A/Ns: I know we're a day later than usual getting this up; apologies! I had a very busy Saturday and pretty rough Sunday, so there wasn't really time (or energy) to edit and get this chapter out. But that's apparently what Mondays are for!
Reviews/Castiel: So, last chapter had exactly *one* line about Cas in it, and more than half of reviewers mentioned it. It is never a good sign when you've deprived your audience of a character so much that one mention of him makes everyone comment on how much they loved that line. My favorite though, had to be SailingTheNightSea's description: "This is real Jane Austen level slow burn." Haaaaaaaaaa, XD ouch. So much ouch (the truth hurts ;P). That one's going in the tags on AO3! In the meanwhile, I am going to try and get some more Cas in here pretty soon, guys, I promise. Not Destiel, because we wouldn't want to let Jane down XD, but Cas for sure.
Lawls, I'm so sorry, but in, like, a can't-stop-chortling sort of way.
Minutiae: I'm definitely bending standard police procedure in this one. Not outside the realm of TV standards, though, and very much within Supernatural's canon, particularly for this episode. But I know I'm bending procedure, so I have to say it out loud :P Still, I think it'll fly.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
The Road So Far (This Time Around)
Season 2: Chapter 37
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
By the time Andy arrived at the Giles home – Baby perfectly intact, thank you very much – there were over a dozen cop cars out front, flashing lights turning the entire neighborhood into a morbid cross between the worst club scene ever and a warning ad for epilepsy. Having absolutely no idea what was going on but knowing it couldn't possibly be good (and acutely aware of his own standing with law enforcement), Andy pulled to the opposite curb almost a full block away.
Neighbors were outside their houses, in pajamas and robes, arms crossed over chests or hands raised to their mouths. Cops had cordoned off the entire area around the Giles' house and were maintaining the perimeter from locals and just-arriving news vans.
Really not good then.
Andy thought about trying Dean's cell, but decided not to risk it. Which turned out to be the right call when only minutes later two police officers and a man in civilian clothing – suit, tie, and dress shirt stained with a terrifyingly large amount of red (Detective, maybe?) – walked out of the house, escorting a fourth, stumbling man between them. It was hard to see his face from so far away, but Andy knew the short hair, the broad shoulders, the slightly bow-legged walk, staggering as it was.
That was Dean, handcuffed, clothes covered in something dark that Andy hoped to God wasn't blood, walking like he was drunk, being pushed into the back of a cop car.
Aw, crap. What the hell was he supposed to do now?
-o-o-o-
"Put these on."
Dean caught the bundle of clothes chucked his way and stared down at the grey sweatpants and shirt, black, bold letters spelling out Baltimore PD down the side and on the breast. He looked up at Detective Ballard with a skeptic brow.
"Your clothes are evidence. Forensics will collect them when we turn you over to County."
Dean dropped the sweats onto the cot beside him, not quite caring to follow orders, here. His head was pounding thanks to the non-business end of a gun meeting his friggin' skull, courtesy of Baltimore P.D.'s dirtiest cop. Whose partner was now standing on the other side of the jail cell, looking at Dean like he was the scum of the earth. Murderous scum of the earth.
"And when exactly will that be?"
Maybe Sam and Andy could spring him in the transfer. Considering the front of him was covered, thighs to neck, in Karen Giles' blood, Dean was guessing his odds of getting out of this one any better than he had the first time were significantly decreased. Forget Detective Peter Sheridan escorting his ass out into the woods for a two am private execution. He wouldn't have to lift a finger this time; Dean would just go straight to federal prison.
Do not pass Go, do not collect 200 ways to avert the Apocalypse.
"Well, we've got some questions we'd like to ask you," Ballard – she hadn't given him a first name and he didn't remember it – leaned against the cinder block wall beside the bars of his current cage, crossing her arms in the classic female powerhouse pose. Dean swore every female cop had that stance down pat. Of course, no one quite wore it like Jody Mills, but this detective sure tried. "After that, you'll be formally charged and handed over for processing."
"For the murder of Karen Giles." Dean didn't bother keeping the incredulity and sarcasm out of his voice.
Detective Ballard raised an eyebrow at him in return. "Well, you are covered in her blood."
"Right." Dean looked down at his shirt and the still damp, tacky blood clinging it to his skin. He blocked out the image of Karen, staring up at him with terrified eyes, blood spurting past her desperate hands. Instead he picked at the ruined cotton, shooting the woman a harsh look. "Cuz this looks just like arterial spray. And not like your partner rolled me in her blood after he slit her throat!"
If he thought the detective's eyes were cold before, he'd been wrong. Now they were downright frigid. She pushed off the wall, partly in what he imagined was shock, and partly in defense. But then, she'd been sleeping with that asshole last time, hadn't she?
"That's one hell of an accusation," she bit out, fire on her tongue to chase the ice in her eyes. "Especially coming from the man caught standing literally red-handed over her body."
"Under it."
Detective Ballard blinked at the low growl. "What?"
"He told you I was standing over the body, huh? I was holding her. He slit her throat and I caught her." Dean turned his body half away from her, gesturing to his thighs and the unnaturally neat line of blood-to-no-blood. "What, crime-scene photos didn't show this fine, ass-shaped hole in your blood pool? How about a gap the size of an unconscious body, then, because you're partner clocked the hell out of me while Karen was alive and bleeding out in my arms, lady."
Ballard stared at him, and her eyes might be cold, but Dean could see the logic getting through. Not enough, of course. No, he was accusing a cop of murder. Accusing her of not knowing her own lover was a cold-blooded killer. But he remembered liking her, thinking she had some brains under the uniform, at least for a cop.
