3

Bloody Hell

Rigsby really didn't like Dean. But he couldn't say anything. He couldn't tell him that if he made one more comment about Grace that he was going to beat his face in like he wanted. All he could do was stand in the corner and brood, imaging himself permanently wiping that stupid smirk off of his face.

Van Pelt smiled and flirted back, but sometimes she just couldn't help but smile of her own free-will. She had to admit, his charm had been tweaked to perfection.

"You're kidding," he was saying. "How the hell does a girl like you stay single?" Rigsby flexed his closed fist in the corner.

"'A girl like me'? And what kind of girl am I?" She was playing along strictly for Lisbon's benefit, since she had asked her to "keep him occupied".

"But…Lisbon…" She had almost whined.

"I know, I know," she said, holding up her hands. "But you're the only one he'll talk to. He likes you."

"Yay for me."

So now here she sat, falsely flirting with him while her boyfriend stood behind her.

Dean smiled that cocky grin of his , laying on that Winchester charm he'd worked so hard to perfect.

"You know, the drop dead gorgeous kind," he grinned. Rigsby rolled his eyes, irritated. Van pelt smiled, trying to be as realistic as she could muster.

When the door opened she immediately backed away from the table, her smile gone.

"Hello, hello," Patrick smiled. Dean frowned. He didn't want to talk to this guy. He was annoying the first time around, let alone another one.

Patrick noticed the hostile look but chose to ignore it. He smiled his dimpled grin, knowing this was going to be fun…for him, of course.

"So, Dean," he began, folding his hands on the table, "Your brother just told me an interesting story."

"Did he now?" Dean smirked, leaning back and crossing his arms across his chest.

"Oh yeah," Patrick said. "You see, he said he killed Paul Bratter."

"That's a lie," Dean growled. "Sam wouldn't say that."

"Well he did," Patrick said. "He admitted to the murder and said you had nothing to do with it. He said you were there to stop him."

"That's not what happened!" Dean barked.

"Then you killed him."

"No!"

"Then what happened?" He asked smoothly.

"I…I can't tell you," Dean mumbled.

"Why not?" Patrick inquired, cocking his brow. Dean shook his head, smiling and chuckling ruefully.

"Because. If I did you'd send me off to the nuthouse for the rest of my life," he said pointedly.

"That won't happen," Patrick assured.

"You won't believe me," Dean retaliated.

"Try me," he smiled.

"No." Patrick leaned forward without missing a beat.

"I swear on my wife and daughter's graves that I will believe whatever you tell me and not ship you off anywhere."

Dean was, nonetheless, taken aback by the blunt statement, but it still didn't sway him. He wasn't going to take this guy's word for it. He'd been taught a lot by his father, and one big point he'd made was never trust cops unless you know you didn't do anything wrong. And that wasn't the case here.

"No." Patrick sighed and stood, understanding that he wouldn't be getting any information out of the elder brother today.

"Alright, alright," he held up his hands in temporary surrender, "You win. But I will find out what happened to Paul Bratter. And when I do, remember, you could've told me now." He looked at Dean, waiting for some sort of reaction or change in his behavior. Dean merely flexed his jaw and strengthened his stance. "No? Okay," he started to walk away again. "Last chance," no reaction, "Still no? Okay?"

Van Pelt and Rigsby –who glared at Dean violently- left the room and Patrick turned once again.

"Oh, by the way, just one last bit. What's your last name?"

"Wesson," Dean answered immediately. Patrick grinned.

"Oh, you're good." And he left the room, leaving Dean very confused.

"So?" Lisbon said as Patrick approached. "Did they do it?"

"No," Patrick said, walking to the counter and beginning to make tea. "They aren't killers. However, they are they do know something. I believe they know how Paul Bratter died, but neither one of them will say. And I know they both participate in less than legal activities quite often. Most likely on a daily basis. I have a feeling it's for an honorable cause, though."

"And what cause would that be?" Lisbon asked.

"Not sure," he said honestly, sitting down in front of her. "But that's not important. We need to keep them here to find out what they know. If we let them leave they'll disappear."

