"You wanna repeat that, boy?" Bobby's voice growled out through the sad tiny speaker of Dean's burner phone.

"Look, it's not our fault!" Dean insisted, immediately on the defensive. It didn't end well to let Bobby get going on that kind of train of thought. The guy would always be there to give the brothers a hand. He'd proven that time and time again. Even at their darkest. But that didn't mean he'd do so without ripping them a new one, and that could take far longer than Dean wanted to spend on the phone. They had driven straight through the day and all night, trying to put as much distance between them and the Feds as they could. Since they didn't have a next job lined up, it didn't hurt to put a bit of space – say half the continent – between them and Virginia. "How the hell could we have known a couple of Feds would be slumming it in a place like that? I don't think that place even took credit cards."

"You idjits could find trouble with both hands tied behind your back and blindfolded. In fact, I'm pretty sure ya've done so. I've givin' up on tryin' to keep your fool asses out of the fire long ago."

"Don't say that, Bobby," Sam tried interjecting. He had that earnest tone of voice that had worked so well when he was sixteen, skinny and tall, coltish and awkward, and hard not to take pity on. It wasn't as effective on Bobby these years, but you had to give the guy credit for trying. "You know we don't mean to cause trouble."

"And yet ya do it so damn well. Jesus Christ, boys. Fox Fucking Mulder."

Dean stopped unpacking, his toiletries in one hand and his gun cleaning kit in the other. "Why does that sound like you know who the fuck this fucking Fed is?" He put both items back in his duffel. "Bobby. What the hell now?"

"I'm not the dumb idjit that got mixed up with the one Fed you should stay away from," Bobby snapped back.

"Wait, I'm confused," Sammy interjected. He'd moved from his side of the room and came to stand by Dean and the phone. "The guy didn't seem that threatening. Hell, he barely put up a fight when Dean and I got the hell out of there."

"Shouldn't have been talkin' to him in the first place."

"Bobby," Dean huffed with almost a laugh. "It's not exactly like we went out to make friends."

"Fox Fucking Mulder," Bobby repeated like it was the end of the world. Which was damn funny since it might sort of be, the way their lives were going. They had seals and demons and moody freakin' angels to deal with and Bobby was all bent out of shape about a goofy looking Fed.

Sam reached out and snagged the business card from where Dean had dropped it. Dean had shoved it into his pocket more out of impulse than anything else and forgot about it until they had finally pulled off of the road. It looked like every other Fed's business card. They had mocked up a few of them over the years and had a pretty good idea of what kind of formatting to use and what the seal should look like. The only odd thing about this one was the personal phone scrawled on the back in messy handwriting. It had been like that when the guy pulled it out, so either he prepared it just before talking to them or he was in the habit of giving random contacts his personal information. Dean wasn't sure which was weirder.

"Nothing here that stands out, Bobby," Sam commented. "You wanna tell us what has your knickers in a bunch? Is he someone important? Possessed?"

"Christ, just what we need," Dean muttered. Fucking demons. A fucking Fed that was a fucking demon would just be too fuckin' much.

"Worse," Bobby groaned. "He's a believer."

Dean blinked down at the phone as if it would communicate more information than that. "What do you mean? Like, an angel possession kind of believer?"

"Not to my knowledge," Bobby admitted, which was good enough for Dean. "He's been popping up for a few years now. On o-ffic-cial in-vesty-ga-tions," he said, mockingly drawing the two words out. "Which is about the damn most dangerous thing for us hunters. Last goddamn thing we need is some dumbass Fed thinkin' he knows a damn thing about what's really happenin' out here."

Dean snatched up the phone and held it in front of his face. "You mean to say this guy actually knows something? For real?"

"I don't know that. You think I can read minds now, boy? But I can tell you he's been asking some damn pointed questions and stickin' his nose in case after case. I've had to warn more than one hunter off a case because of him. Which makes the job a damn clusterfuck instead of lettin' a professional deal with the problem."

Dean's fists clenched. "You mean to tell me we've got a certified government official who knows what the hell we're up against and we're not taking advantage of that? What the hell, Bobby."

"I don't know what he knows and what he doesn't know. And what the hell do you expect one of us to do? Tell him who we really are and hope he's actually got his head out of his ass and doesn't throw whatever poor fuck in jail or the nut house?"

"But Bobby," Sam said, eyes lighting up. "Think about the possibilities. The resources we could have."

