Chapter 13: The Man Comes Around

"Well, this is a trap," Dean muttered, into the darkness.

The pitch black lightened to a dull gray, the outside corridor's back-up lights barely casting a glow through the narrow, wired glass window in the door of his cell. The sounds from the front of the building came through muffled by thick walls of cement block, but they were loud enough for Dean to realize some sort of disaster had struck over the last three minutes, enough to get all the hornets in the nest stirred up. Even so, the harsh beep and electric sizzle from the keypad at the front of his cell was especially loud. With a whine, the door swung out a few inches.

Dean stood from the cot slowly, giving the beige room a glance, as if he were considering its tiny space a better offer than the hall outside. He grimaced at the thought of walking straight into the mess, but there were only two ways to handle the offer of an open door, and both would probably lead to the same conclusion.

The faster we get this over with, the fast I get to Sam. Dean straightened, resolved, and stepped past the doorway. The chill that greeted him wasn't his imagination, he was sure. He expected an armed guard, a threat, but the deputy who'd been pacing the space a few minutes earlier had disappeared. Instead, he found familiar brown eyes, wide in surprise and surveying him in the dim light. Reid was standing at the end of the hall, blocking the way back into the front of the building, not that Dean had planned to take that particular route of escape.

"Spencer," he said, voice at a whisper. He attempted an awkward grin. "Would you believe me if I said I had nothing to do with this?"

Reid blinked at him, as if just then concluding the man was really there. "The power surge, it must have damaged the locking mechanisms… I think a car might have hit a power pole outside. You need to get back into your cell."

Dean opened and closed his mouth. "So, I'm really gambling on you not shooting me when I say this, but no. I really need to go. Like now."

Reid raised a placating hand, either to stop Dean or to show that he wasn't pulling a weapon. Dean wasn't sure, but the man looked so adamant that he stopped himself from taking an automatic step backward.

"Listen to me, Dean. You're safer here." Reid took a short, cautious step forward. "We have a plan to save Sam. You've got to let us do our jobs. Just get back in the cell so that we can protect you."

"I know you really mean that, Spencer, I do." Dean shook his head. "But this thing is coming for me, with or without you between us. Let me get out of here and get to it. Sam and I, we can handle these bastards, but I need to find where they are first. This is the best way to do it."

"That's a stupid plan, Dean," Reid snapped.

"Hey, man, stupid is what Winchesters do best. I know I have no right to say this, but you gotta trust me here."

Dean took a breath, hoping the agent didn't make a move to stop him, and stepped backward, glancing over his shoulder at the end of the corridor. He had no doubt there was probably an exit cleared and waiting for him back there, and he'd be damned if he left the bad guy waiting.

"Wait!"

Dean hesitated, despite himself, and looked back to Reid, frustration in his frown.

"Just…" Reid tried, flustered, "just wait. I came back here for a reason. I needed to ask you a question. I think it'll help us find Sam."

The agent was buying time, and Dean could see as much. "What is it?" Dean asked, despite himself.

Reid licked his lips nervously. "The florist's shop. We know that Ricky was set up there because that's where Glenn died, but we couldn't find any information on why Glenn was at an abandoned store when he was killed. It was suspected that it might have been a popular hangout for drug users, but Glenn's autopsy showed he was clean. Did Sam say anything about why Glenn was there?"

Dean shook his head, then stopped, remembering something Sam had mentioned when he was trying to make a case for stopping at the old storefront. "Sam thought maybe he was supposed to be meeting Ricky there that night. Don't know why that went to hell, but obviously Ricky didn't show."

Reid's brow narrowed. "Why would he need to meet his brother there?"

"CPS had picked up Ricky, put him with a temporary foster home, so they had to meet up. Not for the first time, I would guess…I would love to stay and chat, but we really don't have time for this."

"I know about the time in foster care, but why the shop- ?"

Dean saw it, the way his breath clouded in front of him, and was ready to cut the conversation short, when there was a flicker of something just behind Reid, the shape of a man, just in the shadows to the agent's side. Dean's eyes widened in warning, but before the shout could leave his mouth, the figure flickered again, appearing at Reid's shoulder with a taunting grin.