The laugh she let out was short and bitter and disbelieving. "You're really something. You don't know what you're talking about."
"No?" Dean pushed his luck, approaching the bars. The detective stood her ground, but he could tell by the way her arms tensed that she was ready to back away if he proved violent. He leaned against them, bracing his forearms on the crossbar so he could bend at the waist and make it seem natural. Get himself more to her height than the looming foot he had on her. "How about a crap ton of drugs missing from your lockup. That sound familiar? What was that, a year ago now?"
The detective reared back, though her feet never moved. Dean saw the confusion, the first flicker of doubt that went beyond what little evidence he had for her while locked up in a jail cell. He gripped the bars, planning on taking that seed and getting the damn thing to sprout before he ended up dead in some back country woods or rotting in a state penitentiary.
"Your partner-"
"Get your ass away from the bars!"
A loud slap of a manila folder against the wall broke the growing tension in the room as Peter Sheridan stepped into view. Detective Ballard backed off, a deep breath shaking free any doubt Dean had gotten going. The hunter leaned back, wrists still on the crossbar but now taking full advantage of his height. He eyed his framer with derisive challenge clear in his green gaze.
"You okay, Diana?" Peter walked over to his partner, back turned to Dean, body language over bearing in its protective stance. Too obvious. A blatant show. It made Dean want to roll his eyes as the far shorter detective had to tilt her chin up. She seemed oblivious to the physical manipulation as she shared a shaky smile with him.
'Gag me,' Dean thought, looking away as the two shared a quiet word.
"You must think you're pretty tough shit, huh?" Oh, the detective was apparently talking to him now. Dean was sure to put every ounce of his 'shaking-in-my-cowboy-boots' fear into the dangerously blank and knowing glare he leveled at the man. Peter Sheridan was too stupid to be wary of it. "Put the sweats on and your clothes in the evidence bag, or we'll make you. You have five minutes before we haul your ass into interrogation, naked if we have."
"Oh," Dean leaned forward, pressing his face to the bars as Peter grabbed Diana by the elbow and the two detectives started back down the hall, ignoring their prisoner. "I'd love to see you try, pal!"
The hunter growled as the officers disappeared, soon replaced by the one obviously slapped with guard duty. He was a beast of a man – Dean hadn't even known they made uniforms in Hulk size – who stationed himself just to the side of the bars. His hand settled atop his gun holster none-too-subtly and he had the kind of look about him that suggested Dean do what he was told before the B.U.G (Big Unfriendly Giant) here actually did try to make him.
Dean sighed, crossing over to the pair of sweats and picking at his bloody, ruined clothes. He scooped up the sweatshirt, staring at the Baltimore PD shield stamped across the breast. Well, he'd sure stepped in it this time. Andy and Sam had better be thinking something up, and quickly. Time was never on their side, but in this case particularly, they'd have just about forty-eight hours to figure something out. If Peter Sheridan waited that long.
-o-o-o-
The interrogation room was cold, the chair was hard, the cuffs bit into his skin, and the stupid sweats itched. Dean glared at the two detectives across the table from him, Ballard seated and Sheridan leaning over her. He looked like he was ready to mansplain some serious bullshit. Dean couldn't wait.
Diana pulled a sheet of paper out of the manila folder Sheridan had had back in the holding area and slid it towards him. He stopped its movement with his hands best he could, chained to the table as he was. When he looked down at it, Dean found a pretty good sketch of himself and Sam staring back.
"Sacramento PD just faxed us that. Look familiar?"
Damn. Meg and the diner. There hadn't been cameras, but there'd been plenty of witnesses to remember their faces, to see them rescue Meg Masters. Only, at gun point, it sure hadn't looked like a rescue to any of the decent folk that had tried to stop them that day. And if they took his prints before throwing him in lockup, then Sacramento would have popped up as soon as they ran them, even if the cops there didn't have names to put to the evidence.
"That would make you Dean, I assume," she added, nodding at the paper and the names, first only, beneath each sketch.
"Good looking guy," Dean replied with a smirk, flicking the paper back her way. It spun almost three-sixty before she put a stop to it with a firm palm. He shrugged. "Uncanny resemblance. Can't say I recognize 'em, though."
Detective Sheridan rolled his eyes with a sneer, but Ballard let his attitude slide right over and off her.
"You got a last name, Dean?"
"Sure do."
Both detectives let the silence stretch, but Dean didn't elaborate further and the male detective shook his head.
"This is pointless," he muttered. "You can play this game all you want, but we got you on murder."
"No, what you got is me in a house where a woman was murdered. By you."
Both officers ignored him. Instead, Diana laid out the facts, her cold, stoic expression not giving away an inch of the doubt Dean knew he'd seen in her eyes earlier. She was pretty good for a cop. He remembered sending her to Sam, after the kid managed an escape. At least they wouldn't have to deal with that this time. They had nothing to grab Sam on; no last name, no location, nothing. Hell, these guys didn't even know he had a brother. At this point, all they had was a sketch of a one-time partner, who may not even still be in the picture.
At least Time had given them that much. One tiny little positive in their usual shit-storm of worse-worse-worse. That was Time for ya. The giving type.
And it was a shit-storm. They had the murder weapon, literally in his hand, for starters.
"Yeah, because you planted it there, you asshat."
Karen Giles' blood all over him.
"Clothes were spic-n-span before you clocked me with your Sig Saur."
And he'd been in the Giles' home to begin with, patio doors damn near taken off the hinges. Even if he could make Diana – or anyone, for that matter – believe him about the piece of dirt standing across from him, he couldn't deny that he had been in the house of a grieving widow who just so happened to turn up dead after he'd kicked two doors in to get to her.
