Island of the Painted Ones" by the Spaniards who first arrived there."

"Did not know that," Dean answered, glancing down at his phone again.

"Was it consensual?"

This time Dean did give Reid his full attention. "Uh, what are we talking about here?"

Reid nodded his chin toward the man. "The branding. Did you ask for it or did someone give it to you against your will? I only ask because Sam seemed bothered by its appearance. Like it reminded him of something unpleasant."

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it again, his brow wrinkling. "What are you doing? Trying to look for details to fluff up your file on me? Sam warned me not to forget that you're a frickin' profiler. Guess I should've listened…"

Reid licked his lips. He could almost feel Garcia's eyes boring a hole through him, asking him to be quiet, but he had a hard time letting go of the thought.

"Have you been drinking more lately, Dean?"

The question stopped Dean from taking another swig off his whiskey. The man huffed. "Dude, I was just shot. Excuse me for self medicating."

"You're not sleeping well either. Your body movements indicate that you're uneasy, you're feeling aches that aren't there. Your mood is a roller coaster, Dean. And your relationship with Sam is strained, at best. These are all indicators of a mood disorder brought on by trauma."

"Reid," Penelope warned.

"Gee, Doc, you planning to write me a prescription for this?" Dean snapped, and rolled his eyes. "What are you doing exactly? Trying to throw me off my game? What the hell do you care if I'm a little moody? You've already decided I'm a criminal. That I've killed people. What the hell does any of that matter?"

"It matters because you're suffering from post traumatic stress, and it has something to do with that mark on your arm. Why do those hunters think that you died last Spring?"

"Because I did!"

Reid had forgotten how cold it was in the room, but the words seemed to slap him like a cool breeze. He shivered at the anger in Dean's voice, the frustration. The man had sunk back against the wall, like the words had taken all the energy out of him.

"You really want to know?" Dean said, but the question was soft, like he wasn't talking to them anymore. "I got drug down to Hell. Spent my summer vacation on the rack, and then pulled myself up out of the grave after some angelic dickwad decided to yank me from 'perdition'. Because a guy can't get a break just 'cause he's dead." He cut his gaze at Reid. "So there you go. There's you a touch more crazy bullshit to add to the infamous Dean Winchester's file. Happy?"

Reid swallowed hard. "Dean-"

The sound of a buzz cut him off. Dean had slid forward, sitting upright, the phone to his ear before Reid had even realized there was an incoming call.

"Sam, what took you so long?" Dean answered.

Reid tried to listen in but couldn't make out more than a muffled reply, but Dean's expression shifted, and he could tell the hunters were back to business.

"They off-ed their sister?" Dean asked, a look of disgust on his face. "So any idea where Ricky and Casper are holed up these days?"

A sister. The case from eight years ago had involved a sister and brother dying. Ricky must have been the name of the living sibling, Reid realized, and if he was understanding their conversation correctly, Dean and Sam suspected Ricky was their unsub. Before Reid could voice a warning, Dean beat him to the punch.

"Sam, just wait for me first," Dean said, standing. "I can meet you -"

Something cut him off, and Dean all but growled at the phone. "Then swing by and pick me up before you check it out." He quieted a moment, letting his brother reply. "And what if you're right?" he snapped, after a moment.

Whatever Sam had answered hadn't pleased Dean. Dean ended the call with a grimace, pulling his bag up off the cot as he moved. He stopped at the small table, grabbing up a few things Sam had left behind.

"Are you leaving?"

The question came from Garcia. Her eyes were wide in fear at the prospect. Dean froze, giving her a look of regret.

"You'll be fine, ok?" Dean said. "But I need to get to Sam before he gets himself into trouble." The small smile on his face looked forced. "Good new is, that means this is over. If we're lucky, this is the last you'll see of this handsome mug."

"They'll be looking for your car," Garcia warned. "You'll be caught."

"Yeah, well, maybe, maybe not." Dean shrugged off the concern.

"The other hunters," Reid said, swallowing hard. "Dean, you know one of them is headed here."

Dean hesitated at the door, looking back at them. "Walt is probably a way off still, or he wouldn't have sent Roy in on his own. You'll be fine."

Reid knew it was a fine line, arguing with the man. Stopping him from leaving. But he could feel it in his gut, a sense of foreboding.

"You could get us killed," Reid blurted.

And he thought it had worked, for a moment. Dean's face fell. The expression in his eyes something like hurt. Reid had been expecting it. Though the profile on the Winchesters was far from complete, Reid had seen the way Dean had gone out of his way to protect them from getting hurt by Roy.

"What if something happens to you and we're stuck here. If we die, it's on you, Dean. Let us go. You've got to let us go."

Fear flickered across Dean's eyes before he cast them down, shaking his head at the floor. "You'll be ok. I promise."

"Dean!"

But the man was already out the door, a quiet settling over the cabin as the Impala roared to life outside. They could hear the tires spin in the gravel as the car sped off down the narrow drive.

"Spencer," Garcia said, "tell me our team will find us."

"They will," Reid replied, and was surprised to find he meant it. "They just need more time."

He hoped they had it to spare.

It was a longshot, but Sam thought he might be onto something.

He's said something close to that, ending with a curt, "I'll call you when I find out," and ignoring whatever his brother tried to say to stop him.

Dean's voice was still ringing in his ears, but he'd already slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket, keeping a sharp eye on the street signs as he turned down a sleepy neighborhood a few blocks from downtown. An area, he realized with some reluctant satisfaction, that was still close to the center of the map he'd made of the body dump sites.

It had taken a quick re-read of the article on the first murders and a call to a local real-estate group for Sam to figure out another location to check out. Glenn Trapp, victim one, and possibly their vengeful spirit; his body had been found in a small, abandoned business a few miles from his home. While the report itself had given a location for Glenn Trapp's murder, it hadn't been very specific as to why the boy had been there. Then Sam realized that the youngest, Ricky, had been removed from his father's custody. There was barely a mention of it, but if Sam had to guess, he'd say the foster family must have been nearby. Glenn had probably been visiting his brother when he was killed.

Sam didn't like that there weren't more details on Glenn's murder or where his body was laid to rest. Or, if there were, he couldn't get to them while the town was on the lookout for him and Dean. But the one thing they did have going for them was the hope that maybe the feds hadn't looked into this these deaths. After all, they didn't quite fit the pattern.

It was an argument that he'd made to Dean. And it was an argument that Dean couldn't give a rat's ass about. Sam felt the blood warm beneath his skin. He was still on edge from his brother's angry tone. If this was any other hunt, he would have followed Dean's advice, but his brother seemed to be ignoring the fact that they were running out of time on all fronts.

Sam rolled to a stop at a street corner, able to see the structure of the building a block away. It was a quaint building, not very tall, but there was a recognizable mint green sign still hanging from above door, "Florist," written in beautiful script behind the shattered neon bulbs, a metal rose stem drawing a line beneath the word. Even in the distance, Sam could make out the faded painting of another large rose on the glass front window. It didn't look like a serial killer's lair, but he could see the building was longer than it first appeared, extra space and a garage at the back of the fenced in property, the long, angular shape of a greenhouse attached at the side. Plenty of places to hide victims.

There were houses nearby, but none close enough for noisy neighbors to notice any odd coming and going. None close enough to hear the sound of someone screaming, either, Sam guessed, grimacing.

"Sorry, Dean," Sam muttered.

He stepped out of Roy's truck, pulling the duffel bag off the passenger's seat and slinging it over his arm. Hopefully he wouldn't have to use the sawed-off inside, but it was better safe than sorry. Especially if he was right about this. Especially if there was any chance the kids were inside.