Reid.

Reid.

"Reid!"

The world snapped back into place all at once, leaving Reid grimacing at the suddenly loudness of the voice. The lights were still dimmed, but he felt disoriented, and it took him a moment to realize the sensation was due to him leaning his body against the wall as he moved. He couldn't recall actually standing back up, but he'd made it almost down the hallway before he was aware of what he was doing.

"Dean," he said. He instantly hated the volume of his own voice, reaching up to cup the side of his head. His fingers came away slick.

"Winchester did this to you?"

Reid blinked, realizing the question was coming from his side. Morgan had a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place.

"What?" Reid asked, then processed what Morgan had said. "No...Dean was in front. Someone behind me pushed me into a wall. How did someone get behind me?"

"Shit," Morgan breathed. "Wait here for help," he snapped, then took off.

Reid watched him run ahead, toward the end of the corridor, but he knew, with a sinking feeling, that he wouldn't find Dean at the end of it. The spinning in his head was coming to a calm, so Reid pushed off the wall, following after Morgan at a clumsy run. Another turn, another hall, Reid found Morgan at an exiting door, standing on a sidewalk along the fenced drive for the department's private lot. The world outside was still, and Reid had forgotten that the day had passed, that it would be just as dark outside as it was inside. He came to a stop beside the other agent, ignoring the way Morgan spun in place, looking for any sign of movement around the scattering of vehicles in the small lot.

"Where the hell did he go?" Morgan breathed, but he didn't mention Reid's presence, outside instead of inside. "The fence is still locked."

"They took him," Reid answered, patting at the wound on his head again. "And Dean wanted to get taken, so he could find Sam."

Morgan raised his brow, and Reid realized his mistake. He'd said "They." He wasn't even sure why it had slipped out, since it had only taken one person to toss him aside.

"I think you were right about a partner. One of them must have gotten inside," Reid explained, "and the other distracted the department up front."

Morgan looked like he'd bitten into a lemon. "God damn it… Someone shot at a deputy's vehicle while it was driving past. There was a crash. The guy's in rough shape. Everyone is trying to get him out…It worked. Their plan worked. We need to tell Hotch what just happened."

Reid spotted the SUV rental in the lot and took off toward it. "We'll call him from the road," he assured, over his shoulder. "You have the key?"

Morgan nodded, following, but he hesitated at the door. "You want to tell me where we're going?"

Reid didn't answer, pulling his cell phone free and dialing. "Garcia! Yes, I know about the - No, I'm not in the building, technically. Just, wait, I don't have time to explain. I need you to stop what you're doing and get me an address." He lowered the phone at Morgan's sharp glance. "If I'm right, I know where Sam might be. And where they're taking Dean."

Morgan hopped into the driver's seat. "I'll call Hotch."

Dean sucked in a deep breath, immediately regretting it when his throat filled with dust. He coughed up the mess, trying and failing to lift his cheek up off the filthy wooden floor. When he caught his breath, he managed to roll over on his side, but the effort wasn't without consequence. He felt like every muscle in his body had taken a beating, and he wasn't sure if that was entirely inaccurate. When he looked down at his hands, they were bleeding, deep gouges in his palms, but Dean couldn't remember what had caused them.

With a groan, he pushed himself up onto his knees, the floor beneath him squeaking at the movement. After he'd blinked the blurriness from his eyes, he realized the slope of the beams around him were familiar. He was in an attic, unfinished, the project long abandoned if the dust was any account. The floor was barely more than a patchwork of osb board, laid down over half the space, the other half open wires and layers of insulation peeking out between the beams. A single bulb and its pull-string hung above him.

"You're stubborn."

The voice startled him, but Dean tried to hide it by straightening. He glared out at the open space until the shape of an older teen took form. Glenn looked more alive under the yellow light, but Dean could still feel the way the heat was pulled from the air, the scent of ozone strong in his nostrils. Too strong. Dean reached up, touching the tip of his nose. Instead of blood, a green goo was smeared across his fingertips. Ectoplasm. His eyes widened. He realized suddenly why his whole body was aching.

