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Hell, and Back
by Kikkimax

Bobby lifted his head from the tome in his hands when he heard the Impala slowly pulling into the drive. Sam was at the wheel then, which could only mean trouble. Everywhere Dean took her these days the old girl roared with his apparent joy of driving her. A byproduct of the kid’s new over the top, devil may care attitude that Bobby didn‘t buy for a minute. Of course it also meant a throwback to a time when nobody but Dean drove the classic except under dire circumstances.

Something twitched in Bobby’s gut as he got up just in time to hear the screen door slam as Dean barreled in from the porch and straight up the stairs without a word, his pounding steps shaking the front windows in his wake. Alive then. And in one piece, physically at least. Knowing better than to poke at that bear Bobby headed outside to find Sam instead.

“Didn’t go well?” Bobby drawled, meeting Sam just under the eave.

Sam huffed and readjusted the assortment of bags he carried. “Let’s just say that was the longest three hundred miles of my life.” He tried to duck past Bobby, but Bobby knew John’s boys too well and caught him by the arm to spin him back around.

“Good lord, Sam,” he exclaimed when Sam’s face turned into the light flooding through the front door. “What the hell happened?” He examined what he thought was a bad sunburn until he realized Sam’s eyebrows and bangs were more than a little singed as well. “Cut it kinda close, didn’t cha?”

Squirming under the scrutiny, Sam eased himself free and proceeded into the house. He looked up the stairs and kept his voice low as Bobby followed. “Well, as Dean’s been so fond of saying for the last three days; that thing was no Drew Barrymore.”

“Maybe a firestarter wasn’t the best choice for Dean’s first gig back.”

Shooting a ‘ya think?’ look over his shoulder Sam blew out a breath and trudged up the stairs. Stopping halfway he turned around. “We gotta do something, Bobby,” he said, desperation just below the surface of his burnt face.

“Like what?” Bobby kept it neutral. If anybody knew what to do about Dean it was Sam. Sometimes he just needed a little prodding.

“I don’t know,” Sam sighed and it sounded like he carried the weight of the world. “He froze when he saw the flames, just stood there like a damned statue. He nearly got us both killed. It was all I could do to get him out of the way.”

Bobby rubbed the back of his neck. It was worse than he thought. “What about the firestarter?”

Sam cleared his throat and leaned against the railing. “After the first fiasco of a meeting Dean wouldn’t let us get close enough to kill it. It was wounded though so we tracked it through the woods for a couple of days. We finally forced it into a deserted mine shaft and caved in the entrance. Still, if anybody ever digs the opening out and wanders in…” he let the thought hang in the air for a minute then shook his head as if to clear it.

“So you go back and take care of it later, you bought some time,” Bobby soothed best he could.

“Maybe you and me. I’m not letting Dean anywhere near that place until he’s ready.” Sam paused and reached up to brush aside the tips of his somewhat crispy bangs. “And I don’t know if he ever will be.”

Bobby pulled out his wise old sage look and nodded thoughtfully, but he could tell it was lost on Sam at the moment so he dropped it. “We’ll take care of it,” he said instead.

But Sam was already on his way to bed down. “Goodnight, Bobby.”

“Night,” Bobby called after him and went back to his book. Sometime later a door slammed and there was a brief exchange of words too loud for normal conversation although Bobby couldn’t actually make them out. Then things settled down in the Winchester world for the night. Bobby said a little prayer for the both of ‘em and headed off to bed himself.

Sam had long since given up pretending he didn’t hear the screams that trumpeted each coming dawn since Dean’s… return. His rude awakenings were surer than any alarm clock and they both knew it. It had been even longer since Dean stopped trying to cover with clever wit or biting sarcasm. “I’m fine,” left his vocabulary months ago. These horrific, to Dean anyway, lapses of Winchester stoicism seem to strip him of his very Dean-ness, leaving him raw and brittle each and every morning.

“Hell is hell,” Dean once told him, the only time he ever actually admitted to remembering anything about the pit. Those three little words were the entire Dean Winchester narration of the event and they had cost him in ways Sam couldn’t quite comprehend. Everything else Sam could only speculate from Dean’s behavior; insomnia, nightmares, and an unadulterated fear of fire.

The courage it had taken for Dean to chase the walking charcoal briquette through the forest night after night made Sam’s head spin, even though he had always known his big brother was one of the bravest men alive. The shame Dean felt at being unable to confront the thing when it came right down to it was incomprehensible. But Dean wasn’t having any of it. And as of last night the subject was closed. Permanently. They would never speak of it again as far as Dean was concerned.