"Look, I was invited, alright?" Dean rubbed at the corner of his eye. He'd scrubbed the dried blood off his face pretty vigorously back in the cell, but it still felt like it was there. "I was working with Tony when he died."
That seemed to surprise the two detectives, and they shared a glance.
"Working how?" Diana folded her hands atop the metal table.
"I'm a PI. A private investigator." Dean made sure to keep his voice even, which for him usually sounded bored. That worked too. He offered Diana a tight smile before shifting his gaze to her partner. "He hired me, to look into this bastard, right here."
Peter just scoffed, shaking his head as he pushed off the table, straightening up. "Unbelievable. Tony Giles was a friend of mine, you son of a bitch. And you murdered him and his wife. In cold blood. I'm not going to let you sit here and spin your little delusions of murder and psychopathy on me."
"You know, I've done a lot of shit in my life, but I think I'm the kettle in this scenario, pal."
The detective took a challenging step forward, looking like he was half a step away from hauling his suspect out of the chair and making his point a more physical one. Dean vaguely remembered him doing that once before. Certainly wouldn't put it past him for a repeat performance.
"If you're a PI, where's your work?" Diana's eyes were pinned on him, ignoring her temperamental partner for the moment. Dean slowly dropped his gaze back to her. "Photos? Notes? Anything to prove you are what you say you are. How about a last name, for starters."
The hunter leaned back in his chair. "I give you any of that, what's to say it doesn't disappear, same as those drugs?"
Detective Sheridan's left eye twitched, and Dean watched his hand ball into a fist, hidden from his partner by the width of his body. Guy had a pretty crappy poker face. It was a wonder he'd lasted this long without getting caught.
"If you thought I was in on it, you wouldn't have told me back in holding."
Dean's gaze snapped back to the woman. Damn, she really was good. For a cop. He smiled and sat up, putting his cuffed hands on the table almost conversationally. "Then send your partner out of here, and we can really talk."
Sheridan slammed his palm down on the table between them. Diana jumped, but Dean didn't move a muscle. He just shifted those dangerous green eyes up to the man he sure hoped would die the same pathetic death this time around. The detective's veins throbbed with how hard he was clenching his jaw.
The plus side? Dean's Yeah-That's-Right-I'm-A-Scary-Ass-Mother-Fucker-You-Sorry-S-O-B glare was definitely getting to Sheridan. And he knew he was starting to get to Ballard, too. The downside? That same glare was not doing him any favors in the not-coming-across-as-a-murderous-psychopath department. But one problem at a time, damnit.
"Enough!" Pete spat through gritted teeth. "This isn't a game, asshole, and I'm done with your wise-ass remarks. If you're really a PI, why don't you tell us why your prints were found at over a dozen unsolved crimes."
Dean raised a sarcastic brow. "Uh, I'm a PI. I look into crime scenes, buddy."
"Yeah?" Sheridan spread both hands on the table, leaning towards Dean. The hunter didn't resist the urge to lean the hell away from the fool. "Well that's some sloppy investigative work, if you ask me. Why exactly did Anthony hire you, an apparent expert in grave desecration, breaking and entering, and oh, yeah, this one really got me: kidnapping."
Okay, so the kidnapping charge wasn't going to be the easiest to explain. Technically, they had rescued Meg Masters from the actual demonic kidnapper. Not that either of these two were going to believe him, even if he used the redacted version. Probably best to stick with being an incorrigible ass.
"You missed that whole 'pot calling the kettle black' comment a minute ago, didn't you?"
This time the detective did surge forward, grabbing Dean by fistfuls of sweatshirt and hauling him, and most of his shirt, up and out of the chair. The hunter internally winced at the sharp pull of the cuffs, chained to the table and digging into his skin. But he didn't let it show, too busy giving Pete Sheridan the smuggest, tight-lipped, I-am-Dean-Winchester-and-you-will-not-out-asshole-me smirk.
"Pete!" Diana was on her feet, hands on the table and that fierce gaze locked on her partner, who stood still at her bark. "That is enough!"
Dean waggled his eyebrows at the man, but Sheridan just sneered and shoved the hunter roughly back into the chair. He grunted, hands spread as far as he could for balance, and managed not to topple onto the floor.
"Jeez, anger management much?"
"Let's go." Diana sent a withering look Dean's way, following it with one slightly less, but far more expectant, look at her partner. Dean raised his cuffed hands, the picture of innocence. Sheridan curled his lip but ultimately stalked out the door, Ballard following.
-o-o-o-
Pete slammed his palm into the hallway wall as they left interrogation behind. A passing officer gave the detective a wide berth, and Diana caught his high eyebrows as he passed. Knowing better than to grab her partner when he was like this, she took off down the hall, leaving Pete to follow. He did, with a huff, until they were around another corner, in a lower-traffic area near the vending machines.
"You cannot lose it like that in there," she admonished the moment they were alone, keeping her voice low. "You'll blow this case and he'll walk out of here on a technicality!"
"I know," Pete snarled, but reigned in his temper almost immediately. It simmered just beneath the surface of his skin, though, as he leveled a calmer but still dangerous look her way. "What about you? You weren't exactly jumping to my defense back there. Tell me you're not buying his crap, Diana."
She paused, brow furled in a thoughtful moue, and her partner darkened considerably.
"You think I murdered Karen and Tony?"
"Of course not." Diana all but rolled her eyes, tilting her head to the side and staring up at him expectantly. "I know they were your friends."
