Chapter 12: My Best Unbeaten Brother

It was the calm before the storm.

There was a busy, frantic nature to the sheriff's department that was lacking now. It wasn't a complete ghost town, and in actuality more people than before were now on board with the case. Before the boys had been recovered, extra agents from the Birmingham field office had arrived to do their part, the city police station calling in every officer they had for the joint operation. Now that the kidnapping was no longer priority, that force was spread out across the county, looking for their subject. An unsub who was no longer unknown, but had a name, a face, a history.

Morgan knew he should feel confident. They'd captured an infamous criminal, recovered their people, recovered their victims, and the profile, their best weapon, would be stronger than ever thanks to the history they were gathering on Ricky Trapp. This was the part of the case they lived for, saving people, taking down the bad guys.

So why did he feel like he was sitting still, waiting for something terrible to happen.

"This doesn't feel right, Hotch," he finally voiced.

Hotch didn't answer, watching Reid as they exited the viewing room and the younger agent joined them in the short hallway outside the interview room. He wordlessly tilted his head slightly, directing the two agents to follow him back to the work space they'd taken over, and Morgan understood his silence as an agreement. The unit chief wanted to talk to them in private, probably about the interview they'd just watched Reid perform.

Morgan wondered if Hotch felt as conflicted as he did over the easy way Reid was able to talk to the guy. He'd seen Reid connect with criminals before - it was part of the job - but there was something more genuine in the way he'd spoken to Dean Winchester, and for some reason, that raised Morgan's hackles in a way he hadn't expected.

"What was that back there?" Morgan blurted, as soon as they closed the door behind them.

Hotchner shot him a pointed glance, keeping him from going on, and Morgan realized he'd either overstepped or voiced what Hotch was thinking. Probably the latter, even if the man didn't admit it.

"What was your take-away from that interview?" Hotch asked, refocusing on Reid.

Reid shifted his weight slightly, rolling his lips in to bite them, a nervous tic Morgan usually noticed appeared when Reid was about to change direction with a theory.

"I don't think Dean is withholding any information on Trapp, but I think we should leave the line of communication open. Dean's a protector, Hotch. If he had a way to protect others, even by simply sharing information, I think he would," Reid said, leaning against the work table.

Morgan could see how tired he was, near ready to collapse, and he suddenly wished they'd made Winchester wait longer before engaging. Reid hadn't been ready for a confrontation. Maybe none of them had been. Morgan wanted to talk to Hotch again, alone. Point out what they'd skipped right over; the interview they should have had with Reid. They'd talked to him, gotten a quick glimpse of what had happened in that cabin, in that overly-Reid way he liked to speed through stories, but they hadn't interviewed him yet. Or Garcia. It was a misstep on their part, he was realizing. He wondered if Hotch was thinking the same thing.

"We know the guy has a savior complex," Morgan said, shaking his head, "but it extends mostly to his brother. His protection of his brother trumps everyone else in Winchester's head. He could still be holding back if he was afraid it would put Sam in danger."

Hotch cocked his head slightly at Reid, ignoring Morgan's comment. "Was he protective of you and Penelope when you were taken?"

Reid's cheek twitched. "He went out of his way to make sure we were comfortable and fed, and when the gunman appeared, he and Sam checked to make sure we were safe first. It was sincere, Hotch. As delusional as their belief in the boogeyman might be, both of these men choose to protect those who can't protect themselves. In their minds, that's what it means to be a hunter. It's not just about finding a monster to kill, it's about saving the monster's victims."

"I hear you, Reid," Morgan said, shaking his head, "and I'm sure in their messed up heads, that's what they think they're doing, but these guys abducted you to keep themselves hidden. They put you in direct danger."

"Because lives were on the line," Reid said. "They did it to give themselves more time to find the unsub… Their monster. In this case, a ghost, it appears. And they did, find him, I mean. They might have adjusted the history to fit their story, but they still found out about the Trapp family before we did. They're decent profilers."