Now another day had started just like every other. Standing at the window with his hands on the ledge, Dean’s shoulders slumped as he stared out into the pre-dawn darkness, something akin to muted horror on what Sam could see of his sweat dampened face. Sam usually pretended to be asleep to give his brother a modicum of privacy but today something was different about his stance and Sam couldn‘t help but stare.

Dean seemed unusually defeated as he hung his head. “I’m sorry,” he finally whispered. “It won’t happen again.”

“I know it won‘t,” Sam said, keeping his voice as low as Dean’s.

If Dean was surprised by an answer he didn’t show it. Instead he chuckled softly and turned around to lean against the ledge. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Sam and even in the dark Sam was certain Dean knew he was lying. “It won’t,” Dean insisted. “We’re gonna hang it up.”

“You mean quit hunting?” Sam sat up in the bed and stared in disbelief. Dean had mentioned it before but never with such unabashed earnestness. Sure he had been slower to come back to the hunt than either Sam or Bobby had ever imagined but he had thrown himself into it wholeheartedly when the mood finally took him. But that was before the showdown with the firestarter.

“That’s what I said.”

“You also said we,” Sam accused, deciding on the spot he wouldn’t let Dean quit. Not because of this, not until he conquered this… this phobia because Dean wouldn’t be able to live that way. Fighting dirty was the only weapon he had left and he came by it honestly, taught by Dean himself. “I’m not quitting, there’s too much work to do.”

Dean’s jaw clenched so tight Sam could have sworn he heard his teeth grind. Anger flashed across Dean’s face followed quickly by frustration and possibly fear but then he relaxed unexpectedly and smiled. Feral. Mean. Sam knew this look. It meant Dean was pissed but he would let Sam have his way if it killed them both.

“Then I guess we’ll go down together,” Dean said as he pushed away from the window, grabbing a pair of sweat pants off the back of the rickety wooden chair. “Because you’re not doing it without me.” He picked up the sneakers he’d practically worn out running up and down the dirt road in front of Bobby’s house for the last six months and tromped down the stairs.

Sam lay back and listened to water run through the pipes as the toilet flushed. Predictably a few minutes later the front door banged open and then shut. He used to try to go with him in the mornings but Dean always wanted to run solo. Sam had been understanding about it, he really had. Just thinking how Dean tried to outrun his nightmares made his heart ache for his brother‘s pain. It was obvious Dean needed help, and just as obvious he’d never take it. Not without drastic measures.

As the sun came up an outrageous plan began to take shape in Sam’s mind. Devious and requiring a good deal of finesse, it was still better than letting Dean walk away from the life he loved. If it worked. He decided to run it by Bobby before doing anything stupid. And since Bobby was already making the morning sounds of domesticity in the kitchen below they had time to talk. Dean wouldn‘t be home for hours.

He pushed away the covers and sat on the edge of the bed for another few seconds to make up his mind then climbed to his feet and slipped on a pair of pants. Sure enough he smelt coffee and bacon when he ventured into the hall. For the first time in a long time he felt hungry.

“Maybe I’ll take you with me next time,” Dean breathlessly promised Cleo, Bobby’s new dog. Although Rumsfeld considered her to be his girlfriend, everyone knew her heart belonged to Dean.

She greeted him with a yawn and a whine, stretched to the end of her chain where she’d been since he left. She wagged her tail in a manner totally unbefitting a guard dog as Dean stopped to scratch her ears and catch his breath before heading in. When his lungs stopped burning she followed him around the house to the back door, her chain jingling as they navigated the junk in the yard.

Bobby probably knew the whole sordid story by now. No doubt there would be words of sympathy and advise Dean just really didn’t want to deal with. Ever. He pulled off his sweat soaked tee-shirt and hung it on the porch rail before running his hands through his damp hair and putting on his game face. Through the window he could see Sam sitting in a kitchen chair with a towel around his neck. Bobby had a pair of scissors working on the mop Sam called hair.

When he busted through the back door with a boisterous ‘Morning!’ Bobby jumped and nearly took off one of Sam’s ears. Sam cried out like a girl and they both turned to glare at him. Mission accomplished. Dean gloated as he grabbed the cast iron skillet off the stove and a fork to make short work of the long cold scrambled eggs.

“Idgit,” Bobby swore as he examined the damage, mostly a big chunk of hair that he hadn’t intended to cut.