"Good friends," Pete emphasized, but backed off. He leaned against the vending machine, plastic surface warm from the bright lights of the interior.
"Look, I know you want to clean this mess up quick, but you've got to admit some things aren't lining up," Diana continued, mirroring her partner's position against the appliance. "There's something off about this guy, for sure, but he's not wrong about the blood, Pete, or the crime scene photos. And where's the motive?"
"Diana, he's a con-man! You can't tell me you believe a word he said back there."
The female detective shrugged, because, honestly, his words were niggling at her brain. Particularly the bit about their missing heroin. They never had caught the cop that did it. But how did this Dean guy even know about it? "What if there was another person at the scene? What if he's not wrong, and he's just got the wrong guy framing him. Tony knew a lot of criminal types."
"You've got to be kidding me," Peter muttered, tilting his head until he could pinch at the bridge of his nose with an arm propped up on the vending machine. "He was a defense lawyer, for God's sake. Of course he knew criminal types."
She could see him trying to keep a lid on his anger, and felt guilty for riling him up. Diana knew he struggled with his temper, but she didn't think she was wrong for asking the questions.
"Why were you at the house, Pete?"
He picked his head up, and she saw when his surprise at the question turned tempestuous. His face retreated to that deadly calm, eyes half-lidded. That was usually when he started hitting suspects. Not that he'd ever hurt her, she was sure. Well, fairly sure. Sometimes his temper really was perturbing.
"You read my report. I went to check on Karen, make sure she was doing alright." His expression never shifted, and it settled uneasily in her stomach to see him address her like he would one of the criminals in interrogation. "I heard her scream, Diana, and there was a struggle upstairs. She was already gone by the time I got up there, but that scumbag locked up in interrogation was standing over her, knife in hand."
Peter had gotten his gun on him, but the guy charged. There was a struggle – one that wrecked the scene and scrambled the hell out of their blood evidence – but Pete had gotten the best of the man and taken him down.
At least, that's what was in the report. But this Dean character wasn't making up the void in the blood pool – what hadn't been smudged and spread in the struggle – or the clear line on his pants, suggesting he'd been on the ground before the blood reached him, leaving the back of his thighs clean. It didn't make sense with Pete's story, and that was worrying her.
If he'd give them his last name, an ability to prove his story, then maybe they could get to the real killer. Or at least the real truth, if Dean was their murderer.
"Come on, Diana. Don't let this guy get to you."
She sighed, dropping her head with a little shake.
"Of course," she answered, because her partner wasn't wrong, either. There was definitely something dirty about this Dean fellow, that much she was sure of. And the rest, well…
Pete stepped into her space with a gentleness to him that hadn't been there moments ago. He tugged at the corner of her blazer, a secretive smile on his lips that she couldn't help but mirror. "Look, we'll keep leaning on him; he's bound to tumble eventually. I'm telling you, this Dean guy is our guy."
He reached up, running this thumb along the bottom of her chin and Diana smiled wider, leaning into the touch. They didn't get to steal moments like this often, not on the job. A door at the end of the hallway to their left opened, and the two stepped apart as a party of three men came into view.
Peter eyed them – two officers and a suspect being escorted to interrogation – and nodded their way. He turned his eyes back to his lover. "You know what? Let Dean stew for a bit. Maybe we'll have better luck with the other one."
Diana turned her head to look at the man being led past. He was tall, a lot taller than Dean, with longer hair and softer eyes. He matched the artist's sketch of the second kidnapper in Sacramento almost to a tee.
He must be their Sam, then. And, if Diana was a betting gal, their missing killer.
-o-o-o-
It was a good thing Diana was not a betting gal.
The timelines didn't fit. Yet another level of complexity on this already bizarre, enigma of a case. Diana sat across from the equally mysterious Sam, report in hand from the forensics teams at both the Giles' house and office. Sam and an unidentified man had been seen entering Anthony Giles' office around eight pm. Karen Giles called 911 at 9:46pm, and Detective Peter Sheridan had been found by responding officers at the residence at 10:03pm. He immediately re-dispatched those officers to Anthony Giles' office on information he'd overheard from their murder suspect, talking to a partner on his cell. They found and arrested Sam at the office 10:28pm.
Which was another thing that wasn't lining up. Between finding their suspect armed with a knife, standing over Karen Giles' body and engaging him in hand-to-hand, when exactly had Pete overheard this phone call? It wasn't particularly clear in his report, stating it had been before he'd heard Karen scream, as he approached the house on foot from the driveway.
Diana's growing theory of another perp on scene was making more and more sense to her. Problem was, what had caused Pete to mistake two men for one?
Yet another issue was why the officers had left the Giles' residence in the first place. SOP was to secure the crime scene. Another unit could have been called to investigate the Giles' office. But Pete had been insistent, they'd said. They would get there faster than any of the other units, and if they wanted to catch the partner, every second counted.
He wasn't wrong, but… they had standard procedure for a reason. One of which was to keep this kind of confusion and muddled evidence from happening. Had those officers stayed, there would have been two other witness accounts to back Pete's claims.
Which, Diana uncomfortably sidelined for further thought later, really wasn't helping her partner's story right now.
But back to the man sitting in front of her, stewing over a cup of coffee she'd brought him, staring at the table top with a morose and frustrated glare. Sam, who also refused to give a last name and insisted he was a PI, could not have killed Karen Giles. Although it was possible for him to have done the deed and returned to the office in the thirty minutes between Karen Giles' likely time of death and the responding officers arriving on scene at Tony's office, it would have been cutting it damn close. Add to it that Sam had no blood evidence on him, no car found at the scene, and no car keys, it was unlikely he was their killer. None of the six local taxi companies they'd called had dropped anyone off within a three block radius of Giles' office within their time range, either.