Hotch straightened. "Serial killers also make decent profilers," he noted, an echo of something they'd said in times past.

Reid made a face, like he'd sucked on a lemon, and Morgan could read the younger agent's response well enough. "You don't think Dean Winchester is a killer, do you?" Morgan scoffed.

"Have you read the report from St. Louis?" Reid returned. "It's inconsistent, which is something I pointed out to Agent Henricksen when he wanted my opinion on the Winchesters' profiles. And the case in Baltimore, where Dean was framed by a detective, the real killer's partner, a Detective Diana Ballard even -"

"The ex-homicide detective," Morgan interrupted. "The woman who flushed her career after the incident with her partner."

Hotch tapped him lightly on the arm, and Morgan almost went off before catching himself. He was worked-up more than he should have been, and he knew full well his frustration needed to be directed at the Trapp case instead of this. But he also knew why it was getting under his skin. He'd thought they, his teammates, his family, were going to die. He'd been scared out of his mind that he was about to lose two people he cared deeply about. And he was supposed to, what, be subjective about the assholes who'd taken them?

He shook his head but realized that Hotch had alerted him for another reason. Garcia was tromping toward the glass door to the work room, Prentiss close to her side, as if to keep her from toppling over. The analyst seemed to wobble in the over-sized medical boot over her foot.

"Aren't you supposed to be in the hospital?" Hotch asked.

Morgan saw the hint of a smile on the otherwise stern man's face, and knew that she wouldn't be sent back any time soon. Garcia must have noted it as well, her eyes wide with false innocence.

"I might need to after the tackle-hug I just received from J.J.," she commented. "She told us where to find our fierce knights, but one seems to be missing from the round table. Where's our dear Agent Rossi?"

"He's taken a few agents from the Birmingham office with him to the next county over to see what he can learn from our subject's neighbors and past co-workers," Morgan answered. "We still don't know what set this guy off."

Garcia made a face. "Well, never fear, I'm here for all your stressor-y theories. I'll get you every stitch of dirty laundry on Ricky Trapp before you can say 'grade two ankle sprain.' On that note, I'm sitting."

Morgan huffed out a laugh. "You know, we have other techs."

Garcia narrowed her gaze on him, but she was already reaching across the table for the closest laptop. "And it's cute that you think they'll have your info first."

Hotch turned his attention to Prentiss. "Were you able to interview the Gravitt boys?"

Emily nodded curtly, and Morgan's brow knitted with concern when he saw the hesitant look on the woman's face. "We'll need to see them again," she started, then let out a breath, "but I thought I should escort Garcia here. I learned something interesting from Michael Gravitt. If he's right, we have another problem."

"Sam was there, wasn't he?" Reid asked, quietly.

Morgan looked over his shoulder, but the younger agent's face was oddly blank, like he was schooling his features.

Emily's grimace was answer enough. "He was there. Both boys insisted Sam Winchester rescued them from their kidnapper and that Dean arrived shortly after to help them. But what concerns me is what Michael said. He stated that the last time he saw Sam, the 'bad guy' was standing behind Winchester. He seemed certain that Sam had been taken by Trapp."

Morgan winced when he realized his first thought was that this would make things easier. If they found Trapp, they'd find their absent Winchester too. He hated that the fact that someone else was now in danger came second place to his rationality.

"But how would Ricky Trapp subdue Sam?" Morgan asked. "The guy is six-four, and weighs in at what? Two-twenty? All of the past victims were small built, physically weaker."

Emily tilted her head. "Michael said Trapp was about to hurt Sam. I'm not sure what he meant, but that seemed to indicate he still had a weapon. I couldn't get an answer from the boys, but there was a moment when I was certain they were about to tell me that Trapp had an accomplice."

"The Winchesters think it's the ghost of Trapp's older brother," Reid put in. "Maybe that was their way of explaining an unknown partner."