There was only a tiny speck of blood on the offended earlobe that didn’t come back when Bobby wiped it away so Dean stowed the apology on the tip of his tongue. Although he was glad to see the singed hair go Dean could see the reddened skin much better. He felt his smile slip a little. It was possible he overcorrected but he was sure they didn’t notice.

“Give him a buzz cut,” Dean offered instead with a huge grin, leaving the fork in the pan and moving on to the pile of bacon on a napkin. He crammed the first slice in his mouth and then poured a cup of coffee but stopped chewing when he turned around to what should have been the wrath of his baby brother. Instead Sam looked away guiltily. So not good. “What?” Dean asked suspiciously.

“What, what?” came the entirely too innocent response.

“What the hell are you up to what,” Dean clarified, narrowing his eyes.

Bobby grunted and got back to the much needed haircut. “Eat yer breakfast,” he admonished. “And don’t run off. You’re next.”

Dean rubbed the back of his head and decided maybe he did need a little off the sides and back. “You got clippers?”

“Hell yes I got clippers.”

“You know how to use ‘em?” Dean pushed slyly, getting back to putting away a quarter pound or so of not quite crisp bacon.

“You’d rather spend thirty bucks in town?” Bobby challenged, raising an eyebrow under his ball cap.

“If that’s what it takes to look good.”

“Suit yerself.”

“Copy that.”

Sam made no comment which just didn’t sit right and Dean realized he’d been purposely distracted for reasons as yet unknown. He openly watched Sam as he drank his coffee, now certain something was up. Sam flinched under his gaze.

“Jesus, Dean. What?” Sam finally cracked.

“I’m just waiting for you to let me in on your little secret.”

“All done,” Bobby said, carefully removing the towel from around Sam’s neck without scattering the hair. “Gather that up and burn it,” he told Sam. “There’s all kinds of hoodoo a body can do with just a lock of hair. No sense in tempting fate.”

“Okay,” Sam agreed, going over to the old chrome toaster to get a look at his new do.

“You next?” Bobby asked, pointing to the chair.

Dean chugged the rest of his coffee and considered his options. “I guess it’ll grow back,” he finally allowed and dropped into the chair.

“Well thank you for that overwhelming vote of confidence,” Bobby growled. He took the towel Sam handed him and slung it around Dean’s shoulders.

Then Sam gathered the impressive pile of his own hair into an ashtray and reached for a match. Dean felt his mouth go dry and his heart speed up but he tried not to show it. Still, knowing what was coming, he couldn’t quite take his eyes off the unlit match.

“Outside,” Bobby ordered when he noticed what Sam was up to. “Don’t need that stink in the kitchen. I swear you boys were raised by wolves.”

“Worse,” Sam said with a smirk as he ducked out the back door. “John Winchester.”

Bobby smirked back, grabbing the clippers he had stowed amongst the mess on the table. “You okay, boy?” he asked, snapping Dean out of his little fugue.

“What?”

“You’re looking kinda pale, there. If you want to go into town for this it won’t hurt my feelings none.”

“No, I’m good,” Dean managed, but just barely. “Just, you know, not too short.”

Sam came back in with a sooty ashtray and set it on the counter. Whatever smartass comment he was about to make died on his lips as his eyes went wide when he looked at Dean. “What’s wrong?” he asked instead.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Dean insisted even though he was still dizzy and sick. And that was just at the thought of Sam lighting the match. “You want to let me in on your secret or should I just beat it out of you later?” he tried to cover.

“I found us a job,” Sam said.

Oh. “So?” Dean fidgeted even though what he really felt was relief. A job was the last thing he was expecting but that was fine by him. Gotta get back on that horse soon if they were gonna keep hunting.

“Sit still,” Bobby warned. The clippers came on with a rattle and a buzz.

Dean closed his eyes for a second to recover his bearings. “Well don’t just stand there. Tell me,” he said as Bobby made the first swipe.

“Seven kids and young adults have gone missing in the last 15 years,” Sam spoke up to be heard over the clippers, “All within a one mile radius of a miniature golf course. Nothing was ever found of any of them.”

“A haunted Putt Putt? Awesome,” Dean approved even as Bobby pushed his head over to the side to trim around his left ear. “When was the last disappearance?”

Sam and Bobby exchanged a look Dean didn‘t miss. “Three years ago,” Sam said.

So that was their game. “Kind of a cold case then?” Dean asked, his suspicion back full force.

“It came out of my old case file,” Bobby admitted evenly, shoving Dean’s head the other way none too gently.

“I don’t need to be coddled,” Dean huffed, angry and humiliated. He tried to get up but Bobby kept him down by holding the clippers accidentally on purpose too close to his face.

