When Morgan got into the precinct the next morning, Reid was already there, standing in front of one of the cork boards that was covered in case information and sipping a cup of coffee.

"Morning," he said. Reid nodded his reply.

Hotch and Prentiss walked in just after him and settled themselves at the table.

Morgan walked up to stand next to Reid, his eyebrow raising slowly as he took in the changes to the board. Reid had been busy. "How long have you been here?"

Reid blinked, and looked over. "What time is it?"

"Seven o'clock."

He paused. "A while."

"...Right." Morgan took a closer look at the board, and frowned when he saw a face he didn't recognize. He reached up and pulled the picture down – a young, blonde haired woman, with startlingly blue eyes. "Who's this?"

"Yes," Reid said with a nod. "Right. That's Emma Crawford."

"They found another victim?"

"I did." Reid spoke quickly. "Well, I think I did."

Prentiss spoke up from across the room. "What did you say, Reid?"

Reid turned around. "I've… been doing some digging," he said. "And by digging, I mean reading all the police reports from the last few months. That's Emma Crawford, 20 years old. In early July she was found dead in her car by the river. She'd been beaten, and stabbed. Medical examiner's report says it was a hit to the head that killed her."

"And you think what? That she was the real first victim?" Morgan asked, pinning the photo back up again. Then he looked at the one next to it: a photo of the body.

"That doesn't sound like a very similar MO," Hotch said. "What makes you think this death is connected?"

"Well, we know that few serial killers' first attacks are as well planned and considered as these murders. Emma Crawford fits the victim type. She could have been – a sort of trial run."

Prentiss considered that. "Okay. But our unsub's kills are very premeditated. The beating? That looks more emotional."

Morgan nodded. "No, that makes sense. He kills Emma as a crime of passion, then decides he likes it. Plans something a little more to his tastes for the next kill."

"Where did you find out about this?" Hotch said.

"I read through the case files of any recent deaths and looked for victims who matched the unsub's tastes. This was the only one that fit."

"Did they have any suspects?" Emily asked. "You say it's been over a month since she died - that would have given the police time to try and find the killer before they were overwhelmed with the serial."

Reid shook his head. "There were a few people they had listed as persons of interest, but they didn't have anything concrete on any of them. One man was arrested, but they didn't have enough evidence to hold him."

"If it was an emotional attack, his connection to the victim would be a lot more personal," Derek said.

"That's true," agreed Hotch. "Reid, good work. And keep looking into this. Keep us up to date on anything you find. Prentiss, you can work with him on this. Take JJ with you, too, once she gets in."

Prentiss gave Reid a nod.

Hotch continued. "Now, we have a lot of ground to cover today –"

The door opened again, and Rossi walked in, a hubbub of noise from the bullpen washing into the room with him.

"What's going on?" Morgan asked, tensing up.

Rossi looked alert, but not concerned. Morgan let himself relax a little with the knowledge that whatever it was, it wasn't overly serious.

Rossi shot Prentiss a loaded look. "They just brought in Tom Rayan."


Dean was driving, Genesis playing on the car speakers as they passed by miles and miles of thick woods. He held a cup of coffee in his hand, the warmth of it bleeding through the paper cup and into his skin. Beside him, Sam sat with some papers on his lap, his foot tapping in the footwell. When Dean had awoken an hour ago, Sam had already been up for who knew how long. Obviously the unknown amount of coffee he'd downed by that point was showing through.

They were headed to Robert Freeman's house, and they were bringing the works. It seemed like the guy was a part of what was going on, but as for what he was – they couldn't be 100% sure yet. And they'd learned a long time ago that it was better to show up prepared.

Sam cleared his throat a little awkwardly, and Dean looked over. "What?" he said flatly.

"I've just been thinking, you know –"

"Careful. You'll strain something."

Sam glowered, and pushed on, "I've been thinking, that maybe we should just give up this case - pass it on to someone else."

Dean raised an eyebrow, and took a sip of his coffee. "Pass it on? To who, exactly? If you hadn't noticed, we're a bit short on allies at the moment."

"I don't know," Sam shrugged. "We could ask Bobby. He knows everyone – surely he knows someone close enough to take this on."

He shook his head. "I know you're worried about the Feds, but come on. We're here; we're taking care of it. Weren't you the one that sent us over here in the first place?"