"Now you listen here, you two numbnuts." And fuck but that was Bobby's really angry voice. He usually reserved that for when one of them did something really spectacular, like taking up with demons or volunteering for suicide runs. "I don't even wanna hear about either one of ya getting it into your damn fool head to even go near this guy. He is a walkin', talkin, disaster waiting to happen. And the last thing you boys need is to be getting dragged into his mess. Let him figure this shit out on his own. The rest of us had to. Even if he could help us, it'd be a onetime thing and it'd likely get us all into boilin' hot water."

"Still," Sammy reasoned. "It might be good to know it's an option."

"Boy, don't make me come find you and beat some sense into your ass."

A Fed who knew what the hell they were up against. It was hard to picture. Sure, Henrickson finally came around there at the last moment, but it had taken a hell of a lot of blood and in the end it had gotten him killed. Was it worth it? Pulling someone else into this fucked up mess was never something Dean wanted to do, but he had to admit the temptation was there.

But this wasn't somebody who had survived a ghost hunting trip with him. Or helped fight off a demon. Or bled beside him in any way. And Dean had had it beat into his head, by both Dad and Bobby, who you could and couldn't trust. And Bobby was right. They didn't know anything about this guy, other than he was some kind of odd ball who might actually have a clue. That didn't make him a hunter and that didn't make him someone Dean could trust. Not now with everything that was going on with Sammy.

Oh, and that whole apocalypse thing.

"Right," Dean announced. "No Feds. No stupid guy named Fox. I mean, really. Who names their kid that? No one that can be trusted to have two brain cells."

"But - "

"No buts, Sammy. We'll call ya later, Bobby," Dean said before hanging up the phone and pulling his kits back out.

Sammy sighed mournfully, like the overgrown girl he was. But he went back to his side of the room and started working on his own gear. "Just would've been nice to be on the right side of the law for once," he grumbled.

"Dude. You wanted to be a lawyer. That's about as crooked as it gets." Which was true, no matter how much Sam sputtered and objected and cited shit at him. The right side of the law was about as far of a distant dream for them as spending a night at the playboy mansion. After all, a fancy education and all the resources in the world didn't mean jack shit against the truth of what was really out there. They didn't need anybody else's help.

"Meet Dean and Sam Winchester!" Mulder announced as he dropped a thick file in Scully's lap. She caught it awkwardly and shifted her coffee out of her hand to better hold it. Even without opening it she could see the edges of newspaper clippings sticking out of the bottom, and she sighed. It was going to be that kind of case. The type that relied more on tabloids than reports. At least Mulder seemed much more chipper than he had during the rest of their ride home from the diner. He had sulked the entire way – which wasn't unusual after one of their cases since so many failed to have the outcome he would have preferred. Scully was accustomed to dealing with it, but he had kept interrupting the NPR broadcast she had been trying to listen to with his complaints and it had left both of them somewhat grumpy by the end.

Right now he was perched on the edge of his desk, staring down at her expectantly with a boyish grin on his face.

Scully sighed again and started on the heavy file. She was going to have quite a bit of reading to do since it was clear Mulder found all of this very relevant. The beginning at least had some sense of order. Both young men were pictured in what were clearly prison mug shots. The one was all bravado, the other more subdued - almost frustrated. Like being arrested was an inconvenience. The pictures looked a few years old based on her own observations of the suspects. It was somewhat disconcerting that they both looked more clean-cut, well rested and relaxed in their prison photos than they had on a lazy Sunday morning waiting for breakfast.

"And yet you let them walk away, Mulder," she grossed, annoyed with herself as well for not detaining the man as soon as she saw him. There had been something distinctly guilty about him and she should have known to trust her own instincts better and ignore Mulder's carelessness.

"They did have a gun, Scully." He said it with a shrug and a condescending attitude that if it had been coming from anyone else she might have taken it personally, but for Mulder it was standard for him talking to anyone who wasn't also a believer.

"So did you, Mulder," she pointed out, matching his tone.

He grinned brightly back at her. "Yes, but somehow I don't think that would have been enough. You ought to read this one, Scully. I mean, I doubt it's even half of what's happened, but it's certainly interesting enough as it is."

She flipped through some of the early biographical data, reading carefully the hand written notes Mulder had added in the margins. Mulder's theories frequently included the highly unorthodox, but he was still one of the best profilers in the agency. He could make some of the most detailed and inspired analysis of human behavior – assuming you could get him to focus on the most probable explanation and not on proving the most improbable. Scully was learning to sift through the more extreme elements to find the practical aspects – but she was also learning how and when to follow him down that rabbit hole.