“There were gaps of eleven months to four years between the missing kids,” Sam pointed out, pulling out a manila folder and referencing it. “We don’t know that another might go missing tomorrow. Dean, we’re not coddling you, this is a real threat. Someone needs to figure out what happened to these kids.”

“Sounds like a job for the police,” Dean grumbled, settling back so Bobby could finish the damned haircut. “What makes you think this is supernatural anyway?”

“There was one eyewitness account.” Sam pulled out a newspaper article and brandished it in front of Dean’s face. “The very first case a little girl saw her brother disappear into thin air after he climbed the fence to find his lost ball.”

“And the police wrote it off as hysteria,” Dean finished for him.

“Yeah.”

Dean shrugged and earned a whap on the head for moving. “Ow,” he complained, shooting an aggravated glance at an unrepentant Bobby before turning his attention back to Sam. “An angry spirit?”

“Or a lonely one,” Sam hazarded. “It’s textbook. It‘s only taking boys and young men. Could be looking for a playmate.”

“Okay, I’m in,” Dean accepted, actually glad that was all Sam was hiding. “Where are we off to?”

Sam hesitated again for a fraction of a second. “Virginia.”

“That’s cool,” Dean said too loudly as Bobby shut off the clippers, wondering why Sam thought he wouldn‘t want to go to Virginia.

“All done,” Bobby announced, once again disrupting his train of thought. “Now gather this up…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbled, accepting the towel. “If anyone can make a talisman out of this?” he said as he held up a pinch of hair between two fingers, “Good for them.” He took the towel to the back porch and shook it out, letting the South Dakota wind take the tiny pieces of him away. Then he leaned on the rail and forcibly exhaled the breath he felt like he’d been holding for days. He absently brushed away the stray hairs that stuck to his still damp chest. Time to get back in the saddle. Again.

“Dammit, Dean,” he heard Bobby grumble from the screen door. “Don’t come crying to me when you’re some voodoo queen’s sex slave.”

Sam laughed and Dean couldn’t help but smile. “Sweet,” he mumbled at the thought as he ran a hand through his newly shorn hair. It felt soft but uneven. He would make a trip into town later, he just wouldn‘t tell Bobby.

S.S.A. Hotchner glanced at the clock as he got to his feet and grabbed his jacket. It was still early in the work day by anyone’s standards but it was Friday and his team had been through hell and back in the last six days so he made an executive decision. Everyone, with the notable exception of Gideon whose office was already dark, was gathered in the bullpen comparing notes and finishing their reports.

Slipping into his suit coat as he descended the stairs Hotch went to join them. “Where’s Jason?” he asked.

Reid looked up, not especially haggard in spite of no sleep and the long flight home. Youth really was wasted on the young. “He already left. I think he was going to head up to his cabin this weekend and decompress. Do you want me to get him back?” he asked, reaching for the phone.

“No,” Hotch said quickly. “In fact I want you all to go home, the paperwork will keep. And I don’t want to see any of your faces around here until Monday… barring of course anything drastic.”

“Drastic like a new BTK or Son of Sam,” Morgan quipped, also looking none the worse for wear, but then again, he had slept soundly on the plane for hours.

Hotch nodded and sighed. Unfortunately a new, bigger, badder serial killer was never out of the range of possibility. “Yes. Drastic like that.”

“Are you going home, too?” J.J. asked with a tired smile.

“Yes I am,” Hotch assured her. “Right after I…”

“We’re not leaving until you do,” Morgan replied, cutting Hotch off as he turned back to his computer.

Prentiss and Reid also kept working. J.J. leaned against the edge of Morgan’s desk and looked at Hotch expectantly.

“Right after I talk to the director and take us off rotation for the weekend,” Hotch finished. “Then I promise to go home.”

“That will give me just enough time to finish this,” Reid said.

“Me, too,” Prentiss agreed. She might be relatively new but she was certainly fitting in with the team spirit.

Morgan grinned as he typed. “So we’ll all leave together.”

Hotch gave in after another minute. He knew his people and they weren’t bluffing. “We’re all out of here in fifteen minutes,” he told them firmly.

Nods of agreement went around but before he went to see the director Hotch stopped at Reid’s desk. “Was Jason okay?” he asked quietly but not quietly enough as all eyes turned their way waiting for the answer.

“I think so,” Reid replied. “He said he was tired but I took it as more of a physical reaction to not sleeping than mental fatigue.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Although I could be wrong,” Reid second guessed himself. “Do you want me to call him?”