"Dean, we don't have time to end up back in jail. It's not worth the risk."

"First you say we've got to get to this guy's house as soon as we can," Dean grumbled. "Now we gotta leave."

Sam's fist clenched on top of his leg. "I just… don't want to deal with all that. You get me? So, can we at least not actively get in their way?"

Dean paused, and frowned at Sam's tone of voice. He sounded seriously stressed. "Alright, alright," he agreed. "Sure, Sam. We'll stay out of their way. Okay?"

Sam nodded, his lips a thin line. "Yeah," he said shortly. "Okay." Then his eyes widened. "Dean – turn here!"

"Shit!" Dean said suddenly, slamming on the breaks and turning them onto a dirt road, cursing again when coffee spilled on his pants. "Damn it. Sorry, dude – wasn't paying attention."


"Can somebody tell me why the hell I'm here?"

Aaron sat across the table from Tom Rayan, a man who was about his age but had been weathered a little harder by the passage of time. The guy had his arms crossed, and a sullen expression on his face.

"As I've been trying to explain, Mr. Rayan," Hotch said with forced civility, "We have some questions for you relating to the recent deaths in town."

"So this is about Georgia." Tom looked suddenly angrier. "Did Denice tell you to go after me?"

Rossi, who was sitting to his left, cast him a glance. "If you mean Mrs. Barnard, we did –"

"That bitch."

"Mr. Rayan. We spoke with Mrs. Barnard. Regardless of what she said to us, you're Georgia's father. That's why you're here."

"Oh yeah? I bet you didn't bring Denice here in the back of a squad car."

Aaron let out a breath through his nose, and tried to redirect. This guy really was just as much of an asshole as they'd been told. "We're trying to find your daughter's killer. Now, if you're interested in helping us do that, you'll answer our questions."

Tom huffed. "Fine. But because I know you're thinking it – no, I did not kill my daughter. And fuck you for asking."

Rossi ignored him. "When did you first hear about Georgia's disappearance, and her death?"

"I heard about it on the news. Apparently nobody could be bothered to let me know."

"Where were you the night she disappeared?"

Tom slammed his fist down on the table. "I already told you, dammit! I didn't –"

"Mr. Rayan. Where were you," Hotch said firmly, cutting him off.

"It was last Wednesday, right?"

"Tuesday," Rossi corrected, unimpressed.

Tom shrugged. "Tuesday, then. I… I was with my buddy Sean that night, in his trailer. Sean Goddard. His girlfriend showed up later – her name's Holly. She had a friend with her. I don't remember her name."

"Holly what?" Rossi was writing the names down on a notepad.

"Blaise, I think. She's a mess, I don't –"

"Thank you," Hotch said sharply, before he could go off on a tirade. "Now, how would you describe your relationship with Georgia?"

Tom looked uncomfortable. "Well, you know – I did my best. Denice was the one – she wouldn't let me see her!"

"You never had any custody of your daughter, correct?"

Tom stared at him, face stony. Then he nodded. "Like I'm saying, Denice never let me!"

Aaron stared right back, unfazed. This was the kind of man who wanted so badly to be threatening. But really it just came across as weak. "Mrs. Barnard told us that you've never attempted to be a part of her life until a few months ago."

"Yeah, okay. It's true. I had a bit of a wake up call, okay? I was trying to shape up! I just wanted to get to know my daughter."

"Alright. And why did you show up at their house multiple times without warning recently, when you never had before?"

"I was worried, you assholes. There's a fucking killer out there, and my Georgia looked just like the others that died! And now look! I was fucking right!" He was fuming, now. "First Emma, then the others –"

"Emma?" said Hotch sharply.

"Yeah, Emma. They say Robbie killed her. Apparently they were seeing each other. But I know the guy; he ain't a freak like that. This was somethin' bigger."

"Robbie? Robbie who?"

Tom scowled. "Robbie Freeman, that's who. But I'm telling you, it wasn't him."

"Who do you think it was?"

"It's not who. It's what. It's a fucking monster."

"We know whoever did this was obviously a sick man. But is there someone you have in mind?"

"I mean literally a monster, you fuckwit! Ain't you listening to me?"

Aaron looked over at Rossi, who had one eyebrow raised in his direction. This conversation was going off the rails. He let out a breath, and looked back at Tom. "Do you know where we could find Robbie Freeman?"

