Home     The Sentinel     Stargate SG-1     NCIS     Supernatural     SVU     Firefly    Awards

Defect           
by Kikkimax

"You busy?" Hotchner asked as he tapped on the open door.

Gideon responded with no more than a quirk of his lip as he glanced over the tops of his glasses, but it was enough to reveal how amused he was by the question. "No more than usual. What’s up?"

"You did a pysch eval on an Agent Henricksen a month or two ago."

"Yes. His partner thought he was obsessed with a serial killer, thought he needed help."

"And was he? Obsessed?"

"Oh yeah, he was a mess when I saw him. He was barely lucid, hadn’t been eating or sleeping. He hadn’t even been home in weeks. I recommended reassignment but he was relieved of duty when he refused to stand down." Gideon set aside the file in his hand and motioned for Hotch to take a seat. "Why?"

"The perp must have been something to drive him over the edge like that," Hotchner said with a gleam in his eye, waving away the offered chair.

Gideon merely shrugged.

"How would you like a crack at him?"

"Who? The unsub?"

"Not unknown. In fact the subject has been on our most wanted list for well over a year. He was apprehended in West Virginia three days ago on trespassing charges. The BAU has been requested to determine the guy’s mental state and sort out his crimes."

"I don’t understand."

"It’s a little… muddled. And Henricksen’ notes aren’t much help. They have a lot of speculation in them but not a lot of substance."

"Henricksen was unstable. Maybe the subject didn’t do anything."

"Well, we’ve got more than enough to hold him on credit card fraud alone."

"So we’re off to West Virginia."

"Nope, that’s the beauty part. He’s coming here."

Taking off his glasses, Gideon folded them and placed them in his pocket as he nodded. "All right, let’s do it."

"JJ is pulling together the information now and the team is scheduled to meet in an hour. The subject is already in transit."

"What’s his name?" Gideon asked as Hotchner turned away.

"Winchester," Hotchner called back over his shoulder. "Dean Winchester."

"Dean… Dean… Dean!"

Dean slapped unsuccessfully at the hand on his shoulder, failing that he pulled the nearest pillow over his head. "Da mit, Samp. Lemme sle."

"Come on, Dean. Wake up. We need to talk." Sam snatched the pillow away and pushed the other one off the bed for good measure.

"Aw, man," Dean complained, his face still buried in the rumpled sheet. "No. The one thing we do not need to do is talk. We need to get drunk and get laid."

"You did that last night."

"Yeah," Dean agreed happily. "You’re right. I did." He rolled over and looked around. "Where’d she go?"

"She left hours ago. I gave her cab fare."

"Thanks, I owe ya." Dean tried to wrap up in the sheet but Sam held it firmly, thwarting his feeble efforts.

"She wanted to go to Reno."

"Ouch. That’s far away, right?" Dean gave up the tug of war with the sheet and just lay there. After a minute he opened his eyes. "Where are we?"

"We’re still in Vegas."

"Oh. Good. I didn’t try to get married again, did I?"

Sam sat on the bed and let out a weary sigh. "No. I caught you before you got that far. Look, this has got to stop, man. You’re killing yourself."

"Dude," Dean protested as he got up and stumbled naked into the bathroom to pee.

Following him as far as the door, Sam leaned against the en suite sink and crossed his arms over his chest. "It’s been seven months…"

"And we worked our asses off the first six. Now I’ve only got five left and I’m gonna make the most of ‘em," Dean said flushing the toilet and moving to the heart shaped tub. He turned on the water and dumped a handful of Mr. Bubbles under the tap. "We are so stupid. We should have been staying in the good motels all along. This place is paradise."

"Being wasted twenty-four/seven is not making the most of anything." Sam had to raise his voice to be heard over the running water.

Dean reached into the mini-fridge and took out a beer. He hissed when he stepped into the ankle deep water but didn’t adjust the temperature before carefully settling down in the rapidly filling tub. "Not twenty-four/seven," he denied, easing back into the built-in pillow and covering his eyes with a folded washcloth. "Twenty-one, twenty-two/seven tops." He opened the bottle and took a swig.

"I’ve got a lead."

"Forget it. As of now I’m officially retired."

"I think I know how to stop the crossroads demon but we’re running out of time…"

The beer bottle shattering one of the wall-sized mirrors was the only warning Sam got before his soapy, wet brother had his hands fisted in his shirt. "No!" Dean shouted in his face. "Don’t say another word!"

"Dean!" Sam protested in shock and surprise as he reflexively grabbed Dean’s wrists and kept them both from falling. "I’ve got a plan."

"I don’t want to hear it," Dean swore, pushing away, swinging as Sam tried to steady him. "Do not tell me about it."

"Why? Why won’t you let me help you?" Sam yelled back. "Why won’t you help yourself?" He stared at Dean’s retreating back for a second before storming into the steamy bathroom to turn off the water.

While Sam paused to survey the damage Dean picked a dirty towel off the bedroom floor and wrapped it around his waist before moving to sit on the red settee.

"I’m tired of this argument," Sam stated when he came back into the room a few minutes later with two cans of beer. He held one out in either guilt or apology.

"I want the good stuff," Dean pouted.

"You threw the last one of those at the wall."

Dean finally accepted the can but didn’t pop the top. "Look, I’m tired of fighting, too. But you can’t do anything to help me, Sammy. You can’t."

"Why not? Just tell me and I’ll quit asking."

Flopping back onto the cushion Dean moaned and looked at the beer before deciding to use it as an icepack. "A little early for you, isn’t it?" he asked when Sam stopped pacing and sat down to drink.

"It’s four in the afternoon."

"Oh."

Sam polished off his beer in record time and went for another. Dean followed his progress by the crunch of his boots through the broken glass on the linoleum. He returned with a whole six pack and sat on the bed across from Dean. After opening the first can, he raised it in a silent toast; ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’ written all over his face.

Dean rolled his eyes and sighed expansively. "It’s in the fine print," he finally muttered.

The beer was instantly forgotten. "The fine print," Sam repeated sober as a judge.

"You manipulative little shit," Dean grumbled.

"Tell me," Sam threatened, holding up the six pack. "There’s a whole lot more where this came from. If you crash and burn, I’m going down with you."

"Burn?"

Sam winced. "Poor choice of words."

Dean glared for minute but the effort was too much. "It’s part of the deal. If I do anything to weasel out of deal you drop dead where you stand."

"Why didn’t you tell me?" Quiet. Too quiet.

"Come on, Sam." Dean sat up and prepared for the coming tempest.

"My brother is going to hell because of me…"

"Don’t do this…"

"…and I’m supposed to just stand back and watch?"

"Don’t!" Dean warned, raising a finger. "Just shut up a minute. If I even try to save myself it’s over. I don’t regret it. I’d do it again in a heartbeat."

They sat in silence while Sam digested the new information. Dean watched him moodily, rolling the can between his palms.

"I’ll save you," Sam whispered at last.

"What?"

"I’ll do everything. The…the planning, the execution. You’ll just come along for the ride, you won’t know a thing."

"We can’t take the chance."

"I didn’t make a deal," Sam pointed out. "She has no power over me."

"I don’t know, Sam. We shouldn’t risk it."

"I can’t lose you either. I won’t." Suddenly animated, Sam was off the bed and packing. "Get dressed."

Dean didn’t budge.

Sam stopped and looked at him. "What you don’t know can’t hurt me."

"I can’t know anything. Comprende?"

"This’ll work," Sam insisted. "I’ll just feed you bullshit and keep you in the dark."

"Yeah, I’ll be your little mushroom. But what if I accidentally figure out what you’re up to? I’m pretty good at this stuff, you know."

"If it comes to that we’ll split up."

"I can’t know anything," Dean reiterated. "Not a damn thing."

"We have to go to West Virginia."

"Why?"

"Nuh uh," Sam said with a grin. "Get your stuff and get in the car. For the next five months I’m in charge. You do what I say when I say it."

"Kill me now," Dean groaned once again falling back on the bench.

"What have we got?" Morgan asked as he fell into step with JJ on the stairs.

