The entire BAU team was gathered, their faces serious.

"Sam Winchester?" Garcia said over the speaker. "You're kidding. He's dead!"

Rossi held up a hand, looking confused and slightly alarmed. "I'm sorry, can someone bring me up to speed? I don't recall this case."

The others looked between themselves. JJ was sure none of them really knew the specifics of the case; they hadn't been assigned to it. The only thing she remembered was what had been reported by the Bureau. How a horrible accident had led to the death of the agent who had been tracking them down.

"Reid?" Hotch suggested. "Or Garcia. You two seem the most familiar with the case."

"You take this one, Reid. I'll chime in if you miss anything juicy."

Reid nodded. "It makes sense you wouldn't know about it, Rossi. The Winchesters' worst crimes occurred in the few years before you came back to the BAU. But it's true; they should be dead."

"You care to explain?" Prentiss said.

"In February of 2008, both Winchesters were arrested in Monument Colorado by agent Victor Henrikson."

Morgan perked up, frowning. "That was that case?" He pointed at the wall in the direction of where Sam was sitting. "That's who that is?"

"That's right. They, along with Henrikson and the local police, died when a gas leak caused the building to explode and everyone inside was killed." He tapped his pen on the table. "At least, that's what we thought. Obviously Sam Winchester managed to escape."

"You said, 'the Winchesters.' There's more than one?" Rossi said.

"That's right," Derek said. "It was Sam and – and Dean. Dean Winchester. And Dean was the real sicko."

"I remember now," Hotch spoke up. "Dean Winchester was the St. Louis killer. He tortured and killed three women, and even got caught on tape. That must have been… what, 2005?"

Reid nodded at him. "October 2005," he confirmed. "The case wrapped up when police shot someone they thought to be Dean. But that was disproved when he and Sam were identified while robbing a bank in Milwaukee. That was January 2007. Agent Henrikson was in charge of negotiations there, and after they escaped he led the efforts to try and track them down."

"Didn't they get caught and escape?" Morgan said. "The one time I had a real conversation with Henrikson, I remember him talking about that. He was pissed."

"They got caught during a robbery in Arkansas in April of 2007, and got sent to a detention center to wait for their trial. They broke out less than a week later."

Garcia spoke up, "Looks like Dean was charged with mail fraud, credit card fraud, grave desecrations, breaking and entering, armed robbery, kidnapping, and – just to round off that lovely list – three counts of first degree murder."

Rossi raised an eyebrow. "He was busy, wasn't he? What was Sam's list of charges?"

"Uh… looks like the same, but he's only an accessory to the armed robbery, kidnapping, and murder."

JJ blinked, and shook her head to clear it. She was trying to follow the conversation, but her brain had stalled. Something about that name…

Prentiss nudged her with her elbow, and JJ snapped her head up, startled. Emily looked concerned. "You okay, JJ?"

Her heart was beating quickly in her chest. "Does someone have a picture?"

"Here, I'll send their mug shots," Garcia said. "I hate to say it when this happens, but the two of them are definitely easy on the eyes." A few moments later, a notification sounded from Hotch's computer. He turned the screen so that the rest of them could see.

JJ felt the blood rush from her face, and was glad she was sitting down.

"JJ? What is it?"

She swallowed, steadying herself. "I – I think I met him."

"What."

"Where?"

JJ just stared at the photo, her certainty growing the longer she looked at it. "At the bar. Last night."

"Well, there goes any hope for him to have actually snuffed it," Rossi said. "Looks like the brother made it out of the explosion, too."

JJ caught Spencer's gaze. He looked frightened. "You talked to him?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said. She thought back, trying to remember everything she could. "It was… nothing. Small talk. He –" her eyes widened. "He asked if we were FBI."

Morgan cursed. "This must be what we've been missing," he said, slapping his hand down on the table. "There's two of them."

"And from the sound of it, Dean is the dominant in their partnership," Hotch said gravely. He looked around at all of them. "We need to get in there and talk to Sam. He'll be our fastest way of learning where we can find Dean Winchester. I can speak to him next, hit him hard about all of this."

Emily nodded. "I can follow up with the friends of the victims – Garcia, you have that list finished, right?"

"Right-o, my fair lady. It's being sent to your tablet now."

Morgan looked over. "I'll join you," he said.

"Thanks."

"Right," Hotch said. "Good work identifying Sam, Reid. That information has just changed the game. Now, we need to stay focused. With Dean still out there, the clock is ticking."

Dean followed Angie into her house, slamming the door shut behind him.

She tossed him a glare over her shoulder. "Careful with that," she snapped.

Dean gestured around the wrecked room, expression flat. "You have seen this place, right?"

"Doesn't mean you have to make it worse," Angie said, crossing her arms.

"Yeah, whatever. Sorry," he said grudgingly. He stepped forwards, kicking a broken frame out of the way before settling down on the couch.

She just rolled her eyes, and followed him before leaning up against the door frame of the living room. "So, how are you planning to break your friend out of jail?"

"He's not my friend," Dean said reflexively. "He's my brother."

"Okay," Angie allowed. "How are you gonna break your brother out of jail, then?"

Dean paused, narrowing his eyes at her. "I'm working on it."

"Right," she said dryly, raising an eyebrow. Then she tilted her head. "That guy you called in the car – he said that you'd done this before. Broke out of jail, I mean."

Dean grunted in affirmation. "That's right."

She scoffed, frowning. "Who are you guys?"

"The Winchesters," he replied, smiling despite himself. Of course, she didn't get the joke. "Look, doing this kind of stuff… when people don't think the thing you're fighting even exists, they tend to assume the worst. Sometimes that means they assume we did it."

Angie nodded slowly. "So… ghosts exist," she said.

"Yeah."

"What else exists?" She sounded both curious and scared.

Dean gave her a long look. "You sure you want to know?"