"You son of a bitch," Dean huffed. "You rode me out of the sheriff's station. Remind me to re-kill your ass."

Glenn cocked his head slightly, and then sat down, legs crossed in front of Dean. "I couldn't hold on for very long. I guess I shouldn't have tried so soon, but it was hard to move you without Ricky's help. You threw me off… My ring at least. Ricky was upset 'bout that." He smiled slowly. "But I'm not worried. It's a good thing, you being strong. Or, thinking you're strong. Once you break, you'll be perfect. So will Sam. Two perfect brothers with your whole lives in front of you. Like it should be."

Dean could feel the anger under his skin, knew that the look he was shooting the ghost was anything but kind. "You obviously don't know who the hell you're dealing with, Casper, if you think you can break either of us."

Glenn shrugged. "I don't need to know you. You're not going to be you for much longer."

"So, what's your game here?" Dean snapped. "You possess people so they can go around doing your killing for you?"

Glenn's brow furrowed in confusion. "Killing? It's not about killing. It's satisfying, sure, but that's just cause and effect. See, we been trying this out a long time, me practicing, Ricky learning… It hasn't worked out too well, most of our attempts, but I think we'll get it right with you."

The ghost flickered, his form closer a split second later. His arms were outstretched, fingers clasping the sides of Dean's head before the hunter could push himself away. "But that comes later. First, the fun part. Let's try to make it quick."

He'd been hit from behind.

That was the single thought that circled Reid's mind. He tried to concentrate on the drive there, on Garcia over the phone, on Morgan's spitfire explanation of what had just happened at the sheriff's department, but his focus was lost every time to that one haunting thought:

There wasn't anyone behind me.

Dean had been in front, his eyes wide in realization right before it had happened, and Reid had felt it, a rush of cold air in the already chilly corridor, but there was no window behind him, no open doorway or shadowy corner for his attacker to hide in… The electrical outage had lasted only a second before the back-up lights switched on, and even then, they were weak, as if their power was being drained away. Still, it wasn't enough time for someone to go past a crowd of officers, through the front of the building and make their way to the holding corridor.

There hadn't been anyone back there.

Reid felt nauseous and wondered if he should mention his possible concussion. At least bleeding on the brain would explain the complete lack of logic to his thoughts right now, but he kept his mouth shut, holding the compression pad Morgan had yanked from the first aid kit in the back to his head wound.

"There!" Reid snapped, gesturing out at a house at the end of the block before the GPS could sound its own warning. "Stop, stop! That's the address."

Morgan hit the brakes hard, but Reid was already scrambling for his seatbelt, hopping out the side door, his make-shift bandage left behind. Morgan was at his side in a split second, reaching out for Reid's arm, but he missed as Reid dodged him and ran up the sidewalk toward the house. Reid slid to a stop at the quaint gate at the front yard's cobblestone walkway. From the outside, the Victorian home looked dark, its curtained windows black, but he could see a glimmer of sickly yellow glowing from the small round vent at the apex of the roof. Someone was in the attic.

"Reid!" Morgan whispered, hesitating beside his teammate. Reid noticed the way the man held back a few feet, using the sprawling walnut tree in the front yard as cover. Morgan gestured for Reid to take a step toward him, out of clear view of the house, but Reid shook his head.

"We don't have time," Reid mouthed back.

Morgan grimaced at the reply. "The rest of the team is only a minute behind us, man. If this is the place, there's at least one armed suspect inside with hostages. We need to do this right, Reid."

Reid blinked, taking a step back toward Morgan, but he bent down instead of joining him at the tree. He'd noticed that the decorative fence around the yard, barely high enough to reach his hip, was probably as old as the house and in disarray. And black painted iron.

One of the narrow balusters hung loose from the top rail, the roots of the tree growing around its base and pushing it loose. Reid grabbed hold of it, and heard the snap of the welded end popping free. He gripped the iron rod in one hand, giving Morgan a wide-eyed looked that he knew the other man couldn't read.

Because Morgan didn't realize the importance of what Reid had told him after the attack. There hadn't been another living soul behind him. Reid was sure of it. But there had been a partner.