"Sure," Rayan shrugged. "He's my neighbor."


Dean peeled off his jacket and threw it back into the car. "Fuck, it's humid here. How do people take it?"

"I guess you get used to it," Sam shrugged. Dean saw his shirt had similar sweat stains.

"Well, it feels like we're swimming. I'm sticky, Sam. Sticky."

Sam looked his way and raised an amused eyebrow.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't even say it." As he tramped past his brother towards the cabin, he heard chuckling behind him.

"It's just too easy with you," Sam said happily.

"Are you coming, or what?" Dean grumbled, gesturing forwards.

Sam just quirked a grin as he tucked his gun in the back of his pants. As he walked forwards, he pulled his t-shirt out to cover it.

Dean shook his head and stomped up the stairs of the cabin, the wood creaking under his boots. It felt like the beams were one bad day from breaking altogether. The whole place was run down, really, now that he was seeing it up close. There was a smell of rotting wood in the air.

It seemed the humidity did more than just make him sweat.

He knocked loudly on the door. "Mr. Freeman? Sheriff's office – open up!"

Sam stepped closer and tried to peek through the screen door. He looked back and shook his head. "Doesn't look like anyone's home."

Dean knocked again. "Robert Freeman!"

No answer.

Sam pulled the door open, the spring creaking loudly, and the two of them stepped inside.

It took a moment for Dean's eyes to adjust to the low light, and when they did, the sight that greeted him wasn't pleasant. There was stuff piled up everywhere – clothes, trash, papers. Mold grew on the ceiling, and the smell of decomposing wood was even stronger inside.

"Yikes," Sam said, grimacing. "Are those mice?"

Dean followed his gaze and spotted the pile of furry bodies in the corner. "Oh, that's nasty. He couldn't even get them outside?"

"I guess he's a collector."

"A hoarder, more like." Dean walked through the kitchen, which was covered in a layer of filth, and headed for the backroom. Feeling the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, he pulled out his gun as he reached for the door handle. He turned it slowly, and then pushed it open in one burst, his gun out in front of him.

There was a dark blur of movement in front of him, and a creature raced between his legs. "Shit!"

Something clattered in the next room. He heard Sam curse, and then the squeak of the door.

"What the fuck was that?" he called out.

Sam sounded pissy when he answered, "A raccoon."

Dean huffed, and went to look through the room, feeling foolish. A god damn raccoon.

He looked over the bed and the table next to it, both of which were covered in random papers and trash. He spotted one journal in the mess that looked a little out of place, and picked it up. The book was dark purple with shimmer on the edges of the paper – the kind of thing a girl would write in. And a pretty young one, at that.

Dean peeled it open. The writing inside was a little messy, like it had been done in a hurry, but definitely feminine. He read one of the entries at random.

05/13/2011: I'm so tired of living in this fucking town. You can't hide anything from anyone. Joana found out about me and Robbie, and she says she's gonna tell Mom. But I guess I don't think she actually will – I've got enough secrets to bury her right back.

He flipped further forwards. The pages stuck together a little.

07/02/2011: It's been a week since I moved in with Robbie. I don't know if it was the right move. He's been kind of off, lately. Plus apparently he's a total slob. But since Mom kicked me out I don't exactly have anywhere else to go. Honestly, though, he's really been grumpier than usual. I wish he could just chill out a little bit – it's probably because it's been so gross out lately. It's hard to get horny when you're sweating like crazy. This place doesn't even have a fan. I could barely sleep last night it was so muggy.

Another few pages ahead:

07/10/2011: God, I really fucked up, didn't I. I'm so fucking stupid. I gotta get the hell out of here. I'm gonna call Angie and see what she thinks I should do. She got out, maybe –

Dean tried to keep going, but the rest of the pages had obviously gotten wet, and were stuck together and illegible. He shoved the diary under his arm and looked for anything else in the mess of the room, but there was nothing that looked interesting. Just for good measure, he pulled out the EMF meter and waved it around. It glowed and beeped, but nothing too strong.

He walked back into the main room, keeping the meter out in front of him. The space was empty. "Sam?" he called out. He was about a minute away from getting anxious when he heard a voice from outside.

"Back here!"

Dean let out a breath, and reminded himself that Sam was good. Most of the time, anyway. There was nothing to worry about.

Easier said than done, as per fucking usual.