"Something a little different," JJ told him, handing him one of the thick folders she carried. "We have the perp, we just have to figure out what he’s guilty of. His rap sheet’s on top."

"Okay," Morgan said a little dubiously as he flipped open the folder, never missing a step. "Dean Winchester: January 24, 1979, Lawrence, Kansas… yadda…" he read out loud before scanning the rest of the page in silence. "He’s wanted for everything from kidnapping and murder to grave desecration but he’s never been in custody long enough to be convicted of anything."

"Yeah, and what we’ve got is sketchy at best so Garcia is joining us to search other sources while we meet. Hi, Penelope," she greeted as they entered the conference room.

"Hi, JJ. Hey there, Gorgeous."

"Hey yourself," Morgan flirted as he settled at the table across from Garcia and tossed the dossier down in front of him with a plop. "So your challenge is to tell us something about our boy that’s not in here, oh wise one."

Garcia’s fingers flew over the keyboard of her laptop. "Challenge, huh? I can already tell you our boy is a smoking hot babe." She turned the screen so they could see the mug shot.

"Let me rephrase that… tell us something useful about Mr. Winchester," Morgan chided playfully.

Garcia wagged a pudgy finger at him. "Useful is in the eye of the beholder."

"He is nice looking," JJ agreed as she began placing the folders around the otherwise empty table.

"See? Don’t be hatin’." Garcia pulled her computer back into place to admire the picture again.

"Uh, hello? Serial killer?" Morgan objected in exaggerated disbelief.

"Alleged serial killer, no one this pretty could possibly be evil," Garcia goaded as she stroked the edge of the screen.

Morgan covered his heart with his hand. "Oh, now you’re just trying to hurt me."

Reid wandered into the room during the exchange and picked up one of the files as he seated himself. Rapidly turning the pages he read as he distractedly launched into a lecture.

"Actually many serial killers possess above average physical appearances. The stereotype of the ugly loner is a misleading perception; thus attractive or gregarious suspects often fly under law enforcement’s radar. Take Ted Bundy for instance, he was handsome and outgoing. He sometimes used a prop such as a cast or a sling to lure unsuspecting women into helping him with groceries or boxes…" Reid looked up to see three impassive faces starring back at him, "…but you guys already know all this…" he trailed off. "I’ll shut up now."

"Preaching to the choir again, Dr. Reid," Morgan said.

"Yeah, we were just joking around."

"Sorry," Reid murmured, returning JJ’s sympathetic smile with a rueful one of his own.

"Although I am fairly certain the man of my dreams is not a psychotic killer."

"Five bucks says we find evidence otherwise."

"You’re on." While everyone else studied the hard copies Garcia turned her attention back to her computer. Within a minute she let out a gasp. "Here’s a useful tidbit," she announced. "Dean Winchester is dead."

"Dead?" Gideon asked as he and Hotchner joined the group.

"Yes sir," Garcia said solemnly. "I found a death certificate. He was shot in St. Louis on March 7, 2006 by a woman he was, uh, apparently trying to kill. Score one for Morgan."

Morgan grinned smugly and held up five fingers.

"Surely Henricksen knew that?" Gideon asked. "Do we have his notes?"

JJ pushed one of the folders toward Gideon. "His case file is the bulk of the dossier. And I do mean bulk."

"That’s part of the muddle," Hotchner informed them. "Officially, Dean Winchester is deceased."

"So who are they bringing in? A doppelganger?"

"Why was Henricksen so sure he had the right man?"

"Mistaken identity?"

"One question at a time," Hotchner urged. "Reid? I assume you’ve read the dossier? What did Henricksen say about St. Louis?"

"He makes mention of it early in his rather rambling report but never even tries to present a logical explanation for the apparent resurrection," Reid said. "Basically he just glossed over the fact that his chief suspect was already dead and buried."

"There had to be an autopsy," Gideon reasoned.

"I’m on it," Garcia assured as she tapped out a quick rhythm. "Yep. And… ew, morgue photos. Up there," she said nodding towards the large plasma screen mounted on the wall. "Here’s the guy they’re bringing in." Garcia split the screen and placed the earlier mug shot next to the autopsy picture.

"They could be twins," Hotchner said.

"Single birth." Garcia briefly superimposed a birth certificate over the images.

"Siblings often bear a remarkable likeness," Reid offered, "Even when they’re several years apart. Dean has one brother, four years younger."

"Samuel Winchester," Garcia reported, putting yet another photo next to the other two.

Gideon shook his head. "Not even close. Any other family? Cousins?"

"No," Reid said, winding up. "Even his parents are deceased, his mother, Mary, in a strange fire when Dean was a small child and his father, John, last year of an apparent heart attack. This was after a car wreck in which all three remaining Winchesters were injured, Dean seriously. Interestingly enough, the father’s body disappeared from the hospital morgue rather than being released to a mortuary. But even this information is mostly conjecture from Henricksen."

Garcia began to type frantically.

"Traumatic loss of a parent at an early age," Hotch pondered. "That could have been the stressor that fractured this boy’s psyche."

"Plus his father raised both of his sons as some sort of survivalists, again, according to Agent Henricksen," Reid added. "Weapons, hand to hand combat, Marine type training from an early age."

"Is this all we’ve got?" Gideon asked placing a hand on the folder he had taken possession of. "More importantly, is all of it from Henricksen?"

JJ shook her head. "I added school and various arrest records for the whole family. There’s not really much else. It’s like they lived on the fringe of society."

"Cross referencing names, birth dates, and social security numbers there are no police records regarding a motor vehicle crash that required hospitalization last year together or individually," Garcia confirmed. "I can’t even find a death certificate for any John Winchesters during that time frame."

"They could have used aliases."

"Or Henricksen could have been delusional."

Garcia looked back and forth between Hotchner and Gideon. "Earlier I found some news footage of Dean Winchester at a bank robbery that turned into a hostage situation. Henricksen was there. I’ve got audio from a phone conversation he had with Dean during negotiations. It’s interesting to say the least."

"Okay, good. Let’s examine those first then I want to break this file down. I want to see what we know the subject did and what is only speculation." Gideon put his glasses on.

Dean took off his jacket and tossed it into the trunk. After a second’s hesitation he began to unload weapons as well. Two guns, three knives, and a length of wire went in and a tire iron came out.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked. He tossed away the limb he’d been using to wipe their tracks.

"Get out of here," Dean ordered. "I’ll stall them."

"We lost them, let’s just go."

"You don’t think they know we doubled back? You can’t afford to get caught right now."

"We can’t afford to get caught."

"Four months, Sam," Dean said earnestly. "We’ve been looking for… whatever the hell it is we’ve been looking for for four months. And these bumpkins have been breathing down our necks for the last three weeks while we just keep hanging around."

"It’s here, Dean. I know it is. I just need a little more time to find it."

"Time’s not something I’ve got a lot of, Sammy. And I’m just slowing you down. I can’t know what you’re doing and I can’t help. I’m hanging up my own salvation just by being here."

"I know," Sam sighed. "You take the car and I’ll hook up with you somewhere after I find it. But don’t give up on me," he pleaded.

"I’m not giving up." Dean slammed the trunk shut. "I’m counting on you."

"If you let them take you into custody the next stop is prison."

Dean huffed. "Prison’s easy, it’s hell I’m not so sure about." In the distance they could hear a dog baying. "Go. Save my sorry ass." He tossed Sam the keys. "I’ll meet you at Bobby’s… No?"

Sam was shaking his head furiously. "Whatever you do, don’t go to Bobby’s."

"Why? Is that what all those phone calls you kept sneaking away to make were about?"

"Are you sure you wanna know?"

"No, don’t tell me," Dean backed down. "I’ll just lay low. Somewhere." He pulled out his wallet and handed it over along with his cell phone and watch. "I want those back."

"Where are you gonna lay low without any money?"

"Where do you think? I’ll be okay," Dean promised. "And you’ll know where to find me. Now get out of here before I kick your ass."

Sam hesitated but slid in behind the wheel. "I’ll see you soon."

"Take care of my baby."