Which meant…

Reid wasn't even sure he could process what that meant.

"We can't wait," Reid pleaded, but he couldn't say why, couldn't give a reason for his instinct. But he knew it was there, and following his gut was something his team had taught him long ago. "I'm going in."

Morgan blinked at him, confused. "What the hell are you going to do with a metal rod?"

Reid didn't clarify that it was an iron rod, because he knew how crazy it would sound if he answered honestly. If he said that he'd heard Sam and Dean mention iron when they'd packed their weapons bags at the cabin. If he admitted that he'd spent any of his limited time since he'd been freed, time he was supposed to use on the case, looking up other ways to deal with spirits on the internet, just so he'd have something to talk to Dean about during their next interview. If he so much as hinted at the idea that there wasn't another living person in the hallway behind him when Dean was taken.

"I'm going in," Reid repeated, instead, and took off toward the front door.

His shoulders ached, but Sam leaned forward slightly, his head hung low and his breathing even. It was more difficult than he expected, keeping still, especially after he'd tucked his feet behind him, his toes scraping the basement wall. The position was awkward, his feet arched, the deep wounds between his toes screaming as they were forced open. Keeping himself calm, listening carefully, he could hear the pitter-patter of blood droplets pooling beneath him.

Eyes squinted, he watched through sweat-drenched hair, not the staircase, where he could hear a door opening high above, but the space in front of him. The lonely table and its lonely chair, the shadows of forgotten items stored just out of the reach of the light hanging above. He'd realized some time back that one of those shadows belonged to his boots, sitting upright against the far wall, which led him to believe he recognized the next as well.

The oblong lump had to be his duffle bag. He was certain his shotgun had been left behind at the shop, but he could almost remember the half-empty bag being ripped away from him in the van. His captors had obviously decided it was worth keeping, even if they likely didn't know the significance of the items inside.

The door squeaked above, each step down the staircase an echo of the first. When Ricky reached the bottom, he stopped, and Sam resisted the urge to twitch, to raise his gaze and look up at the man.

After a long moment, Ricky seemed to determine his victim wasn't worthy of taunting, and Sam tried not to smile ruefully as the man passed him by, plopping down at the table as if he were exhausted. Sam could see him clearly now that he was in his line of sight.

Ricky dropped something heavy onto the table top. A gun, and Sam almost gave himself away at the realization. He swallowed hard, his fingers tightening into tighter fists as he held to the brackets on the walls, bracing himself. Ricky was too preoccupied to notice, the man struggling to fit a thin chain over his head.

Sam had seen what was on the end, when Ricky was busy filming the… show. Sam grimaced at the memory, focusing on what had been on the end of that chain. A ring, gaudy and detailed. A class ring. Ricky had fiddled with it while his other hand had held the camcorder steady. When they'd finished recording, the man had slipped it off his neck, palming it before he and his brother left to deliver the message.

"I used to pretend to be asleep too," Ricky mused.

Sam grimaced but straightened his back against the wall, giving his shoulders a break from the ruse. "Where did you go?" he asked, even though he was sure he knew the answer. "You were gone a long time."

"When I was afraid," Ricky continued, as if he didn't hear the question. "When I thought it would keep 'em from hurting me, I'd play possum."

Sam didn't care. He held the comment down, let the heat behind his gaze fizzle out some, and forced himself to pay attention to the man and not the bag against the wall. He wondered if he was imagining it, the way it was harder to keep his anger in check these days, harder to bury rage once it crawled its way to the surface.

"Who?" Sam asked, biting out the word. "Did your brother hurt you?"

Ricky shot him a sharp look. "Never," he snapped. He took a breath, as if to calm himself, and patted his chest, where the ring lay. "Glenn would never hurt me. He's the only one. The only person who didn't. Glenn protected me. He's never stopped protecting me."

Sam scoffed. "How is killing innocent people a way of protecting you?"

"It ain't about the killing!" Ricky slapped his hand against the table, the gun rattling at the quake. "This is about saving what's really sacred in this world … Why? Does your brother hurt you?"