“No,” Hotch said. “I’ll talk to him later this weekend. Let’s leave him alone tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

“Fifteen minutes,” Hotch reminded the whole group without looking back as he headed for the stairs. There was a flurry of fingers on keyboards behind him.

The trip was uneventful and Sam couldn’t have been happier. Halfway to Virginia he noticed Dean had snuck into town to see a hair stylist and wondered if he shouldn’t seek out a professional himself. As it turned out, Bobby was no barber.

Other than the occasional barb about Sam’s really bad haircut, Dean seemed to be in his own head most of the way which kept the conversation light and gave Sam a little more time to think. They covered the miles in less than a day and settled into one of the roach motels in a tiny, unincorporated town not far from their so called case. He prayed there‘d be something to it because he wasn’t sure how long he’d need to string Dean along if things didn‘t fall in line in a timely fashion.

Now came the hard part. Sam decided to use research as an excuse to disappear for a while so he could set the plan in motion. Of course he still had to ‘borrow’ a car and ditch Dean for a few hours.

“Where are you going?” Dean looked up from the assortment of weapons he’d just cleaned as Sam gathered his wallet and a room key.

“To find a library.”

“Didn’t you read that before we decided to come down here?” Dean pointed to the overflowing folder Bobby had sent with them as he began putting the guns away. “All that’s left is to go check the place out.”

“That stuff is several years old,” Sam protested, trying to sound meticulous and not desperate. “Don’t you think we should dig into something a little more recent before we go off half-cocked?”

“Since when?” Dean wiped his hands off on the bedspread of the bed he was sitting on leaving a dark oily spot. Of course it happened to be Sam‘s bed.

“I just want to see if anything else has been written about it, okay?”

Dean sighed as he got up and tucked his gun under his shirt at the small of his back. “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

“I can do it,” Sam offered. He‘d planned for this. Staying at Bobby‘s was great but there was one amenity Bobby didn‘t provide. “Stay here. Watch some of the free porn.”

“Free? Porn?” Dean asked, turning towards the TV. “Two of my favorite words, even better when used together.”

“Yeah,” Sam laughed. “I know. Just wait for me and we can go to the golf course tonight.”

Dean shrugged. “If you’re sure.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Sam insisted with a smile. “If I find anything I’ll call you.”

“Okay. You wanna take the Impala?” Dean offered grudgingly.

“No, I’ll walk. It‘s probably not more than a few miles.”

Dean grabbed the keys and threw them in Sam’s general direction. “Take her,” he said. “You drive like an old lady anyway.”

Sam effortlessly snagged the keys out of the air. “Do not.”

“You got your 9 mil?” Dean removed his own gun and put it on the nightstand then settled back on Sam’s bed, boots and all.

“I never leave home without it.” Sam looked at the keys and nodded, thankful he wouldn’t have to steal a car or worry about Dean tailing him. Or worse, showing up at the library since Sam wouldn‘t be there. “Enjoy,” he called over his shoulder as he started to leave.

“Dude, that’s sick,” Dean teased, but his attention was already on the remote as he clicked on the TV. “Hey!” he called out as Sam was closing the door. “Don’t think I don’t know where you’re really going.”

Sam froze with his hand on the doorknob. “What?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. “Where else would I go?”

Dean laughed. “Your head looks like it lost a fight with Edward Scissorhands.”

“Yeah, it does,” Sam admitted, relieved as he shut the door behind him. Too bad he had no time for a real haircut.

Gideon supposed he should feel guilty for not letting Hotch know he was leaving early. But for once he didn’t turn off his work phone since he hadn’t gone home before fleeing to his sanctuary, and of course Reid hadn‘t let him get out without asking where he was going. He wasn’t unreachable, just putting a little distance between himself and the job. The drive should have let him unwind but he was still on edge even as he took the final turn toward his cabin.

Another case was over, more kids were dead or scarred for the rest of their lives and Gideon felt… What? He didn’t know. Certainly not pride in a job well done. That particular feeling was hard to come by these days. No matter what he did it never seemed to be enough. It was not for nothing he told himself. He didn’t have a problem convincing himself of that. He just wasn’t feeling it.

What he did was important. What they did. They got another monster off the street but what was the personal price tag? They all felt the strain; Reid, Morgan, J.J., Garcia. They all had their own methods of coping. Even Prentiss would learn how to deal if she didn’t know already. And Hotch, heaven help Hotch. He carried the load for them all and it wore on him and his family. Gideon didn‘t know how they held it together. He suspected they didn‘t, not entirely.

