Chapter 11: Its Dreadful Imposition

It had been just a glimpse, but Reid had managed to spot Dean as they were bringing him through the department. They'd locked eyes, and Reid had been too curious to see the other man's reaction to take note of his own. When the moment had passed, Reid had been left frowning at the door to the staff room on loan to the BAU.

"He didn't seem surprised to see you." The comment had come from J.J., and Reid almost dropped his cup of coffee. He'd forgotten that she was still in the room behind him, watching at his side. "Sheriff McKinney and the Attalla Police Department are helping us keep this development quiet for the moment, but it won't be long until local media finds out we have Dean Winchester in custody."

Reid hummed a response instead of answering fully, his brow furrowed in thought. J.J. touched his elbow gently, the motion serving to remind him he should be back inside the room. He stepped back to the table, still littered with files, and took a seat. J.J. didn't join him, but stared down, something between concern and relief on her face. It was an expression he was quickly growing used to, especially since he'd refused to stay at the hospital after the EMT checked him out. Penelope had been forced to stick around, with her injured ankle needing an x-ray, but she'd only put up a short fight when she heard that Prentiss would be right behind her to keep her updated.

Reid was certain Hotch and Morgan knew the reason he was putting up a fight, and they'd relented surprisingly quickly. Perhaps because they knew Reid would have more insight than any of them about the man they were leading into interrogation. They were right, but he worried his conclusions might not fit their own profile for the Winchesters.

"But then he wouldn't be surprised, since he was the one who called in the tip," Reid finally said. When J.J. blinked at him, he realized he'd taken far too long to make the comment, and he cleared his throat. "He'd promised me, and Garcia, that he wouldn't let us die there."

J.J.'s smile was tight, accommodating. "I'm glad he kept his word."

"No mention of Sam yet."

It wasn't really a question but J.J. answered him, nevertheless. "Still at large. As is our subject, Ricky Trapp. Though at least we have a name, thanks to you."

Thanks to the Winchesters, Reid wanted to amend, but he kept quiet. He'd filled Hotch in on what Sam and Dean had said about the earlier case, the clues he'd picked up from Dean's phone call about the siblings. It has been easy enough to pick up on a last name. Easier still to confirm that Sam had obviously been right about a possible location for Ricky's victims, since the officers at the scene had recovered the kids.

Reid didn't bother to ask about Roy, and he had a sinking feeling the "hunter" would be one of many loose ends on this case. He already knew what the rest of the team knew, that Deputy Barnel had found rope in the woodshed out back but no captive. Roy was in the wind, a fact that was of more concern to Penelope than the rest of his team. Reid could understand why, and he agreed that Roy likely wouldn't focus on retaliation, but he hoped the roadblocks that were put up for Sam and Ricky netted Roy and the mysterious Walt as well, even if the odds were against it.

This should have felt better, escaping their dangerous abductors, getting the Gravitt boys back alive. But Reid felt a pit in his stomach, that same sense of foreboding that had overcome him when Dean had left them alone in the cabin.

This wasn't over yet.

J.J. glanced down at her phone, grimacing at something on the screen, and Reid could hear the faint sound of its buzz. "I need to take this," she excused.

Hotch was at the doorway as soon as she passed through it, his eyes on Reid, as if scanning him for any tell-tale sign of injury. Instead of his frown lifting, it seemed to deepen slightly, as if the man had been looking for a reason not to voice whatever he was planning to say next.

"He asked for me," Reid assumed.

Hotch was quiet a moment before he answered. "You don't have to if you're not up for it."

Reid stood up, nodding more to himself than Hotch. "I want to. There are a few things I'd like to clear up," he said. "And I'm not sure Morgan should be left alone with Dean for long."

Hotch's cheek twitched slightly. "It wouldn't be advisable." He sobered slightly. "There's a high chance of Sam Winchester trying to find a way to get to his brother. They have a record of coming after one another, causing diversions to allow for the other's escape. We should be expecting to hear from him."

Reid nodded. "If he's able."

Hotch raised a brow.

Reid knew he was reading into it, but his instinct told him he was right to point out the obvious. "Sam wasn't at the abandoned shop. He should have been."

"Prentiss will be interviewing the Gravitt boys to determine how Sam escaped, but they've already confirmed he was there," Hotch replied. "What's that look on your face?"

Dread. Reid didn't answer, looking to the door again. He wanted Hotch to be right, for them to expect Sam Winchester to show himself, but the expression on Dean's face… He had a feeling it was a reflection of his own: they were both expecting the worst.

"I think we should talk to Dean about the case now. He and Sam found Ricky the first time. I think he might know how to find him again."

