Chapter 10: One But Not the Same

If the perfume of long dead flowers still hung in the air, Sam couldn't detect it over the stale scent of decay. There, under the mold and dust, was a metallic tingle at his nose, the scent of blood. He knew it wasn't his imagination the same way he knew that he wouldn't need to pull the EMF meter from his bag. Instead, as soon as he had both feet on the ground and the old shattered window closed behind him, he pulled free the sawed-off.

The room he'd entered through was part of the main shop, the askew counter at the center still recognizable without a cash register, the glass shelves behind it in ruins and the backsplash of broken mirror reflecting dim afternoon light around the narrow space. Sam didn't want to risk cleaning off the front windows for better light, so he pulled a short flashlight from his jacket pocket, lining it up against the length of his weapon.

The shop was empty, the detriment of years past still a solid blanket over the tiled floor. He didn't see any footsteps but his own in the dust. All that told him was that Ricky didn't use the space, which made sense considering the wall of filthy windows along the front of the building.

Sam took a step back, sweeping the space once more before deciding on the darkened doorway to the left of the counter top. The narrow hallway's cheap paneling seemed to swallow the beam from his flashlight, but he moved on, trying to keep his steps quiet. The door to the first room he came to was open, a tiny restroom that smelled foul, so he moved back into the hallway quickly, spotting the next doorway, then an opening to his left, probably to the greenhouse. He chose the room on the right first, noticing the narrow width of the door frame. It was too slender to be anything but a closet.

He twisted the knob, pushing the door in as slowly as possible. But it took him another second to realize the squeak hadn't come from the hinges but from inside. Sam almost stumbled back when his light landed on the cage. Some part of him wasn't ready to see movement, but when the kid's eyes opened, startled and squinting at the blinding light, Sam let out a shaky breath of relief. Another squeak sounded; no, a whimper, as the kid tried to curl in on himself against the far wall.

Sam lowered the light, stepping forward, but he couldn't get much closer.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. I'm here to help. Are you Thomas?"

Sam already knew the answer. He'd seen the nine-year-old's face plastered on the news. He took a quick glance at the cage, realizing what it was. Someone had modified a roll of garden fencing, nailing it to the wall just past the swing of the closet door and cutting out a door that was chained back into place. The result was an enclosure that was as tall as the room, but barely four feet wide.

"They're coming back," Thomas said, in answer, but he lifted his head off of his knees, as if to see Sam better. There was some light in his eyes, hope, Sam recognized, and the kid pushed himself up onto his feet. "We have to hurry. They said they'd be right back!"

Sam tried to resist the urge to shush the kid, instead gesturing a finger to his lips. Thomas took the hint but stayed focused on the man, more alert than Sam would have ever imagined.

"Where's your brother?" Sam asked, his voice at a whisper. "Is Michael in the building?"

Thomas nodded, pushing up against the cage door. And pointing out at the hallway. "They won't let me see him again ... but I hear him."

There was a shake to his voice, a tremor he tried to hide, and Sam felt his jaw tighten with anger. He knew what the kid wasn't saying. What Thomas meant was that he could hear his brother screaming, crying out for help. Things a child should never have to hear. Sam was suddenly pissed at the neighbors a few blocks away. Did none of them ever walk by? Did they never notice anything weird happening here? But he buried the ill-aimed frustration. It was pointless, and he had work to do.

"Watch out," Sam warned and sat the shotgun against the wall, reaching down to the cage's corner, where the fencing flushed against the floor and curled upward slightly. He hoped the construction was as flimsy as it looked. He grabbed on tight, bracing a foot against the wall before he jerked the corner up. A nail popped loose, bouncing against the floor. Sam grunted, pulling again. He felt a few more inches pull free from the wall. Sam's shoulders screamed at him to stop, but he re-positioned his fingers and gave a yank, grunting as he tried to pull another nail free.

Thomas fell to the floor without a word, shimmying against the tile to push his head and shoulders through the tiny gap. It wasn't big enough for an adult to fit through, but Thomas was in a hurry to give it a try. He was half through when he froze, and Sam had heard it too, the sound of metal clicking. A garage door sliding down.

Sam knelt down, pulling the kid the rest of the way out, and shoving him past the closet door as soon as he was on his feet. He grabbed him by the shoulder, steadying him.

"Thomas," he whispered. He hated himself a little for having to send the kid off alone, but he couldn't see another option. "There's a window with a broken latch right past the hallway. I want you to get through it and get to the sidewalk, okay? Run down it until you see a house. Wave down help."

Thomas' eyes widened. "But Michael…"

"I'll find your brother, I promise."