He found his brother out back, looking through the tool shed. Sam emerged with cobwebs in his hair.

"Anything?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. "I don't think anyone's been here for a long time, man. And anyway, there's nothing but junk around. This guy is a mess. I mean, did you see the bathroom? Rancid."

"Yech," Dean shook his head. "Glad I missed that treat." He held up the EMF meter, which had quieted since he walked outside. "EMF is around, but not super strong. And it looks like it's true Robbie was dating Emma. She left her diary here."

Sam grabbed the journal from his hands, and looked at the front page. "Emma Crawford," he read. "That's her."

"Dude. Just from the vibes here, this could be our guy. Plus with the EMF…"

Sam nodded. "Well, we need a body before we can burn it. He could be anywhere –"

Suddenly, the sound of spraying gravel came from the front. They looked at each other, alarmed, and made for the side of the house. Dean peeked around, then ducked back quickly.

"Shit, someone's pulling in up front."

"Is it Robbie?" Sam said quietly.

"In that shiny car? No way in hell. Looks like the Feds."

"Shit," Sam agreed. "We gotta get the hell out of here."

Dean looked at him sideways. "No kidding. Okay. Once they're inside, we run to the car. Got it?"

Sam nodded, and they pulled out their guns.


Reid slipped his sunglasses on as they stepped out of the car. It had been a long ride to this place, which was far even from the next house over. Robert Freeman was definitely a fan of privacy.

He was surprised to see a nice looking classic car in the driveway. Next to the dilapidated house, it looked out of place.

Emily was looking at it too. "Well," she said. "You can tell what he cares about."

"Let's go see if he's home," JJ said, closing the door to their car and walking closer, a file under her arm.

Spencer frowned as he looked at the front porch. "The door looks like it's open."

"Mr. Freeman!" Emily called out as they stepped up onto the porch. She knocked loudly on the wall next to the screen door. "Robert Freeman! FBI – come to the door!"

There was no response; the house sounded almost unnaturally quiet.

They tried again, but when a few minutes later there were still no sounds of life, Reid stepped forwards and slipped through the open door. The others followed him, their steps squeaking on the wooden floor. In the shadowed room, the temperature was cooler than it was outside.

"Eugh," JJ said, covering her nose. "What's that smell?"

"Might be because of that," Reid said, gesturing to a pile of dead mice in the corner. Disgusting.

Prentiss stepped in front of him. "Mr. Freeman?" she called out again.

JJ glanced up as a lightbulb flickered above her.

Spencer looked around. This place looked long deserted, from the dust covering everything, and the smell. They'd seen people living in horrible situations, so it was possible Robert Freeman was still coming back to this place. But his gut was telling him that wasn't the case.

And if that was true, how was it that that spotless car was outside? It just didn't add up. "Hey," he said, voicing his doubts, "I don't think –"

Reid turned on a dime at the sudden sound of an engine revving outside. Emily and JJ were right behind him as he sprinted out the front door and into the drive. A cloud of dust had been kicked up, and the classic car they'd seen when they arrived was already out of sight.

"Shit!" JJ cursed.

"I'm going after him," Prentiss said, already climbing into the driver's seat of the suburban. "You two stay here, try and get all the information that you can." The door slammed, and she was gone.

Reid shook his head. "I knew something was off with that car." If he had just been a minute faster…

"We should have known," JJ agreed. "You remember the license plate number though, right?"

"Of course," Reid said.

JJ nodded at him, then put a hand on her hip, looking out at the dust cloud the cars had caused. "Well, hopefully she's planning on coming back to get us. I don't get any service out here."

Spencer huffed a laugh, then turned around and headed back to the house. "Come on, JJ. We might as well look around."


Sam held onto the door tight as Dean took every turn in the road at top speed. Behind them, they heard the sound of a siren picking up.

"Great," said Sam dryly, shooting Dean a dirty look. "They're following us! This is just what we needed."

"Hey, don't give me the stink eye!" Dean said, his gaze still on the road. "Do I need to remind you whose idea this was?"

"I said we should leave town. Just this morning, I said that!"

Dean glowered. "Okay, so maybe it's both our faults, then!" he yelled.

"Fine!" Sam yelled back.

"Fine!" Dean took the next turn sharply, and Sam got flung into the door.