It was looking more and more like Sam hadn't left Anthony Giles' office since he'd first been seen going in. They still had him on breaking and entering, of course. Cops caught him red-handed at Tony's computer, an unregistered firearm on his persons, a picture of Tony and Karen in Paris taken from a bookshelf and placed beside him on the desk, and a cell phone with one recent call, the outgoing number a match to Dean's. So, Sam might not be their murderer, but he was still a criminal.
Or, as he insisted, a PI. A PI with a key to the office that Karen had given him (found on his persons at his time of arrest), a story about Karen requesting he grab the photo of her and her husband (which they could not disprove, given Karen's untimely demise), files from Tony's personal notes open on the desktop("Karen gave me the password, alright? She knew we were working with her husband, and he hadn't given us all his notes. He was playing this one close to the chest."), and a rather convincing act of perfectly balanced innocence and guilt as he told Diana that breaking into a crime scene was wrong, granted, but it wasn't like they had time to wait for the cops to clear it.
Right. Because he and Dean were on a case they refused to give the specifics of, under a deadline they wouldn't share. ("If Dean didn't tell you the details, he had a good reason for it.") He put the perfect amount of vagueness in each of his explanations and excuses. Not exactly convincing, but damn difficult to disprove.
However, the report did shed light on a third partner. Because that's what this case needed: more suspects. An unidentified man – average height, bit scraggly and a sloucher, with dark brown or black hair – was seen by an eye-witness entering the office with Sam. He had not been there upon the cops' arrival.
So, Diana was back on the possibility that Dean was telling the truth, he hadn't been the killer because there had been a third man. She wasn't sure yet if Dean had simply gotten confused; he had taken a blow to the head, after all, though Pete swore paramedics had cleared him, despite the lack of paperwork for it. She supposed it was more than possible that Dean had gone down an innocent man, only to wake up covered in blood and blame the detective, the only other person he'd seen in the house, for framing him. It was also possible, she kept in mind, that Dean was a criminal and a con-artist, in on the murder committed by this third partner, and playing the police by pointing his finger at Peter Sheridan.
She sure didn't trust him, after all. Either of them. But Diana was also determined to see the guilty party be brought to justice, and she wasn't convinced that was Dean.
"We ran Dean's fingerprints through AFIS," she began again, deciding to switch it up. Sam had seemed genuinely surprised when she'd told him they had his partner on murder. As if they hadn't both tried to kidnap a girl in Sacramento, California. As if the Dean he knew wasn't capable of murder.
Or, he was just that good of an actor.
"Okay," the kid answered, glancing up at her with that same combination of impatience and anxiety. If it was an act, it was a good one.
"Got over a dozen possible hits."
Sam sat more upright in his chair, which he'd spun around before sitting down, leaning over the back of it. "Possible hits. Which makes them worthless."
Which he would know, as a PI. He'd also know that, either way, the Baltimore PD could hold them for forty-eight hours without formal charges.
"But it makes you wonder," she offered almost off-handedly, a little tilt of her head, a little shrug of her shoulder, a sly look that should make the kid even more nervous. "What are we gonna find when we run your prints?"
Sam's smile was bitter. Humorless. He knocked his fist on the table, knuckles rapping at the metal surface sarcastically. "Yeah, well, you be sure to let me know."
Neither his anxiety nor his anger ratcheted up in even the slightest imbalance. He was perfectly both. Diana's eyes narrowed at him, more convinced than ever that this was an act, albeit a good one. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms lightly. Time to bring in her wild card, then.
"We have enough to charge Dean for murder. His life could be over." Sam's face twitched, and the scales tipped more heavily towards anxiety. Interesting. She wondered if there was more than partnership going on here. The two could easily pass as brothers, their looks similar enough. Maybe this was a family matter. She leaned forward, placing steepled hands on the tabletop. "Yours doesn't have to be. Breaking and entering? We can get that charge reduced if you help our investigation."
"You want me to turn against my own partner?"
The incredulous look in his eye told her he never would.
"No," Diana answered honestly. "We've got him red-handed at Karen Giles' murder scene. We just need you to fill in some missing pieces."
Sam was silent, chewing on his thoughts as much as he was chewing on his cheek. He tapped a finger against the table, once, twice, three times before he abruptly pulled his hand back and straightened again. "You said, 'could.'"
Diana blinked, feigning confusion. "I'm sorry?"
The kid stared right at her, and she found the look unnerving, though she didn't let an ounce of her discomfort show. "You said Dean's life could be over."
She shrugged. "It could be. Maryland takes a double murder seriously; the death penalty is a possibility here."
"Double murder. A minute ago it was only one murder."
"Karen and Anthony were likely killed by the same person. Same MO."
"Really. Well, then you've got the wrong guy." Sam shook his head, that bitter smile back on his lips. "Dean and I weren't even in town for Tony's death. But let's go back to that 'could.' Because that's not what cops say when they have someone red-handed."
She bit back the smile as he took the bait. Instead, she fiddled with the corner of the file containing both crime scene reports. Again, she shrugged one shoulder. "There are some holes in your partner's case. Perhaps enough for reasonable doubt."
"What kind of holes?"
Diana met his gaze, and neither of them blinked. "The possible-second-person-at-the-scene kind."
Sam's eyes widened before he quickly covered the reaction, expression narrowing as he thought furiously. Diana let him, for a moment, before she pulled out the police sketch of the two of them from Sacramento out of the folder. She slid it towards him, following it up with the witness statement from Giles' office.