Morgan nodded along. It made sense. When they'd thought the Winchesters were their unsubs, the idea of a pair of killers abducting and dumping bodies had filled in a few logistical blanks.

"Okay, I'm hoping you're all super wrong on all accounts," Garcia piped in, the click of her fingers across the keyboard coming to a still. She looked up with a frown at Reid. "Do you think Dean knows his brother might be in trouble?" she asked.

Morgan blinked at the two's somber expressions, baffled, because if he was reading her frown right, she was worried. About the Winchesters, of all people. He definitely needed to get Hotch alone. Reid and Garcia weren't ready to be working on this case.

A curt knock sounded from the door, but it was already open, Sheriff McKinney's face looking haggard for a man his age as he leaned in, obviously too busy to come inside.

"Agent Hotchner, we just received a private message on our social media page. It had a link to a video attachment. Your team needs to see it. Now."

"Oh God…"

The utterance came from Garcia, whose fingers had already been flying across the keyboard, and if anyone wanted to call her out on having the department's passwords, they kept quiet when they saw the look on her paled face. She pushed herself back from the computer, eyes wet with unshed tears.

Her mouth opened and closed once. "Sam," she whispered.

Trapp's last home address had been a run-down apartment that had already taken up a new tenant in his absence. The landlord, the closest neighbor, the new renter, had all been a bust, none of them remembering even a full conversation they'd ever shared with Trapp. Rossi had left an officer there to go through a few personal items, mostly furniture, that had been left behind in the apartment's shared basement, but he doubted there would be anything of use in there. Rossi had a feeling that Ricky had known he'd never return to the area, lost deposit or not, so the agent had moved on to the hardware store where the man had been working up to a little over two months ago.

The senior agent followed behind an older woman who waddled slightly as she walked, a hand outstretched to straighten items on the closest shelf as he followed behind. He wasn't exactly receiving her full attention, but he was at least glad that she was willing to talk, and he hoped that since she wasn't bothering to stop working, she'd also wouldn't bother to hold back on what she said. So far, he'd been right.

" - And he never, I mean, never, bothered to learn what anything did. I had customers always complaining that the guy couldn't answer their questions when they asked him about tools and whatnot, but what was I supposed to do, right? I mean, he was mostly a cashier, after all, and the guy showed up on time, had a sense of hygiene, and helped put out stock without being asked, so, so what if he was a little socially awkward?"

Rossi hummed some sort of agreement, his eyes skimming over the items on the shelf. He was getting a good idea of where Trapp had managed to pick up most of the items he needed to subdue his victims. He doubted that Kathy, the woman showing him around, had noticed that the man had probably been stealing stock over days, if not weeks, so that he wouldn't raise suspicions. The shop wasn't huge, but it was big enough to supply a small town with their basic needs, and Rossi couldn't help but notice it also housed a gun shop in the far corner, a perk of living in the deep south for those who wanted to get their ammo where they got their socket wrenches.

He made a mental note to ask Kathy to obtain the inventory count for the gun shop before he left. He had a feeling she'd have an unwelcome surprise when she checked their numbers.

"The owner liked him okay too," Kathy noted, a little defensively, as if her mind had just circled back to the fact that she was bragging on the work ethics of someone the FBI was questioning her about. "I mean, Steven's health isn't great, so he doesn't come in most days, but when Ricky said he was quitting, he asked about the old work van we had out back, and Steven gave it to him as a severance. I mean, the clunker wasn't worth more than a few hundred for parts anyway, since it didn't have its title, but it was a nice gesture, I thought."

"What type of van was it?" Rossi asked, his interest perked.

"Don't know. Chevy maybe. You'd have to ask Steven for sure. Just a big ugly brown thing they used to deliver supplies in." She shrugged. "I mean, I think it was running though, so Steven figured Ricky could use it to go to his treatments. Not that Ricky talked like he was going to go through with them."

"Treatments?"