Sam spotted a turn-off to the right. "There!" he pointed. "Dean, turn!"

Somehow, Dean managed to turn the car in a frustrated way, and they shot off the main road. They sped past several houses, and a church, and then took another turn. The noise of the siren faded behind them. Finally, they pulled off of the road entirely and into a spot in the trees by the river.

Sam let out a short breath through his nose. "Right. Well, what now?"

"You know the drill. We'll just hang here for a little and wait for the fire to die down in town. And we'll change the license plates."

"Right," Sam said. They looked at each other, and then forward at the dark green leaves covering the windshield. The sound of the river running reached their ears.

The sudden rap on the glass of the window to Sam's right nearly made him jump out of his skin.

He turned, expecting either the FBI or the devil. What he saw instead was a furious young woman with bright blonde hair.

"What the fuck is your problem?" she yelled, her voice slightly muffled by the glass.

Sam rolled down the window, feeling incredibly confused. "Uh… what?"

"What's your problem?" Dean fired back. "We're just – you know – parked here. You got a problem with parked cars?"

The woman's face was screwed up in anger. "I do when assholes like you park on my friend's memorial!"

Sam glanced at Dean, who looked just as confused as he did. Then realization washed over him. "Oh, shit."

"What?" Dean said.

"Dean, back up," he said quickly. "Back up!"

Dean put the car in gear. "Geez, okay." He backed the car up back onto the road, and the two of them climbed out.

Sam looked at where the car had been, and saw the blonde woman resetting a wreath of flowers and a small picture.

Dean was looking at the picture, too. "Sam, isn't that –"

"Emma," Sam confirmed.

"Oh," Dean muttered contritely. Then he spoke up louder. "Uh, so sorry. I didn't see that there."

The woman turned sharply to look at them. Her eyes were red. "Yeah, well you came in here at about a hundred miles an hour. It's a wonder you could see anything at all."

"Yeah," Dean said. "My bad."

"Really, we're very sorry," Sam added. He hesitated, and then continued gently, "Um… isn't that Emma Crawford?"

The woman nodded. "Yeah. She was my friend."

"We heard about what happened to her. I'm sorry."

A shrug. "Thanks, I guess."

Sam couldn't help but feel like they were missing something.

Apparently Dean felt the same way. He stepped forwards, his hands in his pockets. "Wait – what's your name?"

The woman seemed suddenly uncomfortable, and looked around like she was searching for an exit. "Uh… Angie."

Dean blinked, and looked at Sam like he should know what that meant. "Huh."


Aaron closed the door on the interrogation room, leaving the job of wrapping up Tom Rayan's interview to Rossi.

They had asked plenty more questions, but the man hadn't known much more than he had spilled at the beginning. He hadn't even known the details of his own daughter's case, much less those of the other girls. He knew the bare details, but other than that – no, this man was not their unsub. He hoped that at least the information about Robert Freeman would lead somewhere.

Hotch walked into the bull-pen, looking for one of the officers who was in charge of the case. He found Officer Combs at her desk.

"Agent Hotchner," she greeted, spinning her chair around. "Just the man I wanted to see. How'd it go with Tom?"

"It was alright," he replied. "We've discovered something that might be connected, though. Can I ask you: what happened to Emma Crawford?"

Combs looked surprised. "Emma? She… that was a case we were dealing with earlier this summer. Horrible. Her friend found her in her car down by the river."

"Did you ever arrest anyone in connection with that case?"

"Yeah. A man named Robert Freeman. We didn't have enough on him to make it stick, though."

Hotch continued, "What made you think it was him?"

"We heard that they were dating. That's what her friends were saying. And we found his fingerprints on her. Doesn't hurt that he's an absolute asshole."

"Okay," Aaron said. "Have you had any other leads on that case since?"

Combs shrugged, looking a little uncomfortable. "Honestly, we haven't had the time to deal with it, since these murders started. Horrible, I know. But we just don't have the staff to look into it right now."

Aaron nodded.

"Why are you asking about this? Do you think it's connected?" Combs leaned forward in her chair, frowning.

Hotch took a breath. "Let me put it this way: how many murders do you usually have to look into around here?"

Combs shook her head. "None. I've been on the force five years. And in that time, none."

Aaron let that fact make his point for him. "Right."


"You're what?" Angie said, looking at the two of them like they were crazy. Which, fair.

