There were a surprising number of people in New York with fish for last names. Peter and Neal had narrowed the list down to seven before they went to talk to them. Well, mostly it had been Peter. Neal had just sat there and drummed his fingers and wriggled like a five-year-old and made annoying little comments when he noticed a mistake. Peter had been tempted to skip the background checks on some of them just to stop Neal jiggling impatiently. He didn't though, because he was a responsible FBI agent who didn't cut corners. Unlike some people.

They were just heading out to talk to the men on the list when the agent who'd been doing the background check on Justin Case hurried up, handing Peter a print out of the man's file. No arrests, but his Peter had arrested his wife for art fraud, and there was a picture they could compare to their fish-list.

Neal had been reading over Peter's shoulder. "Maybe Dean Winchester was right about the grudge," he said.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Peter reminded him, steering the consultant out the door.

The first three on the list were busts. The fourth was a young guy called Jerry Carp who lived in a squalid apartment and was probably on drugs, but wasn't Justin Case.

Peter knew they were onto something when they reached the building where the fifth person on the list (the second Jerry Carp) lived. It was an expensive high rise, very modern, with gleaming windows and a doorman who did his job properly. It looked like exactly the kind of place a con-man/art thief would live. Especially since the second Jerry Carp lived in the penthouse.

Peter flashed his badge at the doorman and asked him not to call up. A guy like this was slippery. Give him a minute's warning and he'd disappear into the night. Or in this case the late morning heat. The elevator ride to the top floor was faster and smoother than the one in the federal building.

The man who answered the door was friendly and pleasant and wholly unhelpful. He looked to be in his late thirties, with either an excellent dye job or naturally dark brown hair. His eyes were blue, but Peter suspected if he looked closely he'd see coloured contacts. He was small and wiry, not unlike a slightly less handsome version of Neal. Peter mentally compared him to the ten-year-old photograph of the blonde Justin Case and decided it could be him. Faces often changed substantially when people were in their thirties, and these days hair colour was nothing to go on. Behind him, Peter caught a glimpse of a clean room with white walls and expensive-looking art.

Peter showed the second Jerry Carp his badge. "Peter Burke, FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions about a recent art theft."

The second Jerry Carp surreptitiously stepped to the left to block the doorway. "I'm afraid I'm just on my way out."

"It will just take a few minutes. May we come in?"

"I'm sorry, I really don't have time right now. Why don't you come back later?" The man's pleasant tone didn't waver. It reminded him of someone. He glanced at Neal, who was smiling back at the second Jerry Carp just as pleasantly. Oh. Peter's feeling that the guy was hiding something grew.

"You're right," Peter told him evenly, "We could come back later. But it's amazing what someone can hide in a few hours, and the less willing you are to help us, the more suspicious you look."

"You seem to have me confused with someone else," the man said, "You'll excuse me if I don't let someone who may or may not be an FBI agent into my apartment." He started to close the door.

"One last question before I go to request a warrant. Are you Justin Case?"

Not even a flicker.

The door was nearly closed when Neal stepped forward. He had that big smile on his face, the one he got when he was pleased with himself. "Is that a Raphael on your wall? I could have sworn that belonged to the Met..."

XXX

Dean breathed a sigh of relief when Steven Paul let them out of the prison gates undetected. A few years ago he would have liked the rush of taking the risk. Hell, he'd even quite enjoyed the case in the county jail. But he was younger and stupider then, and he'd had a guaranteed escape. A couple of days in a county jail were a whole different story to life in federal prison, and now Dean knew how well he coped with staying in one place for a long time. Not well.

The fence they'd interviewed in the prison had been all too eager to give up his colleague in return for protection from the mob. They hadn't even had to actually threaten him, which was kind of a disappointment because pretending to be a mob enforcer was fun, and cowards who gave up their friends to save themselves pissed Dean off. The guy had given them Justin Case's new name and a couple of possible places to find him. Apparently Case was living the good life off the profits of his thefts and was replacing his dead wife with penthouse apartments and vague references to revenge against the fed who'd had her arrested.

The first place they looked was a sparsely furnished apartment he used as a safe house. All it had was a supply of food, a table and chairs, a bed, a few pieces of ugly pottery, and a wall with a line of photographs pinned up on it. All but the last were smeared with blood.

"Well, that's disgusting," Dean said, peering closely at the first in the line.

"He's not here," his brother said, coming back from the next room. "There's no altar either, but I did find a whole supply of these in the cupboard." He held up a black wax candle.

Dean nodded. "These are all the people who've been reported to own the painting, and a couple I don't recognise. They're all crossed out in blood except the one of the FBI agent."