Kathy did stop then, turning around with a frown. "What did he do anyway? I mean the guy was sick already. What could he have done to get the feds on his tail?"

Rossi forced a small grin. "He was sick when you knew him?"

Kathy nodded. "Yeah, I mean he was always the sickly sort, even though he didn't miss work for it. But, after he got that diagnosis, it started to make more sense, the way he'd been actin'. Hate to stir the pot," she said, her voice lowering slightly. She gave the next aisle a glance, as if checking for customers before she continued, "but the guy had started muttering to himself real bad. Like, when he was doing stock work, I'd catch him, think he was talking to someone, then I'd find him alone, hard at work. But I hear brain tumors can do that to people, make them act off their rocker, you know?"

Rossi swallowed hard, his fingertips already fishing the phone out of his pocket. "Tough break. When did Ricky get the diagnosis?"

"Same week he quit. Couldn't blame him for going. Hated having to re-hire though. No one wants to work these days, I swear… Hey, what did you say he'd done?"

Rossi raised a hand in apology. "Sorry, I need to take this."

He was almost surprised when he turned to walk away and saw that he did have an incoming call from a familiar number. He bit down a smile.

"Penelope, as I live and breathe," he greeted. "You don't know how good it is to see your name across the screen again."

"Aw, you do care," she cooed, but she didn't sound like her usual self. He couldn't blame her for that, not after what she'd been through. And now that he thought about it, he wondered what on earth she was doing back on the job already.

"To what do I owe the honor?" he asked, instead.

"Hotch wanted me to let you know that amongst the big pile of terrifying evidence found at the florist-shop-turned-torture-chamber were personal items belonging to Ricky Trapp, including an empty bottle of a medication called Tramadol, which is commonly used for pain relief, and something told us it wasn't being distributed to his victims. So…"

"He has a brain tumor," Rossi finished, for her. He walked out of the store, lowering his voice slightly until he hit the sidewalk. "I think we found our stressor."

She sighed. "Well, steal my thunder then."

"One of his ex-co-workers said he'd been talking to himself, behaving oddly…"

"Huh." Penelope paused. "Or maybe not to himself, if he thinks he's talking to his dead older brother, which, hey, I can see how someone might mistake that as a ghostly visitation," she mused. "Are you headed back our way?"

Rossi frowned, not liking the slight neediness to her tone. He didn't blame her for not being herself, after what she'd been through. Hell, he wasn't even sure he knew what she'd been through exactly, since his updates from Hotch and Morgan had been somewhat fixated on the fact that she and Reid were alive and well. He wanted to ask, but it seemed like something better left discussed face to face.

"While I adore these talks of ours, is there a reason you're the one calling me back instead of Hotch?"

"He's in an interview right now. With Dean. Winchester." She was quiet a moment before she continued. "Something...Something happened. Ricky Trapp has already taken another victim. It's Sam Winchester. There was a video, and it was not good. I mean, more than not good, since I was watching someone I just spent a very stressful day with get...Yeah. And I'm maybe wanting all my little birds in one nest, okay? So come back? Group meeting?"

"Hotch did say to head back when I finished." Rossi's brow furrowed in confusion. He could recognize the fear in her voice, but he wasn't sure what it was causing it. All he was certain of was that she needed comforting, and that their teammates were too busy at the moment to provide it. "Okay, I've obviously missed a few things here, kiddo," he said. "It's not a long ride back toward Attalla. Why don't I stay on the line while you're working? We can bounce around some ideas while you work some miracles on that computer of yours."

"I just… I'm not wanting to rewatch this video alone, and I kind of need to if I'm going to help..." Her voice cut off with a short sob. "I really, really need to help."

"You are helping," Rossi assured her. "Now, why don't I fill you in on what you missed, and you can tell me what's been going on at the sheriff's department."

"Thanks, Rossi."

"It's no problem, Penelope."