"He’s worried about the damn car," Sam muttered to himself as he started the Impala. It roared to life and they shared a long look before he put it in drive. "Be careful."

"I’m always careful," Dean joked, swallowing hard as his brother drove away. He knew Sam was watching in the rearview so he smiled and waved. As soon as the dust cleared he set about loosening every lug nut on the cop car and dog transport.

Two hours later Hotch watched his team hard at work from the conference room door. White boards were filled with information in columns and grafts, and photos of Dean Winchester, his family, and his supposed victims were taped to the window in meaningful groupings. Reid and JJ poured through a copy of the disassembled dossier, while Morgan helped Garcia chase down leads on the computer. Gideon sat alone in the corner with headphones and a portable CD player. His eyes were closed but his lips moved ever so slightly as he listened.

"This is one sick puppy," Morgan said to Hotchner. "The St. Louis murders are particularly disturbing. Winchester posed as the husband or boyfriend to get in then literally skinned the women over a period of hours before killing them."

"Don’t forget, Dean Winchester was also found dead in St. Louis after committing those murders," Garcia objected. "The only thing Dean Two did was rob a bank. And he didn’t actually take anything so technically it wasn’t even a bank robbery, just a hostage situation. He didn’t even start it."

"There were murders in the bank, too. And one of the bodies had been partially skinned."

"Yeah, but that woman had already been rescued. She’s alive and, okay not exactly well I guess, but she’s alive right now."

"And yet she’s still dead."

"Like Schrödinger’s cat," Reid chimed in.

"That’s impossible," Hotchner said.

Morgan sighed. "No wonder Henricksen went over the edge. There is no logical explanation unless this guy’s a magician."

"Don’t forget the Houdini acts," Hotchner agreed. "No one can seem to keep any of the Winchesters in custody for very long."

"Which begs the question how did the cops in a one horse little West Virginia town capture and keep him until our guys arrived?" Morgan asked pensively.

Gideon clicked off the player. "Maybe he wanted to be caught."

"Maybe he got away in route," Reid speculated.

"Not this time," Hotchner informed them. "I just got word of Winchester’s arrival. They should be pulling into the receiving area any minute now."

"Good, let’s get him set up in one of the interrogation rooms right away," Gideon ordered. "I want everything on tape."

"Uh… sir?" Garcia lifted a bejeweled hand timidly, the mass of bangle bracelets clinking together as they slid down her arm. "The system is down."

"What do you mean the system is down?"

"The video computer for the entire interrogation suite has a glitch."

"That’s a brand new system," Hotchner objected reasonably.

"Yes sir, that’s why it has a glitch. They haven’t worked all the bugs out yet. In fact it was getting buggier by the day. They had to shut it down while they recode a huge chunk of the software…"

"Can’t we use the old one?"

"The old hard drives have already been shipped off for destruction. You know, in case there was anything classified on them."

"Oh for heavens sakes," Gideon sighed. "Can’t you fix the new system?"

"Of course I could," Garcia said. "But the contractor won’t let me anywhere near it. It’s their baby. But I could set something up to record manually."

"Just do it," Hotchner agreed, checking his watch. "But make it quick."

"Come on, Muscles," Garcia requested as she got up, tugging on Morgan’s sleeve. "Help me carry some stuff."

"Your wish is my command."

"If only," Garcia muttered with a dirty little laugh.

"Dean Two?" Morgan questioned on the way out of the room.

"Want to get a look at him?" Hotchner invited Gideon, ignoring the banter as it receded down the stairs.

"I do." Gideon said. He got up and turned to the two remaining agents. "Keep picking this apart. I want to know how much of this is real and how much is due to Henricksen’ obsession."

As far as Sam could tell there were only four graves in the overgrown plot yet the map clearly indicated the one he wanted was the middle of five. All the other parameters fit but he and Dean had already been over this and every other old family cemetery within a twenty-five mile radius. In fact they’d walked practically every inch of the surrounding woods, although Dean hadn’t had a clue what they were looking for. Sam moved back to the broken-down gate and counted again. One, two, three, four.

Kneeling beside the only marked grave he went through his pack and took out a pencil and a sheet of paper which he placed on top of the worn stone. As he rubbed the lead point over the etching the writing slowly emerged in a readable form. Willingham, 1890. This had to be it. Keeping an eye out for the relentless little sheriff he made his way back to the borrowed jeep for a shovel.

Two hours and half a ton of dirt later the mystery of the missing grave was solved. A mother and child had been buried together. Four graves, five bodies. He took a moment to catch his breath and drink some water then went back to work with a renewed sense of urgency. It was here, he was sure of it. For the first time in months he felt like he might be able to pull this off.

Gideon and Hotchner stood just inside the receiving room door and watched as an unmarked van pulled in and the heavy gate slid shut behind it. Five FBI agents unloaded their orange clad prisoner, mindful of his full set of shackles.

"Dude," Dean Winchester turned to the young agent next to him and held a fist out horizontally as far as the chains allowed.

"Take care, man," the agent told him as he tapped the extended fist gently with his own.

"Yeah, you, too," Dean said before a contingent of guards led him towards the search room. "And get some sleep!" he added over his shoulder. "New baby," he told the guard closest to him in a quiet aside as he shuffled along. "Number four. Can you believe that? At his age." The guard studiously ignored him.

"See ya, Dean," another of the agents called out.

Dean acknowledged with a lift of his chin and an almost smile as he twisted around to wave at the group who stood glumly around the open van door. The guards didn’t slow as they pulled Dean along and the senior field agent from the West Virginia office followed with the paper work. "Easy fellas," he scolded with a soft accent. "He’s moving as fast as he can."

"Does something seem off about this?" Hotch asked Gideon.

"It was an eight hour trip in a confined space," Gideon replied. "Obviously they established some type of rapport. They may be able to give us some insight." He moved towards the van but stopped near the suspect to take in the scene. Dean glanced at him curiously but then the field agent spoke, drawing his attention.

"They’re gonna take you in here to do a body cavity search now and I want you to behave yourself, tough guy."

"Oh, man! The FBI is gonna make me its bitch?" Dean swore his voice heavy with disgust.

The agent shook his head and ruffled Dean’s hair affectionately. Dean huffed and pulled away from the old man’s hand but seemed to be touched by the gesture. "Look, Stew, don’t worry about me, okay? This’ll all work out one way or the other. I’m fine."

"I know, kid." Stew patted Dean’s cheek once and let the guards herd him into the other room.

"I’m Jason Gideon with the BAU," Gideon introduced himself as the door shut. "And this is S.S. A. Aaron Hotchner," he added as Hotch joined them.

The agent shook their hands in turn. "Special Agent Stewart Friedman."

"You’ve been doing this awhile," Gideon stated with his usual confidence in such matters.

"Thirty some-odd years," Stew confirmed. "I reckon I got a few left in me though."

"I’m sure you do. You had this man in your custody for three days." Gideon nodded towards the door. "What’s your take on him?"

Behind the closed door Dean continued to protest. "Yeah, I’ll strip but somebody’s gonna owe me dinner."

Stew snorted. "Well he’s a handful. Smart, resourceful. Real personable. Good lord, he listened to Simmons go on about his kids long after the rest of us blocked him out. Winchester even offered up some pretty bizarre ways to entertain bored young’uns, but I’m pretty sure he don’t have any of his own."

Gideon pursed his lips in thought but didn’t say anything.

"You think he’s innocent?" Hotch asked.

"Well, not innocent by any means," Stew said with a laugh. "He’s got a whole lotta mischief in him. But he ain’t no cold blooded killer either. But that’s just my considered opinion, of course, I ain’t a profiler."

Hotch and Gideon exchanged glances.

Victor jumped when the phone rang. Not that he was asleep. Never that. Not if he could help it. "What?" he growled into the receiver, not even bothering with caller ID.

"Vic? You okay?"

"Hey, partner," Victor snarled derisively. "Call to twist the knife? Finish what you started?"

"I just called… They got him, Vic. That’s all."

He worked hard to swallow the lump in his throat that threatened to strangle him. "Where?" he asked in a breathy whisper.

