A/N: It's a Criminal Minds/Supernatural crossover! Because I love these kinds of stories and I wanted more of it.
It's fun that both these TV shows started at pretty much the same time. This story takes place during early season 7 of both shows. I tried a little bit to make sure that it fit into what was happening in the normal plot, but you'll definitely have to squint a little bit if you care about that. Mainly let's pretend that Sam and Dean didn't already have a run in with the FBI that season.
Enjoy!
Chapter 1
Reid dropped his bag over the back of his chair and sat down at his desk. It was still early – technically, he didn't need to be at the office for another 47 minutes. But, like he often did, he was hoping that in the quiet of the early morning he'd be able to get in a little extra reading. Of course, there were a few people there already – the place was never empty – but no one that would interrupt him before the day really started.
He had barely pulled out the latest edition of the Lancet journal of psychiatry when he heard a voice behind him.
"Ah, good morning, Reid," Rossi said, walking past Spencer and towards his own desk. "Reading anything interesting?"
Not yet, Spencer wanted to say. But instead, "There's a study on the brain development of bilingual children I wanted to get to."
"Good, good. I've got some reading to do myself," Rossi replied, holding up a thick hardcover.
"War and Peace," Spencer said with a nod. "Leo Tolstoy. As a whole, it's an interesting study of the motives for human behavior."
Rossi nodded. "That's right. But, no spoilers," he warned, pointing a finger. "I've never actually gotten around to reading it until now."
"Let me know when you finish it," Reid said. "I'd discuss it with you if you're interested."
"Sure, Reid."
They both turned to their reading material. Slowly, the rest of the BAU team trickled in, settling at their desks. Last in was JJ, who came in a couple minutes late, looking frazzled.
"Wow, you okay, JJ?" Morgan asked her, chuckling a little.
"Sorry guys," she said, letting out a breath and tucking her hair behind her ear. "Henry threw up on me right before I left the house." She shook her head, looking amused and harried at the same time. "I swear, the timing on that kid."
Reid smiled, thinking of his godson, a kid who was too smart for his own good, and yet just as flawed as any little kid. Of course, he could relate to that.
"Is he okay?" Prentiss asked from her desk.
JJ slung her bag off her shoulder. "Yeah, he's fine. He just managed to eat almost half a bag of chocolate chips for breakfast before we noticed."
"Industrious, isn't he?" Rossi laughed.
Their conversation was interrupted then by Hotch, who looked down at them from the upper level. "Gather up, everyone," he said. "It's time to get started."
"Here we go, then," Morgan said.
Reid grabbed his notepad and pen and followed the others to the round table room.
As they took their seats, Garcia came into the room, her brightly colored heels tapping on the floor.
"Alright, my lovelies," she said, turning on the TV and queuing up the case photos. A young woman with dirty blonde hair and a pretty smile came up on screen. "This is Georgia Barnard, a 19 year old barista from Franklin, North Carolina. Three days ago, she was found in a shallow grave in the woods outside of town by a few hikers passing through the area." Pictures of the body came up on screen. The woman's blonde hair was streaked with dirt and blood, her eyes unseeing. "Apparently they found her by accidentally walking over her burial site," she added with an uncomfortable grimace.
She quickly moved on, as always shaking off her discomfort to do the job. "She's now the fourth body that's been found in the area." More photos came on the screen of other, similar looking women. "All of them young white women between the ages of 19 and 24, with similar stature and features. And the creepy part is, all of them have their jaws completely removed, and most of their blood drained."
Close ups of the gruesome truth were shown on screen, and Reid ground his teeth at the sight.
"He must keep the jaws as a trophy," Hotch said. "Something to remember the kills by."
JJ looked uncomfortable. "What about the exsanguination?"
"Maybe there's a ritual aspect to his process. Or it has something to do with an old trauma," Prentiss offered.
They all looked around at each other, with the understanding they'd be revisiting that later.
"Any indication of sexual assault?" Rossi asked.
Garcia shook her head. "Not according to the medical examiner. Cause of death for all four women is likely strangulation, with the exsanguination happening post-mortem."
"Likely?" JJ prompted.
"The first two bodies were found in pretty advanced stages of decomposition," Garcia explained.
Morgan was looking at the notes. "They weren't found too long after their estimated time of death for that to happen. Could the unsub have done something to speed up the process?"
"It's likely an effect of high humidity and rainfall in the area." Reid offered. "The mountains of western North Carolina are actually a temperate rain forest zone, usually getting around 70 inches of precipitation a year. In comparison, the D.C. area usually gets less than 20 inches."
Rossi nodded. "And the shallowness of the graves wouldn't protect their remains against the elements."
"So, the hikers who found the latest body literally walked over the burial site?" JJ asked. Garcia nodded unhappily. "That means it must have been in a decently trafficked area."
"All the bodies were found in Nantahala National Forest. Georgia Barnard was discovered right next to a trail outside of town called the Bartram Trail."
"With each kill, the bodies are hidden closer to town," Hotch said. "He's getting bolder."
"He's escalating," Prentiss agreed. "The time between his kills is getting shorter, too."
Hotch closed the file. "Then we don't have any time to waste. Grab your bags, everyone – wheels up in ten."
Sam snapped awake, his hand unconsciously reaching for his gun under the pillow. The motel room was dark and still, though – Dean was still sleeping soundly on the next bed.
He sat up, his breath still coming fast and unsteady for a moment as he rooted himself in the present. The nightmares – memories, his mind reminded him unwillingly – were always so vivid that it was getting harder to convince himself to sleep lately. With his mind relaxed, Lucifer was there in an instant, and so was the cage. And unfortunately, there were plenty of memories to relive.