Dean was certain of two things, one being that the impressively muscular and slightly threatening FBI agent sitting across the table hated him with a passion, despite the fact that they'd only just met at the station. The second thing being that Sam was in trouble.

Time had not been Dean's friend. He'd had to spend too much of it in a police car in front of the florist shop, then being transferred from the station to the sheriff's department, and now in this meat locker that was passing as an interrogation room. The temperature was a typical cop maneuver, but Dean was glad to see that over the past fifteen minutes or so, at least, Agent Morgan was getting to suffer with him, the agent leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

Because he's friggin cold, Dean thought, trying to distract himself by looking the man over, daring to meet his eye. Dean was glad for any observation that would take his mind off the fact that a psycho and his dead sibling were probably deciding how to best torture Sam right now.

Dean tasted bile in the back of his throat and sat up straighter, trying to will the mental image away. He wanted to go back to lying to himself, to believing that Sam had gotten out the back, had probably been behind a hedge watching Dean get arrested, was thinking up a plan to get them out of this… But he couldn't. His gut wouldn't let him.

What he needed to do was think of a way to get out of this mess. Get out of this place. Get Sam.

"Something wrong, Winchester?"

The man's comment might have made him jump a little. Dean covered it up with a petulant pout. "Yeah. Could do with a seat cushion if you're going to have me sitting here all day."

"I'm sure the cot in your cell will be more comfortable," Morgan assured him. "But you strike me as the type of guy who likes to run his mouth. Doubt you'll have any listeners where we're putting you."

"Gee," Dean sighed, "does this mean I get a private room?"

Morgan sat up straight, propping his arms on the table to lean closer. "You itching to be somewhere? Because I hate to tell you, if you're banking on your little brother Sammy having an easier time busting you out in transport, think again. You're not moving an inch from this department until we get him in cuffs too."

Dean bit down a smart-ass reply, trying to keep the annoyance from showing on his face, but he figured it would be misread anyway. He already knew Sam wouldn't be there to save him this time. No one would. He'd hate to admit it to Sam, but he'd even whispered a prayer to that angelic D-bag. Feathers was a no-show. He was on his own here. They were on their own.

"Don't you have a serial killer to find or something?" Dean snapped.

Morgan's brow rose. "You tell me. We after a serial killer here? Or is it a vampire? Maybe the wolf man? What about a demon? Isn't that what your family hunts?"

Dean recognized the bait for what it was, but he wasn't sure why the guy was trying to get a rise out of him. Then the door to the room opened, and he figured he had the reason.

"Oh, look, it's good cop," Dean welcomed, but he smiled faintly at Dr. Reid nevertheless. Reid returned the tight-lipped welcome, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

"Hello, Dean," Reid returned.

Dean saw another agent in a suit shooting him a glance from the doorway before it closed, and if he had to guess, he'd say Mr. Pointed Glare was probably the boss. He figured it would only be a matter of time before they tapped Morgan out and brought in Agent Authority Figure to try and play the role. These guys were smart, but Dean figured that worked against them too, because as good as they probably were at getting the truth out of people, they really, really didn't want to know what was actually going on here.

Reid took the seat next to Morgan, looking like an awkward kid in a waiting room. Dean wished he could have a moment alone with the guy, to talk to him about that last conversation they'd had. He felt a little bad now, losing his cool with him. Reid was just trying to save his own ass, and there was nothing wrong with that.

"Is Penelope okay?" Dean asked.

Reid nodded, and Morgan followed the movement, eyes narrowing slightly when they glanced back at Dean again.

"She'll be fine," Reid answered, quietly. "She's at the hospital getting her ankle checked out." His cheek twitched slightly, but Dean thought the amusement rang false. "She'll be glad you asked about her first."

Dean frowned. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Reid assured.

"Fine. Sure." Dean shook his head. The young agent looked like he was a nervous wreck and Dean didn't blame him. The guy probably thought he was going to die in that cabin. Dean had a feeling that any chance he might have had of Reid, knowingly or unknowingly, helping him find a way out of this situation had evaporated the moment he'd stormed out the door after Sam. "I'm sorry, Spencer."

The words slipped out, and Dean wanted to take them back immediately. His head wasn't on right, and he needed to watch his mouth, but Morgan wasn't wrong about him talking too much, especially when any subject was preferred to the one circling his mind.

"Sorry?" Morgan scoffed. "Which part are you sorry for, Winchester? The part where you kidnapped two of our people and held them captive? Or are you sorry for those grave desecration and destruction of property charges? The credit card fraud? The impersonating of an officer? What about those people you killed? You sorry about them?"

"Morgan," Reid said, quieting him.