After a moment, she nodded again, faster this time. "So? Do vampires exist? Werewolves? Fairies?" she asked. She leaned forwards. "Magic?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, all of that, actually. Just probably not the way you think."

"So what if it's not a ghost that's after me?"

Dean shook his head. "Angie, what we saw earlier – that was a ghost. It was Emma."

"I know. But what if there's something else?" Her voice and expression was insistent.

Dean frowned. His gut had been telling him that they were missing something this whole time. He thought back to his conversation with Sam about whether or not Emma was responsible for all of this, including the murders. After she'd attacked them at the motel, he'd pushed those ideas aside.

He gave Angie a long look, suspicion twinging. "Did you see something else?" he asked.

She shrugged, leaning back up against the door frame. "I – I don't know. I don't think so. It's just a feeling."

"Okay," Dean said slowly. "Well, it's possible. Believe me, I know it is. We've seen a lot of weird shit." He chuckled at that, trying to see if she would lighten up. Her face stayed stony. He hurried to continue, "But, uh – first, we have to wait and see if Emma shows back up. Until we know for sure, we should stick together. I can keep you safe."

"Right," she said, swallowing. "Okay."

"Angie… Do you know what that message meant? That Emma left behind?"

She shook her head. "No," she said. "All – all I can think is that it's about Robbie. And how no one knew how much of an asshole he was."

Dean rested his chin in his hand, considering that. "Alright. But why would she say that to you?"

Her gaze met his. "I was the only one that knew everything," she said, her eyes flashing. "He was hitting her. But – she didn't think it was that bad. Her dad beat her mom growing up. She thought it was normal, I guess. And you should've seen the shit hole he lived in. Disgusting. I tried to convince her to leave, but she wouldn't listen." She played with her necklace, agitated. "I'd just broken up with my boyfriend – it ended so bad he moved out of town. We could have moved in together, me and her." A tear slipped down her cheek, and she brushed it away angrily. "She wouldn't listen. And – well – you know what happened next."

Angie's face was shining with tears now, and she looked away. "I'm – sorry," she said, her voice hoarse. "You want some – water, or something?"

"Yeah," Dean said gruffly, giving her the chance to step away for a minute. Sure enough, she disappeared into the kitchen without another word.

Dean looked around the room he was sitting in, at the ripped fabric, stray pieces of wood, and shattered glass. Emma had sure left behind a mess.

With Angie out of sight, his mind went immediately back to Sam. He had half a mind to storm into that police station, guns blazing, and pull him right out. But the fucking annoying thing was that it wasn't like the people in there deserved to get hurt. No, he'd have to be a little more subtle than that.

It was times like this that made him remember how much he missed Cas. Not that he missed him only for getting them out of tough scrapes like this, but damn if he didn't come in useful sometimes.

Then his jaw clenched as he thought about just why Cas wasn't there. A too familiar rage boiled in his blood, and he pushed himself to his feet, unable to resist pacing.

Forget that asshole. He wasn't here, and there was no use thinking any more about it. He had to focus on Sammy. Sammy, who because of that asshole was probably dealing with not only the Feds but Satan himself in lockup.

Damn it, why the hell did he let that kid go off on his own?

Dean glanced at the clock on the wall – one of the few things that hadn't been destroyed by Emma's rampage of the house. 1:30 AM. No doubt Sam was being questioned by now; it wouldn't matter the time, not with a serial murder case. And even if they didn't want to pin that on him, they had enough with the grave desecration. Likely, he had a day, maybe two, before they moved him to a jail or a detention center.

Angie came back into the room, her eyes red but her face dry. She hadn't brought any water with her.

Looking at her, Dean slowed, and then paused. "Listen," he said. "You should… you know. Get some sleep."

She shook her head. "What about Sam?"

"We can't do anything about him right now, anyways," he said grudgingly. "And I need to think. So, just get some shut eye, okay? You look like you're about to fall over."

Angie looked at him for a moment, and then finally nodded. She settled herself down on the couch, grabbing a blanket as she did.

Dean started to pace again.

Sam was not happy. Not by a long shot. And by the looks of things, neither was the guy who'd just sat down across the table from him.

"Evening," the man said, putting his hands on the table in front of himself. He was clean cut, with gelled hair and a face that looked like it hadn't smiled in about 30 years. "I'm Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner of the FBI."

"Good for you," Sam said, letting his annoyance shine through.

"Thanks," Hotchner replied easily, obviously unaffected by Sam's attitude. There were long moments of silence as the two looked at each other. Then the agent crossed his arms over his chest, still holding his gaze. "I'll be honest – we don't know quite what to make of you, Sam."

Sam blinked. He hadn't told them his name – not even a fake one. And the fact they knew his real one definitely didn't bode well for him.

"That's right. We know who you are." Hotchner looked smug. "Sam Winchester."

There was chuckling off to his left, just out of sight. He brought his hands together slowly and squeezed down on the scar there.

"I don't know what you're talking about. My name's Chris."

Agent Hotchner just shook his head. "There really isn't any use in lying. Denial won't get you anywhere."

Sam just stared ahead. Sure, denial wasn't going to get him anything. But he also wasn't about to make this guy's job any easier.

"Let's make things very clear, Mr. Winchester. You were caught in the middle of digging up a grave and burning the body of a young woman. Not only that, we know about everything else, too. So you might as well talk."

Lucifer stepped into Sam's line of sight, a smirk on his face. "Oh, this is gonna be fun."

He grit his teeth and squeezed on the scar again. Lucifer flickered, but stayed where he was. "What do you want from me?" he bit out.

"Just the truth," Hotchner said.

Sam couldn't help but huff a laugh. Lucifer did the same from where he was leaning up against the one-way mirror.

The agent looked frustrated at his reaction. "What? Something funny?"

He let out one last chuckle. "It's just, that's not what you want. Trust me."