He’d seen it before, more than once. The most recent victim of circumstance had been Elle who had more or less self-destructed after being shot. Gideon firmly believed the mental stress more than the physical injury had pushed her just that little bit too far. He worried for her even now, wondering if she’d reached the bottom of the slippery slope she’d traveled down, knowing she might not ever make it back up.

Not so long ago it had been him. Major depressive episode indeed. He feared he might be close to experiencing another. On the other hand he knew the Bureau would go on without him. The team, too. Maybe it was time to start thinking about teaching full time. Or retiring. But he knew something had to change. He couldn’t take another failure.

With a little effort and a couple white lies Sam had located Agent Gideon’s address before they‘d even left South Dakota. He knew Gideon wouldn‘t be there yet given the time of day, but judging by the piled up mail and sour milk he hadn‘t been home for some time. And he wasn’t in his office either, at least he wasn’t picking up and Sam didn‘t want to risk leaving a message. Quantico wasn’t far but Sam knew he couldn‘t just drop in unannounced on the FBI so he dug deeper. He finally found a cell phone bill in a locked filing cabinet but when he dialed the number it rang from a kitchen drawer.

He could only wait so long before he had to put in an appearance with Dean and was about to head back when a thought struck him. Being a Winchester Sam never threw anything away. Not information anyway. He tugged out his wallet and rummaged through the folded papers he kept there.

“Penelope Garcia,” he read under the name and number of a local flower shop. He noted her address and consulted one of Gideon’s maps. Just as he was getting in the car his phone rang. He quelled his momentary panic and answered.

“Manassas,” Sam answered as close to honestly as he could without giving away his true location.

“What?!” Dean sputtered. “Why? Didn’t they have any barber shops in this hole?”

“No, actually they didn’t. And they didn’t have a library either so I decided to…”

“There’s a Dairy Bar around the corner from the motel,” Sam told him. “I saw it when I left.”

“Okay,” Dean accepted easily. He loved Dairy Bars. “When are you coming back?” he asked again.

“Not for awhile,” Sam said. “I haven’t even found the library yet.”

Dean sighed, audible even over the phone. “Well watch your back.”

“Dean. It’s a library.”

“I always am,” Sam assured with a fond smile as he hung up. Hell certainly hadn’t quelled Dean’s mother-hen tendencies. If anything it made them worse.

Usually after a case was wrapped up all nice and tidy Garcia would go out for a drink with her girls, and Reid, and of course Morgan to blow off a little steam, especially on Friday nights. But not this week. Hotch had sent his entire field team home early, and rightfully so after the extended flight back to Quantico on top of everything else in their long, crappy week.

Her posse was too pooped to party so Garcia was on her own for the evening. She thought about calling someone else but found the prospect of recruiting a new playmate unappealing and decided a quiet weekend at home was in order. Even she needed some down time, away from office talk and the grisly scenes that played out on her monitor day after day.

She stopped at the grocery store for something for dinner, shampoo, toilet paper, and a few other odds and ends. All together it added up to three large paper sacks. Recycled, of course. The light in the parking area seemed to be out and the sun was fading fast so rather than make two trips in the dark Garcia gathered the bags together and managed to get Ester’s trunk closed without spilling anything.

“Good night, girl,” she told the old caddy, bumping her hip against the shiny red paint as a substitute for her usual pat since her hands were full.

“Can I help you with that, Miss?” a male voice asked from the heavy shadow of the building near another classic car a couple spots down.

Garcia startled and nearly dropped one of the bags.

“Sorry,” the guy apologized, stepping into the last light of day. He was huge, way taller than either Hotch or Morgan. “I didn’t mean to scare you, I was just admiring your car.”

“Oh, oh thanks,” she said, starting towards the door of the building as quick as she could without looking like a silly, frightened, idiot. “Yours is nice, too. What is that? An Impala?”

“Yeah, it’s my brother’s. Don’t feel bad, he talks to it, too.”

“You heard that, huh?” Garcia asked sheepishly as she reached the back steps and the communal door. The guy followed her but kept a respectable distance as if that was where he was headed, too. There was nothing threatening in his manner but in her line of work Garcia always went with better safe than sorry when it came to meeting strange men in dark alleys.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” he asked again as Garcia shifted the bags, trying to figure out how to get her key in the lock without putting down the bags. He moved to the edge of the steps but didn‘t crowd her. His eyes were kind but his skin was red and his hair was a mess. “I’m Sam, by the way.”

“Penelope.”