"Quantico."

Victor hung up numbly and watched in horrified familiarity as the ashtray on his nightstand slid around before bouncing off the wall and crashing into the floor littering the filthy room with butts and ash. Ducking a flying fork he went into the bathroom for a much needed shower as the shadow in the corner laughed and laughed.

Most of the team gathered in the viewing room watching from behind the one-way mirror as Garcia finished setting up the camera.

"Go ahead and turn it on," Hotch told her through the speaker. "Then get out. They’re bringing him now."

Garcia clicked in a tape, adjusted the angle for the hundredth time, turned the camera on and then made a speedy exit. "Call me when the tape is almost up and I’ll show you how to change it," she said, popping her head into the room. "The green button starts the recording and the red one stops it but there’s also a pause button …"

"We’re all college graduates here, I think we can manage, Baby Girl," Morgan cooed back at her.

"Oh, if you weren’t so gorgeous…" Garcia threatened lightly, "… I’d… I’d… I don’t know what I’d do, but I’d do something. I’ll be in the office of Supreme Genius if you need me." She turned to go but had to step back into the room as the prisoner shuffled by, arms and legs still in chains, a guard on each side. She sucked in a deep breath when he sought out her eyes and smiled at her. "Wow," she muttered under her breath.

"I thought you had work to do," Morgan said, not quite so playfully this time.

"Work. Right," Garcia mumbled before heading full steam out of the room without looking back.

"Where’s Gideon?" Morgan asked. He turned to watch the guards lock the prisoner into the chair, one hand cuffed to each armrest, likewise with his feet to the chair legs. The chair itself was bolted to the floor.

"He thought it would be useful to interview the agents who were on transport duty," Hotch explained. "He wants us to go ahead and get started."

"How’s my hair?" Dean hammed for the camera, turning his head one way and then the other. "Which way looks better? Left? Right? Left?"

"Our guest doesn’t seem too concerned," Reid commented.

"No, he doesn’t. But give me a minute alone with him," Morgan said with a smirk as he went out the door and quickly appeared in the next room.

Dean did a double take when Morgan charged into the room. "Crap. For a second there I thought you were someone else."

Morgan pulled out the chair next to the video set up and straddled it backwards. "Who? Agent Henricksen?"

"Yeah," Dean answered cautiously. "I guess that’s who I was expecting. He’s got a thing for me, you know."

"Well I’m not him," Morgan sneered, cranking the intimidation factor up. "But before this is over you’ll wish I was."

"How is he?" Dean asked quietly, looking down.

"Do you care?"

"I think he might be in trouble," Dean started before shaking his head. "I haven’t seen him in awhile. That’s all."

"It looks to me like you’re the one in trouble."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I won’t talk to you," he announced. "Life’s too short and I already don’t like your attitude."

"You don’t have a choice, my friend. You and I are going to spend some quality time together."

"We’re not friends," Dean corrected, not unpleasantly. "You can grill me all day but you can’t make me talk to you. I’m taking the fifth."

As near as Bobby could tell the site was perfect. He’d already blocked off each end of the rarely used cleachy dirt roads with some borrowed signage and was busy unloading the iron pipes when his cell rang. "Sam?" There was a triumphant laugh on the other end and Bobby felt his knees go weak with relief.

"Number six," Sam told him, "Resting between the bottom ribs and the pelvis."

"Gut shot. With his own gun by his own wife no less," Bobby said. "Hell of a way for a hunter to go out."

"I don’t think it was her idea, Bobby. I found an eyewitness account. He said her eyes appeared ‘black as coal’ right before she shot him."

"I’ll be damned. Well is it intact?"

"Remarkably so," Sam confirmed joyfully. "I can still read the number. Do you really think it’ll still work?"

"I don’t see why not," Bobby assured. "Robert Willingham was mortal. The bullet itself isn’t what killed him; it was the blood loss from the hole it left in him. Let’s just consider his old bones to be nature’s safety deposit box."

"I’m just glad nobody dug it out of him. How’s it going on your end?"

Bobby patted the side of his newly acquired ditch witch. "I’m just about ready to dig."

"Great. I’ll see you in a couple of days."

Gideon came into the viewing area and watched quietly while Morgan continued the one-sided interrogation. Dean appeared nonchalant; managing to slump slightly in the chair in spite of the chains as Morgan slowly circled him using every technique in the book.

"He clammed up before Morgan even got started," Hotchner reported. "It doesn’t look like he’s going to talk to us."

"This boy is frightened. No, actually he’s terrified," Gideon stated after only a minute.

"Why do you say that?" Reid asked eagerly, moving in for a better look. "He just looks bored to me."

"Watch how he worries the seam at the knee of his jumpsuit, the only place he can reach. He hides it well but there’s a lot of tension in his shoulders and neck. Look how extended the jugular is."

Hotchner also moved nearer to the glass to study Dean a little closer. "He got caught. Any sane individual would be a little scared."

"Morgan scares me," Reid admitted.

"No," Gideon shook his head. "He tuned Morgan out a long time ago. Whatever he’s afraid of, it’s in his own head. We’re going about this the wrong way."

"What do you suggest?"

"I think we should try a parental approach."

Reid frowned. "Over ninety percent of all captured serial killers eventually express a deep seated hatred for one or both parents. And this one doesn’t seem to be all that fond of authority figures either."

"Authority figures, no," Gideon said. "But I listened to the tape when Henricksen called him in the bank. Dean showed a huge amount of admiration and respect for his father. He called him a hero."

"He did seem to respond to Agent Friedman, definitely a father-figure there," Hotchner agreed reluctantly.

"I’m the one he’ll talk to," Gideon replied. "If he talks at all."

"Morgan, step out," Hotchner said into the speaker.

Morgan dropped his head for a moment then exited the room. Almost a minute later Dean looked around and noticed he was gone.

Victor couldn’t risk flying because he needed his gun. No longer able to drive he moved through the bus terminal on autopilot. Faces all around him distorted and morphed into unearthly things. He held onto his sanity by a thread. Even hastily packing a bag had been a waking nightmare just like everything else in his life since that night. He didn’t know what Dean Winchester had done to him, but he did know he was going to pay.

"Hungry?" Gideon asked as he came into the room balancing a tray which he set on the table.

Dean quickly eyed Gideon before turning his attention to the food. "Three hots and a cot, that’s what I’m here for."

"Sorry, it’s not hot," Gideon apologized, producing a key and reaching for Dean’s left hand. "I’m Jason."

Dean seemed surprised but pleased and didn’t move as Gideon unlocked the cuff. He looked astonished when he unlocked his right hand as well. "Thanks." Dean slowly flexed his wrists but didn’t begin to rub them until Gideon moved away.

"Eat," Gideon urged, sitting down just outside the camera’s view.

Without further ado Dean ripped open the potato chips and dumped them on the tray, stuffing a few into his mouth to chew while he unwrapped the sandwich. He didn’t even look to see what kind it was before taking a huge bite. "Mmm," he hummed in appreciation, nodding his head as he ate.

"Didn’t they feed you?" Gideon asked in real concern.

"Sure. But I can always eat," Dean assured him through a mouth full of ham and cheese which he finally swallowed. "Jason? Right?"

"That’s right."

"I saw you earlier. I figured you were the shrink. I can save you the trouble -- I’m not crazy."

"I didn’t say you were crazy."

"But you are the shrink."

"Something like that. Aren’t you going to drink your milk? Don’t you like chocolate?"

"I love chocolate milk," Dean said. He reached for the carton but picked up the other half of the sandwich instead. "I’ll save it for after."

Gideon reached over and moved the pile of as yet unused napkins. "There’s a cookie for desert."

"Sweet." Dean opened the milk and chugged it.

"Can we get some more chocolate milk in here?" Gideon turned to the mirror to ask with a wide smile.

"That would be cool," Dean agreed as he wolfed down the big cookie.

"Do you need to go to the bathroom or anything before we get started?" Gideon asked when the cookie was gone.