Hotchner just shook his head. "You don't know me. Why would you say that?"

"Because it's the truth," Sam said wryly.

Lucifer made a faux-sympathetic face. "That's right, Sammy. No one wants to know everything you know. Not even Dean. Not even you," he added, his expression turning sinister. His tone brought to mind flashes of blood - of sharp, deep pain - of fear. "After all, that's what I'm here for – right?" On the last word, he vanished and reappeared, his face only a few inches from Sam's.

Sam quickly shut his eyes, trying not to flinch, and pinched down hard on his scarred hand. He must not have been totally successful in hiding his reaction though, because the agent was looking at him strangely when he opened them again.

Lucifer was gone, though. He'd take it.

Agent Hotchner shifted in front of him, spreading out some photographs. Sam didn't need to look at them carefully to know what they were; they were the same pictures from the case files. The faces of the girls with their jaws missing.

"Tell me something, Sam – why'd you pull their jaws off? Was it something they said? Or… something another woman said to you? Did you get denied one too many times?"

Sam frowned. "Are you serious?" He looked down at the pictures, his mouth tightening at the sight of what the monster had done to them.

"Did they remind you of an old girlfriend? Jessica Moore, maybe. They look similar, don't you think?"

His head snapped up, and Hotchner raised one eyebrow slowly.

"Well," the agent said. "That was truthful, anyway."

There was a hum from Lucifer. "Jessica, Jessica, Jessica." He gave a wolf whistle. "You know what I always say, Sammy. I do wish that little firecracker had been alive when the two of us started to play together. I would have had so. Much. Fun."

Sam grit his teeth so hard it hurt, and stared at the agent across from him levelly. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

Hotchner continued, his expression still stony. "Maybe this time you got to choose the victims. Your brother let you take the lead for once, and so you picked a new place to target, but an old flame to remember."

His fury at both Lucifer and this situation burst out, and he blurted: "Man, you are way off base. We're trying to solve these murders. Same as you."

The agent frowned. It seemed like this guy was hard to rattle, but obviously that statement had set him back a step. "Solve these murders?"

"That's right," Sam said. "We're on the same side, jackass."

Hotchner stared him down, his gaze piercing. The guy obviously knew how to intimidate, Sam could give him that.

But it was hard to be the scariest guy in the room with the devil standing right over your shoulder.

Spencer walked with JJ to the coffee pot down the hall. His mind was spinning with all the case files, dates, and locations he'd been reading in an attempt to learn as much as he could about Robert Freeman, and now about Sam and Dean Winchester.

When he looked over at JJ, though, his mind stalled at her expression.

"Um… are you okay?" he asked quietly.

She blinked and met his gaze, as if coming out of a brain fog herself. "Yeah," she said quickly, and not all that convincingly. "I'm fine, Spence."

They stepped into the kitchen area. "Alright," he said. "Penny for your thoughts, then?"

She rolled her eyes bemusedly, but she looked so tired that it didn't land quite right. At Spencer's continued attention, she shrugged. "I don't know. Just… feeling foolish, I guess."

Spencer passed her a mug, and grabbed another one for himself.

JJ shook her head. "I mean, how did I miss this? He looked me right in the eye. The guy was flirting with me, for Christ's sake."

"JJ, don't be so hard on yourself," Reid replied. "These guys are supposed to have been dead for years. The only reason I remembered what Sam Winchester looked like is because my brain won't let me forget." The last part of what she said took a moment to sink in. "He was flirting with you?"

She poured coffee into her cup and his, stubbornly refusing to look at him. "Flirting, talking – what does it matter? What he was doing was rubbing it in my face. He knew exactly who I was, and I had no idea."

Reid gave her a long look, concern making his chest feel tight. "JJ, wait - what if the reason you saw him is because he's following you. What if you're in danger?"

She shook her head in denial. "It's weird - he was so friendly. I usually have a good radar for these kinds of people, but…"

"Yeah, and you also know just how manipulative those people can be."

JJ leaned back against the counter, holding her mug close to herself. "This whole thing is just weird." She considered his question, though. "I don't know. I'm a little out of the age bracket, aren't I?"

"I agree," Reid said. "But JJ — just, promise me you'll be careful, okay? It's not worth the risk."

She finally met his gaze again. "Yeah, okay, Spencer," she said, obviously bending to the earnestness of his expression. "I promise."

Spencer nodded at her. "Good."

"So, did your speed reading give you any new information?" JJ asked, obviously trying to change the conversation.

Spencer grabbed the sugar and started adding it to his coffee. "Just trying to learn as much as I can about the Winchesters. I've never done a deep dive into their case before, and I have to say, their list of crimes is… confusing, to say the least. And their histories before all that make even less sense. Not to mention their stint in prison. I'm thinking of reaching out and seeing what the prison has to say about their stay there. I just finished reading about it, and it feels like something's missing. There were a lot of conflicting statements."

"Good idea. The last thing we want is a repeat performance."

Reid took a sip from his mug, relishing the warmth and the sugar.

"I can help with that, if you want," JJ offered. "I just finished my plan for setting up the curfew, and there's nothing I can do with it until Eileen comes back in a few hours."

"Sure," Spencer accepted gratefully. "You're better at the whole –" he waved his hand around, "- getting people to spill their guts thing, anyways."

JJ chuckled. "It's called people skills, Spence."

"Right. That."

She smiled at him exasperatedly. "No more jokes until I get this coffee down. I'm too tired to laugh." She headed back out into the hall, and Reid followed.

He made to turn into the records room, which he'd basically turned into his personal study at this point. Before he could, JJ put a hand on his shoulder.

"Keep me updated, okay?" she said, her tone much more serious than it had been a moment ago. "There's something about these two that isn't adding up for me."

Reid nodded. "Yeah. Of course."

He agreed. There were a lot of missing pieces, here. And he was going to find them. Adding things up was one thing he was good at, after all.