"A second man was seen entering Tony's office with you. His description doesn't match Dean's." The kid's eyes tracked over the drawing, but it was the witness statement he picked up. Not surprised by the police sketch, then, and more concerned by their mystery man. Diana hoped it was a sign that turning Sam against this third wheel would be easier than turning on his partner. "You have another associate, and he wasn't there when you were arrested. Where'd he go, Sam? Back to Karen Giles' house?"
Sam's fingers tightened on the edge of the paper, almost imperceptibly, before he released the document and straightened off the chair back again, conveniently moving his hands out of sight so she couldn't pick up on any further giveaways. Oh, he was good.
"There was no third person." He raised a steady finger to flick the paper back her way, so like her partner that Diana again wondered about the possible fraternal connection. His facial expression shut down, cold and blank as a wall of ice, and she knew she'd lost him. "My partner and I work alone."
-o-o-o-
Diana sighed as she settled her hip against the edge of the desk. Pete was watching the surveillance tape of Dean's room, despite the man being visible through the one-sided mirror just to their left. He turned from the monitor to offer a sympathetic smile at her exhausted countenance.
"You get anything from the other one?"
"Sam's story matches Dean's, down to the last detail." She shook her head, sure they were being played, but unsure how the hell the two of them were pulling it off. Diana crossed her arms, then raised one to pinch at the inner corner of her eyes and drag her fingers to the bridge of her nose. She needed a good night's sleep to think on this messed up case, but they weren't going to get a break anytime soon. They had only forty-eight hours to figure this out before they'd have to submit what evidence they had and press formal charges.
They had Dean red-handed, sure, but there was still a lot of wiggle room for a good attorney to get him off before he ever saw the inside of a courtroom.
A knock on the door interrupted her morose musing, and both she and Pete looked up as a junior officer stuck his head into the surveillance room.
"His lawyer's here." The man nodded towards Dean's slouched form through the mirror. Their suspect hadn't moved since they left him, instead hunkering down in the chair. He was tapping something out on the table top, fingers occasionally tracing letters they couldn't read, and his lips moved silently. Sheridan had been trying to figure out what he was muttering for the half hour Diana had been with the other one.
Her partner picked his head up and away from the small screen as the officer's words registered. Pete frowned over at Diana. "You let him make a phone call?"
Legally, they were obligated too, but it wouldn't be the first time they'd told a suspect otherwise. But Dean hadn't asked for one while in interrogation, so he must have when Diana was alone with him in Holding.
Diana was shaking her head, though, expression as surprised as his. "He never asked."
Pete unhooked his arms from behind his head to look at his watch, and then at the officer. "You're telling me a public defender showed up, out of the blue, at six in the morning?"
The guy just shrugged. "Don't think he's pro-bono, Boss. Guy said he was here for Dean Winchester."
Both detectives sat upright, shock overtaking their features.
"Wait, Winchester?!"
-o-o-o-
Dean was halfway through his mental list of acronyms for Dana Shulps, when there was a knock on the door to his room. He paused, busy trying to keep track of the growing list in his head and unsure if he just hadn't hit the right word yet or he didn't remember it well enough for déjà vu or memory to kick in.
Cops didn't knock on their own interrogation rooms.
An officer opened the door. It was one Dean hadn't seen before, and he gave the guy a skeptical look before going back to the anagram. The feeling appeared to be mutual as the cop indolently said, "Your lawyer's here."
Dean didn't even look up, remembering some pretty useless public defenders during his last couple go-arounds with the law. At least now he could ask for a pen and paper. The officer closed the door once more as his supposed saving grace walked over to the table.
A briefcase was set down before a very familiar voice said, "Mr. Winchester."
Dean's head snapped up to find Andy Gallagher standing across the table, dressed in his ill-fitting suit, a briefcase from God-knows-where in hand and-
"Is that a fake mustache?" the hunter hissed, leaning forward against the table to gape at the fuzzy caterpillar perched on Andy's upper lip. It didn't quite look glued on, but it also wasn't even, either. And it didn't remotely match his brown mop of hair.
Andy pulled out the chair opposite Dean and slid into it with a reproachful scrunch to his face. "I'm a wanted man, remember? I can't just waltz into a police station without a disguise."
Dean stared at him. Then he stared some more. "And you thought this was better?"
The kid shot him another look, but opened up his briefcase and pulled out a legal pad and a pen. "Now, Mr. Winchester," he said, deepening his voice in an attempt (a terrible, terrible attempt) to sound serious. "Let's discuss your case."
The older hunter narrowed his eyes into one hell of a glare, but leaned back in the chair, stuck with this, apparently. At least Andy could get him out of here if things got dicey. "Don't use my name, they haven't figured out who I am yet."
"Wait, really?" The look on the kid's face alone was a dead giveaway that that cat was well out of the bag. Dean physically growled, and Andy at least had the sense to sort of shrink away. "Uh…oops."
"Are you kidding me right now?"
"How was I supposed to know!" Andy threw back at him. "I couldn't just walk up to the front desk and ask to see the dude who murdered that nice lady and her lawyer husband."
Dean growled again.
"Not that you murdered her," Andy was fast to say. He pulled out a thin file from the briefcase. "Look, they wouldn't give me anything until I said I was your lawyer, so…" He shrugged, opening the folder and pulling out the details of the case the police must have provided him. "Good news is, they ran your prints and got nothing. Well, I mean, they got a lot of stuff they can't use-"
"You've studied law, now?"
"Uh…and Order." Andy offered him a grin that made Dean really, really want to hurt him. "Twenty seasons, four hundred and fifty six episodes. Hours of educational entertainment. I'm a tv-certified professional."