"No, I’m good. I had a potty break right after they violated me," Dean said, belying his words by squirming a little in his chair.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I just… Damn. I think I’m allergic to K-Y jelly. I guess some guys go for that, though, huh? Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But, you know, I’m not gay or anything."

Gideon laughed. "Why did you say that?"

"I don’t know," Dean rubbed his face then ran a hand through his hair while his hands were still free. "I guess I’m nervous."

"Agent Morgan didn’t seem to make you nervous."

"Yeah, but, you know… cop. Same shit, different day."

"You’re saying you’ve been interrogated before."

"Yeah, lots. But I never talked to a shrink. Except once in junior high my councilor tried to make me go to a ‘child specialist’…" Dean made quotes in the air with his fingers. "… but we just moved instead. Oh, and my brother went to a shrink once but it was just because we needed to… never mind. I’m babbling."

"So why did you tell me specifically that you aren’t gay?" Gideon pushed gently with a smile and a shrug.

Dean shrugged back at him. "Don’t shrinks always want to know if you’re gay? Because I’m not. I like girls. I really, really like girls."

"What do you like about girls?"

"What do you mean?"

"Come on, it’s not a trick question. What do like about them?"

"I never really thought about it, it’s just sort of instinct. Everything I guess," Dean said, starting to grin a little. "They’re fun."

"Okay," Gideon encouraged, smiling along with him. "What else?"

Dean blew out a breath and took a moment to think about it. "I guess I like the way they’re all soft and round in all the right places."

"That’s a good one. Go on."

"Okay, I like the way they move, you know, the way their hips do that side to side sway thing. Oh! And the way they talk. I like that. Am I doing this right?"

"You’re doing great."

"I like the way they smell, especially the way they smell. I even… I even remember my Mom smelled like a girl." Dean frowned suddenly and looked away.

Gideon nodded and gave him a minute. "Smell is a very strong memory stimulus," he finally told him.

Dean studied the tip of his jailhouse slip-on sneaker. "Is it?"

"Yes, it is. You’re doing so well, Dean, stick with me here," Gideon dipped his head to try to meet Dean’s eyes. "You were very young when your mother died. Four? Five?"

"Four. I don’t really want to talk about that," Dean decided.

"I understand this upsets you, but it’s okay to talk about it. You don’t have to keep it bottled up inside."

"It was along time ago." Dean continued to resist, becoming agitated but fighting hard not to show it. "It’s over."

"It’s okay to miss your mom, even now. I want you to tell me about her."

"Let’s just leave her out of this."

"I think it’s important."

"I barely remember her," Dean said, his walls going up fast and hard as he made eye contact and held it. His whole demeanor changed to wary and rigid. Cold. The conversation was obviously over.

Gideon kept his own features neutral, understanding. "Is that why you hurt those women, Dean?" he asked softly, carefully monitoring the response. "Did that somehow ease the way you miss your mom?"

Dean paled and his pupils contracted. He looked horrified but didn’t deny anything. "Where’s that milk?" he managed in a strained voice.

"It’s coming," Gideon assured, glancing at the mirror as he chose another less volatile topic. "So. Three hots and a cot. Is that why you turned yourself in?"

With a bitter laugh, Dean leaned back and clasped his hands behind his neck and stared up at the ceiling. "I didn’t turn myself in. They caught me fair and square."

"Two part-time deputies and a sixty-nine year old sheriff caught you in the open woods?"

"They had a dog."

"An old basset hound from what I’ve heard."

"Yeah, but he was vicious," Dean joked, the ice in his voice seeming to melt a little. "He almost licked me to death after the wheels fell off."

"That’s right," Gideon said with a fond smile. "The wheels fell off two vehicles at the same time. How did that happen again?"

Dean snickered. "I don’t know, man. I guess it’s hard to get good help these days. Righty tighty, lefty loosy. Don’t they teach that in tire school?"

"Come on, Dean. How many times have you escaped custody? I happen to know you and your brother once eluded an entire SWAT team in a building that was surrounded by police. And you want me to believe three local yokels put you away even after losing every wheel in the department fleet."

"Even I can have an off day."

"Want to know what I think?"

"Not really." The ice was back.

"I think you stalled the cops long enough to let your brother slip away. Because that was your job, wasn’t it? Somebody had to look after little Sam after Mommy died. And Dean my boy, you were it. You didn’t get to have a childhood because you were busy raising your brother."

Dean’s mouth fell open and he stared at Gideon.

"You lost your mother, too. But your dad was too caught up in his own grief to notice…"

"Don’t talk about my dad," Dean warned, clenching his fists.

"He raised you to be a hard ass and he was the only parent you had left so you did everything you could to please him. Everything. But it was never enough, was it?"

"You don’t know what you’re talking about." Dean stood abruptly but his legs were still anchored to the chair and he had nowhere to go so he sat back down. He buried his head in his hands practically vibrating with tension.

"I know everything about you, Dean," Gideon continued in the same gentle voice. "I know how you think, I know how you feel. So I’ll tell you what I think. I think you’d rather die than lose your baby brother because he’s the only thing you’ve got left."

Suddenly very still, Dean lifted his head. "Christo," he whispered, watching Gideon with frightened eyes.

Gideon stared back. Dean held his breath for a moment then let it out with an audible whoosh. He looked emotionally spent but no longer afraid.

"Dean?"

"I don’t want to talk to you anymore." With that he shut Gideon out completely.

With a sigh and a nod Gideon got to his feet. He felt Dean’s eyes on him once he reached the door but he didn’t look back for confirmation. The connection they had established so easily was gone. He thought he might not get past Dean’s formidable defenses again.

"What the hell just happened?" Morgan asked as Gideon stepped back into the viewing area.

"I blew it," Gideon replied with a sigh. "I was on the right track but I pushed too hard."

"He gave you the perfect opening," Hotch tried to soften the blow.

"I’ll tell you one thing," Gideon said, pointing to the mirror where Dean sat unmoving on the other side. "That boy didn’t torture those women."

Morgan harrumphed.

"What do you see?" Gideon pressed him. "When you look at Dean Winchester what do you see?"

"I see nerves of steel and a hardened heart. I see a natural born killer. I say we sweat him ‘til he bleeds."

"No, no, no," Gideon shook his head and raised a hand in frustration. "He already told us that won’t work. He won’t tell us anything unless he trusts us and I just flushed what little trust he had down the toilet."

"It’s getting late," Hotchner decided. "We’ll try again tomorrow. Morgan, go home."

With one last look at Dean, Morgan nodded irritably and left.

"What do you see?" Reid asked Gideon. "When you look at him?"

Gideon placed a hand on the inside of the mirror. "Pain, insecurity, anger. Fear. Mostly I see a very emotionally damaged young man." He turned to Reid. "He said Christo?"

"It’s Latin for Christ. I think he was invoking Christ as a test to check for demonic possession."

"Why would he do that?"

They all turned to look at Dean who now had his head resting on his arms on the table.

"You did get inside his head," Hotchner reasoned.

"That’s what I’m trained to do."

"And we all know how good you are at it but he has no frame of reference for it," Hotch agreed.

Reid nodded as he picked up the thread. "The very fact that he tried to invoke Christ, in Latin no less, to ward off what he perceived as evil means he thinks about things in terms of the preternatural. Magical thinking if you will."

"Somebody wanted chocolate milk?" JJ asked as she came through the door with a plastic bag.

"It’s for the perp. What took you so long?" Hotchner asked.

"The cafeteria was out so I went to the convenience store on the corner. Do you want me to take it in to him?"

"No," Gideon objected. "We just had a conversation about girls that didn’t end very well. If we send a beautiful woman in now he’ll feel like we’re setting him up again. Reid can take it in."

"Me?"

"Sure. You’re non-authoritative, non-threatening."

"Non-female," Reid added wryly.

"There is that," Hotchner said, patting Reid’s shoulder.

"So what’s my objective?"

"To take him the milk," Gideon said, "Nothing more. He’s done with us today."

"But do I try to talk to him?" Reid asked as he took possession of the bag. "What do I say?"

"Just be yourself," Gideon instructed.