Dean's pocket vibrated, and he pulled out his phone to see that Bobby was calling. With Angie asleep on the couch, he stepped outside before flipping it open and bringing it to his ear.

"Bobby," he greeted. "Tell me you've got something for me."

"I do," Bobby said, but Dean cringed when he heard that the man was already using his Bad News Voice. Sure enough: "But it ain't good. Dean, I made some calls. Figured out who the FBI sent to Franklin. Turns out you're in a deeper hole than you thought."

"What? What do you mean?"

"It's this team they call the BAU – the Behavioral Analysis Unit. They're profilers that hunt down serial killers, terrorists, and the like. And get this: they have the highest close rate of any unit in the whole FBI. So," Bobby said, "I hate to say it, but they probably know who Sam is. They probably know you're close by, too. What I'm saying is: watch your back."

Dean shook his head. "The FBI's all the same, Bobby. A bunch of guys in suits pretending they know what the hell they're doing. I bet this group is the same."

"No, Dean. Listen to me," Bobby said, frustrated. "The BAU is notorious for being relentless. And they get results. Don't think you're gonna charm your way past them with a smile and a plucky attitude."

"Plucky?" Dean repeated. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, I'm being serious, you little shit. Just – keep your eyes open, okay? Wider than you normally do."

"There as wide as they go, Bobby. Promise."

"They better be," Bobby grumbled, then hung up.

Dean brought his phone down and looked at it, shaking his head. "Cranky geezer," he muttered.

Even still, he knew that Bobby wouldn't exaggerate about something like this. And it didn't sound good. It figured that they'd walk right into the business of not only the FBI, but their best team. Good old fashioned Winchester Luck.

He stared out into the street. The temperature had dropped, and he even felt cold standing outside in just his t-shirt. The air was absolutely silent in that way that only small towns could get in the early morning. The only sounds were crickets chirping in the grass, and the rustling of leaves in the wind. A touch of pink was just lighting the horizon.

It reminded him of the kinds of small towns they'd lived in growing up. This could easily have been a stop on their family parade around the country. The kind of places that were big enough to blend in, but small enough to bore the crap out of him. The kind of places where nothing ever happened.

Usually, anyway.

So what he saw when he looked to the left had him frowning. The neighbor's otherwise decently well manicured house had a broken window, the glass sprinkled out on the grass.

Something wasn't right.

He checked that his pistol was still in his pocket, and ran inside to grab the shotgun and his coat before crossing the lawn silently, the dew from the grass soaking into his shoes.

One look inside had him cursing, and his heart beat loudly in his chest. He listened, but couldn't hear a thing, so he went ahead and opened the side door, stepping inside the house.

He'd seen the living room through the broken window, and it was about as far from a pretty sight as you could get. Dean stepped carefully around the puddle on the ground, his gun out in front of him. He tried not to breathe in.

The smell of blood was overwhelming.

Sprawled out on the floor was the body of an older man, probably around 50, with silver hair. His throat had been torn open, and his blood had formed a massive puddle on the ground.

"Jesus," Dean muttered. He looked around – the house was trashed, similar to how Angie's was. Broken glass and bits of wood littered the floor.

Keeping his gun out in front of him, Dean pulled the EMF meter from his coat pocket and switched it on. Obviously Sam's burning the body hadn't been enough. There must have been something left; an object she was connected to or another piece of her was still out there.

But the meter stayed silent.

Dean hit the side of it, trying to wake it up. Still nothing. He stared down at it, his stomach sinking.

"Well, shit."

Officer Nora Keller liked routine. She'd worked at the Franklin Police Department for thirty two years, and more than half of that time had been spent working the reception desk. It could be draining work, but it had its moments. And, hey – it paid the bills.

After all this time, she had her day down to a science. She was usually up at four, with a cup of coffee passed to her by her husband by 4:15. Then she left the house at 4:43, which gave her just enough time to drive to work, park, and walk in by five. Usually, she could use the first few hours of the morning to catch up on paperwork, or on the crosswords.

That morning, however, was not one of those mornings.

When she stepped in the door, she was shocked to see that people were already there. Normally, it was just the skeleton crew that had to work the night shift. But now, she could see that those FBI folks were here, too. Had they stayed all night? Or had they just gotten here?

What was going on?

Unsettled, Nora sat down at her desk, shooting furtive glances at the FBI behind her. Two of them were talking together, and their tired faces were enough of an answer to her earlier wonderings.

Distracted, she almost missed when the phone started ringing. Or at least, it took her longer to realize than it normally would. She picked it up and brought it to her ear.

"Franklin Police Department. Officer Keller speaking."

"Yes, hello?" an older male voice said. "I just saw a man with a gun go into my neighbor's house. Joe Bartlett's place. I didn't like the look of him. Not at all."

Nora was already passing on the message, alarmed. She heard voices pick up behind her when they received it. "Who's calling?"

"This is Phil Fry. I live on Dogwood Lane."

"Dogwood Lane? Can you give me a number?"

He did.

"Are you in a safe place, Mr. Fry?"

"I'm in my house. Please, send someone over here, quick. Something's not right."

Nora nodded. "Officers are on their way to you now, sir. They shouldn't be more than a few minutes. Stay where you are; do not intervene."

"I've got my shotgun here."

"That's good, Mr. Fry. But don't engage unless you have no other choice."

The man huffed. "I won't have to if y'all get over here!"

She stayed on the line with him until the officers arrived, at which point he hung up abruptly. Nora frowned down at the phone. She hoped it was just some misunderstanding. But something in her gut was saying otherwise…

"Officer Keller?"

She turned to see a woman with dark hair standing next to her, an intense expression on her face. One of the FBI women. Agent Preston, maybe? No, that wasn't right.

She didn't wait for Nora to reply. "I'm sorry, but did you just say Dogwood Lane?"