Dean put his hands up placatingly. "We know what it sounds like. But it's true."

To his right, Sam was looking annoyed. It was obvious he didn't quite agree with Dean's tactics, here. But he would play along. Sure enough: "Haven't you noticed anything weird going on recently? Beyond the fact that people are dying."

Angie looked cagey at that question. "No," she said petulantly.

"Look – you were friends with Emma, right?" Dean said. She nodded. "All we want to do is figure out who's responsible for her death. Or what," he added.

"Or what," Angie repeated. She shook her head. "Jesus. Can you two please just leave?"

Sam looked at her intently. "Have you noticed any flickering lights lately? Or weird cold spots? Anything else you can't explain?"

"What are you, a Ghostbuster?" She crossed her arms. "It wasn't a fucking ghost that killed Emma. It was Robbie."

"Robert Freeman, you mean," Dean said. "Her boyfriend?"

"That's right. How'd you know that?"

"We're good at what we do," Sam said simply.

Angie's expression looked a little less angry.

Dean pressed further. "What do you know about what happened to her? And do you know where Robbie is? We just came from his place – it looked abandoned."

"Yeah, he's pretty much gone off the grid since it happened. Believe me, I've looked," Angie said bitterly. "Even the police couldn't hold him. But it was him. He was an abusive piece of shit long before he did that. Emma just didn't have anywhere else to go. Or at least that's what she thought, anyway." She suddenly looked very sad.

"You don't have any idea where he might be?"

Angie shook her head. "No."

Dean frowned. She had to know something. "Well, when was the last time you saw him?"

But Angie wasn't looking at him anymore – she was staring at Sam, her frustrated expression shifting to something more concerned. "Uh… is he okay?"

Dean's gaze snapped over to his brother, who was staring with wide glassy eyes in the direction of the river. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Then suddenly, he flinched, looking terrified.

Shit.

"Sam!" Dean said loudly, stepping in front of Sam's gaze. He turned to look over his shoulder at Angie. "He's – he's fine," he reassured quickly, waving his hand. He hoped it wasn't obvious how freaked out he really was. "He's just a little… off, these days. He'll be fine."

Angie nodded, looking only slightly convinced.

"Sam!" Dean said again. "Sam, listen to me. We're in Franklin. North Carolina, okay? We got you out, do you hear me?"

Sam just shook his head and looked away, still muttering to himself.

Dean let out a sigh. He turned back around to Angie. "I'm sorry," he said. "He's been through a lot recently."

"It's okay," Angie said. "I know the feeling."

Dean gave her a small smile, and then pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. "Just a sec," he said. He grabbed a pen through the open window of the car, and scribbled down their address and phone number. He passed the paper to Angie. "Here," he said. "Take this. And if you remember anything else, or if you need help –"

"Got it," she said, tucking the paper into her pocket. "Thanks."

Dean gave her one last nod before turning back to Sam, who now had his eyes closed, and was shaking his head.

"Sammy," Dean said firmly. "I know you can hear me. You're not there. You're here, with me. Can you open your eyes?"

Sam hesitated, but like the brave man he was, he opened his eyes.

"That's right," Dean smiled. "Hey. You with me?"

Sam coughed. Looked away, and looked back. Then he nodded. "Yeah. I'm – yeah."

Dean slapped a hand on his shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. A wave of relief ran through him. "Good man. Alright. Get in the car."


"We've officially got an APB out on a black Chevrolet Impala," Derek confirmed as he walked into their room in the station. "Garcia's got it taken care of."

Everyone was gathered – even Prentiss, Reid, and JJ were back. There was an air of seriousness to the room. They still didn't know for certain that Freeman was their unsub, but he certainly fit the profile.

Hotch nodded at Morgan, and then crossed his arms. "Now that we're all here, tell us exactly what you saw at that house. Anything you think could be useful."

Reid spoke up first. "I've been thinking, actually… I don't know if that car really belongs to Freeman."

"What makes you say that?" Prentiss said. "It was parked in his driveway. And when we had our backs turned, he used it to flee the scene." Obviously she still felt guilty that she hadn't caught up with the car. Derek didn't blame her, though. The twisty mountain roads around here weren't easy to get around on.

"The place was abandoned," Reid replied, standing and starting to pace. "Save for some very recent disturbances, there were no signs of anyone stepping foot into that house in the last few weeks, at least."