Sam settled himself with another deep breath and dropped his gun back on the bed, before glancing at the clock. 4:35.
Well. That was late enough to go for a run.
He grabbed his running clothes and changed as quietly as he could before slipping out the door.
The air was warm and sticky even at this hour as he ran up and down the winding mountain roads. It had the sweat pouring off of him practically as soon as he started moving.
The sun had risen by the time he got back to the motel, and Dean was awake. He glanced over at Sam as he made his way towards the bathroom to take a shower.
"Geeze, you're up early," Dean said, looking at Sam a little too knowingly. "You training for the local marathon or something?"
"Just trying to stay in shape," Sam said simply, grabbing his change of clothes and a towel.
Dean nodded skeptically. "Right. Well, Forrest, you wanna go grab some grub after you shower? I saw a place last night as we were driving in that looked pretty good."
"Yeah, sure," Sam said easily. He ignored Dean's scrutinizing gaze and closed the bathroom door behind him.
Objectively, he knew Dean had cause to worry. Lucifer and the cage hadn't been making things easy for him up here. But he knew what was real, now. That was progress. Really, he was doing pretty good. He just got… tripped up, now and then.
Either way, though, the constant vigilance from his brother was getting on his nerves, just like it always had. He knew there was nothing he could do about it, though. Dean just needed the reassurance that he was doing okay. And at the moment, he didn't have the strongest argument in support of his sanity. So, he'd put up with it. But that didn't mean he had to like it.
An hour later, Sam and Dean were sitting in the breakfast place, a plate of eggs and bacon and a couple short stacks between them.
"So, explain to me how this isn't a normal serial," Dean said through a mouth full of pancake.
Sam drank from his coffee cup. "Seriously? None of this sounds weird?"
Dean raised an eyebrow. "The bar for weird is pretty high nowadays. But yeah, it's weird. What I meant is it doesn't sound like our kind of weird."
"Jaws removed, and drained of their blood." He pushed the file of everything he'd dug up back over towards his brother. It wasn't much, but it had the basics. "It's enough for us to at least check it out, Dean."
"I hope so – we drove all the way out to the boonies for this, when there's bigger fish to fry."
"There's always bigger fish to fry." Sam shook his head, and tried to sound reasonable. "Look, the Leviathan haven't made a big move in a while. We'll use the time we've got to help out here."
Dean chewed around another bite, then shrugged. "Fair enough." He gestured to the file. "When'd you have time to pull this together?"
"Last night. Before I went to bed."
Dean squinted at him. "Did you get any sleep last night?"
"Yeah," Sam replied, a little defensively. "Now, you wanna head to the station and ask about this, or what?"
"'Course I do," Dean said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "What's the play?"
"FBI?"
Dean shook his head. "No, wait – they were all found in the National Forest, right? So let's use that. Better to attract a little less attention when we can, right?"
Sam nodded. "Yeah, okay."
A large woman with a kind face and a black apron stepped up to their table and refilled Sam's coffee. "Y'all two need anything else?"
Dean smiled up at her sweetly. "A million dollars, if you've got it."
The waitress huffed a laugh and rolled her eyes. "Honey, you think I'd be here if I did?"
Derek sat across from JJ on the jet, the table full of papers between them. He looked out the window, clouds rolling by beneath them. They were on their way to Asheville Regional Airport, where they'd have to drive about an hour to get to Franklin. Luckily, there was a field office in Asheville, so they wouldn't have to worry about getting a ride.
He had his headphones on, listening to an album Desiree had recommended to him. Like usual, she had good taste. Not that he'd admit it to her too often.
Derek took a glance around the jet. Rossi was reading a huge book that he couldn't quite make out the title on. Hotch was on his laptop, probably communicating with the field office or getting a head start on their paperwork. Prentiss was looking out her own window, a pensive look on her face. And Reid was flipping through the pages of some scientific journal, reading as fast as he always did.
Across from him, JJ was looking down at the case file, looking troubled. These days, after all they'd seen she was usually rock solid. He paused. This was off for her.
Derek pulled one side of his headphones off and lowered the volume. "You okay, JJ?" he asked softly.
She looked up at him, a little startled. "Uh – yeah, Derek. I'm alright." She paused, glancing down at the papers again.
Derek slid his headphones the rest of the way off, sensing she had more to say.
"Just… you know, it's hard sometimes. When we seem so similar."
"You and the victims, you mean?"
JJ nodded.
"I understand," Derek said. "It's like that could have been you in another life, right?"
"Yeah. I know it's stupid, but…"
He quickly shook his head. "It's not stupid, JJ. It just means you still care. And it's difficult, but that sounds like a good thing to me."
JJ gave him a small smile. "Thanks."
He nodded at her, and reached up to put his headphones back on. Before he could, though, Hotch spoke up.
"Heads up, everyone. We're half an hour out, now – let's gather and go over the case again."
Derek paused his music and put his iPod away in his bag. By the time he turned to face Hotch, the others were paying similar attention. Reid, who had been sitting in the back, stood in the aisle.
JJ spoke up, "Four women, all with similar backgrounds and physical features."
"Based on the victims' race and age, we're likely looking for a white male in his 30s to 40s," Reid said.
"The mutilation and exsanguination is the differing factor here," Rossi said. "Our unsub obviously has a lot of aggression towards these women."
Derek spoke up. "Without any signs of sexual assault, that must be the part that excites him. I bet it started with a girl who matches the appearance of the victims. She denied him, and now he's acting out his revenge fantasy."
"Emily Crawford is the first known victim." Prentiss said. "So, she could have been the impetus of it all. Or it could have been one of the other girls."