Sam reached back for his shotgun, wincing at the too-loud sound of Thomas' footsteps as he ran toward the front of the building. He marched forward, finger on the trigger, but realized that there was one more doorway before the dead end into the garage. Sam slipped in quietly, softly pushing the door closed behind him. He doubted it would buy him more than a few seconds, if Ricky didn't already know he was around.

His cell phone was already in his free hand, his thumb hovering over the keyboard and ready to type, but the signal lost notice was glaring up at him and he bit back a grunt of annoyance before pocketing it. Hopefully he'd make it out of it here without Dean getting a chance to say, "I told you so."

Sam looked up, studying his new hiding spot. The room was almost as wide as the shop up front, a spacious workroom with a glass cooler door at the far corner and a line of wooden tables scattered with crumbling ribbons and busted vases. There was a stack of neatly folded quilts a few feet away, topped with a fluffed pillow that seemed fresh and oddly out of place. Then, there was a door straight across from him, no doubt an exit into the hallway he hadn't chosen that opened from the far side of the shop. For a moment, he was so distracted by the sudden means of escape that he didn't even see the kid's still, long form pushed flush against the wall.

"Shit," he muttered.

Sam ran toward the back of the room, almost slipping in a puddle. He glanced down, realizing the dark shadows against the white and black tile were blood, some of it thick but fresh, some of it molding and old. He closed his mouth against the smell, collecting himself quickly to get across the space.

The kid's eyes were piercing, fiercely focused on him, but they glinted with wetness, just like his brother's. This was another face he knew from the news: Michael Gravitt.

The boy was straining against his binding, whatever greeting he had for Sam lost behind a gag. Sam shook his head, a finger at his lips once more, and pulled the gag free. Michael gave him a pointed glare that reminded him too much of Dean and jerked his head toward his raised arms. It took Sam a minute to realize that the thin nylon ropes looping over the kid were held in place by large builder's staples. He yanked a line of them loose, stopping when he saw Michael's grimace.

Blood spotted the kid's shirt, and Sam winced, realizing some of the staples had missed the wall behind.

"Hurry," Michael bit, his face screwed up. Sam knew that expression. It was one he'd worn more than once when Dean was patching him up, and he hated seeing it on a kid.

Trying to make it fast, Sam pulled at the next rope, instantly grabbing the ones below and yanking them free. He took a step back when only the ones around the boy's legs remained, letting Michael pull himself out of the tangle of nylon.

Sam felt a chill across his skin. His breath clouded at his lips at the sudden drop in temperature, and Michael stumbled away from him, eyes wide in horror. Sam didn't need to turn to know what was behind him.

"I told my brother that wouldn't hold," it said.

Roy's truck was waiting for him a block from the location, parked just out of common view, and Dean didn't need to look twice to know that Sam wasn't inside it. Dean could feel it, the pressure behind his eyes, the cold in his veins, the instincts that told him when a job was about to go south in a hurry. He would have thought that had already happened, but things, as he'd learned throughout the years, could always get worse.

Grimacing, he pulled the Impala over close to the truck, barely glimpsing in his rearview to see if anyone was watching. By some miracle, he'd managed to stay off the main roads enough to avoid detection, from what he could tell, but it would only be a matter of time before someone spotted Baby and sent the cops to check her out.

Fine. He worked better with a deadline anyway.

He glanced down at his phone, which had seemed all but useless on the way here, sending him straight to Sam's voicemail after every dial. If Sam wasn't actually in danger right now, Dean knew his brother was going to want to throttle him if he followed through on this next call. Because there was a chance he was wrong, that Sam was checking out an empty place and that they weren't any closer to finding this killer and his pet ghost. Hiding from the feds and the locals would be nearly impossible in about an hour. Which meant they were going to have to risk leaving the job unfinished, a conclusion that left Dean's stomach sour.

But both his options were bad ones right now. Roy's buddy Walt was probably on his way. And Sam, if true to form, was probably right about the ghost and wrong about going at it alone. They were screwed either way, and the least he could do would be to keep a promise.

"Etowah County Sheriff's Department."

Dean winced, considering hanging up one last time before he let out a stilted breath. "County Road 14, there's an unmarked turnoff to a property at the fork. The feds will find their people there."

"Sir, do - "

Dean all but jumped out, a makeshift weapons bag already at his side, and he nearly ran into the kid before he actually saw him.

"My brother needs help!"

Two small, shaking hands grabbed his free one. Out of instinct, Dean almost pushed him away, but he knew the panicked face looking up at him. The child couldn't have been ten yet, and he looked even younger in his layer of dust, the side of his face swollen slightly from a blow. Eyes wide in realization, Dean knelt down, forcing Thomas' wandering gaze to stay on him.