JJ nodded. "It's true. I looked through a pile of magazines he'd been saving, and the most recent one was from late July. There was nothing in his other collections that looked more recent than that, either."

"Other collections?" Rossi asked.

"There was a pile of dead mice," JJ clarified, her mouth twisting in distaste. "And any food left in the fridge had turned."

"No pile of jaw bones, if that's what you're wondering," Prentiss added.

Derek hummed. "So, the place is nasty and obviously abandoned. And there's a shiny muscle car sitting out front? I get what you mean, Reid."

"But who else could it be?" Rossi said. "We need to look into his friends and associates."

"The first victim, as well," JJ said. "Emma, right? Have we reached out to her family?"

Hotch looked down at a piece of paper on the table in front of him. "From the report, she's got a mother who still lives in town. As well as a brother who lives a few towns over. Officer Rhynard gave them both a call while you all were out at the house. The mother will be coming in this afternoon, but last I heard he wasn't able to get a hold of the brother."

Morgan pulled out his phone when he felt it buzz in his pocket. "It's Garcia," he said to the group, and accepted the call. "What's up, baby girl? You're on speaker. Everyone's here."

"Good," Garcia's voice said from the phone. "I ran the license plate you gave me from the car, Reid. Nothing came up except for the last time it was ran – two years ago, in Naples, Florida. Other than that, it's definitely stolen. The plates, if not the car. They're supposed to belong to a red 2004 Toyota Camry."

"Is there a name on that?" JJ asked.

"Tyler Flores," Garcia replied. "Although if it's stolen the name probably won't do you much good."

"Thanks, Garcia," Hotch said. "Was there anything else?"

A pause where they could hear the clicking of her keyboard. "Yes. Robert Freeman. He hasn't ran his credit card since a day after he was released from custody."

"Could he – be dead?" Morgan suggested, shrugging. "From the state of the house, and that; what if someone jumped him after they couldn't hold him on the charge?"

"That's fair," Prentiss said. "We might be chasing a ghost."

"I would want to agree with you, if it weren't for the fact that he showed up on a security camera just a few days ago. Of course, my programs could be wrong," Garcia added. "But they haven't been before. And if this was him, it places him just a few blocks from Mary Grace Cohen's house on the night she was last seen."

Derek looked at Reid, his expression mirroring Derek's feelings. "Dang, Garcia. Nice work. Can we –"

"It's being sent to your tablets as we speak. And thank you. I live to serve, mon ami. Call me if you need anything else." She hung up.

"Well," Rossi said, sitting up straighter. "This guy is looking more and more promising."

Hotch stood, looking about as excited as he ever got. Which meant he wasn't quite as stone faced as usual. "We're catching up," he said. "But let's stay focused. Remember, we're on the clock. At the rate this guy is going, don't be surprised if another body turns up soon."

At that morose reminder, they dispersed, each headed for what they knew needed to be done next.

Dean let out a groan and shut his computer, feeling a familiar ache settling behind his eyes. They'd spent the last few hours looking into where they might find Robert Freeman, and researching the connection between the ghost signs and the mutilations and exsanguination. He'd much rather be out in town asking around for this guy, but when Sam had suggested they lay low for the rest of the day, he'd had to agree. He could only take so many close calls with the Feds in one day. So, they'd stashed Impala under a tarp in the back of the motel parking lot and settled in with the blinds drawn.

To his left, Sam was typing away, staring intently at his computer screen. He'd seemed fine since the last episode before they'd parted ways with Angie. But he knew that didn't mean too much. The kid was too good at hiding it.

Maybe being locked up in this room could be good for something, after all. It was about time they had this conversation.

"So, uh… how's the old noggin' doing these days?" Dean asked, leaning back in his chair and trying his best to look nonchalant.

Of course, Sam wasn't so easily fooled. The look that he sent Dean's way was ice cold. "I'm fine, Dean," he grumbled. "I've told you – I'm dealing."

Dean bit at his lip, pushing back his frustration. "But what does that mean?"

"I know what's real," Sam said petulantly. "I know I'm not – there." He swallowed uncomfortably, now refusing to look away from his computer screen.

Dean nodded slowly. "Yeah, I know you do. But lately… there's been those moments when it feels like you're not here either."

A muscle jumped in Sam's jaw, he was clenching it so tightly.