"Or she could still be out there. He might be acting out on strangers to avoid hurting the real target of his attentions," Hotch said.
"Either way, we'll need to speak to all the families; find out if any of them knew of a man in their lives who fits the profile."
Reid was looking at a map of the national forest with the drop sites marked. "He'll be someone physically fit – you'd need to be, to get the bodies that far into the woods. Plus, he's likely a confident outdoorsman. Or at least, he knows the area well."
"The shallowness of the graves shows a disrespect for the bodies, as well. Along with the mutilation, of course."
"That means that it's unlikely he's revisiting them," Hotch said. "And if he has the inclination to revisit the memory, he has the jaw bones."
"The blood letting," Prentiss said, shaking her head. "That's the part that's hard to place."
"Hold on," Hotch interrupted. "Garcia's calling in." He shifted his laptop so everyone could see, and the face of Garcia appeared on the screen. She didn't look happy.
"I've got bad news, unfortunately. Franklin Police called; another body just turned up. So far she's unidentified, but she fits the profile. I'm sending all the details over to you now."
"He's accelerating," Prentiss said gravely.
Morgan ran a hand over his face. They'd need to catch this guy fast – hopefully before he killed again.
"Thanks for the update, Garcia," Hotch said. "Alright, as soon as we get into town we'll split up: Reid and Morgan, you two go to the new crime scene. Prentiss and Rossi, you'll start with reaching out to the families. And J.J., you'll join me to get things set up at the station."
Dean stepped into the air-conditioned cool of the Franklin Police Department, holding the door open for Sam behind him. They had on matching gray and green uniforms, hats under their arms.
He stepped up to the front desk, where a middle aged woman with dark hair was typing on a computer. The noise of a phone ringing drifted in from the offices in the back.
"Good mornin', ma'am," Dean said.
The woman looked up, a vaguely attentive look on her face. "Yes?" she replied. "Can I help you?"
"I'm hoping so. My name's Anthony Phillips, and this is Chris Stewart." He gestured towards Sam, who nodded. "We're forest rangers with Nantahala National Forest."
"And?" the woman prompted impatiently, after a beat of silence. "What do you need?"
Dean glanced at Sam, who was fighting back a smile. "Uh, well, Officer –" He caught the name tag on her shirt, "Keller, as I'm sure you may know, the bodies that have been turning up have been on national forest land. We need copies of the case files here to add to our records."
"Can I see some ID?"
They both reached into their pockets and handed them over.
She looked at the IDs for a moment, then up at their faces again, before handing them back. "Well, Mr. Phillips, we've already sent y'all the case files. They should have been faxed to your office."
"Right, we know," Dean reacted smoothly. "Thing is, we're having some… tech difficulties, and the fax machine's on the fritz. They're working on fixing it, but in the meantime we were asked to come by and get the hard copies."
Officer Keller didn't look happy about that – although it seemed like she rarely looked happy about anything – but in the end, she nodded. "Alright. Take a seat over there, boys, and I'll get some copies made. Shouldn't take more than a half hour."
"Thank you," Dean said, smiling. "We appreciate it."
As they walked over to the waiting area, Sam elbowed him in the ribs. "You're losing your touch, old man."
"As if," Dean hissed back. "It's not my fault that woman's joy left her body back in the Reagan Administration."
They took seats next to each other. The rest of the room was empty save for an old man by the window reading a newspaper. There was a TV in the middle of the wall playing a cooking show on a low volume, and they could hear conversation coming from the bullpen. Dean strained his ears to try and pick up on what they were saying, but he could only hear a scattered word or two.
As they waited in silence for a few minutes, Dean watched the TV. It was one of those competition shows. One of the contestants opened their ingredients, and Dean snorted. "You see that? Fruit loops and pickles, man. They really just pick stuff out with the intent to hurt, don't they?"
When Sam didn't reply, Dean looked over at him. What he saw made his heart skip a beat. Sam was staring into the middle distance, eyes unfocused.
Oh, no. Not here.
"Sam," Dean said, a little louder. His heart beat faster when Sam still didn't respond. He nudged his brother with his shoulder, but didn't lay a hand on him. That had gone badly before. "Sam. You in there, man?"
Sam started, and snapped his head over towards Dean, his hands coming together to press at the scar on his palm. "What? What'd you say?"
Dean just looked at him. He couldn't exactly say what he wanted right now, not in this quiet office. If he could, he'd probably curse out the devil again. It tore at him every time Sam drifted away like that, or saw things he shouldn't. Dean knew it must be happening more than just the times he'd seen it, too.
Sam swallowed nervously, his eyes flitting around the waiting room before settling on Dean. "I'm good," he said. It didn't sound as confident as he probably intended.
Dean's mouth tightened. There was nothing he could do right now. Later, though – later, they'd talk about this again. They needed a plan, damnit. Or at least he did.
"Alright," Sam said quietly, hardening his tone as he blatantly skirted around the elephant in the room. "After this, I'm thinking we divide and conquer. You go talk to the families, find out if they saw anything strange. Drop me off at the library on the way, and I'll see what I can dig up about any local legends."
Dean shook his head. "You don't want to work this together?"
Sam looked at him knowingly, and with a glint of frustration. "Really, Dean? It's the library. I'll be fine."
"Okay," he agreed reluctantly. He looked down at the uniform Sam was wearing, and remembered something. "Shit, I didn't think about going to see the bodies. I don't think they'll let us in like this."
Sam shook his head. "All the girls have been buried already, except for the last one. And apparently her funeral's tomorrow, so she's probably already been embalmed and everything. We'll just have to get as much as we can from the autopsy reports."