"I was afraid you’d say that," Reid grumbled and headed for the door. "Three hots and a cot?" he stopped to ask. "What exactly does that mean?"

"Three hot meals a day and a place to sleep. If that’s really all he wants it means he’s not interested in making any deals. He’ll never tell us what we want to know. To get to the bottom of this we’ll have to win back his trust."

"How do we do that?"

"We give him what he wants. And right now he wants chocolate milk. Go on in, you’ll do fine."

Reid cleared his throat as he entered the room, smiling nervously when Dean lifted his head to check him out. "I brought your milk." He sidled over to the table to put the bag down then backed away.

"Dude, I’m not gonna hurt you," Dean said as he looked in the bag. "Even if I wanted to I’m still chained to the chair."

"I… I didn’t think you were going to hurt me." Reid awkwardly took a seat. "I’m just not very good at this type of thing."

"Delivering milk?" Dean took one of the small plastic bottles out of the bag and shook it vigorously. "There’s like six pints in here. Want some? It’s the good stuff with the rabbit on it."

"I don’t usually drink milk."

"You don’t say," Dean retorted, twisting off the top and downing nearly half the bottle in a couple of swallows. "Awww. Good stuff if you can’t get beer. And it’s not really milk, its chocolate milk. That’s totally different."

"It’s full of fat and sugar."

"And calcium and vitamin D or whatever." Still holding the bottle Dean flexed the muscle of his right arm and tapped his bicep with his left hand. He gave Reid a knowing look.

Reid glanced down at his own much smaller arm and changed the subject. "Christo? Did you really think Agent Gideon was possessed?"

"Who?" Dean deflected.

"Supervisory Special Agent Gideon. Oh, uh, Jason Gideon, he gave you his first name to establish rapport. It’s an interview technique used by… I probably shouldn’t be telling you this."

"You’re very honest, aren’t you?" Dean asked, smirking at the mirror.

Reid grimaced and sent a sheepish look over his shoulder. "It’s a curse."

"I’ll look into it for you," Dean mumbled as he finished his milk.

"What?"

"Private joke. Believe me; I’m laughing on the inside."

"Christo?" Reid prompted.

"Persistent little person, aren’t you?"

"Did you really think Gideon was possessed by the devil?"

Dean sniffed and tried not to look embarrassed. "You caught that, did you?"

"I’m assuming that was the purpose, because of your use of Latin. I know some people use the name of Christ as an expletive but your use in context seemed more functional than expressive."

"Huh?"

"Did you really think he was possessed?"

"No, of course not," Dean scoffed, obviously lying his ass off. "It was just spooky the way he did that hoo doo thing with my head. He was totally wrong, by the way, but it was still spooky. Are you sure you don’t want some milk?"

Reid reached over and took a bottle to read the label.

"Shake it first."

"Okay." Reid shook the bottle but with little enthusiasm.

"So what are you good at?"

"Pardon me?"

"You said you’re not very good at interrogating prisoners."

"Oh, I’m not here to interrogate you. That’s Morgan’s specialty. I’m just not very good at talking to people one on one." Reid opened the bottle and took a tentative sip.

"You’re doing okay." Dean eyed him again speculatively. "What’s your name?"

Reid swallowed and licked his lips. "That’s not bad. I’m Dr. Spencer Reid."

"Doctor, huh? Like Doogie Howser, M.D."

"Oh, I’m not a medical doctor. I have several P.H.D.s."

"So you were like, what? Three? When you started college?"

"Twelve."

"Oh." Dean began to fidget. "My brother’s really smart. Not, you know, super genius like you, but smart."

"Yes he is. He had a 4.0 GPA at Stanford. Pre-law. That’s impressive. I read your file," Reid added at Dean’s suddenly unhappy expression.

"Sam’s GPA is in my FBI file?"

"Yes."

"Huh. Listen, Little Buddy," Dean changed the subject. "Are we gonna have a bathroom break soon? Or is death by chocolate milk one of those interview techniques? Oh look, you’re almost out of tape."

A warning light flashed red on the video camera. As Reid turned to look at it Hotchner’s voice came through the speaker. "That’s it for today Mr. Winchester. The guards are coming to take you to a holding cell for the night."

"Sure. Whatever," Dean sighed, leaning back in his chair.

Victor woke screaming on the bus halfway to Quantico.

When Garcia got to her office the next morning she found a sticky note from Reid on the door informing her that the camera needed a new tape and he hadn’t been able to find any. She put away her purse and grabbed a couple tapes from the cabinet where she had stashed them when she’d checked out the equipment. She greeted a few early birds she passed on the way to the interrogation suites but the halls were still mostly empty. Humming a little tune to herself she entered the designated room intent on her task; she clicked out the old tape and popped in a new one.

"Hi."

Startled, Garcia jumped and spun around clutching the used tape to her chest. The man who allegedly loved to skin living women like dead deer grinned back at her from less then three feet away.

"God!"

"Dean," the subject corrected, laughing to himself. "Sorry. That joke never gets old."

"I… I… I…"

"Are you supposed to be in here alone with me like this?" Dean asked in concern, "Because that sounds like a bad policy even if I am trussed up like a Christmas goose."

"T… tape… ch…. ch," Garcia stammered.

"Come on, spit it out," Dean encouraged with a flirty little smile.

"Icametochangethetape."

Dean squinted and shook his head. "One more time?"

Garcia took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I came to change the tape. I didn’t know you were in here."

"I saw you yesterday. You had on a bright yellow dress with sunflowers all over it."

"Too much?" Garcia asked self-consciously.

"I liked it. Everything else around here is so freakin’ dismal."

"You don’t know the half of it."

"I’ve got a pretty good idea," Dean sighed, glancing around the grey room. "I’ve got a theory that the real reason prison jumpsuits are orange is so the prisoners don’t put their own eyes out from the monotony."

Garcia finally relaxed enough to laugh.

"What’s she doing in there?" Morgan asked urgently upon entering the observation area. Gideon intercepted his hand as he reached for the intercom.

"She’s fine."

"I left her a note," Reid said guiltily. He stood against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, clearly not happy with the situation either. "I didn’t realize Gideon had already sent for Dean."

"Calm down," Gideon instructed Morgan, never taking his eyes off the interaction in the other room. "If I thought there was any danger I would have pulled her out immediately. This is proving to be an invaluable observation. Unfortunately she didn’t turn the camera on."

"What are you seeing? Besides a monster trying to charm a naïve young woman?"

"Trying?" Reid asked. "He had her at hello. Jerry McGuire? It was a movie," Reid explained at Gideon’s confused if fleeting glance. "Technically Dean said ‘hi’, though, but it was enough."

Morgan glared at him before turning to Gideon. "What do you see?"

"Look at him," Gideon encouraged. "He’s rational, he’s funny, and he’s empathetic. He was troubled that we would allow an obviously untrained woman in the room with him."

"Yeah," Morgan complained, "So am I."

Gideon ignored the cynicism. "Young Mr. Winchester seems almost hungry for human contact. What he does not show are signs of the paranoid psychosis evident in the St. Louis murders. If anything I’d say he’s depressed."

"Depressed."

"Oh yes," Gideon said with a slight nod of his head. "I’m sure of it."

"So," Dean wheedled. "What’s your name?"

"Garcia," she answered without thinking.

"Your parents didn’t like you or something?"

"That’s my last name," Garcia said with an amused huff.

"What’s your first name?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"So I know what to call you."

"Call me Gar-ci-a."

Dean balked. "I can’t call you that."

"Why not? Everybody else does. Well almost everybody."

"I don’t know. It seems kinda impersonal. Like boot camp."

"How can it be impersonal if it’s my name?"

"Fine. I’ll make up a name." Dean pursed his lips and pretended to think really hard for a minute. "I’ll call you Sunny."

"Sunny?" Garcia laughed again as she leaned against the edge of the table and played with the large charm on a chain around her neck. "I guess I can live with that."

Dean narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. "Can I see that?"

"My necklace?"

"Yeah."

Garcia carefully moved forward and held the charm in front of his face.

"Death," he said.

"What?"