Nora nodded. "That's right. Some disturbance over there. A man with a gun."

The agent looked alarmed, and looked behind her at a black man – she remembered he'd introduced himself as Agent Morgan. "Derek, that's the same street as the woman we were planning on talking to. Emma's friend."

Morgan stepped forwards. He looked similarly uneasy. "We need to get over there."

"Can you give us the details?" the first agent said. "We'll go assist."

Nora passed over what she had on a notecard. "You think this is him? The killer?"

Another glance between the two agents. "We'll update everyone when we know more." She held up the notecard. "Thank you."

And with that, they turned on their heels, and were out the door.

Nora let out a sigh.

Yeah, this was shaping up to be a long one.

Hotch leaned over the table, Reid, JJ, and Rossi sitting around him. A phone was on the table in front of them.

"The neighbor ID'd the man as Joe Bartlett," Emily said over the speaker. "And his wife, who was also home last night according to the neighbor, is missing. Her name's Martha."

JJ shook her head, a hand on her chin.

"We took some quick photos of the crime scene," Morgan added, his voice coming in from a little further away. "I'm sending them your way."

Aaron looked around at the others. "You say his throat was slit?" he asked.

"Ear to ear," Prentiss confirmed grimly. "He must have died almost instantly."

"The wife," JJ said. "What does she look like? And how old is she?"

"We've seen photos. She's white, and blonde. And also around fifty years old."

Rossi raised his eyebrows. "The throat slitting on the male victim sounds like it's our guy. But she would be way out of the established age range of the victims so far."

"Not to mention that before now the unsub hasn't killed, or even attacked anyone who he wasn't specifically after," Reid added. "He's always been able to capture these women during times when he knew they would be alone."

"He could have been caught off-guard," Morgan suggested. "Maybe the husband was supposed to be out of town."

Hotch was studying the photos that had been sent to his computer, alarmed by what he saw. "Look at the state of their house. It's been turned upside-down. Something is definitely different here – a sort of aggression that we haven't seen from him before."

"Could this be in reaction to the fact that we brought in Sam Winchester?" Prentiss said. "He might be lashing out because his partner in crime is under our leash."

Reid nodded. "That's certainly possible. From the reports I've been able to read about the two of them, it was noted that Dean displayed a protective anger for his brother."

"That fits with him being the dominant partner," JJ said.

"The neighbor said he saw the man who entered the house holding a gun," Rossi said. "Why would he bring that and not use it? We haven't seen him use one at any of the other crime scenes, either."

"It could be the method he uses to control his victims and keep them from running," Aaron offered.

Emily spoke up, "It's also true that the neighbor could have mistaken something like a large knife for a gun. It was barely sunrise when he reported the sighting."

"True enough," Hotch agreed. "Though I do agree with the sentiment I think I'm hearing here – there's something different about this attack. I'm inclined to agree with Prentiss: this might have something to do with Sam."

"Have you had any luck with him?" JJ asked. "Any clue on where we might find his brother?"

Hotch shook his head. "Ever since he told me that he and Dean are investigating this serial, and not participating, he's been mostly quiet. And no mention of any locations they've visited here."

"Do you think he's telling the truth?"

Aaron pondered that. "I think he believes it to be true. We've established that Dean is the dominant partner here; it's entirely possible that Sam is ignorant of his brother's actions and motives."

"Even after doing things like participating in the robbery?" Rossi said. "I'm not sure that fits."

JJ shrugged. "Sociopaths are capable of convincing themselves of incredible things."

"We need a location from him," Morgan said. "There must be somewhere he's taking these women. We have to find this one before it's too late."

Hotch nodded. "Morgan's right," he said. "We need a new angle, here. Something Sam will respond to."

"Let me talk to him," Spencer spoke up.

JJ looked his way. "You sure?"

"No, it's a good idea," Hotch said after a moment. "You have a better understanding of the details of their case than anyone else here. Besides, You two are basically the same age. Maybe he'll connect to that."

Spencer nodded. "That's what I'm hoping."

"Alright," Rossi said. "Go get 'im, Reid."

Dean looked this way and that before he raced from the edge of the forest, across Angie's backyard and through her back door.

"Holy –" Angie cursed, but stopped when she saw that it was him. Then she glared at him. "Where have you been? I thought you'd been picked up – the police is outside!" She pointed at the red and blue lights that were coming in through the windows.

Dean fought to catch his breath, and tucked his shotgun up behind the couch. He'd heard the sirens not long ago, and had fled the neighbor's house into the woods, hiding out behind some trees until a window had opened up for him to come back. "No shit," he said dryly. "It's probably for the best, though. Your neighbor's dead."

Angie shook her head. "What? What do you mean? Who?"

"I mean that I just saw your neighbor's body. The guy next door. Middle aged guy, gray hair?"

"Oh, my god. That's Joe." She looked gutted. "Was it – was it Emma? Is she back?"

Dean shook his head. "No, she's still gone. For now, anyway." He looked at Angie. "Turns out you were right. There's something else out there; it's not just a ghost."

Angie looked somehow both terrified and relieved. "What is it?"

He looked around the wrecked living room. There had to be something here that would tell him more. Likely the same creature had come looking for Angie, but when it couldn't find her, had gone with a replacement.

"I got no clue. But we're gonna find out."

"Sam Winchester," Reid said, keeping his voice level. He was seated across the man in question inside of the interrogation room, his back to the mirror. Winchester was looking at him steadily, his face tired but his eyes alert. "Your case file might be one of the more interesting one's I've read."

That wasn't really true, but it was Sam's response to the statement that he was really interested in.

Sam scoffed. "Bull," he said.

Reid raised an eyebrow. Alright, so it wouldn't be ego that swayed this man to talk. "You think so?"

"Yeah, I do," Sam said. "I've seen my FBI file. It's nothing special."