"We have nothing to hold them for!" She exclaimed. Patrick grinned.

"You'll have everything you need if you just look in the trunk of their car."

Lisbon shook her head, staring at the arsenal before her in the old car.

"Told ya so," Patrick smiled.

"Fine," she resolved, "Fine. So we keep them here."

"We can question them tomorrow. It'll do them some good to sleep on it. Oh, and put them in the same room."

"What?" Lisbon snapped. "Jane, that's totally against regulations!"

"But then they'll be able to figure out what they want to do. Talk or don't. Otherwise they'll both stay as stubborn as ever," he said pointedly. Lisbon sighed, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose.

"Alright, alright. Whatever you say. If they get out though…"

"They won't," he smiled. "So long as someone fast and strong is on hand all night."

"Fine, Rigsby and Cho will stay here," she said.

"I also wanted to-"

"No."

"But I-"

"No."

"Couldn't I just-"

"No."

"Then what am I supposed to do?" Patrick whined, wilted.

"Go home and get some sleep," Lisbon said, heading back inside. "You look exhausted."

"Alright," Patrick surrendered. "Alright, see you tomorrow then."

Lisbon didn't see it. She didn't notice that split second hesitation before he answered. She didn't hear the voice in his head scream in agony and despair.

No one knew about the urge he had to fight to stop himself from dropping to his knees and begging her to let him stay, to not make him go home.

No one saw past his smile and pleasant demeanor to the torment in his eyes.

They had failed to notice him shut his eyes and sigh sadly when the elevator door closed.

He went home, having nowhere else to go. He was certainly exhausted, which gave him hopes that he would fall asleep easily.

He lied down after changing out of his work clothes, waiting. Then the silence came. The horrible, gut wrenching silence.

He shut his eyes, but they sprang back open again. He sighed and rolled over. And rolled over. And again, tossing and turning for over an hour. Images and hate plagued his mind along with crippling sadness and fear. Memories threatened to suffocate him. So it was going to be one of those nights.

"Patrick," God, those voices were getting so clear. "Patrick, darling." No, no she couldn't be this close. He couldn't deal with this right now. He was breaking again, wasn't he? His mind was about to snap yet again.

He dared to open his eyes and look up to where the voice was coming from. And there she was. His dead wife. She was right there. Right in front of him. He could reach out and touch her. She was smiling at him from her perch on the edge of his bed, like she'd never left him.

His eyes grew, his face paled, his hands shook and his heart pounded. He sat up, lost for words.

"What…how did…what's-"

"Shh…" she pressed a finger to his lips. Pain radiated from that spot right to his heart, making it ache. He was awake. He was sure of it. Wasn't he? How was she here? How was this possible? "Hush, darling. It's alright."

"You're not real," he said shakily. "You can't be real." She smiled knowingly at him.

"I am very real, baby." She stroked his cheek. "I missed you."

His heart contracted so painfully he was sure it was bleeding from just looking at her. He unconsciously leaned into her hand. Tears welled in his eyes. It hurt. It hurt so much… But she was right here…

"Oh don't cry," she said, kissing his forehead. "It's alright, Patrick. Shh…" He shook his head, keeping his tears at bay as much as he could, locking his sobs in his chest.

"You don't understand," he choked. "You don't know how much I missed you. You don't know…you don't know how sorry I am." A solitary tear trekked its way down his cheek. She kissed it away, breaking his heart even more.

"Come here, darling." She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close to her.

He clung to her as if his life depended on it. His sobs broke free, too painful to be contained any longer.

"Shh, hush, baby. Don't cry, it's alright." She held onto him as he cried and apologized over and over again for what he'd done.

"It's not your fault, Patrick. It's alright."

He'd never felt such agony before. It was almost worse than when he dounf her dead.

"I'm dreaming," he cried. "I have to be. Y-you're not real. You c-can't be real."

"I'm here, Patrick. I'm real, and I'm right here. It's okay. It's okay. Shh…shh…"

He refused to let her go. He refused to sleep. But sometime around dawn he dozed. And when he jolted awake less than an hour later he was left holding his pillow.

--o.O uh oh--