"No, let him get it out. The guy's clearly pissed at me, and it's helping him nail the acting," Dean said, the cuffs around his wrists clicking as he waved one hand. "Bad cop wants to try his best to get me riled up, so that I'm defensive and not thinking right when your boss comes in. Mr. Suit and Tie probably thinks that because I listened to my dad's orders, I'll fall in line with him in the room. Then after Agent Authority Figure gets me nice and edgy, Spencer gets to remind me of my little brother, so I'll open up, spill my life story, tell you why I'm an evil son of a bitch …"

Dean trailed off, losing some of his cockiness by the end, because it only brought him back to the thought he was avoiding:

Sam was in trouble, and Dean couldn't do a damn thing to help him.

He blinked hard, and the room was silent for a few moments. When he opened his eyes, Morgan was glancing toward the two way mirror, as if in confirmation. The man stood up quickly after, walking back out the door. Leaving Dean with Reid. It should have been a relief, but Dean like there was a live wire under his skin.

"Are you okay, Dean?" Reid finally voiced.

Dean looked up sharply, surprised by the sincerity of the question. He shook his head, then forced himself to stop. "What the hell does it matter? I'm the criminal, remember?"

Reid stared back at him, looking skeptical. "We didn't have to wait long at the cabin. Our team found us quickly. They said someone called in a tip. It sounded like your voice."

Dean didn't answer, trying to find something to stare at in the small room.

"Roy wasn't in the shed. We think he got away," Reid continued. "We don't know if Walt ever made it to the area, but the locals are keeping an eye out for them."

"Of course he wasn't. The dick," Dean muttered.

Reid leaned forward at the response. "Garcia was worried that Roy might try to get back at her for her part in capturing him."

Dean shook his head. "Nah, guy's probably on the run. He's an asshole, but he won't go after you two. He's stupid, but not that stupid, and the damage is already done."

"That's comforting, I guess."

"One less crazy for you to worry about," Dean noted. "Hope you told your buddy how she smacked the crap out of that guy. He looks like he could use a laugh."

Reid nodded. "Did you find Sam, when you left the cabin?"

Dean shook his head stiffly. "The kids were there. No Sam." He swallowed down the name. "You figure out Ricky Trapp is your 'unsub'?"

Reid's expression said he was clearly affronted.

"Of course you did," Dean said, with a slight grin. "Did Sam write anything down about other locations? Would have left the notes in Roy's truck if he made any. He jots stuff down sometimes, and he said he figured there were a few other places the guy could have been holding the kids."

"They didn't find any notes, but we're compiling a list of our own," Reid said. "One of the agents you met when you were arrested, Rossi, he's headed to the next county, looking into the last place Ricky lived and worked and checking with his past co-workers. Sam didn't mention any other specifics when you were on the phone with him?"

"Wish he had," Dean replied. "By now, you know what I know."

"We've been looking into the Trapp family," Reid mentioned. "There are indicators of child abuse, hospital visits, time off from school, long before CPS stepped in. Then, there are the files on the two murders of the oldest Trapp children...I remembered your side of your conversation with Sam, when you said you believed the surviving sibling, Ricky, and his dead brother, Glenn, had worked together to kill their sister, Gina. How did Sam draw that conclusion?"

"Obviously you don't believe the part about the killer ghost, but yeah, basically." Dean rolled his shoulder and leaned back as far as his cuffs would allow. "Sam checked out their old home and the neighbors talked. He had a hunch that the place where Glenn died would have been important to Ricky, 'cause, you know ghosts, they love to haunt murder scenes."

"I don't know ghosts, actually," Reid noted, sounding far too serious about the subject. "That's why I asked you."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, well. The thing about ghosts is that they usually stick to one place, and the thing that gives them their connection to the world is typically their bones. But Glenn, well, he's figured out a way to see the sites. My guess is he's attached to something, an item that carries a piece of him. Could be something he wore in life, could be Ricky decided to carry around the guy's skull in the back seat. Who knows?"

"So, how would you stop the ghost from travelling?"

"Salt and burn the bones, or whatever's giving them a tie to the world. Spirits don't care for salt, and the burning seems to send them packin'." Dean cocked his head. "You can stop now, you know, this whole indulging the crazy person thing."

"I'm not indulging you," Reid explained. "You're indulging me. Why are you answering my questions, Dean? You don't have to. You know that no one here is going to believe that a ghost is helping the murderer, but you're answering the questions nevertheless."

Dean was quiet. Finally he let out a breath. "Because one day you might need to know."

Reid rapped his fingers across the table, looking down at them intently, as if he were trying to come to a decision. "And you want me to know how to help myself, if I ever face a ghost," he concluded. "To protect myself."