"Alright," Reid allowed. "You're not wrong. I've come across way more impressive rap sheets than yours."

The large man across the table crossed his arms. He looked sideways, and then looked back at Spencer. "I'm not telling you where Dean is, Agent Reid. I know that's all you want from me."

"It's not 'Agent'," Reid said. "It's 'Doctor.'"

"Dr. Reid, then. Whatever. Doesn't change what I said."

Spencer placed his hands in front of himself on the table. "I went to school in California, too, you know. A little bit further south than you, though."

Sam frowned.

"I went to Caltech," Reid supplied. "I considered Stanford, but their math and science programs weren't rated quite as high."

Sam didn't reply, his gaze wary. As Spencer watched, his eyes drifted away again before they snapped back.

"What I do know, though," he continued, leaning forwards, "Is that not just any average student can get into Stanford. Especially not with a full ride."

"I guess I just got lucky," Sam said softly.

Reid raised his eyebrows. "Lucky? From what I've learned about you, you haven't been lucky a day in your life. At least, not until you started miraculously escaping prisons and surviving explosions."

Sam winced, and Spencer watched as he squeezed one palm with his other hand. An odd gesture; maybe there was an old injury there that pained him.

"Well, you're not wrong about that," Sam said dryly.

"How about now? Do you feel lucky now? Is this going to be another unexplainable escape?"

"I can't say I don't hope so," Winchester replied wryly.

Spencer studied him in silence for a moment. The other man's eyes tracked away from his again for a moment. Nervousness, perhaps? Although that didn't really fit with his general attitude.

"My colleague says that you claim to be on our side. What side do you think that is?"

Sam shrugged. "The side that wants to help people. The side that's against evil – whatever that looks like."

"Would you consider yourself a good person, Sam?" Reid asked.

Winchester's jaw worked, and he squeezed his hands together again. Reid waited for a reply, but he offered none.

"Would a good person hold innocent people hostage in a bank?" Spencer pressed. "Would a good person stand by and let his brother torture and murder innocent women?"

Sam's eyes lit up with a furious fire. "Leave Dean out of this," he snapped. "I told you: I'm not giving up anything about him."

"That's not my angle," Reid said smoothly. His words were honest; apparently he would need to try this from another angle. "I'm just trying to understand your justification."

Sam was quiet for a moment, but after the silence stretched out, he said finally, "Listen. We're really not that different. The two of us, I mean."

"How so?"

"Well, we go after the bad guy, the same as you. Just… we have to use methods that are a little different than yours."

"A man who works outside the law, then. Would you call yourself a vigilante?"

"No – I…" Sam let out a breath, and then seemed to commit to his next words, saying them with an intensity that he hadn't shown yet. "What I mean is, our bad guys aren't human."

Spencer nodded. "I've thought that enough times about the people we go after."

Sam shook his head, still holding Reid's gaze. "Well, I don't mean it metaphorically. We go after literal monsters. Werewolves, vampires, ghosts. Demons."

Reid blinked. Honestly, he felt surprised. He hadn't expected this level of delusion. But here they were.

Winchester seemed to pick up the meaning of his pause. "I know you don't believe me, Dr. Reid. But just go with me on this for a moment."

"Okay," Spencer said slowly. "So… how would you go about taking care of a problem like that?"

"Silver, for werewolves. For vampires, you gotta cut the head off." Sam's words were unbelievable, but his tone sounded as if he was talking about something as mundane as the weather. "Ghosts are vulnerable to iron, but to get rid of them you have to salt and burn the remains."

Ah. Puzzle pieces were coming together. "So that's why you dig up the bodies."

"Yeah – we're not the freaks you think we are." Sam paused. "Not in that way, anyway. We're not in the business of hurting humans."

"What about the women in St. Louis that your brother tortured?" Reid challenged. "They all looked human to me."

Sam shook his head. "As crazy as I know it sounds — that wasn't Dean. It was a shapeshifter that only looked like him. When they found Deans body there, it wasn't him. It was the shifter that we'd put down."

Rarely had Reid looked a man with this level of delusion in the eye and seen them look so calm. Sam seemed totally in control, and yet his story was insane.

"And the bank robbery?" Spencer asked.

"Another shifter, actually," Sam replied. "I mean, that time it actually was us holding people hostage. But only so the shifter wouldn't escape."

Reid considered what Sam had said, trying to see it from his point of view. "So, you think Emma Crawford is a ghost, and that she's the one who's been attacking the other women in this town. That's why you dug up her body."

Sam nodded.

"She's gone, then? If you were right, then there should be no more attacks."

"If we're right, yeah."

Reid squared his shoulders. "And what if I told you that another woman was abducted this morning?"

Sam's demeanor changed at that. He looked suddenly awake again, his eyes alarmed. "Then we missed something."

"And you don't think it's at all possible that your brother had anything to do with it?"

At that, Sam's expression abruptly shut down, frustration taking the place of concern. He let out a long breath, his eyes locked on the table. Then his gaze slid back up to Reid's face.

"Look, Dr. Reid. I know you don't believe anything I'm saying. I know you think I'm crazy. And I don't blame you; I think the same thing sometimes." His tone changed to something almost earnest and imploring. "But believe it or not, these things are real, and one of them is still out there. Your team is going after the same thing we are. If it turns out that we're right, maybe something I've told you will save your life."

Dean paced this way and that across the room, studying the wreckage. He looked for something – anything – that would tell him what exactly they were dealing with here. There had to be something. But there was no sulfur, no leviathan goo, nothing.

Then he spotted the dent in the wall by the stairs, and realized that the damage continued to the second floor. He raced up that way, Angie right behind.

"Wait!" she called out.

Dean paused at the top of the stairs, and turned to look at her.

"Don't go in my room," Angie said quickly, sounding stressed.

He frowned. "What – why? I need the full picture here, Angie. Whatever this was came up here, too."