Dean sighed. "Okay then. Hey, do you think –"
He cut off at a burst of sound coming from the front doors. "Where is she?" a man's voice said, blasting through the quiet space. "Where's my daughter?"
A woman who was most likely his wife followed behind, her face streaked with tears. "We know you found another one!" she sobbed, stepping close to the front desk. "Tell us – is it her? Please!"
Dean looked at Sam, who had similarly snapped to attention, eyebrows raised. They both turned to watch the scene at the front.
Officer Keller's eyes were wide. She stood up, her hands raised placatingly. "Mr. and Mrs. Cohen, please lower your voices."
"We told you she was missing!" Mr. Cohen yelled, though he looked more gutted than angry. "Now, is it her?"
Another officer, a younger man with short cropped hair, came in from the bullpen. "Mr. and Mrs. Cohen, come with me, please. We'll talk with you, just not out here. Come with me this way."
"This can't be happening," Mrs. Cohen said, shaking her head in denial.
"Is she here?" Mr. Cohen's voice was unsteady. "Is she back there?"
The officer shook his head. "No, sir. Now follow me, and we'll share everything we know so far. Okay?"
The parents nodded, looking a little shell shocked, and followed the officer back into the bullpen and out of sight.
Sam nudged Dean. "They must have just found another victim," he said.
"Sounds like," Dean agreed. "I wonder if we'll get what they have on that, too."
Officer Keller looked unsettled as she took her seat again. She tucked her hair behind her ear, then rearranged some papers on her desk. Then she looked up in their direction. "Mr. Phillips?" she called out.
Dean stood up quickly, Sam following behind, and took the offered files from Keller when they got close enough. "They found another one?" he asked seriously.
Still obviously a little shaken by the parents' display, Officer Keller seemed to be in a slightly more sharing mood. "That's right. Little over an hour ago. I hate to say it, but it probably is their girl. Mary Grace. She's been missing since the night before last."
"Poor girls," Sam said sympathetically.
Keller nodded. "I added what we have on it to the file there, but it's not too much so far. Mostly just the initial write up and a couple photos from the scene. You'll have to come back if you end up needing more than that."
"Thanks for your help," Dean said. "Good luck here."
She nodded, and turned back to her desk.
Dean tucked the files under his arm, and the two of them headed back out to the car, Sam in front of him. As they stepped out the door, a man and a woman, both well dressed and official-looking, walked up to them. Dean held the door open for them with a foot, slipping his hat back on and ducking his head as he did. "Mornin'," he said.
"Thanks," the woman said, taking the door from him. Her bright blonde hair shone in the sun. The man, who had a very serious expression, just nodded at him.
Once they were settled in the impala, Dean turned to Sam. "Dude, you know they've gotta be –"
"The FBI. No doubt," Sam said. He gestured across the parking lot. "Look, there's their car."
Dean saw it, too. A sleek black Suburban. It was almost cliché. He shook his head. "This just got way more complicated."
Spencer, his messenger bag over his shoulder, hiked behind Morgan as they made their way towards the latest dump site. Sweat dripped down his back. "It's currently… 95 percent humidity," he huffed, fighting for breath in the muggy air. He highly regretted wearing a dress shirt today.
Morgan looked back at him, amusement on his face. His t-shirt was annoyingly free of sweat. "It's not even a half a mile walk, Reid," he said. "I think you'll make it."
Spencer just let out an annoyed sigh and kept climbing, for once wishing that he'd joined Hotch at the station. At least there'd be air conditioning there.
The officer who'd met them at the trailhead, a woman named Eileen Combs, called to them from up ahead. "We're not far now! Just a couple more minutes."
He wiped at his forehead, pushing away the sweat there. Almost there, he told himself.
And sure enough, five minutes later they slipped under the crime scene tape and stepped up next to the latest body. A couple people from the forensics team were already there, taking photos and samples from the area.
Reid knelt next to the girl and pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, Morgan standing just behind him. He looked over the body carefully. Most of the dirt had been pushed away, though obviously her grave had been just as shallow as the rest. Her empty eyes stared up from a pale face surrounded by blonde hair that was speckled with dirt, and below it –
"It's just awful," Combs said, her lips pressed tightly together.
"Do we have an ID yet?" Morgan asked.
Combs shook her head. "Not confirmed, but it's likely Mary Grace Cohen. Her parents reported her missing two days ago."
Spencer was still looking at the place where the girl's jaw should be. "Look," he said, pointing. "You can just make out where her throat was slashed. That must be how he drains their blood."
"I see it," Morgan confirmed. "But her jaw looks… torn off. Not cut. How much force would it take to do that?"
He looked up at Morgan. "A lot. More than most people could apply without artificial assistance. Though, it's possible he's using an extremely serrated knife – that would have a similar effect on the flesh."
"So… she wasn't killed here, right?" Combs asked.
Reid shook his head as he reached towards the girl's clothes to check through her pockets. "No, these are dump sites. He kills the girls in another location. That must be where he drains their blood, as well, otherwise there'd be a lot more of it here."
"Right. That's what we were thinking." She looked a little pale, but neither of them commented on it. They both knew how hard it was to be at scenes like this, especially if you weren't exposed to it as often as they were.
He slid his hand into her jacket pocket, eyes skirting over her chest, which was covered in blood. He pulled out a couple of dollar bills and a receipt from a drug store, dated two days ago at 7:45 PM. He handed them to Morgan, who slid it into evidence bags. The other pockets were empty. "No wallet," he told Morgan.
"That's likely only to hide her identity as long as possible; he wouldn't care about stealing from her."
Spencer nodded in agreement, then stood up, pulling off his gloves as he did. "She's not laid out carefully, but… there's some thought to it."