Dean could feel it, the second the interrogation room door opened again, that something had changed. For starters, he'd been in this situation enough times to know that they hadn't made him sweat nearly long enough to start in on round two. And then there was the fact that it was Agent Hard Glare entering first, carrying a thick file folder, which was what Dean had predicted earlier, hence the reason he'd doubted it would happen now.

Dean expected to see Reid walk in behind him, but the door was promptly shut, and despite himself, Dean sat up a bit straighter, more alert than he had been. He glanced sideways at the two-way glass, wondering who was watching him.

"I'm Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner," the man stated. He slapped the folder down onto the table, taking the seat across from Dean. "Don't look at the mirror," he snapped.

Dean blinked at him, opening his mouth to reply, only to see Agent Hotcher's sharp look of distaste.

"You will look at me," Agent Hotchner continued. "I will be the only agent you have contact with until you are transferred to another holding facility. Do you understand me?"

"Are you kidding me with this act?" Dean huffed. He squirmed a bit, annoyed at himself for sweating under the other man's hard gaze. It wasn't like it was a new situation for him, but something about the general disappointment on the agent's face hit too close to home for comfort. "We already went over the segment where you act like my dad, or did you miss that part of my talk with your fellow feds?"

Hotchner's frown deepened. "Your father was paranoid and delusional, dragging his kids across the country to hunt the boogeyman because he couldn't face his own grief. I am not your father, Dean."

"You sure as hell aren't," Dean said. He knew this was part of the show, but the words pissed him off, nevertheless. "Boy, you're a real peach. I'm sure you're fun to work for. You are the boss, right? Or do they just pass that baton up your ass to anyone willing to take it?"

Agent Hotchner cocked his head slightly. "I am the boss. Which means, I can tell when my agents have been compromised. Agent Morgan might be too foolish to realize that you're purposely trying to get under his skin, and Dr. Reid might be too naive to notice that you're using him to get information on the case, but I am not. From now on, you will talk only to me. Understood?"

Was this guy for real? Dean could feel the heat on his face, and barely had time to recognize it as anger. "I'm not using Spencer. You're the ones asking me questions. You sent him in here -"

"He's a young agent, easily manipulated," Hotchner interrupted. "We'll leave it to an overview committee to decide if he needs to stay in this line of work if he can't handle a simple interview with a felon."

The cuffs around Dean's wrists jingled as he instinctively tried to lift his arms. He grimaced at the noise. "He didn't do anything wrong, you asshat," he snapped. "His job shouldn't be on the line just because he acted like a decent human being."

"Glad to see human beings exist in your little fantasy world," Hotchner mused. "Unfortunately, it doesn't look very good for an agent to find themselves kidnapped by their suspect, then discussing ghost hunting with their abductor. I'd say his mental health was more than a little questionable at this point."

"Leave Spencer out of this!" Dean shook his head. "You want to ask me questions? Want me to confess to something? Then you ask me. I took the guy. I threatened him and Penelope. They feared for their friggin' lives, okay, so anything you think he did wrong, it was on me."

Agent Hotchner was quiet, his expression hard and unreadable as he locked eyes with Dean, forcing the other man to stare him down. Dean realized his breathing was too loud and tried to calm it, tried to match the man's silence, and failed.

"What?" he finally snapped.

Hotchner only looked down, at the file folder at his fingertips. He flipped it open, his demeanor more subdued as he removed an enlarged photograph, sliding it to the center of the table.

"What were you hunting in St. Louis?" Agent Hotchner asked. His voice was lower, the emotion gone as he removed another photo, sitting it next to the first. "Why were you involved in a bank heist in Milwaukee? What creature led you to the dead bodies of Tony and Karen Giles?"

The third photo was sat in place, and the agent leaned back, as if inviting Dean to look at them. Dean did, a quick glance down, seeing the last one was Karen Giles' autopsy photo. The first, the first was from a crime scene so brutal that Dean wouldn't have recognized it if St. Louis hadn't been brought up. And the picture front and center was Ronald.