"Thomas? Hey, kid, calm down, okay. You're safe."

Dean looked past the kid long enough to see the quiet building down the block, the old flower shop Sam had said he was going to check out. Wish I didn't need to say I told you so, Sam, Dean thought, bitterly. The kid must have taken off across the street toward him when he saw the Impala.

"The tall man said he was going to save Michael," Thomas said, sounding breathless. He trembled, either from shock or the cold. The kid was in a short sleeved shirt, and a second glance told Dean some of that dirt on his arms was actually splotchy looking bruises. Dean figured he'd regret it soon, but he slipped off his jacket, hanging it off the kid's narrow shoulders. He hoped the kid was too distracted to notice the bullet hole in the sleeve, or the dark stain in the lining.

"Yeah, kid, the giant's with me. He still inside?"

"He's still in there. He told me to run but I can't without Michael," Thomas said, eyes wet. His chin shook and he looked younger than his nine years. "And I think the bad guys are back. We need to get help."

"I am the help, kid," Dean assured. "See that black car? There's a blanket in the back. Get inside and hide back there. I'll be right back. You hear me? I'll be right back. We'll get Michael, okay?"

Thomas nodded. "Okay."

Dean hoped the kid listened, but he didn't look back to find out. He crossed the street at a run. A quick glance at the front of the building, with its hedge of weeds and layer of dirt told him his brother probably hadn't bothered with it. He turned a corner and found the side wall's second window wide open, probably from the kid climbing through.

He pulled his sawed-off free, wondering if Sam had brought his own salt rounds with him. Raised him better, Dean thought, wanting to smile at the thought of his brother daring to go in unprepared. It came out as a grimace instead.

As soon as he got closer, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand. The window's hinge squeaked as it rocked outward, a sliver of its shattered pane coming loose and hitting the ground below. Dean raised the shotgun, ready to fire, but a sneaker appeared through the opening, tapping the window open even further, and was followed by a leg. The form that jumped out, landing hard on his knees, was too small to be Sam's. The boy looked up, startled to find Dean looking down at him, but Dean dropped the gun slightly, a hand raised in peace.

"Michael?" Dean whispered.

Michael looked over his shoulder, up at the open window, and must have decided he had better chances with the stranger. He stumbled up to his feet, and Dean could tell he was more dazed that his little brother had even been, barely able to stay upright. Blood stained his clothes, little spots and tears that Dean didn't want to think about too hard.

"Michael, I'm Dean, alright? My brother Sam, tall guy, hair too long, he inside still?"

Michael straightened, looking more alert. "Sam," like he needed to know his name. "He got me loose, but the… It came back. Sam told me to run."

The ghost, Dean filled in for him, shaking his head.

"There's a black car a block over. You'll see it. Thomas is inside."

Michael didn't wait to hear any more instructions. He was around the corner before Dean reached the window. Dean hopped through the threshold, his knees creaking at the sharp landing on the tile inside, but he didn't have time to take things slowly. He listened, hoping for sounds of a struggle. When he heard none, he quickly chose the likeliest path, into the darkness.

The hallway was short, with too few doors, and he couldn't help but feel he should have heard something already.

"Screw it," Dean muttered under his breath. He raised his voice to a shout, "SAM!"

And tightened his grip on the sawed-off, ready to shoot at whatever came out of the woodworks. But nothing stepped out of the shadows. The building was quiet. Empty.

No...No…

Dean ran forward, glancing past the doors as he swept past. A bathroom, a greenhouse, and an empty cage. The hell? The last room, Dean didn't even pretend to look at past the blood, the ropes. Sam's shotgun.

Dean swallowed hard, not wanting to think about those red spills on the floor, not wanting to see how fresh some of them were. He backed out of the room, heading to the back of the store, where the hall opened up. A garage awaited. A dingy once-white delivery truck sat on two flat tires, its hood raised and its motor looted for parts. Light cut around its square corners from the open rolling door.

Dean swept the room and told himself that sound he was hearing wasn't his heart beat, too loud, deafening. He held down his panic. Sam might have slipped out the back, tried to go after the bad guys. One of them was a human. Sam could have taken the human (the serial killer, Dean), held back the ghost with salt rounds (the gun was left in the room, Dean), could have circled around the back to go look for the kid (but didn't hear you call his name?). Dean swore at the voice in his head, the one telling him the truth he knew he was avoiding.

Sam was gone. He was gone.