"You're right. And that could line up with our theory about a love interest," Morgan suggested. "He's sexually attracted, and that's what leads the choice in his victims. But he must have had some emotional attachment to the woman he's modeling them after, and that shows after their death."
"Have you found any relevant DNA evidence at any of the crime scenes?" Reid asked Combs.
She shook her head, pulling her gaze away from the girl to look at him. "No, we haven't gotten any useful results back yet. We've had to outsource the testing – we don't have those kinds of facilities here. The only matches they've found have been to friends or family members. We're still waiting on them to get back to us about the rest of it."
"Friends and family can still assault each other, unfortunately," Spencer said.
"We know," Combs replied, a little defensive. "We certainly haven't ruled anyone out."
Morgan pulled out his phone. "I'll tell Garcia to get the results expedited. We'll need them as soon as possible."
Spencer was still looking at Combs, whose eyes were locked back on to the body. "Do you… know any of the victims?" he asked her carefully.
The officer glanced back at him, obviously taken a little off guard. "No. Well…" she crossed her arms. "Not really, anyway. But, it's a pretty small town. You run into everybody. I don't know the Cohens well, but I've chatted with them once or twice at church. They have two boys as well as Mary Grace. She's the oldest."
"I'm sorry," Spencer said sympathetically. "This can't be easy."
Combs' eyes were troubled. "I've lived here my whole life. We've never had anything close to this happen before."
Spencer shared a glance with Morgan. Hopefully, they could make sure it didn't happen again.
As they drove to the library, Sam read through the case files. They were filled with gruesome accounts and even worse photos.
"Could it be a werewolf? Or a vampire, maybe? You said their blood was drained."
He shook his head. "Maybe. But we've never seen a werewolf or a vampire take off people's jaws. And the hearts aren't missing."
"Dude. Werepire!" Dean said, grinning.
Sam gave him an unamused glare. "Did you not just hear me about the hearts?"
Dean grunted. "Fine. Killjoy. But they'll be around one of these days. Mark my words."
"Marked," Sam said wryly, rolling his eyes. "Now can we figure out what this thing actually is? Demons, maybe? It's twisted enough to be something they'd do."
"No," Dean shook his head. "That doesn't add up."
Sam huffed, annoyed. "Well, nothing's really adding up at the moment, is it?"
Dean shot him a glance before his eyes went back to the road. "I'm not trying to argue that point, Sam. Jesus. I'm just sayin'."
Sam ran a hand through his hair, and let out a sigh. "I – sorry, man. I'm not trying to be snappy. I'm just… tired."
"Yeah, I know." Dean sounded tired, too.
They were both silent for a moment, Boston playing softly through the car's speakers.
"What about a spirit?" Dean said eventually. "Somethin' really nasty that's come back. You know, like that – that serial killer in Philadelphia." A shadow crossed his face, and Sam knew what he was thinking about. It was the first case they'd really worked with Jo.
"Yeah, I remember," Sam said. If Dean didn't want to bring her up, he wouldn't either. "You could be on to something there. They're even all blonde again. I'll take a look and see what I find."
They pulled into the library parking lot, and Sam gathered the files back together. He'd written out a list of the family on record and their contact information, as well as the people who'd found the bodies, and he handed it to Dean. "The families' statements are pretty bland. I'd reach out to ask them the usual, but maybe ask around for more friends of the girls, too – maybe there's a connection here we don't realize yet."
Dean nodded. "Okay, sure." He pointed at Sam with the piece of paper. "You, keep me updated. Just… every half hour, send a text my way. I'll do the same."
Sam tried not to sound annoyed. "Right."
"It's not just you, Sam. With the Feds out and about, we can't take chances."
That made sense, actually. "Okay. Yeah, I will. I promise," he added, when Dean looked unconvinced. "See you in a bit, then." He pulled open the door and headed for the entrance to the library.
Emily gave a solemn smile as she and Rossi sat down on a green couch opposite the parents of Georgia Barnard.
Their home was simple yet well decorated. There were pictures of the family all around the room they sat in – and by the fireplace, there was what looked like a memorial to Georgia. A framed portrait of her was surrounded by bouquets of flowers.
"We're very sorry for your loss," Rossi was saying.
"Thank you," the husband, Peter Barnard, said gruffly. "It's been a horrible week."
His wife, Denice, sat beside him. She looked like she'd recently been crying, and might start again soon.
"I'm sure it has," Emily said gently. "We heard that the funeral's tomorrow?"
"It is," Peter said. He looked between the two of them. "Y'all are welcome to attend, if you'd care to. It's only right, since you're looking for who's done this to her."
Denice let out something like a whimper at that, obviously fighting back tears. Peter gripped her hand tight between them.
"Thank you," Rossi said. "We'd be honored to pay our respects to Georgia. The search might keep us from attending, but if we're able to, we'll be there."
Peter nodded at that.
"Now, we know this conversation will be difficult," Emily said. "And we'll try not to take up too much of your time here. But we'll need to hear your version of events. From the beginning, if you would."
In a different house, Dean sat across from Max, the widower of the first victim, Isabella Maryse.
They'd already gone over the details of how Isabella went missing – she'd gone for an evening walk with their dog down to the river. The dog had turned up alone back at the house, and Isabella had never showed. Not until someone stumbled on her body a week later, anyway.
"Nobody wanted to hurt her," Max was saying. "I've gone over it in my head again and again. And I can't think of anyone. It doesn't make any damn sense to me."
"I hear you," Dean said. "Was Isabella acting… differently, before she went missing? Did anything seem wrong?"
Max shook his head slowly. "No. She was stressed, but not about anything important." He looked up. "I mean, it was important to her. She was trying to start a yarn business."