Reid pushed back his chair, standing.

"What now?" Dean asked, awkwardly.

"Now I go do my job," Reid answered.

Bright eyed and solemn, the boys sat side by side on the edge of the exam table in clean pajamas that the pediatrics ward had brought them when their clothes had been taken into evidence. Emily tried not to study them too closely, tried to keep her eyes on theirs, like she wasn't seeing the shadowed bruises on their skin, the little bulges of bandages under their clothes. Their injuries had already been documented, samples taken and tests being run. It had all felt so rushed, that Emily knew the kids were bone tired, emotionally and physically.

But the boys hadn't put up an argument when she'd asked to talk to them. They sat up straight as tin soldiers, their arms down at their sides. She noticed the way their shoulders brushed, their elbows knocking together, as if they wanted to stay aware of each other's presence, and her throat tightened. She hoped to God they didn't get separated again. It would be imperative to their recovery.

A woman from child services was sitting on a chair at the side of the bed, her gaze drifting from them to the agent, as if she wasn't sure what to expect. She was pale, her hair and dress suit the same tint as the beige walls, and she seemed to want to fade into them. Emily would have to guess this was probably her first time dealing with kidnapped children, and that wasn't a bad thing. She'd probably let Emily ask far more than she should, especially without the father present.

Emily tried to hide the sour taste in her mouth with a small, encouraging smile, but she was sure her feelings toward Mr. Gravitt had shown clearly enough when the man hadn't been sober enough to stay in the room while his children were questioned.

"Can I have the coat back?" Thomas said.

The youngest had been silent since she'd arrived, and Emily shifted in her chair. "Are you cold?" she asked. "The nurse can get you a warm blanket if you'd like."

The boy shook his head, looking put out. "It wasn't my coat. The man gave it to me, but I think I was supposed to give it back. The policewoman took it though."

Emily straightened. She hadn't heard about a coat, but she assumed it was taken in as evidence, along with the black Chevy the kids had been found inside.

"I'm sure he won't mind if we keep it a bit longer," she said, and caught Michael rolling his eyes. The older boy looked away from her, annoyed, so she focused her attention back on Thomas. "When did the man give it to you?"

Thomas shrugged his narrow shoulders, then winced in pain. "After the tall man saved me -"

"Sam," Michael corrected. "The tall guy was called Sam. The other guy was Dean. He said they were brothers."

Thomas nodded like he'd known as much. "Sam told me to get out. Then I ran into the other guy...Dean...on the sidewalk, and he gave me his coat and told me to find the blanket in his car. He promised he was going to get Michael. I don't when it was. Right before the police came."

Emily nodded along with the words. "Had you ever seen either of those men before?"

Another shrug of his shoulders. Michael shook his head, frustrated.

"Why are you asking about Sam and Dean? Those are the guys who saved us." Michael blurted. "Aren't you going to ask about the dicks who hurt us?"

Emily's brow furrowed as she noted Michael's quickly forged loyalty to the Winchesters. It chilled her that such dangerous men had so easily earned the kid's trust, but his response was a common one. She'd often seen it in victims of trauma discussing the rescue workers who'd come to their aid, but there was another detail in his response that held her attention. "Was there more than one person who took you and your brother?"

Michael froze, his mouth tight, like he was holding back. "No. Just one person. His name was Ricky."

Thomas glanced up at his brother, frowning, and Michael caught his eye, shaking his head. Emily frowned, realizing they were hiding something.

"If there was someone else involved, you can tell me," Emily assured. "Neither of you will be in trouble for telling me. We can keep you safe."

Even as she said it, she felt an icy stab of guilt. How was Michael ever going to believe such an assurance after she'd been the one to lose him. She was almost surprised when the kid didn't take such an easy shot against her.

"You wouldn't believe us if we did," Michael said, instead.

He leaned back slightly, head down, arm pressed firmly against his brother. He was retreating from the conversation. Emily straightened, trying to give him space.

"Michael, we need to know what happened," she tried softly. "Let's start over okay? From the beginning."

"I don't want to," Thomas said, fiddling with his fingertips. "I want to go home."

"Soon," Emily promised, and she kept her eyes off of the woman to the side, blending into the walls. She wasn't entirely sure that promise would work out if Mr. Gravitt couldn't pull himself together. "I just need to ask a few more questions. I wouldn't ask them if it wasn't important, but we need to catch the man who did this before he hurts someone else."

"He got him," Michael said, his voice so soft, Emily barely caught the comment.

Thomas heard him clearly enough, his lip out slightly in a frown that made him look impossibly younger. Emily wished she could just let him go back to being a nine-year-old instead of putting him through this.