"The black standard with a white flower," Dean explained. "It’s a common part of the Death card. It signifies the end of a cycle or a coming change. There’s usually a skeleton on a horse, too."

"You know Tarot."

"Some," Dean said. "I don’t really believe in divination. Not like that."

"I hate to break this up," Morgan said from the door, giving Garcia a disapproving stare. "But Gideon would like you to turn the camera on."

"It’s show time," Dean declared with a dazzling smile.

"You’re fun," Garcia told him. She turned on the camera and moved past Morgan in the doorway. "My name’s Penelope, by the way," she said before leaving.

"It was nice to meet you, Penelope," Dean called after her. "And I’m still not talking to you, Jackass," he told Morgan when she was gone.

Gideon appeared in the doorway behind Morgan and dismissed him with a look. "Will you talk to me?" he asked. Dean shrugged with apparent indifference so Gideon came in and took a seat. "Did you sleep well?"

"I guess."

They sat watching each other, waiting for the other to say something. Dean, master of the childish game, grinned maddeningly from time to time but never cracked.

"You look good," Gideon finally gave in twenty-eight minutes later, waving a metaphorical white flag.

"I always do."

"Mmm hmm." Gideon nodded. "Garcia certainly thought so."

"She’s nice." Once again Dean lapsed happily into silence.

"How was breakfast?" Gideon pressed on in his serenely stubborn way.

"Swell. I also had a shit, shower, and shave. The shit was kind of painful and the shower was only lukewarm, but the shave was highly supervised."

Gideon harrumphed softly to himself. "I’m sorry," he apologized. "Sincerely. I was out of line yesterday. I won’t let it happen again."

Dean growled low in his throat and leaned his head back for a dramatic roll of his eyes. "Look," he finally said, sitting back up, "Jason or Gideon or whatever the hell you’re calling yourself today... I’d rather chew off my own arm than talk about my feelings, okay? And that’s on a good day. Today? Is not looking to be a good day."

"I can see that. We don’t have to talk about your feelings." Gideon paused as Dean looked him over suspiciously. "We can talk about whatever you want, as long as we’re communicating."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Truce?"

"Okay," Dean agreed reluctantly. He sank down in the chair and rubbed his cheek against his shoulder. "Man, I would kill for a cup of coffee. You know I don’t mean that literally, right?"

"I think coffee can be arraigned without any blood shed," Gideon said. "Cream and sugar?"

"Black."

Gideon nodded and motioned at the mirror.

"Make it so, number one," Dean said in his best Jon Luc Piccard impression.

"Sorry?"

"Star Trek. The second one, not the first one. Although I will admit I liked the women’s uniforms better in the first one. Lt. Uhura was hot."

"I’m not really up on science fiction."

"I’m not surprised. Do you even own a TV?"

Reid tapped on the door with a cup of coffee in his hand and a thick manila folder tucked under his arm.

"I was bringing you this, it came in the morning mail," Reid said to Gideon as he handed him the folder. "It’s Special Agent Henricksen’s original file. Hi, Dean."

"Hey, Doogie," Dean greeted warmly. "Sup?"

"Um, nothing?" Reid didn’t seem to know what to do with the coffee since Dean’s hands were still chained.

"Thanks," Gideon acknowledged absently as he put on his glasses and slipped the paper clip off the folder to rifle through the contents. "You can go."

Dean couldn’t help but notice how Reid’s face fell but Gideon was looking down.

"See you later," Reid told Dean as he set the cup on the table.

"Yeah, we’ll do lunch," Dean kidded. When Reid was gone Dean turned angrily to Gideon. "Why’d you dis Reid like that?"

"Why did I dismiss him?"

"No, why did you disrespect him."

"I didn’t disrespect him," Gideon said, glancing over the tops of his glasses. "Dr. Reid is an integral part of the team and he knows it."

"You treat him like he’s your coffee boy."

"It probably appears that way from your perspective," Gideon granted, "but I assure you I highly respect, and insist that everyone else respects, Dr. Reid."

"You didn’t see his face, man. His feelings were hurt."

"You’re probably right. As you already know, I can be insensitive when I’m working. I’ll make it up to him," Gideon promised. He followed Dean’s gaze to the paper clip on the table. Dean quickly looked away.

"That’s why they do body cavity searches," Gideon warned gently.

"I’m not gonna shove a paper clip up my butt," Dean denied with an offended glare.

"Not even if it means your freedom?"

"I’ll get where I’m going soon enough," Dean answered with a weary sigh.

Gideon closed the folder and picked up the paper clip, turning it between his forefinger and thumb. "I’ll bet you’re pretty good with one of these."

Dean didn’t confirm or deny.

"Tell you what," Gideon offered, still holding the clip, "If you can get out of the cuffs I’ll let you stay out."

"Legs, too?" Dean dared.

"Sure."

"Deal." Dean turned his right hand palm up and waited for Gideon to hand over the paper clip.

"Gideon, can I have a word with you," the usual disembodied voice requested over the intercom.

"I’ve really missed that guy," Dean deadpanned. "I guess the deal’s off."

"Nope. A deal’s a deal. But it’s going to have to wait until I get back." Gideon laid the paper clip in front of Dean near the edge of the table before leaving.

Dean sniffed the fresh brew and decided he would rather have it while it was still hot. It wasn’t even that much of a stretch and he soon had it under his forehead, down to his nose, and in his mouth. He knew they were watching so he made it quick, bending to his right hand and using his lips and fingers to straighten the thin metal loop. It was tricky to unlock the first cuff but he slid his hand tight against the ring to hold it in place and then twisted his wrist to let his nimble fingers work their magic.

"That’s impressive," Reid said as he checked his watch. "He picked all four locks in less than two minutes."

"Not bad," Morgan granted. "Apparently he’s had a lot of experience with cuffs. And not in the good way."

Garcia sighed and leaned her forehead against the glass. "That’s just sad."

"Is that right," Morgan paused for affect. "Sunny?"

"Hey, don’t be like that," Garcia warned, swatting at Morgan’s arm. "If I didn’t know better I’d think you were jealous."

"I just can’t believe you let this guy smooth talk you. It scares me for you."

"Morgan! It’s not like I was getting in a car with him or anything. I was just talking to him. In a heavily guarded building while he was trussed like a bird… or something. Besides I knew you guys wouldn’t let anything happen to me."

"Yeah, okay. You may have a point. Still, you seemed to trust him."

"Yeah, I guess I do. I’d go back in there, even without the chains."

"I would, too," Reid agreed.

"What? You’re both nuts. Why would you do that?"

"Duh," Garcia said.

"Yeah, you I get. But Reid, come on. Don’t tell me you’re attracted to him, too."

"Not like that, obviously," Reid countered mildly. "But we did seem to make some kind of connection. He reminds me of this one particular jock in high school who wouldn’t let the bullies pick on me when he was around. And he can be pleasant, affable even. He calls me Doogie," he added with a grin. "And Dude."

"He calls everybody ‘Dude’," Morgan scoffed.

Garcia looked away to hide an evil grin. "Gideon thinks he’s innocent."

"No, Gideon never said innocent," Morgan objected instantly and with real heat. "He said he didn’t believe Winchester tortured those women. And I’m not convinced of that, but even if he didn’t he’s still plenty guilty. We just don’t know of what."

"Credit card fraud?" Garcia asked. "Please. That hardly makes him public enemy number one."

"But it does make him a thief and a liar and he had you eating out of his hand," Morgan rebuked. "But let’s push all that aside. Something shady went down in St. Louis and this guy was right in the middle of it. And short of a clone machine in his pocket I’ve yet to hear a reasonable explanation for the dead double."

"Okay, let me think." Garcia rubbed the charm on her necklace like a talisman. "I’ve got it. Papa Winchester was a rolling stone."

"Come again?"

"Dean had a half-brother he didn’t know about until he went on a killing spree and Dean tracked him down and put an end to it. It’s all very soap opera."

"That… actually, kinda makes sense."

"I know. I’m a genius."

"What about the girl in the bank?" Reid asked, intrigued.