Sam continued. "Believe it or not, that's not the gross bit. Come and see what else I found in the cupboard."

Dean followed him into a dark room with blackout shades on the single tiny window. Sam strode across to a closet door and pulled it open. At eye level sat rows of thick black candles, unused. On the shelf beneath them was a line of six tiny, intricately patterned glass bottles, each three-quarters filled with a dark liquid.

"Is that what I think it is?" Dean shuddered, hoping it was just his eyes playing tricks on him in the dark.

"Oh yeah," said Sam. "That's blood. And there's a bottle missing."

"How do you know?" He certainly couldn't tell from the dust marks. Every surface in the place was scrubbed creepily clean.

"There are seven photos on the wall in there. We have to find this guy now."

They left everything as it was and secured the door they had kicked in as well as they could when they left. Wouldn't want some kid getting in and finding those bottles.

The next place on the list turned out to be a big apartment building with proper security and windows that didn't open. They lurked on the sidewalk and tried to look like they belonged while they came up with a plan to get in. Dean could feel the security guard's eyes on him. He pushed his sunglasses up his nose and didn't let his hand twitch toward his gun. Elderly ladies with rat-like dogs swarmed in and out of the building, mixing with younger men and women with expensive suits and briefcases.

"I feel dirty," Sam said.

There was no way into the building. The security guard was sure to have their wanted posters now, especially since Agent Burke knew they were still investigating. They would have to wait for the guy to come out.

Dean kept an eye on the door from a bookstore across the street while Sam waited in a little alleyway beside the apartment building where he had a good view of the street. Sam had wanted the bookstore position, but Dean overruled him on the grounds that Sam would be distracted by the books. And Dean was totally not going to use the time to read the new Jack Reacher.

Reacher had just knocked out the first two bad guys when Dean's phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked up and groaned. Justin Case was on his way out, all right, but it was in handcuffs, accompanied by Peter Burke and a familiar figure with an old fashioned hat and a tie pin that glinted in the sun.

Dean waited until they were out of sight and jogged back across the road to Sam.

"We have to get into the FBI," he said.

XXX

Cas glared at the psychiatrist who sat across from him. She was middle aged and plump and apparently thought him extremely stupid. She had been asking him patronising questions all morning, making little noises in her throat and writing things on a pad of paper. Now she was showing him little cards with inkblots on them and trying to get him to see things in the pictures. Mostly Cas just saw blots of ink.

He glanced through the glass wall. The bustle had slowed considerably. Peter Burke had left earlier along with the consultant who was not a witch after all, and now almost everyone was sitting in front of computers.

The psychiatrist gently but firmly reminded him to look at the card in front of him. "Only a few more," she told him, "The violent crimes unit will be coming to take custody of you in a few moments, and I need to give them my judgement on whether you are competent to stand trial."

"Where did Agent Burke go?" Cas asked.

"He's investigating another case. Because you can no longer help him, he's turning you over to the violent crimes unit, who are in charge of the investigation into the Winchesters. Do you understand that?"

"I'm not retarded." It was a phrase he'd never used before, but he'd heard it in a movie and felt it served his purpose.

"Hmm..." The grey-haired woman made a noise in the back of her throat and wrote something on her pad.

"But where did he go?" Cas asked again. He was getting a little concerned. He hadn't exactly liked either man, but they had seemed tenacious, and if they were continuing their investigation into the painting one or both would certainly be killed. They had showed no sign of heeding the warning he had given them that morning.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Mr Novak," the psychiatrist answered, "Now, what is the first thing you think of when you see this picture?"

"Angel wings burnt into the ground," Cas said, "Have they gone after the witch?"

The psychiatrist wouldn't tell him. Cas took that as a yes. The agent had paid no attention to the warning Cas had given him, and was continuing to investigate. Sooner or later, the spirit in the painting would kill someone. Even if Dean and Sam were continuing their investigation, they couldn't risk breaking into the FBI. The best they could manage was to stop the witch in burn the corpse of the spirit attached to the painting. But there was real blood in the painting, and the only way to destroy the spirit was to salt and burn the painting. It was up to Cas. He couldn't sit around wallowing in the emptiness of human existence and the loss of his friends' trust any longer. It was time for him to fix things, to begin to make up for what he had done, and he would start with saving these people. It was up to him to destroy the painting or at the very least keep everyone out of the room it was being kept in.

When the psychiatrist turned him over to Violent Crimes fifteen minutes later, he waited until they were distracted by the psychiatrist's entirely mistaken conclusions about his mental state. He punched the man holding him hard in the stomach, grabbed his gun and ran, ignoring the shouts that echoed around him.

"Freeze or I'll shoot!" seemed to be a common theme.

XXX