He smiled then and it was a nice smile. From what she heard Theodore Bundy had had a nice smile, too. “Nice to meet you, Penelope. So now that we know each other are you sure I can‘t help you? It‘s no trouble.”

“No, I’m good.” Now that she could see his features something about the guy seemed familiar. “What happened to your face?” she questioned.

“My brother,” Sam explained with an embarrassed huff. It was cute, in a non-serial killer sort of way. “We were grilling some steaks and he poured lighter fluid in the fire and pouf. There went my eyebrows. Later he helped me trim the burnt part off my hair and… well you can see the results.”

“What a jerk.”

“He means well,” Sam insisted with a shrug and another nice smile. “Look, I’m making you nervous. I’ll go to the front door.” He showed his empty hands and started to back off.

After the initial surge of relief Garcia felt like a paranoid freak. “Sorry,” she called after him.

“I understand. Maybe I’ll see you around.” He waved and disappeared around the corner.

Garcia sighed and sat the bag she was losing her grip on down on the step and stuck her key in the lock. When she got the door open she looked around before retrieving her groceries and ducking into the hallway. She didn’t move until the door clicked back into place and she was safely inside. Alone. Except for the forty or so other residents locked in their individual apartments.

Wasting no more time Garcia headed for the stairs. She was slightly out of breath by the time she reached her apartment so she put all three bags on the floor in front of her door and glanced around before unlocking it. There was someone talking in the apartment next door, or possibly a television, but otherwise all was quiet.

“No wonder you’re single,” she chastised herself as she opened the door and turned on the light. Rather than picking them up she used her foot to slide the bags inside. “Your tall, red stranger was one good haircut and an eyebrow pencil away from being a babe.”

“Thanks.”

Before she could scream a large hand clamped over her mouth and she was gently but firmly pushed through the door before it closed with a thump.

“Shh, I’m not going to hurt you,” Sam, if that was his real name, whispered into her ear. “Don’t make any noise, I just need a favor.”

He really was big. Huge. He kept her quiet and still with one hand while he locked the door with the other. Stripping her purse off her arm he dropped it softly to the floor then guided her to the couch.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he promised again gently, turning her around to face him without moving his hand. “Sit down.”

Garcia complied stiffly, terrified out of her wits. Raped and murdered in her own apartment was not the way she wanted to go out. When the tears started she clenched her eyes shut. She was paralyzed with fear, unable to move or make a sound.

“Oh man,” Sam muttered as he removed his hand from her mouth and knelt down in front of her. “Don’t do that. Please don’t cry.” He sounded completely mortified by her reaction. He put one hand on each of her shoulders and gave her what was probably meant to be a comforting squeeze. “Look at me, please.”

Garcia took a few stuttering breaths and opened her eyes. Her vision was blurry but in the light she was certain she’d seen this guy before. “Who… who are you?” she sniffled.

He certainly looked remorseful. Not at all like someone who’d forced his way into her home to do God knows what. “I told you, I’m Sam.” He reached over to the side table and snagged a tissue which he pressed into her hand as he knelt down in front of her, eye to eye.

She couldn‘t help but stare at him. “Sam,” she repeated. Sam… Sam… Something…

“Yes. Sam Winchester,” he said the very instant she put two and two together.

All the air left her lungs in a whoosh and she started to hyperventilate. Sam’s eyes went wide and he dove for the grocery bags, dumping the contents into the floor. He took the small paper bag her oranges had been in, crumpled the edges as he rushed back to her, then placed it over her mouth and nose.

“Slow deep breaths,” he coached as she did her best to follow his instructions. “That’s it. Good job, Sunny.”

The nickname undid her all over again and she pushed the bag away in a panic. “But I liked your brother!” she cried. “I thought he was kind and cute and sweet!”

“I know!” Sam swore, doing his best to calm her down. “He liked you, too. I’m not here for revenge.”

She froze for a second before pulling the bag back to her face for a few more deep breaths. “You’re not?” she finally asked, the memory of what they said Dean had done to those women close to mind. And for awhile they’d thought maybe it hadn’t been Dean at all but his… Whoops. Her breathing took off again, uncontrolled. No matter what she did or what he said she could not slow herself down. And then everything faded to grey.

“Come on, Sam,” Dean complained as he paced the motel room with a nasty combination of boredom and worry. He never should have let him take the Impala.

The truth was he hadn’t watched any porn. He knew if he’d turned it down without some major explaining Sammy’s bullshit meter would have gone off the charts. And he really didn’t feel like explaining. He couldn’t. He didn’t understand it himself.