Sam blinked, thrown by the question. He felt the heat reach his cheeks, and he was ashamed at his own hesitation. The truth was, Dean had hurt him, had said and done things that cut deep, but Sam knew he'd dished out barbs that were just as sharp. They hurt each other, more than Sam would ever want to admit. But at the end of the day, all of that faded away, because it wasn't the kind of hurt Ricky had known in his life, not the kind that left permanent scars.

Frustrated at the empathy circling his thoughts, Sam shook his head.

"Dean practically raised me," he answered, finally. "I know what it's like, having a brother who will do anything to protect you." Sam met the man's eye. "I think he'd kill for me, too." I know it. "I think he'd even die for me." I wish I didn't know it. "Is that what happened with Glenn?"

Ricky watched him carefully, as if looking for a lie. Then he smiled, gently. There was something manic, something threatening in the expression, but Sam was sure the man meant it as a comfort.

"You're perfect," Ricky finally said, sounding tired. "You're perfect for me. It's really going to work this time."

Sam's brow wrinkled in frustration. "What is?"

"You can live." Ricky nodded, to himself, to Sam, but it didn't seem reassuring. "We can all live. All you have to do is let go. Just let us be, and we can keep going, perfect brothers. Living out our lives, like we should: together. None of us will ever need to be separated again."

"I don't…" Sam trailed off, the man's words sinking in. "Together," he said, swallowing again. He shook his head. "You're not picking out siblings to punish them. You want to become them. You think your brother can, what, possess someone? That you can get him back? How exactly are you planning to join him?" Sam's mouth snapped close. He'd seen it earlier, the signs, and he'd ignored them. "You're dying. That's why you're in such a hurry."

Ricky tilted his head, closing his eyes a moment, as if the words had brought some old pain to surface. "And when I'm dead, Glenn's gonna teach me all he's learned, and we're going to have you all lined up and ready for me. It was easy for him, you know, jumping into someone. He didn't know it would hurt me, the first time he tried it out, when we were looking for our sister."

When you killed your sister. Together, Sam silently corrected. He blinked up at Ricky, trying to not look down, at the man's chest, at the ring catching the light. He had an idea of why Ricky wasn't wearing it on his finger.

"But it only lasts a little while before they push him back out again. Take control back. It's taken Glenn a while to figure out the staying part," Ricky continued.

A sound cut him off, a muffled cry, stifled by the floors above. Sam glanced up at the ceiling, as if he could see right through the floor. He knew, as irrational as it might sound, that he knew that cry.

"Damn it, Dean," he breathed.

His heart thundered against this chest, the constant rattle blurring his vision, but the other man didn't seem to notice the fury directed his way.

Ricky shrugged off the sound. "Guess Glenn's getting right to it then. Hope your brother cares for you as much as you think or it's gonna be a long night for him."

"You don't know Dean," Sam whispered.

"Glenn thought he had it a few times, with the other ones," Ricky mused, leaning back in his chair, head turned as if to hear the commotion from upstairs better. Another cry sounded, one shorter, sharper. Cut off. "Some of them, they broke, just right, let him take over fully. But it took too long to teach 'em their lessons. Too long to show 'em why they needed to let us be in control. Guess we were a bit too rough on them, but they just didn't care about each other, not the way siblings should. By the time they were hurting enough to realize what they meant to one another, they were 'bout done for. One or the other would always die before we got a chance to use 'em. And, Hell, what good is just one half of a pair?"

Sam wanted to vomit. "So you killed the spare."

"So they could stay together. A mercy, really."

Sam glared up at him. "Maybe someone will show you the same."

Ricky didn't answer, didn't even look his way, his mouth open slightly in child-like wonder as he listened to the sounds above. Sam opened his fists, letting the ends of the frayed ropes slip from his fingers and hang from the sharp, useful edges of the shelf brackets. His hands dropped from his ruined restraints as he pushed himself up off the floor, every inch of his slashed feet screaming at the movement.

Sam let out a pained breath through his teeth, but steadied himself, a warning at the tip of his tongue. "You probably shouldn't have stayed gone so long, Ricky."