Dean could tell he was headed in the right direction, and despite Sam's discomfort, pushed forwards. "When you blank out like that, is it a hallucination? Or a flashback?"

"Sort of… both," Sam answered reluctantly. "I just get lost, sometimes. Random things remind me –" he cut off.

Dean felt wildly uncomfortable, and stared down at the motel room's stained rug. His own memories of hell always felt so close when he talked about this with Sam. That's what made this conversation so difficult. He'd dealt with his experience down there by staying busy. It was only during the year he'd spent with Lisa that he'd been able to go back and sort through any of it. He'd had to. And objectively, he knew that Sam had to do the same, or whatever was going on in his head would just continue to fester. It was just that he had no idea how to do any of this.

Sam's hands slowly clenched and unclenched over his keyboard. The tension was palpable. "I don't want to talk about this," he said suddenly. "I'm getting on with it, okay? We don't have to do this."

"'Getting on with it,'" Dean echoed, perturbed. "Is that the best we can do?"

A glance at his eyes, and then away again. "I don't know what else there is."

Dean felt a sudden crash of sadness at the resignation in Sam's voice. And as always, that turned around into anger; there was no helping it. "Jesus, don't talk like that!" he snapped.

Sam jumped and finally looked at him again, surprised. "Like what?"

"Like there's nothing we can do. Don't you know by now – there's always something!"

Sam just stared at him.

"What?" Dean said irritably.

"It's just… yeah, there's always something. But there's a cost for it, too." He crossed his arms, like he was cold, though that would have been impossible in the muggy room. "I – It's – you don't understand."

Dean threw his hands up, exasperated. "Then explain! As much as I've always wished for it, I can't read your mind, Sam. Tell me what you're thinking, man; whatever it is, I want to know. I can handle it."

Sam looked uncertain, and his words stuttered uncharacteristically. "Well – you know – I… gah." he took a breath. "What I'm trying to say is: you already did it, Dean." He swallowed, and there was a shine in his eyes that Dean didn't quite understand. "You already did the impossible thing. You got me out. And fuck, am I grateful. I don't know how to say how grateful. But… you know." His voice wavered. "And this – whatever's going on with my head – is the price. And yeah, it sucks. A lot. But it's about a million times better than it was being down there."

Dean felt like he'd had the wind knocked out of him. He took a shaky breath.

Before he could reply, Sam added softly, "At least here… it stops, sometimes."

"Shit, Sam," Dean muttered.

Sam frowned. "You told me you could handle it," he snapped.

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "I know, I know. I can. And I want to hear this. It just hurts. And it fucking sucks."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, you can say that again."

Dean shook his head, his mind stuck on what he'd heard. "I just… I have to believe there's something more we can do. Something to get Lucifer out of your life. For good."

At the sound of the Devil's name, Sam's eyes shuttered, and Dean saw him squeeze his palm. "I'm done talking about this," Sam said flatly.

"Okay," Dean said. "Okay." He stood up, walked to the mini fridge, and pulled out two beers, passing one to Sam and popping open the other for himself. He took a sip, trying to steady himself. Then he changed the subject. "You find any leads on Freeman?"

Sam cleared his throat. "Uh… not really. He's not on social media, as far as I can tell. And he hasn't used his credit card recently. All I've been able to dig up are some old tax documents of his."

"Really?" Dean said. "What kind of dough was this guy pulling in?"

"About as much as you'd expect, given the state of where he's living."

"Right," Dean replied. He stepped over to the window, and pulled the drapes aside a bit to look out into the parking lot. A light rain was falling. It was dark out now, save for the one flickering street lamp, which reflected off of the puddles on the pavement. "So my question is – is this guy dead, or not? Because all signs point to a ghost. And we've seen ghosts do a lot of crazy shit, but this?"

Sam didn't seem to be listening. "Huh, look at this. It looks like he has –"

A pale face burst into Dean's line of sight, and he stumbled back, startled. "Holy shit!"

Sam was up and at his back in seconds, his gun out at his side. "What is it?"

A hand knocked at the window. The person's hair was plastered down and darkened by the rain, so Dean barely recognized her. But then she spoke.

"Let me in! It's me, Angie! Please – I was wrong – you've gotta help me!"


Notes:

Thanks for all the comments, y'all! Hope you're enjoying where this is going!