"Orphans," she noted. "I assume the mother's death was investigated."

"Not at first," Mulder replied. "Not beyond the basics. There was no clear evidence of foul play and no record of any irregularities with the family." She glanced up at him and he shrugged. "Child services got involved a few months after the event. Neglect only. But the father skipped town with the two boys before there could be any follow up. No other immediate family, and since nothing could be determined, the case was dropped."

She raised an eyebrow.

Mulder shrugged. "Nothing to suggest abuse," he answered. "There's several confirmed records of the boys being put into school, and Samuel Winchester even attended Stanford for a time, under his real name. Right up until his girlfriend died in a fire at their apartment."

Scully's expression didn't change. "What a coincidence. Familial disorder?" she asked innocently. She couldn't hide her interest however. The study of genetic mental disease was an ever changing field filled with a variety of opposing and competing theories. Very little could be proven however, since psychotic homicidal families were thankfully a rare commodity.

Mulder matched her expression with one of his own. "Depends on what you mean by coincidence. And what you mean by disorder."

Scully skipped forward to some of the more eye-catching articles and skimmed their contents. It didn't take much. "Multiple petty crimes," she noted dismissively before raising her voice. "Grave desecration?" What a lovely hobby. She squinted at the next photo. "Are those satanic symbols?" she asked, her tone one of pure professional curiosity as she continued reading quickly. "Mulder. They've killed people. Gruesomely."

"Allegedly!"

"Three people in Missouri," she replied before flipping ahead. She stopped suddenly. "Homicide and bank robbery," she hissed. "The Milwaukee bank robbery!" Everyone in the agency heard about that one. Violent, unusual murders always made the news and had the agents making bets on if this was the debut of a new serial killer.

Mulder held up his hands in what was meant to look disarming but Scully was more than familiar enough with to see through. "You'll also note that Dean Winchester has been confirmed dead. Twice. That we have on record. There's a lot of things in the record that don't add up, Scully. Dean Winchester's repetitive disappearing acts in only part of it."

"And your theory?" Scully asked, because Mulder always had a theory. "On who the primary is?" she clarified, trying to keep the conversation on track.

Her tone was a bit sharp, but Mulder grinned back even more broadly, not at all offended. "That, Scully, may be the million dollar question. The father is clearly the first, but there's a clear shift in structure and visibility when Samuel goes to college."

"You think he's the catalyst?"

"I think the violence picked up when Samuel rejoined his brother."

"That's one way to describe it," Scully agreed. "These are very serious allegations, Mulder."

"I know that. You think I don't? That's why this matter, Scully. Something weird is going on with these two brothers."

"Something beyond homicidal tendencies? Mulder, you've read this file. Their childhood is like a textbook case of psychotic risk factors."

Mulder grinned. "I meet some of those risk factors."

"Yes, but you don't have a trail of dead bodies following you."

"Sure I do," Mulder replied losing the grin. "We've had more than our fair share of case related fatalities, Scully." He held up his hand to forestall any argument. "And if it was just that, I'd say you might be right. But just too many inconsistencies, Scully. Too many unaccounted for things. Weird follows these two like nothing else I've ever seen. Doesn't that make you curious?"

"Curious on how to catch them, yes."

Mulder grinned again. "No argument there. But what if it's something bigger than just the two of them? Something that won't stop just by catching them? Or something that might get away with all of those deaths if we do? Do you want to take that chance?"

"There's always that chance, Mulder," she reminded him. It was the limitation of their work, their real work as investigators. She stared at one of the more bizarre reports involving the deaths of three people at three different sites all at the same time. Scully understood the limitations of the legal system but she also had great faith in its ability to do more good than harm. She wouldn't have worked so hard for her place in the FBI if she didn't. Still. She trusted Mulder. "What are you expecting to find?" she asked slowly, looking at the reports and wondering.

Mulder shrugged carelessly. "I don't know. Exciting, isn't it?"

Scully smiled back. She couldn't help it. Her life certainly was never boring. "But Mulder, we missed the arrest. We have nothing." Unless he was holding back some harebrained brilliant plan.

Judging by the way his shoulders slumped, she assumed not. She almost regretted having to remind him. "I know," he sighed. "It's like seeing Bigfoot and not having a camera." He pushed himself off of the desk and moved to slump in his seat. "We'll probably never get another chance like that again."