Dean felt a pang of regret at the recognition. The guy shouldn't have been there. Shouldn't have been a victim in a folder somewhere. Ronald, who had been at least half right about what was going down, who had died because they couldn't keep him out of it, couldn't lie well enough to convince him to leave it alone. Ronald, who was probably written off as some nut taking part in a bank robbery. Dean could still remember the look on the man's face when the bullet hit his body.

"What were you hunting?" Hotchner asked, again Dean thought, though he couldn't recall for certain.

Dean chewed at the inside of his cheek. "Shape-shifter," he said, nearly at a whisper. He blinked, hoping that what he was feeling wasn't showing on the outside, then shot Hotchner a look of his own. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to tell me everything your brother said before he found Trapp's hideout."

The words were careful, said slowly, like he wanted to make sure they sunk in.

"I already told you everything I know," Dean assured him. He swallowed hard, biting down a more bitter retort. "But I guess you just needed to make sure, right? Maybe you can ask Sam if you find him. He's the one who put this one together."

It was subtle, the agent's slight shift in his seat, but Dean noticed. He'd been watching for it. He locked eyes with Hotchner again, and he knew his gaze was probably a bit too wet for his liking. He'd forgotten how much a simple hunt could hurt them. Between Hell and Heaven, demon gates opening and biblical seals breaking, it didn't seem like a simple ghost hunt could possibly bring them to their knees.

But that was exactly how Dean felt, shackled, his prayers unheard. "You... " He tried again. "Did you find Sam?" he managed.

Agent Hotchner took a moment to answer. "No. We didn't."

"What aren't you saying?"

"You see yourselves as hunters," Agent Hotchner replied, and the cruelness at his lips disappeared as easily as a mask dropping from his face. "We see you as criminals, because that's what you are. Credit card fraud, robbery, impersonating law enforcement, impeding investigations. But I don't think you're a murderer, Dean. You didn't torture and kill those victims in St. Louis. Neither did Sam. Whatever you might have done in the past, it was because you thought it was right. That's why you took Reid and Garcia, because you didn't want to hurt them, but you needed to keep doing your job."

"You know, you're scarier when you're being nice," Dean commented.

Hotchner pretended not to hear him. "This job, though? This is ours. This is our hunt. The best thing you can do, the right thing? It's to let us do what we do best. We're going to find your monster, Dean."

The man gathered the pictures up quickly, and Dean could see there were more in the file, more images he never wanted to see again, more that Hotchner could have shown him if he hadn't believed Dean was telling the truth. The agent turned quickly, walking toward the door with purpose, but then, Dean figured he probably walked that way everywhere.

"Agent Hotchner," Dean called, and the man stilled in the door way. Dean didn't want to ask, because he already knew what the guy was holding back. He had since before he'd been cuffed. "They have Sam. I know it … Did they send a picture yet?"

Hotchner didn't answer, closing the door behind him as he left.

The door was left askew, and Reid could just make Hotch's muffled voice as he quietly briefed J.J. and Rossi on what their next move would be. He tried not to focus on what was going on outside the room, but on the board that had been set up over their work space, the one Morgan was currently glaring at with such intensity that Reid thought it might, at any second, catch fire. That's what he should have been focusing on as well, the case, not Hotch's instructions on keeping Dean in his new holding cell or his take on the interview.

Reid sighed to himself, turning away from the doorway and glancing the empty chair Penelope had been all but glued to over the past hour. Prentiss had finally convinced her to quit rewatching the video and to take a breather in the department's break room, but Reid wished she was still nearby. In fact, a part him wished he could get her alone, talk to her about what was happening. Penelope wasn't a profiler, but he had a feeling that she'd be more helpful to him than Morgan right now. Or, at least, maybe she could confirm that it was okay for him to feel terrible over what was happening to Sam Winchester. That he wasn't alone in feeling a bizarre sense of responsibility for someone who'd abducted them less than two days ago.