She shook her head, flustered. "It's just – that's private! I barely know you!"

Dean didn't understand why she was being so cagey. Maybe there was something kinky in there. On the other hand, he couldn't help but be suspicious at Angie's tone. She was definitely hiding something, and if he was a betting man he'd say it wasn't just her vibrator that she was trying to keep him from seeing.

"Angie, what's going on?" he said, looking down at her and deepening his voice to just one shade shy of threatening. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing!" Angie said, her voice shrill. "There's just nothing in there that you need to see, okay? Why would I hide something important from you? Something's trying to kill me, after all!"

Dean's eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth —

There was a loud knock on the door.

"What – who the hell is that?" Dean said.

Angie looked as surprised as he felt. "I don't know!"

"Angela Towns?" A loud, male voice said. "Open the door, please!"

Dean cursed. "It's the FBI," he hissed.

Her face paled, and she glanced between the door and him. "They know you're here?"

Dean shook his head. "They would have kicked the door down if they were looking for me here. They're here for you."

There was another knock. "Angela Towns!" the man said a little louder.

"Hide," Angie said quickly, waving her hands. "Just – stay here, and don't move. I'll – I'll deal with this." She gave him one last anxious look, and then dashed down the stairs.

Morgan crossed his arms and huffed out an impatient breath. "Prentiss, we can't just sit here. Our unsub was right next door last night. What if she's –"

Emily held up a hand. "Just give it another minute, Morgan. We don't have any real reason to suspect that that's what's going on."

Morgan shook his head, frustrated. But just as he was raising his hand to knock again, the door opened, and a pale face peeked out.

"Hello?" the young woman said.

Prentiss spoke up first. "Good morning," she replied, her voice even. "I'm Agent Prentiss, and this is Agent Morgan. We work for the FBI. Are you Angela Towns?"

She nodded. "Yeah. I – everybody calls me Angie."

"Okay. Angie, we'd like to ask you some questions. Is now a good time?"

Angie looked back in towards the house, then back at them. She looked nervous. "Uh, yeah. Sure."

Derek frowned. Something was off here, he could feel it. "Everything alright?"

"Um… it's pretty messy in here. Could we just do this outside?"

Prentiss shot Derek a glance. He knew that she could sense the same thing – whatever it was, Angie didn't want to be inside that house.

"Sure," Emily said easily.

"Thanks," Angie said. She pushed the door open a little more so she could step out, and Morgan couldn't help but see the mess beyond.

"Whoa."

Dean shook his head as he watched Angie rush down the stairs towards the door. Lovely. This wasn't how he'd planned on seeing the FBI. If he was gonna see them, it should have been on his terms. Hopefully whatever they were there to talk to Angie about wouldn't take them upstairs.

He looked around, refocusing. There had to be something here that he hadn't seen; something that could tell him more about what was happening in this town. And the sooner he figured this out, the sooner he could break Sam out.

That was it. No more waiting around. Angie was hiding something; he was sure of it. And he was gonna figure it out.

Dean stepped forwards, and pushed on Angie's bedroom door. It swung open with a creak.

Morgan spoke up quickly. "Hold on. What happened in there? It looks like your place got trashed."

Angie closed the door sharply, her eyes wide. "Just… I – I don't know. I was out late last night, and when I got back, it was like that. I thought maybe somebody broke in, but nothing's missing."

"You haven't called the police?" Prentiss asked.

She shook her head. "I was going to right before you knocked, actually. Sorry – that's why I'm so anxious right now."

"It's okay," Emily reassured. "Could we look around inside?"

Angie hesitated before she said, "Yeah. Totally. Just – why are you here, anyway?"

"Do you know Martha Bartlett?" Derek asked.

Angie glanced at the house to the left, and gestured to it. "You mean that Martha Bartlett?"

"That's right."

"Of course I know her. She lives right there. She and my mom are friends."

Derek nodded. "Well, we wanted to ask a few questions about her. And about your friend Emma Crawford."

At that name, he saw Angie flinch back a little. "What about her? Did you find Robbie?"

"We know about Robbie," Prentiss replied, skillfully dancing around the question. "We're part of the team that's been looking into her death. And the deaths of the other women in town."

Angie stared at them for a moment before her face suddenly lost all color. "Wait. You mean… you're saying – I – the guy who killed Emma. He killed all those other girls, too?"

"We have been considering that possibility, yes." Prentiss stepped closer, and put a hand on the younger woman's arm. "Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?"

"I'm – fine," Angie said weakly.

"Here, let's go inside," Derek said. "Get you a chair." He barely waited for her nod before he opened the door and pushed them all in the house.

Dean cursed to himself as he heard the door open, and people come inside. It sounded like Angie hadn't been successful in shrugging off the FBI. Not that he was surprised. Not good, though. Not good. There was no way out of the house from up here.

He quickly entered Angie's room, walking forwards and wincing when his footstep made the floorboard creak.

Shit, shit, shit.

The voices from downstairs paused.

"What was that?" he heard a man say.

"Are you alone here?" a woman asked.

His heart thudding in his chest, Dean rushed for the closet, pushing things aside as quietly as he could before hiding behind a row of coats.

Through the layers between him and the downstairs, he distantly heard Angie say, "It's okay. We have a cat."

"Are you sure?" There were footsteps on the stairs. Footsteps in the hall. "I don't see any cat."

Dean gripped his gun, his jaw clenched.

"He likes to hide," Angie said. "Doesn't like visitors."

The door to Angie's room creaked open.

Dean stilled himself completely, keeping his breathing as shallow as possible, though his heart still beat loudly in his chest.

But then the footsteps retreated, and he missed what was said next because of the rushing relief in his ears.

Derek walked back down the stairs. He hadn't seen anything, but he still felt strangely uneasy. When Prentiss was in sight again, he gave her a meaningful look.