Dean went back to staring. "Oh great. I'm saved."
Andy rolled his eyes, spreading his hand atop the file and finally glaring at the unappreciative guy sitting across from him. "Hey, you could be grateful, you know. I could have left you here and ran."
The hunter finally let up on his glare, though he couldn't help one last parting quip. "Not likely, kid. There's no prison on earth that could keep me from hunting you down and strangling you to death for stealing my car." He leaned forward against the table again, mouth like a shark, and was pleased as punch when Andy physically leaned away. "And you know it."
"Okay, I did know that," the kid answered way too quickly, one finger raised in his defense, "but that's not the only reason I'm here." Dean's unimpressed brow was enough for him to fidget. "And I didn't steal her. Sam gave me the keys!"
"Where is Sam? He get into the guy's files?" Dean switched gears, deciding to give the kid a break. He was here, after all, and hadn't been wrong. While unlikely that a Baltimore police precinct would be on the open lookout for a small time murderer from Oklahoma, coming here had still been a risk and, more than that, took guts. Dean was grateful. He just wasn't gonna hand it over that easy. The man had a reputation to keep, after all.
"Uh…" At Andy's hesitation, the hunter's expression darkened. Then the kid's brief, fifteen second reprieve of Dean's ire was over a lot faster than he'd hoped. Fast enough, actually, that he never even realized he'd been on the receiving end of a reprieve at all, let alone had time to hope for a longer one. "Yeah, about that…"
-o-o-o-
Sam was pacing the room they'd holed in up in when Detective Diana Ballard entered the for the second time since they'd brought him in for questioning. They'd removed his cuffs when he'd first come in, the female detective even offering him a drink while she played good cop. Apparently, breaking and entering wasn't cause for concern over Detective Ballard's safety. Not that Sam would ever hurt her, but the leniency would be her mistake when Sam decided how to get him and his brother out of this. He rubbed at his wrists bitterly, like he could still feel the cold metal there, despite the fact it had been at least an hour since they'd been removed.
"So." Detective Ballard smiled at him as she slid into the chair, setting a file down on the table between them. Sam immediately knew something was different. That sure wasn't the good-cop smile she'd used on him the first time. "Sam Winchester."
The young hunter managed to bury his reaction, though it was a close thing. He couldn't do much against the paling of his skin or the reflexive swallow, but he'd spent his entire life lying, and lying to cops more often than not.
"Surprised?" The detective's smile grew tight before she looked down at the file. "Once Dean started talking, drawing the dots wasn't so hard. We know all about you, Sam. Twenty three years old, no job, no home address. Your mother died when you were a baby, your father's whereabouts are unknown. And then there's the case of your brother, Dean."
Sam bit at the inside of his cheek to keep the defensive look off his face. He wasn't entirely successful, so he leaned against the back wall, crossing his arms defensively and keeping his mouth sealed shut. He focused, instead, on the sharp gut instinct that told him she was lying her ass off right now. No way his brother would ever talk to a cop willingly, even the one from ten years in the future.
"Feeling shy, now? No problem. I'll keep going." Detective Ballard stood from the chair, file in hand, and started a slow pace of the far side of the room. "Your family moved around a lot when you were a kid. Despite that, you were a straight-A student. Got into Stanford on a full ride."
She closed the file, staring at it for another moment before tucking it and her hands behind her as she turned to regard her prisoner. "Then about a year ago, you were in Boston with your girlfriend, Jessica Moore. There was a home invasion. Her father, Frank, was stabbed with a knife. You, and your brother, were both there. And that's where the details get a little sketchy."
Ballard tossed the folder onto the table, the thing open. It showed the police report they'd had to file at the hospital. It included pictures of the wound post-surgery. Sam turned away from it. The detective braced both hands on either side of the folder, a cynical smile on her lips. "You went off grid. Left everything, including your girlfriend, behind."
Cold brown eyes snapped up to hers, and the look he leveled her way was almost petulant. The tone certainly was. "I needed some time off. To deal. Jess and I broke up. She was going through some stuff, and what happened to her dad…" Sam looked down, and he didn't have to fake the regret that crossed his face and silenced his words. He looked back up. "So, I'm helping my brother with his PI gig."
The Detective's look was blandly skeptical. "How's that going for you?"
Sam shrugged one shoulder. "It's not exactly a break, but…it keeps my mind off things."
"I'll bet." She set her hand, fingers spread out, atop the folder and tapped it. "Grave desecration and B&Es will do that for a guy."
Sam bristled at the accusations. Not that the information was incorrect, but the intent behind them sure as hell was. But he stayed quiet, knowing that was his best, and safest, bet. This was building into a real mess. They had Dean on murder, him on breaking and entering, and Sam had no clue how they were going to get themselves out of this one.
Hopefully, Andy had kept himself from getting arrested. Maybe he could do something with his powers to get them out of there.
-o-o-o-
"You don't want me to get you out of here?" Andy's voice was incredulous, eyes wide as he stared at Dean, who was busy scribbling something out on the paper he'd stolen from Andy almost the second the kid had put it on the table. "Are you crazy?"
"We got out of this without you just fine last time," Dean countered, inserting a touch of annoyance at their resident Jedi. He and Sam were capable on their own, they didn't need fancy powers, thank you very much.
"Last time." Andy blinked. "This happened last time? And you didn't think, 'gee, maybe I should warn them I'm about to get arrested'!?'"
Dean spared him an annoyed glance, but it wasn't enough to stop the kid from leaning forward, eyes and tone disbelieving as he realized the answer to his own question.