Morgan, who was in an altogether different state of mind after the last interrogation with Dean, couldn't provide that comfort. Morgan had lost that fierce anger he'd been wearing on his sleeve after Dean's arrest but now appeared somewhat lost by the information in front of him. Reid wanted to comment on what the other agent had been holding back, the cause of that frustrated expression on his face, but he kept quiet, even as Morgan muttered to himself, going over what they'd learned about Ricky Trapp, about his illness, about what that meant for their case.

"We're certain Ricky Trapp has been responsible for more murders than the ones committed over the past few months," Morgan said. "He might have even been involved with his siblings' deaths, but that's doubtful."

Reid wasn't sure if that was the case, but he didn't want to admit that he wondered if Sam had formed an opinion on that part of the Trapp history. Not that Sam was available to talk to at the moment.

"So what that leaves us with is a serial killer turned spree," Morgan continued. "His doctor hands him a death sentence, and he starts to shorten his time between kills. And there's a good chance he's delusional as well. Garcia and Rossi are right," Morgan said, a bit louder, as if he'd just remembered he wasn't alone. "A guy talking to his dead brother, that would make you think haunting, if you believed in that crap already." He glanced over his shoulder at Reid. "But how did the Winchesters pick up on it if they hadn't already had a run-in with Trapp?"

"I think they profiled the late Glenn Trapp, in their own way," Reid mused. "Maybe Ricky's brother isn't just talking to him, but giving him instructions like a dominant partner, or a dominant personality. That could explain why it was easier to profile for two unsubs. In a way, that's exactly what we're after, Ricky and the voice in his head, giving him instructions. It's two very different personalities."

"Yeah, but if this guy is sick, how is he pulling this off. Killing and dumping victims isn't exactly easy." Morgan shook his head. "A real partner would explain how he's gotten away with this for so long and why we haven't found another location secure enough to keep a victim inside… Unfortunately, I have no idea who the hell that partner might be since, by all accounts, Ricky Trapp is the definition of a loner. Hell, Garcia can't even find much of an internet presence for the guy. Outside of teaching himself how to tape his victims, he doesn't seem to even have the technological know-how to meet another like-minded individual."

Reid shrugged. "We know Ricky's mental health has declined, but since he's avoided the doctor since his diagnosis, we have no clue as to the rest of his physical state. If the tumor hasn't damaged his health in any other way yet, him being sick might not have affected his physical strength. And he's armed. Also, Hotch didn't play the video."

Morgan blinked. "That's a bit of a change in subject."

Reid crossed his arms over his chest. "I was expecting Hotch to show Dean the recording. To get a reaction from Dean."

"I don't think a psychotic break would be the reaction Hotch was going for," Morgan said, with a frown. "Do you think showing him his brother like that would have helped matters?"

No, Reid really didn't think it would. He'd watched from the two-way mirror, anxious for the moment when Hotch would tell Dean about the message, not wanting to see the look on Dean's face when his fears were confirmed. It had already been difficult watching his boss tear into him, and devastation was never pleasant, no matter who was on the receiving end. Reid had been relieved, if surprised, when Hotch had walked out without answering Dean's question.

"Do you think Hotch really believes Dean is innocent?"

Morgan was quiet a moment, his eyes searching for something on Reid's face. His brow lowered slightly in thought. "I don't know if I'd use the word innocent. But a serial killer torturing his victims…? I think Hotch was telling the truth in there. That's why he didn't take the interview any further. Why do you look so surprised by that? It was your info he was working with. You know Hotch didn't mean any of that stuff he said to get Winchester riled up, though, right? No one thinks…"

"That I've been compromised," Reid finished for him. "I know why Hotch said what he said, but there's a grain of truth in there, isn't there? You and Hotch both...You were worried that Garcia and I were displaying sympathy for Dean. I saw it on your face when she asked me about him. What's changed?"