"Angie," Prentiss said, "We're going to need you to come with us, okay?" She glanced at Morgan. "We're concerned for your safety."

Angie shook her head. "I'm okay here, really," she said, her voice high.

Morgan raised his eyebrows. "Angie, we believe that your neighbor was abducted as a replacement for you. You could be in serious danger right now. It'll be best for you to come with us. I know it's annoying, but unless you cooperate with us, we can't guarantee your safety."

Angie's face was pale as she took that in. "I – I don't understand what's going on."

"We know this is frightening," Prentiss said, sympathetic. "But believe us when we say we will do everything in our power to protect you."

"How do you know that the guy who killed Emma killed those other girls?" Angie asked, her voice thin. "I thought it was Robbie who killed her?"

"We're exploring every option. We can tell you more if you come with us back to the station."

Angie's eyes widened. "Back to the station? You're arresting me?"

"No, no," Derek said. "Angie, this is just for your protection. We want you in a place where we have better control."

Angie swallowed, looking between the two of them. She looked torn. Finally, she said, "Okay. Okay."

From his position in the closet, Dean heard the agents convince Angie to leave. The front door opened, and then closed. And then the house was quiet.

He let out a sharp breath. "Jesus, fuck," he muttered.

Dean turned, adjusting himself so he could push the clothes out of the way again and get out of the closet. As he did, his elbow knocked something down, and he heard a crack.

Frowning, he turned around. He hadn't even realized the closet went back any farther; it was too dark to see in there. He quickly pushed the clothes aside, stepped out, and let the light shine in, illuminating the back of the closet.

What he saw made him stop in his tracks.

"Oh, no," he said to himself, staring. Suddenly, everything made a horrid kind of sense. "Angie, what have you done."

The fluorescent lights above him were buzzing. One of them flickered on and off.

Sam stared at the wall. His heart beat quickly in his chest, and his thoughts spiraled.

He wondered where Dean was. Whether he was closing in on him, or not. They hadn't told him anything. He didn't know anything beyond these four walls. They'd always been able to get free from lockup in the past. But what if this time was different? What if their luck was running out?

He knew how to deal with these situations, though. So, why was he so anxious?

Sam wasn't sure how long it had been since Dr. Reid had left the room. Had it been only a few minutes? Or hours?

He wasn't sure why he'd spilled the beans on hunting. There was no way that the scientist mind of Reid's believed him. But there had been something there… he'd taken a chance. And especially with another woman abducted, he was glad he'd done it.

Sam tried to focus on the present moment. The light looked dimmer, somehow, and the color flat. The bulbs were still buzzing. Or were his ears ringing?

He felt heavy, and slow. Maybe all those sleepless nights were catching up to him. He pulled slowly at the cuffs that connected him to the table. The edge of the cool metal bit at his skin.

Sam felt a shiver go through him, goosebumps prickling his skin. Then there was a voice at his ear.

"Feels familiar, doesn't it, Sammy?" Lucifer said softly.

He jumped in his seat, turning his head to look. But there was nothing there.

Quickly, he squeezed down on his palm, hard. The pain that sprung up there settled him for a moment, but it didn't last.

He heard a dripping sound, and his eyes widened as he saw what hit the table in front of him. Drops of blood fell from the ceiling, forming a puddle on the table. His heart raced as he stared at it, horrified.

There was a whisper at his other ear: "Remember when I said I wasn't going anywhere? Well, now you aren't either."

Sam's jaw clenched, and he fought to control his breathing. Slowly, he felt a scratch going down his back. His vision narrowed.

Lucifer sat down on the table right beside him, a smug look on his face. "Wouldn't it be funny? If you worked so hard to get out of one cage, only to end up in another." He leaned in closer. "You'd fit right in, though. After all, old habits die hard, don't they?"

Sam refused to acknowledge him, staring resolutely down at the blood on the table. A drop of sweat fell from his forehead.

"But maybe you don't remember correctly? After a while things tend to muddle together, don't they? Believe me, I know. The years do blur after a while."

He shook his head. The memories that he tried so hard to stay away from were circling closer and closer.

"Don't worry though, Sam," Lucifer whispered. "I can do something about that." He raised one finger slowly, a smile spreading on his face.

Sam couldn't help it – he pulled away. But it was no use – and as the finger touched his forehead, his body exploded into pain.

Dean raced down the road to Franklin's police station, his heart in his throat.

"Fuck!" he cursed. How could he have been so stupid? He should have known. There had been something off about Angie this whole time. He knew that they were missing something. And now it was about to blow up in his face.

No More Lies. That's what Emma had written. Dean had written it off at the time; ghosts didn't always think logically, and they'd had more pressing things on their plate. But now he was kicking himself – he should have known from that moment.

Angie was a witch. And Dean had no doubt she was behind this. Before he'd left the house, he'd quickly taken pictures of everything on her altar and sent them to Bobby. Hopefully he could help, because at the moment there was a bigger problem:

Angie was being escorted to the police station. Right to Sam.

He pressed down harder on the gas.

A minute later, he peeled into the station parking lot, the tires squealing as he slammed on the breaks. He threw himself out of the car, and ran across the parking lot, pulling his gun out along the way.

He slammed the front door open, the glass cracking with the force of his push.

Dean pointed his gun at the blonde haired woman who had his back to him, ignoring the gasps and shouts from everyone in the room.

He opened his mouth, and shouted out:

"What the fuck have you done, and where is my brother!"

A/N:

Thanks for reading, everyone! I've loved hearing all your thoughts about this story so far; let me know how you feel about this chapter, if you feel inclined!

I really tried my best to sort out the timeline of Sam and Dean's arrest record, and figure out what the FBI would actually have information about, but I probably missed something. There's only so much research a gal can do!

Sorry in advance, by the way - there won't be another update to this story for at least a month, as I'll be really busy with work. But don't worry, I'll be back!