Dean fought back a smile. "Was she working on that with anyone else?"
"No, she's doing it herself. Or – she was. We've got a lot of extra yarn now, if you want any."
"Uh… I think I'm good. Thank you, though." Dean tapped his pen on his notepad. "Did Isabella know any of the other victims?"
"Not really. I mean, we knew them, but not super well. Jenna Porter – she was my buddy's cousin's girlfriend. We'd see her at parties sometimes. Or around town." Max let out a breath. "But the others… no."
Slowly, they got the story from Peter. Denice didn't seem to want to speak, and let her husband do the talking.
A week earlier, their daughter had been home with them, safe. Then she'd driven over to a friend's house for a night out. Except, she'd never made it there.
Peter told them the names of all of Georgia's friends, boyfriends – anyone who might have known her. Emily and Rossi wrote down everything they heard. What Emily didn't say was that with a serial killer like this, it was more likely to have been a stranger than a closer acquaintance.
"Was your daughter friends with any of the other victims, or their families?"
"Not that we know. All those girls are a little older than Georgia. We know their families through the church, but we're not friends or anything."
Emily nodded. "I see. Now, out of all the people you mentioned, is there anyone who could have had problems with her? Was there anyone she disagreed with, or who disliked her?"
Peter shook his head. "I don't know, really. I mean, the way I see it, everyone loved Georgia. But she's – she was a young adult. She didn't tell us everything that was going on with her." He sighed. "I –"
"It was Tom!" Emily's gaze snapped over to Denice as the woman spoke up for the first time. Her expression was livid. "Peter, come on. I just know it was that – that bastard. "
"Who's Tom?" Rossi asked.
Peter looked at his wife, then at them. Emily could tell that he wasn't quite as convinced. "Tom Rayan," he explained. "He's Georgia's biological father."
Emily blinked. This was new information. "Georgia was adopted?"
"By me, anyway. Denice is her mother. Tom left them before she was even born. I married Denice when Georgia was about three, and adopted her the year after that. But I loved her like she was my own."
"Has Tom been involved in her life at all?"
Denice swiped an angry hand under her eye. "He started coming around a few months ago, trying to talk to her. She didn't want to see him, and we tried to keep him away." She looked at Peter. "I knew we should have gotten that restraining order! I knew it!" She sobbed, and buried her face in Peter's chest. He put a gentle hand on her back, and looked forward at Emily. His face was a mix of emotions.
Obviously, the story didn't quite add up to him. They needed to try and talk to him alone.
"Now, I've got to ask some general questions, so sorry if this seems unrelated," Dean said, acting a little sheepish. "Just covering all the bases here, you know?"
Max looked a little confused, but nodded. "Go ahead."
"Right. Before she'd gone missing, did you notice anything unusual? Around the house, maybe – or the neighborhood? Flickering lights, cold spots?"
"What?" Max said. "No. I don't know. Why do you care about that?"
"Sorry," Dean said, shrugging. "It's just part of the paperwork, you know? The state of the house, and all."
Max seemed to accept that. "You know… now that I think about it, we were having some electrical issues with the house. It was always so cold in here," he said, gesturing to the living room. "But our bedroom was sweltering. We thought the AC was fucked up. And – and the microwave kept turning on at weird times."
Dean nodded. Finally, they'd hit something. This, he could work with. "Thanks. Okay."
"You don't think the killer was in the house or something, do you?" Max said, suddenly anxious. "Do you think he was messing with us, before he killed her?" He looked gutted.
"No, no, nothing like that," Dean said quickly. "These are just procedural questions, really."
Max sighed shakily. "Okay."
"One more thing – do you mind if I take a look around the property, before I go? Just an easy inspection; nothing in depth."
"Sure," Max said, a little distractedly. "Yeah, that's fine."
"Maybe it's time for you to go," Peter said. "Unless there's anything else?"
Emily looked at Rossi, who shook his head. "That's all we have for now," she said. "We'll leave you be. But, if anything else comes to mind, don't hesitate to call us." The two of them handed over their business cards, and then stood up from the couch. "Thank you for your time."
"Here, let me walk you to the door," Peter said quickly. Softer, he added to his wife, "I'll be right back, honey."
They walked together to the door, and Peter ushered them outside. When the door was closed, he stood before them on the porch and crossed his arms. "You should look into Tom," he said. "But I don't think it was him. And I don't want you wasting your time on him thinking it's him."
"Why do you say that?" Rossi asked.
Peter cleared his throat. "It's… Denice, she's never forgiven him for what he did. And she shouldn't. But me – it's easier for me to see a little clearer. Plus, I talked with him, when he started coming around again. All he wanted was to reconnect." He shook his head. "He's a wrecked man, to be sure. And an asshole. But he's no killer."
Emily glanced over at Rossi, and then nodded to Peter. "Well, thank you for your help, Mr. Barnard. We'll be in touch if there's anything more we need from you."
They said their goodbyes, and walked the distance to the car. Once the doors were closed behind them, blocking the sound, Emily let out a sigh.
"Well, I don't think that was all that helpful, really," she said, glancing through her notes. "But we'll have to look into Tom Rayan. If only to cover our tracks, anyway."
Rossi shook his head, looking pensive. "There's something we're missing here. Some piece of the puzzle. I just don't know what it is."
"I agree," Emily said, starting the car. "But whatever it is, we'll find it. Now – who's next?"
Whenever Sam got to do research like this, it reminded him of his pre-law days. Long hours spent in the library, looking for obscure sources and searching through clips to find what he needed. Of course, he'd only been good at it then because of his training as a kid. But he'd never been back in a library that was quite as nice as Stanford's.