Morgan opened his mouth, then seemed to realize he didn't have much of an answer. "You're right," he finally said. "I don't like the guy, Reid. I was beyond pissed and scared with you two were taken, then to hear you playing nice with him? But it hit me back there, when Hotch was putting Winchester through the ringer, that I trust you, Reid. I'd gotten too caught up in my thoughts to remember that, but I do trust you, and your instincts as a profiler. You were with the Winchesters for over twenty-four hours. You saw behavior that you recognized, and even though it went against what we all thought we knew about them, you followed your gut."

"Thanks." Reid realized he was staring down at his shoes, fighting back a small smile that felt inappropriate, given the circumstances. "You know, Dean reminds me of you a little bit."

"You better take that the hell back," Morgan scoffed.

Reid let out a breathy chuckle before sobering. "We can help Sam."

Morgan nodded. "We're going to. This Ricky Trapp, voices in his head or not, his pattern is holding. He'll make a move for Dean before he kills Sam. He won't be able to resist that urge. If he was going to skip that step, he wouldn't have sent the video."

"But Trapp knows where Dean is right now. He sent the video to the sheriff's department. Surely he wouldn't be brazen enough to actually try to get him here. He isn't that far gone."

"Nah," Morgan agreed. "But I'll bet you Hotch has a plan for how we can get him to make a move. We told you how he took Michael Gravitt?"

"During transport. Using Dean as bait?" Reid asked. "Then we're going to move him… I need to ask Dean something before we do. It's been nagging at me."

"What is it?"

"The florist shop. Dean said Sam chose to go there first. We've checked out the other places Sam might have suspected as being a hideout for Trapp, but I'm still puzzled by the florist shop."

Morgan raised a brow. "I thought we established that Ricky chose it because the brother, Glenn, was killed there. All of this is about big bro, after all."

Reid nodded. "No, I mean, yes, we did, but that's the reason why Ricky decided to use the abandoned shop. What I'm confused by was why Glenn was there when he died all those years back. It was already shut down at the time, and it's not near the Trapp home. Maybe it was a popular teen hang out back then? Or did it have significance to the Trapp family? I'm curious to know if there was more than one reason why Sam chose to check that location first… Maybe Dean could guess at his brother's reasoning."

"You think that could help us figure out where he took Sam?"

"Wouldn't hurt to try," Reid suggested. "Like you said, this is all about Glenn."

Morgan let out a sigh. "You're going to ask Winchester whether I agree with you or not, aren't you?"

Reid's crooked grin was humorless as he slipped out the doorway, but Morgan didn't follow after him. Reid considered asking Hotch for permission, but he had the nagging suspicion that there was a chance his unit chief might want to tag along. Reid kept his head down, his hands buried in his pockets as he headed past the littering of desks and toward the hallway leading to the department's temporary holding area.

Even though the county was fairly small, they had an updated facility for processing. There was a corridor of windowed doors, paired with keypads just a ways down, and if Reid had to guess, there wasn't a single suspect in any of the rooms but one. The sheriff had taken Hotch seriously when he'd said he wanted to keep Winchester's stay quiet.

Pop.

Reid came to a stop, realizing the noise had come from behind him. Somewhere distant. Outside the building. And there was a sudden rush of activity that met it, a trampling of footsteps, an echo of shouts. He thought he heard his teammates shouting instructions. Reid turned back, hesitating, listening.

Pop. Pop.

It took him another second to realize what the sound was: gunshots. Judging from the location, someone had fired a gun just outside the front wall of the building. Before he could react, there was another sound, that unmistakable squeal of tires before a thunderous crunch of metal.

Something's happening.

A chill ran over him at the thought, and Reid shivered despite himself. He opened his mouth, Morgan's name on the tip of his tongue, and hesitated when his breath clouded at his lips. It hadn't felt this cold a moment ago, but Reid had no time to wonder what might have happened to the heating system before the fluorescent light above him flickered, surging and ebbing.

A second later, the power went out, casting the hallway in shadows.