"One miracle at a time," Garcia said, thinking it over again. "A look-a-like customer? A freaky coincidence? What else could it be?"

"Let’s ask him," Gideon said appearing briefly in the doorway.

"What’s going on?" Morgan asked Hotchner who came into the room and took a seat with a clear view of the subject.

"Mr. Winchester had a very interesting visitor," Hotch explained. "I wanted Gideon to have a word with him."

"Anyone we know?"

"Yes. Victor Henricksen."

Even with his welder’s helmet in place Bobby recognized the sound of the Impala. He finished the seam he was working on then turned off the unit and sat up. As he raised his face shield Sam was already surveying his work.

"Great job, Bobby," Sam approved.

"You must have driven all night."

"Yeah," Sam said offhandedly, setting off to walk the perimeter of the pentagram. "I couldn’t think of anything but getting here."

Bobby got to his feet and popped his neck first and then his back as he shed gloves and helmet. "Dean’s in Quantico."

"I figured the FBI would have him. That prick Henricksen I’m sure."

"Ellen headed down there to keep an eye on the local news but so far there hasn’t been anything of interest."

"You think that’s necessary?"

"No, but it can’t hurt and she really wanted to help," Bobby said as he pulled a bottle of water out of the cooler in the back of the truck. "And I’ve seen the woman weld, we’re better off with her in Virginia."

Sam laughed, finishing his circuit and ending up back at the car. "Yeah, I’ll be sure and tell her you said that."

"Don’t threaten me, boy," Bobby teased gruffly between gulps of water. He fished out a set of keys and tossed them to Sam who caught them easily with one hand. "You head on to the house and get some sleep. It’ll take me the rest of the morning to finish the seams."

"I need to be doing something."

"Yeah, sleeping. You can help me cover the trenches this afternoon. Right now you’re dead on your feet."

"I know," Sam had to agree. "You don’t think the demon will be able to see the trap."

"Nah. We’ll wet it down real good when we’re done. If that don’t work we’ll steal a grader and scrap the whole road."

"That sounds like a plan."

"Come back around three," Bobby said as he suited back up. "And bring me a sandwich."

Sam opened the door but didn’t get in. "You don’t know how much I appreciate this."

"Bologna. White bread, none of that whole wheat crap. And a beer."

"Right." Sam smiled tiredly to himself and slid behind the wheel.

When Gideon entered the room Dean was in the corner looking through Henricksen’s notes, his empty coffee cup on the table. "Did you leave this here for me to read or did you not think I could actually get out?"

"Let’s just say you’re a lot faster than I anticipated. Since you have read it I’m curious what you think."

"It’s good. Really. If you like fairy tales," Dean said, tossing the handful of paper back to the table. "According to this I’ve been a busy boy. I’m surprised he didn’t work in a grassy knoll."

"We concede it’s a bit of a stretch in places."

Dead huffed. "A bit."

"Tell me about your relationship with Agent Henricksen," Gideon requested as he settled in a chair, apparently unconcerned as Dean moved around the room unimpeded.

"We don’t have a relationship. He chases me, I lose him. But he is relentless, I’ll give him that. It’s like I slept with his sister or something."

"Did you, Dean?"

"Not that I know of." Dean smirked and winked at the mirror.

Gideon nodded sagely. "He acted like it was personal," he suggested.

"Yeah, exactly. I never could figure that out."

"Agent Henricksen suffered a major depressive episode while pursuing you. I spoke with him about a month ago and it was clear then that he wasn’t well. He was relieved of duty."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"State Police brought him in this morning after he caused some sort of disturbance on a bus last night," Gideon explained, telling the truth. "He called in a favor at the Bureau so they brought him here instead of taking him to the nearest emergency room."

"He really lost it, huh?"

"He wants to see you."

Chewing on his lip as he paced, Dean seemed to think it over. "Yeah, okay."

"I don’t think it’s a good idea. I think he’s close to a psychotic break. It wouldn’t be safe for either of you."

"I can take care of myself."

"I have no doubt about that, Dean," Gideon assured. "You’re not the one I’m worried about."

"Why does he want to see me?"

"He says you put a hex on him."

Dean faltered then glanced at the camera uneasily. "Do you believe in stuff like that?"

"Hexes? No. No, I don’t."

"So you don’t believe in anything supernatural? Ghosts, demons, angry spirits?"

"The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary. Men alone are quite capable of every wickedness. Joseph Conrad."

"Bullshit. Dean Winchester."

"So you did put a hex on him," Gideon ventured, amused.

"No," Dean spat out in anger but it seemed to melt away as fast as it had come on. "I didn’t do anything to him. It…" Dean paused and blew out a breath. "What happened to him wasn’t my fault," he finally finished, looking guilty none-the-less.

Gideon raised an eyebrow. "So do you believe in a supernatural source of evil, Dean?"

"I’ve seen things," Dean muttered softly.

"Like seeing yourself shot in the chest in St. Louis."

"Yeah, like that."

"What happened in St. Louis, Dean?"

"Why do you do that?" Dean asked as he moved away restlessly. "Why do you use my name all the time? I’m right here. I know who you’re talking to. Is that another ‘technique’?"

"You got me," Gideon acknowledged. "It’s a way of personalizing our contact. I’ll try not to do it again."

Dean paced like a trapped animal, frustration and hopelessness radiating from his very being. Gideon observed him quietly for several minutes.

"Do you want to talk about St. Louis?"

"You won’t believe me," Dean challenged, tilting his chin defiantly.

"Not if it includes a supernatural explanation, probably not."

"Well there we are then. You explain it. Henricksen couldn’t." Dean swept the papers on the table to the floor before stalking back to his corner.

"There’s a half-brother theory," Gideon started, pausing at Dean’s subtle flinch at the word brother. "You do seem rather protective of your family."

Dean folded his arms over his chest as he leaned against the wall, his face carefully neutral. Gideon studied him for another moment before beginning to gather the scattered paperwork. Reid came in to help.

"I’m going to spend some time with Henricksen and his notes," Gideon said to Dean. "Would you rather wait here or go to your cell."

"Doesn’t matter." Dean sighed dolefully.

"I’ll stay here with you," Reid offered. "If Gideon doesn’t mind."

Gideon watched as Dean seemed to cheer up at the suggestion. "I think that’s a good idea," he agreed, noticing how Reid’s demeanor brightened as well. "I’ll be back later."

"Don’t rush on my account," Dean called after him grumpily. "Who’s Joseph Conrad?" he asked Reid when he was sure Gideon was gone.

"He was a nineteenth century Polish-born novelist. Some people consider him to be a significant forerunner to Modernist literature. His stories tended towards the ironic especially in regards to…"

"Okay, okay," Dean cut him off. "Not so much an expert as a skeptic then."

"I suppose. But you’re something of an expert on the occult, aren’t you? I’d love to pick your brain about it."

"Hey, if Joe says it ain’t so…" Dean trailed off. He uncrossed his arms and propped one foot against the wall, smirking to himself as Reid reflexively mirrored him on the other side of the room. "Hey, take a load off. I’m gonna stand while I’ve got the chance."

"No, I’m good," Reid assured. "Do you want some more coffee?"

"Maybe later."

"Let’s talk about hexes."

Dean groaned but he couldn’t help but smile a little. "You really are a persistent little geek," he muttered. "You remind me of my brother."

"They took Henricksen to the ER half an hour ago," Hotch told Gideon as he entered the observation area.

"I know," Gideon said absently as he set the jumbled file aside. "Something’s not right about this whole thing. Garcia, find out everything you can about Samuel Winchester."

"Yes sir." Garcia turned to her laptop and started typing.

Morgan frowned. "What are you thinking?"

"The little brother is Dean’s hot button. He’s been trained his whole life to take care of Sam."

"You think Dean’s been following him around cleaning up his messes?" Hotch asked.

"I don’t know. But I’m certain this young man is not our primary killer."

"So salt represents innocence? Purity? And it repels evil?"

"You’re killing me, man. We’ve already gone over iron, silver, crosses, and holy water. What’d you do? Read an encyclopedia on the paranormal last night?"