III

Little bird,

You're leaving me

Alone in this gray place.

I cannot fly

To follow you

And join you at the sea.

He wanted to die. He dangled on the rack; head hung low, eyes growing heavy. He wanted to quietly slip out of the world, out of the pain that came with living in it. His breathing was heavy, his lungs felt like they couldn't take in the oxygen from the air. He flinched at the sound of familiar footsteps approaching where he hung on the basement wall. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard the sound of a murmured tune.

I love the looks of you, the lure of you

The sweet of you, the pure of you

The eyes, the arms, the mouth of you

The east, west, north, and the south of you

"Dean, Dean, Dean," the cool touch of a blade traced his purpling cheek, "How long will we have to play this game?"

He gasped in pain as a trickle of blood ran down his cheek from the path the knife sliced. It took every ounce of his willpower not to jerk away, an action guaranteed to encourage his tormenter's "creativity."

"Don't you want to get off of the rack, Dean?"

The knife lifted the hem of his shirt, tickling his side. His breath came in sharply, cold air whispering over the tip of his tongue and into his lungs.

"I'll put down my blade if you pick one up."

He stayed silent. The chains hanging from the ceiling rattled softly, as if to tell him, Give up. Give in. But he couldn't. He had to stay good. He had to stay strong. They took Sammy away from him, but he was going to find his brother again. They were going to live together; away from pain and hurt; far away from where anyone could lay a hand on them ever again. He knew he could have that dream if he could hold on; keep holding onto that part of himself that his tormenter could never touch.

Alastair clicked his tongue, disappointed.

"Such a stubborn boy. Won't break, will he?"

The knife dug in, and the sound of Dean's screams reverberated and bounced inside the basement.

I'd love to gain complete control of you

And handle even the heart and soul of you

So love at least a small percent of me do

For I love all of you

"The best way to understand an artist is to understand their influences. Our copycat sees himself as an artist, and this is the man he is basing himself off of; Dean Smith."

Defiant green eyes stare out from the handsome face that appears on the screen. The darkened room rustles and hums as people shift in their seats and murmur to each other. Sam ignores them and continues,

"Dean Smith; originally named Dean Winchester. His parents, John and Mary Winchester, died in a house fire due to bad wiring when he was four years old. He was found by neighbors and the fire department outside the house with his little brother, a six-month old, Samuel Winchester.

"Smith was put in extensive therapy after the fire. Once he was deemed stable enough to be placed in a home environment, he was placed in the foster care system. He went in and out of five homes in as many years. The fifth home, he stayed in until he was twelve. Then the system loses track of him."

"Why?" asks one of the plain clothes officers.

"He ran away. He was under the radar for a long time. At some point he was picked up by M.C. Alastair, who some of you might remember as Hell's Torturer."

The room gives a collective shudder. Sam takes a sip of water before speaking once more.

"It's unknown how long he spent under the knife, but at some point Smith gave in and became Alastair's student. He avoided charges by being one of the key witnesses for the prosecution in Alastair's trial. He was sixteen at the time. He got his GED, joined the army; did well for all intents and purposes. Then, five years ago, as you all should remember, he murdered eight people and killed two FBI agents before being captured."

Ash changes the slide and takes over speaking.

"Smith left behind a signature at his crime scenes, which our copycat is mimicking,"

On the screen are side by side comparisons of four notes, the copycat's two and Smith's first two. "The syntax is nearly identical. Though Smith never confirmed it, we're pretty certain that 'Babybro' was meant to be his little brother, Samuel."

A hand is raised.

"What happened to the little brother?"

"Lost in the system," Gabriel answers, "He was adopted by another family, his records were sealed, and his name was changed. We never managed to track him down. And even if we did, whoever the kid was—he had to be about twenty-four at that point—he was completely uninvolved. Smith was a loner, thankfully."

"So then," says one of the younger officers, Kevin Tran, "who's the copycat's 'Dearheart?'"

"We don't know," answers Sam, "We're going over the old files to get a better grasp of Smith's M.O. and working on establishing how Smith chose his victims. Our copycat has killed three people so far. Smith's fourth victim was businessman Zachariah Adler, later discovered to have been embezzling millions from the company he was employed at."