"Are we talking about the night Thomas was taken?" Emily asked.

Michael's gaze raised, bright, wet. "That's why you're asking about the guys who saved us, right? Because the… the bad guy, he took Sam, didn't he?"

Emily swallowed hard. "Why would you think that, Michael?"

Michael reached up, pinching between his eyes, like he could hide the wetness gathering there. His jaw tightened. "Because it's the last thing I saw before I ran away. He was standing behind Sam...He was going to hurt him, and I ran." He shook his head angrily. "I ran instead of helping, and then Sam never came out."

Emily reached out, lightly touching the boy's hand. "You did the right thing, Michael. You couldn't have taken him on your own. It was good that stayed with your brother."

The words spilled out of her like a recording, but her thoughts were travelling in an entirely different direction. She needed to get in touch with Hotch now. She wasn't sure how this was going to help them, but the team needed to know. Their killer already had another victim.

Sam's vision blurred slightly from the blow. It hadn't been the hardest punch he'd ever taken, not by any means. Whatever the ghost had done when he'd grabbed hold of Sam's head, that had been what had winded him. He had barely regained his wits when he realized both of his arms were tied, spread wide and apart and forcing his back flat against a cement block wall.

He blinked again, his blood rushing as he vaguely remembered being lead from the garage, then pushed down the stairs by gunpoint, the ghost meeting him in the basement with a smile. The restraints themselves were a blur. He leaned his head forward, turning to see that each wrist was tied to a shelf bracket. The low shelf's plank must have been removed easily enough, but the brackets were screwed well into the stone.

Sam opened and closed his fists, testing the knots on the rope, and bit back a groan of frustration when they didn't give. The position was an awkward one, his long torso allowing him to sit if his arms were painfully outstretched. He scrambled to pull his legs under him and raise himself to his knees and realized his boots were missing. That couldn't be good.

"Save your strength. We'll be starting soon."

The voice startled him, and he realized that it had come from across the basement, past the shadowy silhouette of the staircase. The dim yellow light at the center of the space didn't do much to help him see, but when Ricky moved, he realized the man was sitting next to a card table, watching him.

"Guess you had to find a new place to take your victims," Sam noted, hating that his voice slurred a bit. Whatever the ghost had done to him had left him feeling like he'd been drinking shots all morning. "Sorry about that."

Ricky shrugged. "The owners are out of town. They left their grandfather to house-sit, unfortunately."

Sam shook his head. "Guess if you were willing to kill children, I shouldn't be surprised that you'd hurt the elderly," he sneered. "Is that how you and your brother get your jollies? Murdering people who can't defend themselves?"

"Being old didn't make him a saint," Ricky snapped. "He might have been clean cut and had a nice job, nice house, perfect little family, but he was almost as mean as my pops. Just in a different way."

Sam's brow lifted in understanding. No wonder he couldn't remember the ride here. It hadn't lasted long at all. They were only a mile or so from the closed-down flower shop. "This was the foster family you stayed with."

Ricky didn't answer

Sam could make out the shape of the man better as his eyes adjusted to the light. Ricky's dark eyes glimmered brightly as he rubbed at his temple with prodding finger, the shadow of a grimace on his face. His hand was shaking as he reached out for something on the table. A pill bottle, Sam realized, as he heard its contents rattle.

Another form materialized next to Ricky. Glenn had died a teenager, and from the distance, even Sam would have thought he looked young and lanky, harmless. The ghost bent over, forcing Ricky to meet his eye.

"Not too many of those," Glenn warned. He reached out, touching his brother's shoulder lightly. "I know it hurts, but it won't be long now."

"We have to hurry," Ricky said, so softly that Sam could barely hear him. "We can't wait much longer."

"It'll be okay," Glenn assured. "This'll turn out for the best, just watch. You didn't want to use any little kids anyway, did you?"

Ricky shook his head, looking petulant. "But how do we know his brother is going to come. The cops -"

Sam stilled at the mention of Dean. In the back of his mind, he'd been sure of the same thing, that Dean would come after him, no matter what. But for once he hoped his brother didn't read into the clues.

"Don't worry about them," Glenn assured. "He'll get here soon. We'll make sure of it. Just concentrate on doing your part. It's your favorite, after all, the watching."

"I can do that," Ricky finally said.

He reached across the table, picking up something small and boxy. Sam didn't recognize what it was until the man flipped open one side, the screen casting his face with a sinister blue glow. A digital camcorder. Sam swallowed hard, his fingers curling into fists as the Trapp brothers both turned their attention to him.

Glenn smiled slowly. "Let's send big brother our invitation."