The Franklin library certainly wasn't much to speak of. The section of magazines was almost as big as the rest of the space. Thankfully, a little sweet talking with the librarian on duty had gotten him back in the records room, where they kept old newspapers. And now, he was sitting in the gloomy space, sorting through hundreds of dusty newspapers and trying not to sneeze.
Out of the corner of his eye, a newspaper fluttered, and Sam looked over to see Lucifer paging through a stack of them.
"God, how boring, " he sneered. "And yes, I'm talking about you. Why don't we make this interesting, huh?"
Sam tensed, his jaw clenching.
"Come on… I've got the knives right here."
Suddenly the table before him looked different, and all too familiar. The newspapers were gone, replaced with dozens of knives – everything from scalpels to butcher knives to hunting knives. They were shiny, sharp, and bloody.
"What do you say, Sam? A little slicing and dicing? For old times sake?"
Sam looked away, his heart racing. Not real, he told himself as he pinched down on his palm. Not real.
A flash of pain in his hand, and when he looked back at the table, he was relieved to see that the newspapers were back.
He let out a sigh, settling in his chair. He tried so hard to keep the memories at bay – to keep Lucifer out of the present and back in the past where he belonged. But there was just too much of him. And too much that reminded Sam of where he used to be.
He shook his head and breathed in a steady rhythm, staring down at the table in front of him. Slowly, his heart settled.
Then his cell phone rang, buzzing on the table next to him, and he didn't jump at the sudden noise in the quiet room. He didn't.
"What's up?" he said, once he'd picked it up.
Like usual, Dean got straight to the point. He sounded excited. "I just got done talking to the husband of the first woman who died. And there was definitely a ghost in their house. The guy was talking about cold spots and faulty wiring, and EMF was spiking, even with how long it's been since she died."
"Okay," Sam said. "That answers that question, then."
"Right. Now we just have to figure out who's doing the haunting. You come across anything yet?"
Sam looked back at his notes. "Not really. The closest thing I could find was this guy called the Taco Bell Strangler –"
A snort. "You're kidding."
"I wish. Honestly, though, it's fucked up. This guy spent the early 90s strangling black women he worked with at Taco Bell. In the end he killed 11 people. This was in Charlotte."
"Hm," Dean said. "That doesn't really line up with what's going on here. Plus, we're a couple hundred miles from Charlotte."
Sam nodded. "Yeah, I know. I was thinking the same thing: not our guy. But there's just not a lot of serial killers from this area." He let out a chuckle. "Now that I think about it, that's kind of a strange thing to be complaining about."
"No kidding. Well, keep me updated. I'm gonna go try and talk to some more of the family, double check that we're really looking for a ghost. I'll come and pick you up once I'm done, and we'll get some grub."
"Sounds good. Don't do anything stupid without calling me first."
Dean laughed. "No promises."
Sam rolled his eyes and hung up, tucking his phone into his pocket. With a sigh, he looked at the stacks of papers he still had left to read. And then got back to work.
JJ had just finished setting up their space in the police station when Reid and Morgan came back from the latest crime scene. She and Hotch had pinned up photos of the victims, as well as a map of the locations where the bodies had been found. Contact information for each of the families was hung up below each girl's photo.
Morgan nodded at her as he stepped in the room, holding the door open for Reid behind him. The both of them looked a little sweaty and unkempt from the hike they'd taken to get to the body.
"Hey, guys," JJ said. "Did you find anything useful at the scene?"
"It looks like they're right about the ID," Reid said, hanging up his messenger bag on the back of a chair. "We heard the parents are here?"
"They are," JJ confirmed. "And they were shown a photo of the body a little while ago. They confirmed it's their daughter."
Reid huffed, shaking his head. He looked unsettled. "Why didn't they ask for help sooner? We could have been here weeks ago."
JJ shook her head. "I don't know. But a lot of cases get sent our way. Are you saying we shouldn't have been in St. Louis last week? They needed our help there, too."
"JJ's right," Morgan said, looking between them. "And we're here now. We'll track this guy down."
Reid just nodded.
The door opened again, and Hotch stepped inside, looking characteristically unruffled. "I just got a call from Prentiss. Apparently there's a man named Tom Rayan who deserves some looking into. He was named by the family of the last victim as a person of interest."
"Who is he?" JJ asked.
"Georgia Barnard's biological father, apparently," he replied, with a quirk of his brow. "I'm having Officer Rhynard track him down and bring him in for questioning. In the meantime, we can work together and flesh out the profile. Hopefully we'll be able to present it tonight."
"Right," said Morgan. He pulled out a chair, looking at the evidence spread out before them. "Well, let's get to it."
"Here ya go," the server, an older man with a pen behind his ear, said as he put two plates down on the table. "Enjoy, now."
"You know, it's the little things, Sam," Dean said, smiling down at his plate. It was loaded with a bacon cheeseburger and thick cut fries. "This is what we're doing it all for, right here."
Sam shook his head, amused, before raising his glass. "To cheeseburgers, I guess."
"Hell yeah," Dean agreed. They drank, and then he picked up the sandwich in front of him. "Wait. You can't say that, and then not get a cheeseburger."
"I told you, I'm not that hungry," Sam replied, picking up a fry from his plate.
"Well, that's what you get for sitting in the library all day." Dean took a bite of his burger and groaned. "Seriously, Sammy. This is what gets me out of bed in the morning."
"Should I leave? You two seem to be getting a little intimate."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Shaddup. Now, did you find anything in all your library time, or what?"
"Uh, maybe," Sam said. "I know we're thinking ghost, but – there's a creature called the beast of Bladenboro –"
"What now?"