Gabriel shuts off the projector, plunging the room into darkness before flipping on the lights,

"In any case, we are all going to work together to catch this copycat. Wesson and Miles will keep you up to date on anything we find. Do you two have anything else to say?"

Sam and Ash shake their heads.

"Dismissed." says Ash.

The next day finds Sam, Gabriel, and Ash poring over the files once more, making note of anything potentially useful. Sam leans back in his chair, stretching his arms and glancing in the doorway. He smiles in recognition at the sight of a familiar trim, figure; Madison Lukos.

"Hey stranger." he says with a smile.

The ADA returns his smile and walks into the room.

"It's been a while, Sam. We need to do lunch some time."

"Yeah. Totally."

In the background, Gabriel and Ash take a break from the files and observe the two, rolling their eyes and shaking their heads.

"So what brings you up here?"

"Oh, I've got something for you," she digs around in her brief case, "Remember that case I told you the DA put me on, the corruption investigation?"

"Raphael Sandover?"

"Well, Sandover was found dead in his home this morning. Technically I'm not even supposed to be handling this, but I said I'd walk it down to you myself," She takes out an evidence bag with a blood stained note inside, "They found this at the crime scene."

"Shit."

"Nicely put."

Dearheart,

Don't let anyone bring you down. I wish I could be with you. Please stay strong.

"Much as I hate to turn my case over to you, it's yours now. I know it's in good hands." There's a slight hesitation before she hands the evidence bag over to Sam.

"Sam?"

"Yes?"

"Your guy…he's very good. He managed to get through Sandover's security, which I don't have to tell you is top notch. Be careful, okay?"

Sam smiles softly

"Yeah, I'll be careful."

She makes to leave, but Sam stops her.

"Do you happen to remember who was assigned to Smith's case when he went to trial?"

Madison looks up at the ceiling for a few seconds before answering,

"Dellamorte. Tessa Dellamorte. She's still working in the Defender's office. It shouldn't be too hard to get a hold of her. I have to go clean up what's left of my case, now."

She gives a small wave to Ash and Gabriel before making her way out, the sound of heels clicking as she moved down the hall. When Sam turns back to the other two, he frowns at the looks on their faces.

"What?"

Gabriel snickers and pops a butterscotch into his mouth, "You two."

"What?" Sam's brow wrinkles in exasperation.

"I'm telling you; another time, another place, you two would have been all over each other."

"Gabe, no."

"Not saying anything's happening. Just saying you two have good chemistry is all."

"Get out."

"Hey, she wasn't paying any attention to me or Ash, despite the fact we are fine figures of men."

"We're just friends!"

"Calm down, Samoose. I'm just teasing."

Sam groans and rubs at his eyes,

"Ash, tell me you have something."

"Well, Tessa Dellamorte is definitely up there on the list of people to talk to. Smith spoke with her quite frequently before he was incarcerated. From the looks of things, he was more open with her than anyone else they tried to get him to talk to.

"Also, and this is very important, we have to catch this guy before he makes his eighth kill. After his eighth victim, Smith slipped off of the radar. No sign of anything for two weeks. And then, the police pick up an anonymous call on his whereabouts from a phone booth. And the rest, you know since you were both there.

"And last, but not least, we could always talk to Smith ourselves."

Gabriel drops the pencil he was fiddling with and Sam almost spits out his coffee. Before he can protest, Ash raises a hand and continues,

"Smith is on Death Row guys. His execution day is in exactly a week. You say we need to get inside his head to pull out his pattern. The best way to do that is to talk to him ourselves. And he's got an expiration date.

"Absolutely not. There's no way we'd even be able to get the clearance to talk to him."

"It's actually not as difficult as you're making it out to be Sam."

"Gabriel. Ash. No." Sam stands up to his full height, "We are not going to talk to him. We are not going to go anywhere near him. We are going to catch this copycat and we are going to do it without the help of Dean Smith."

"Sam-"

"He is going to die alone and I refuse to let him have the chance to gloat over his victims. End of story."

Sam strides out of the room, determined to walk off the sudden hit of anger that seemed to have injected itself in his veins.

Babybro,

Don't take crap from anyone. I wish I could have been there to teach you. I hope you are strong.

A/N The song Alastair sings is All of You by Cole Porter. Fred Astaire sang it in the movie Silk Stockings.