Dean ran out the back rolling door, taking the dirt drive at full speed, toward the black top road. He needed to get back to the car, or Roy's truck...Maybe Sam had left some notes, other locations where -

"Drop the weapon!"

Dean's plan was cut short at the front of the store. His vision seemed to blur for a minute as he took in the two marked cars parked to block the road, uniformed officers pointing handguns his way. There was another cop car further down the road, at the Impala. He had no clue how they'd gotten there so fast. Someone must have spotted the Impala. As predicted.

But the kids are alright, he thought, solemnly. And there was a chance, slim one, that Sam might have gotten away, hid when he saw the police. (They take the youngest first.) Dean dropped the gun to the ground, numbly raising his hands above his head and wanting to scream.

It had been silent, frustratingly quiet, the new profiles they'd presented sitting inside them like lead weights. Then, two bites, all at once. The first, a concerned citizen had mentioned seeing a black classic car, an Impala, they were sure. The second, a man had called in an address.

"The feds will find their people there."

Morgan had listened to the recording with the others, minutes after it had come in through the county's tip line, and had felt a terrifying mixture of emotions at the words. Because this was what he'd needed, something, anything to propel them forward. And this is what he'd also dreaded.

Morgan would have thought he would have been the first one out the door at the mere hint of a location, but his feet stayed glued to the floor.

Thinking the Winchesters wouldn't hurt his teammates and knowing for sure were two very different things. Especially if that was one of the brothers calling in the tip - and it sure as hell sounded like Dean Winchester's recordings - because it begged the question: why? Why now? What had changed. If Reid was on the other side of this, he would be the one bringing up Schrodinger's Cat right now, but Morgan didn't have the guts to voice it. He buried it deep, hoping no one else could see he was scared to know if he was wrong. If he was going to find two bodies out there.

"Did you hear me, Morgan?"

Morgan blinked realizing that no, he hadn't heard Hotch. The unit leader was staring at him intensely.

"You're with me. The sheriff knows the place. It's a cabin about fifteen miles outside the city limits. Rossi and Prentiss are on the Impala sighting since they're already nearby." Hotch paused, even as it seemed everyone was rushing around the office, salmon swimming upstream. "We're going to get our people back."

It was an echo of a promise, and Morgan could see the sincerity in Hotch's eyes. He needs me to believe it, Morgan thought, so he can believe it too. Morgan nodded stiffly.

They had an escort for the trip there. Flashing lights and ignored speed signs, Morgan could imagine what the locals were thinking when they pulled off the narrow county roads to let them pass. With four people missing in small town America, they were no doubt thinking another body had been found. Morgan hoped they'd all be proved wrong.

He wondered if he'd blacked out for some of the ride, if Hotch had said anything that he'd ignored, given any orders or assurances. Morgan was vaguely aware of his phone vibrating, but he knew if it was important it would go to Hotch first. They were there, ready, the sheriff's men parked ahead, out of their vehicles already, falling into formation, and Morgan joined the group.

It was a blur, the short wait, scoping out the windows of the cabin, checking the exterior for any unwelcome surprises. By the time they pushed open the front door, Hotch at lead, Morgan thought he might burst out of skin.

"Hotch, Morgan!"

He let out a breath as soon as he heard the welcome. His vision seemed to sharpen, losing the blur around the edges when he saw them, alive, breathing. Reid was talking a mile a minute, but Morgan only processed the obvious:

They're alive.

The sheriff swept the room again, a few of his people shuffling past, guns still at the ready, but Morgan had already holstered his, heading to his teammates. Hotch took the choice from him, moving to the back of Reid's chair, so Morgan smiled tightly at Garcia, bending to one knee to check out her bindings.

Her hair was a bit of a mess, and her face devoid of its usual colorful accents, but she looked whole, unbroken. His girl.

"The sight of your face has never been more awe inspiring, my chocolate Hercules," Penelope greeted, sighing in relief as he tugged her arm free.

"Right back at you, beautiful," Morgan returned, catching her as she lunged forward as soon as her arms were loose, hugging him around the neck.

Morgan pushed himself up, half standing to return the embrace and reaching behind her to tangle his fingertips in her hair. When she pulled back, her eyes were wet, but her lips were turned up in a smile.

"I swear I'm never leaving the office again," she said, with a harsh chuckle. "I'm leaving the field work to you from now on."

Morgan wanted to smile back at her, but the words reminded him that she should never have had to be put in danger like this. Anger stayed at the surface, right under his skin, burning its ways through his eyes.

"...They left, Dean less than an hour ago, and I think they have a lead on where the kids are. The Winchesters aren't our unsubs, Hotch, but I think Sam might have identified the person we're after."