"Bladenboro," Sam repeated. "I know. It's a town, in North Carolina, which is why I thought it might actually be relevant. It was a creature that killed a bunch of dogs back in the 50s by ripping their jaws off and draining their blood."
Dean nodded. "Sounds kinda like our guy."
"Yeah, but now only girls are ending up dead. I looked into it – no reports of weird dog deaths."
Dean shrugged. "Maybe he's leveled up. Or just taking inspiration."
"Could be. It's enough to keep an eye on, anyway." Sam agreed, before taking another sip of his drink. He looked around before his eyes landed back on Dean. "I did turn up something else though."
"What?" Dean said through a mouth full of burger.
Sam leaned forward a little. "There was another girl that died. Earlier this summer. She fits the profile to a T."
"Then why don't the police know about her?"
"I'm sure they do, but they don't think it's related. She was found dead in her car down by the river. She'd been beaten to death; one of the hits got her too hard in the head, or something."
Dean swallowed. "And let me guess: they haven't found the guy that did it?"
Sam shook his head. "Nope. Everybody that got interviewed about it was sure that it was this guy Robert Freeman. They arrested him at one point, actually, but they couldn't hold him. Not enough evidence. And now it looks like everybody got distracted by the serial killer in town."
"So you think this guy is the monster? And that girl was his first kill?"
"I don't know. But maybe."
Dean considered that. "But then where does the ghost come in?"
"I didn't say it explained everything," Sam said, crossing his arms and leaning back. "But I think it's worth looking into. We should go tomorrow, try and find out if anyone's seen this guy lately."
Dean nodded. "Yeah, okay." His eyes wandered across the bar before landing on a group that had just sat down. They were all neatly dressed in dark clothes, and they didn't exactly blend in. "No shit," Dean muttered.
"What?" Sam said sharply. Years of practice meant he didn't glance over his shoulder to where Dean was looking.
"It's the feds," Dean said lowly. "I see those two we passed on the way out of the station. Barbie, and… I don't know, the angry looking one. They're with a few others in the corner back there."
"Do they see us?" Sam hissed, his body tense.
Dean shook his head. "No. They don't know who we are, Sam," he reassured.
"Yeah, well – we shouldn't chance it. I'm going to the bathroom, and then we're leaving."
"Fine," Dean grunted, and took another bite as Sam got up from the table. He let his eyes wander around the bar, but always landing back on the group of FBI agents in the corner. They looked subdued, and were chatting to each other softly, a few files on the table in front of them. There were six of them: two women, and four men. They all held themselves confidently, and looked intelligent. Or at least official. Either way, he didn't want to cross them.
The blonde one got up and headed for the bar, and on instinct Dean got up at the same time, downing the rest of his drink as he did.
Dean casually stepped up to the bar and ordered another beer. While he waited, he glanced to his right and nodded at the blonde haired agent. "Evenin'," he said, turning to face her.
A look of annoyance flitted over her face, and then she gave him a tight-lipped smile back.
"You look like you've had a long day," he said honestly.
She gave him a second glance, looking surprised and a little amused at his comment. "Does that line usually work for you? Calling a girl tired?"
He shrugged. "I just call it like I see it." The bartender came up and handed Dean his beer.
The woman looked over at the table where the rest of the feds were sitting, then back at the bar. "Yeah, well. You're not wrong."
Dean tipped his drink towards the table she'd looked at. "Those your friends over there? They look tired enough to be."
She huffed softly. "Yeah. We're just taking a break while we still can."
"I know the feeling." He took a slow sip, then put his drink down on the bar. "What, are you guys police? FBI, or something?"
She frowned. "How'd you guess?"
Dean forced a chuckle. "No girls from around here are wearing business slacks and heels to the bar."
"You got me." She shrugged and Dean was relieved to see her smile. "Are you from around here, then?"
"Nah, me and my brother are just passing through. We're on a hunting trip."
She nodded, and Dean could tell from her face she didn't care for hunting. "Ah, okay. Nice."
Before he could stop himself, and before he lost the chance, he stuck a hand out. "The name's Dean."
Still looking a little amused, she reached out and shook it. "Jennifer," she replied.
The bartender came up then, and handed her drink over. It was something fruity.
"Well, good luck then, Jennifer, with whatever you're here for," Dean said, picking up his own drink again.
"Thanks. You too." Jennifer gave him one last smile, and turned to go back to her table. Dean did the same.
Sam was back at the table already, and looked stressed when he sat back down. "Dean, what the hell?"
Dean tried to look innocent and probably failed. "What?"
"You know what. Why are you flirting with the hornet's nest over there?"
He took a sip of his drink. "That's not a nice thing to call a lady."
"I'll call you worse, dumbass," Sam grumbled. "We shouldn't give them any reason to look at our faces."
"We're dead, remember?" Dean said cheerfully. "They took our wanted posters down years ago. They're not gonna recognize us."
"We should go," Sam said tersely.
Dean sighed, knowing he wasn't about to win this fight. Plus, he didn't want to admit it, but Sam had a bit of a point. "Yeah, I know. Just let me finish my damn burger, alright? Then we'll go."
Miles away, a mangled man wandered through the trees towards a row of houses lit by a single street light. As he walked by, the light flickered madly, and the muggy air turned cold.
"Keep trying," he said, a grimace on his face. "There ain't nothing you can do, honey."
A figure appeared in the closest window - a pretty girl with blonde hair, who turned and laughed at something someone had said.
The grimace turned to a slow, wide smile. "There ain't nothing you can do."
A/N: Thanks for reading! If you feel like it, let me know your thoughts in the comments. Have a good one!