"How do you not remember getting arrested?!" Andy shook his head, leaning back in his chair so he could throw out his arms in disbelief. "Do you, like, smoke more weed than I do, man? Because your memory sucks."
"Shut up," the older hunter hissed, leveling a more intense glare Andy's way. "You tell me what you did ten years ago down to the day and then we'll talk."
"Well I sure wasn't getting arrested! Know how I know? I'd remember that!"
Dean set the pen down before he was tempted to chuck it at the kid who was still going to get him out of here, even if it wasn't with Jedi powers. "Lay off, kid. It's not like it was the first time."
Andy facepalmed, elbow on the table, and groaned into his hand. "Tell me again why I didn't leave you here and run for my life? I could be in Jamaica right now."
"I'd find you and murder you."
"Right." Andy sighed, dropping his hand from his face, muttering as he did. "Not like I could drive your precious car to Jamaica, stupid." He cleared his throat and spoke up, ignoring the unamused look Dean sent his way. "So what do you want me to do?"
Dean ripped the piece of paper he'd been scribbling on off the pad and folded it in half. He handed it over, pressed between two fingers. "Get in to see Sam, give this to him. And then create a distraction in ten minutes."
"A distraction." Andy took the paper, tempted to look inside but deciding he'd pushed enough boundaries for the day.
The hunter shrugged. "Yell fire, flip some lady's skirt up, start a food fight. Whatever, man. Just cause a commotion and get out of here."
Andy raised an eyebrow, tucking the paper, which no doubt now had some sort of escape instructions, into his briefcase. "Oookay. And you want me to get Sam out and not both of you because…?"
"Because over a dozen cops saw me arrested. Sam too, probably. You don't know who all those guys are, and unless you can make some sort of blanket announcement that everyone will listen to, and also wipe a mile's worth of paperwork, that's too many loose ends, kid."
Andy scrunched his mouth to the side, considering that. He hadn't really worried about much more than telling the officers to let Sam and Dean go, then walk out of here with them. But Dean sort of had a point. He had no idea what would happen when the cops he didn't influence showed up, asking where their suspects were. Or how that would work with the paperwork the precinct surely filed concerning the Winchesters' arrests.
Still. Staying to possibly be charged with murder and transferred to county lock-up seemed a lot riskier than some incomplete paperwork and a couple cops with questions no one could answer.
"Trust me." Dean handed him the legal pad and pen back. "That kind of mess with a double murder suspect? They'll call in the Feds. We don't want that complication. I got out of this just fine last time. Besides, we're supposed to be sticking to the timeline, remember?"
Andy snorted, because sure, he remembered (not that he knew much about that timeline, or had even really wrapped his mind around that whole can of worms just yet), but Dean never seemed to until it was convenient to his argument. He tossed the legal pad and pen back into the briefcase, but paused as he stared at the pen, which had sort of come apart on the single bounce. Come apart, because pieces of it were clearly missing that had not been missing before he handed it to his 'client.'
"Alright, whatever you say, oh Captain, my Captain." He shook his head, figuring that Dean, of all people, could probably pick handcuffs with a damn toothpick in the middle of a jungle if he had to. From what Andy had seen of the brothers so far, they made MacGuyver look like a rookie. He shut the briefcase and stood. "One distraction coming up in ten minutes."
"Ten minutes," Dean confirmed, a light smirk in the corner of his mouth.
Andy left the room, nervously drilling his fingers on the side of the briefcase as he passed the cop stationed outside of the interrogation room. The guy just nodded to him, though, and Andy reminded himself he could control people with his voice, for Pete's sake. He didn't have anything to be worried about. Except drawing the attention of every single cop in the station because he had to be the distraction.
Well, wait a minute, now. He didn't have to be the distraction. He just had to make one. Dean's words about a food fight got Andy's gears turning, and he looked around at the slowly populating precinct. He might not have access to food, per say, but there were other ways to start a fight. Seven in the morning sure wasn't prime arrest time, but he saw a couple drunk and disorderly's sitting on a bench, miserably awaiting the next step in the judicial process.
They sure looked like food enough to Andy.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
A/Ns: Guys *head, meet desk, with an added thunk for emphasis* we're two (looong) chapters into this episode *thunk* and we're not even to the good stuff yet *thunk thunk thunk* Why do I do this to myself?!
I actually stopped multiple times during this and asked 'do you really need to write this episode? Is it even important?!' and the muse said 'Yes, Andy is wearing a fake mustache. It is important.' Lo and Behold, the muse has spoken. Thirty six pages and counting all so that Andy Gallagher can have his fifteen minutes of lip-caterpillar fame. Sure. Why not. -_-
Fun Fact #207: In the original episode, Sam was arrested at the motel. The cops found him because Dean had a matchbook from the motel in his pocket when he was arrested. Personal head-cannon: Dean never kept any identifying objects from places again. He didn't necessarily remember this case as being the cause of that habit, but that's why there was not one on him when he was arrested this time ;)
Of course, it didn't matter because Time's about as no good dirty rotten as your author.
REVIEW MILESTONE: HEY GUYS! We are within spitting distance of that awe-inspiring 1,000 comments on AO3! It's not a shoe-in (we're forty shy right now) but I bet we can do it. In which case, you might recall from it happening over on FF, I post double chapters when we hit new milestones. If we make it, I will post the next two chapters (which 1. conveniently return to normal length and B. wrap up this case!)
However, whether or not we make it, this will be our last two-week stretch, guys! I have enough chapters built up to resume a weekly posting schedule after the next chapter :)
…Assuming Croatoan doesn't suddenly start kicking my ass. Which...it's Croatoan...so it totally could...