Morgan turned, catching part of what Reid was saying. Reid wobbled as he stood, either out of excitement or from sitting too long, and Hotch kept a hand at his back, to help him up. Morgan hoped their kidnappers had given them food and water. He gave Reid a quick, assessing look, but he couldn't see any visible injuries on the younger agent. And while he was trembling slightly from the chill, his eyes were bright with awareness. He looked nothing like he did the night they saved him from Tobias Hankel, and the realization ebbed some of that rage Morgan was feeling. He still wanted to take down the Winchesters with all his might, but he was no longer afraid of what he'd do to them when he found them.

Morgan didn't want to think about what he would have done if either of them had been hurt.

"Do you know where they were headed?" Hotch asked.

Reid nodded. "Not the exact location, but I know how to find it."

Morgan shook his head at the kid, still hard at work, but the thought sobered him. There were two children still missing, and he had no right to feel as glad as he did right now. He turned his gaze down, hoping none of them could read the conflict on his face, and spotted the splintered holes in the floor.

"Are those bullet holes?"

Penelope huffed out an unamused laugh. "Oh boy are they. We have some catching up to do." She looked past him, to Reid, as if she'd just realized something. "Oh, that reminds me. Hotch, there might be a bad guy locked in the woodshed out back…It's been a long twenty-four hours."

Morgan blinked at her, surprised. Had it really only been a day? He felt like he'd been running at full throttle for a week.

"Agent Hotchner?" Sheriff McKinney interrupted. "The Attalla police just radioed in. You're not going to believe this, but they just picked up Dean Winchester and the Gravitt kids."

Sam blinked dumbly at the white metal framing, something wet and warm sliding down his face and threatening to drip into his eyes. He wanted to ask where he was, but it came out muffled against the thick wad of fabric shoved into his mouth and taped into place. It took him a long moment to realize that he was inside a vehicle, a van, and that it wasn't moving anymore. But he was moving, tight fingers tugging at his ankles, sliding his body down the plastic sheeting over the van's mildewed carpet.

He couldn't remember the drive, whether it was a long one or a short one. In fact, it couldn't remember being put in the van at all, and the sudden worry that he'd been out for far too long brought him to awareness.

He curled his fingers, testing the binding around his wrists but it was unyielding. His legs were tied just as well, but he figured if he pulled his knees up, he might get in one good kick to Ricky's chest. Before he could test the theory, he dropped suddenly, the weight of his body losing its battle with gravity at the edge of the van's back door.

The concrete hit like a gut punch and Sam groaned, desperately wishing his mouth was free so he could catch his breath.

He watched a man's shoes walk past him, heard the back door slam shut above him, and he tried to concentrate on where he was instead of the pain lancing through him. After a second, it became clear that he was staring at a garage door, a line of shelves next to him holding dusty paint cans and water hoses, rakes and shovels, a milk crate with a baseball glove and a football peeking over the top. A house then, someone's house, and Sam hoped to God the owners weren't home.

Sam froze. He could feel someone watching him.

"We lost them..." The man's voice came out as a panicked hiss, like he couldn't quite force himself to yell. "Glenn, what are we going to do? We lost the boys."

Another voice joined in, one that Sam recognized from the florists'. He'd heard it a second before the pain had struck.

Glenn, the dead brother.

"Shh, now, Ricky. We'll be alright. I saw the other one, right before you got out of Dodge. He was marching up to the place, all tough shit… A big brother if I ever saw one, come to save his little brother, just like he should." Glenn's pale face appeared in front of Sam's line of sight, his head cocked mockingly as he stooped down. "That was your big brother wasn't it? You don't have to answer. I've come to recognize family when I see it. The look they get in their eyes when they know the blood that's gonna spill is the same that's flowing through their veins. Yeah. That was your brother back there."

Sam was dead still, glaring daggers at the ghost, but Glenn slowly smiled. His image flickered like static on a television and he disappeared. His voice was across the garage when he spoke again.

"Nothing has to change."

"But they're not the ones we wanted." Ricky's voice came out like a whine, childish despite his age. "The kids were supposed to be easier. That's why you picked them!"

"Doesn't matter if they're easier, because I'm stronger now. You've got to trust me. We'll make do with what we've got."

"I do trust you, Glenn."

"Then all we need to do is try extra hard this time, little brother. Need to get their lessons in real fast. The better we break 'em, the better our chances. It's gonna work. Just you see."

Sam took a deep breath through his nose, bracing himself. He knew what was coming next. For once, he wished he'd gone into a case unprepared.