So as soon as he heard the Impala putter away he’d gotten right the hell off the bed. As much as he would have liked a nap, sleep was the enemy and he refused to fall victim to it even if they might be up all night.

He dropped into the chair and picked at his half eaten chili-cheese fries. It wasn’t that he was hungry, he just knew he had to keep up his strength. The case might be just a warm-up, after all, his baby brother was without a doubt up to something. But it might also be the real deal and Dean had to bring his A-game. He’d screwed up the last one so royally he needed to come back strong. He had to prove to Sam he still had it in him. He had to prove it to himself.

“It better be a girl keeping you, little brother,” Dean grumbled as he looked at his watch, knowing it wasn‘t. He thought about calling again but quickly gave up the notion. Sam didn’t need to know how uneasy he was on his own. He wasn’t a needy bitch. At least he didn‘t want to be.

With a weary sigh he gave up the fight to keep his eyes open. He got up from the chair and plopped face first into the closest bed. Maybe Sam would be back to wake him before he could dream.

When Garcia woke a little while later her feet were on the couch and she was covered with her favorite afghan. Her vintage skirt wasn’t torn or hiked up around her ears, and her bright blouse was still buttoned. Movement in the kitchen caught her attention so she played dead. She squinted one eye open and watched while the intruder… put away her groceries. A less hysterical part of her brain wondered what Gideon would make of the odd behavior.

She glanced toward the phone and estimated the distance and time it would take to dial 911 and realized he’d be on her long before an operator could pick up. Still, if the call went through they would have to send a patrol car around. Even so, help would only arrive in time to find her still warm corpse. She closed her eyes again when footsteps came her way but an inadvertent whimper slipped past her lips and gave her away. Sam came to check on her while holding the box of super plus tampons that had been in the bag with the toilet paper.

“Are you okay?” he bent to ask worriedly.

Garcia found herself staring at the box in his hand. He followed her gaze and she swore his face grew even redder. “I… uh, didn‘t know what to do with... Here,” he muttered, shoving them into her hand.

She held them for a second, mortified beyond all reason then raised up and crammed them behind the pillow that had been under her head. “It’s okay,” she whispered. But it wasn’t. Nothing was okay.

He sat on the edge of the couch next to her hips, effectively pinning her in but apparently without intent. He started to cradled his face but that didn’t work out so well so he let his hands dangle between his knees instead. “I’m really sorry for scaring you,” he started softly. “I guess I just didn’t think this through.” He looked lost. Totally dejected.

“What do you want?” Garcia asked him as she eased back against the pillow, more to get further away than to get comfortable. Although she did feel like she might be able to process a little better now that she’d gotten hyperventilating and fainting out of the way.

Sam huffed a humorless laugh. He seemed to huff a lot. It was still cute. “I just need a phone number.”

“Ever try four one one?” Never more true than this very moment -- her mouth really was going to get her killed some day. Maybe today.

But he smiled and nodded. “Actually, I did.” Ted Bundy could never have been this adorable.

“I’m not going to give up anyone on my team,” Garcia told him, steadying herself for whatever response that might provoke.

“I don’t expect you to. But it’s important. It’s about Dean. He’s…” he stopped and pressed his lips into a thin line.

“He’s dead,” Garcia finished for him. Great. Remind him of that while he‘s not feeling particularly homicidal.

Sam went quiet before fully turning to look at her. “I need to talk to Agent Gideon. He hasn’t been answering his office phone.”

“They were gone all week. You can try again on Monday,” Garcia offered, her brief hope flagging as he shook his head almost desperately.

“No, no,” Sam insisted. “I need to talk to him right now, tonight. Please just…” he stopped himself again and stared past her shoulder. She turned as well to see her lime green purse that was now sitting beyond her on the end table. With one long reach he pulled it to him and tugged her cell out of its perfect little pocket on the front. Instead of opening it he handed it to her. “I won’t even look at the number, you can call him for me.”

Garcia accepted the phone but didn’t open it. Nine one one, call 911 her brain screamed at her.

“Please. Then I’ll go,” Sam promised when she hesitated.

“You’ll leave?” she questioned, not believing him for a minute. Still, he had the most sincere eyes she’d ever seen and they were pleading his case for him eloquently.

“Yes. And you‘ll never have to see me again.”

Gideon would know what to do and Sam was going to let her call him. “You’re not planning to hurt him, are you? He felt awful when Dean died. He felt responsible.”

“It wasn’t Gideon’s fault,” Sam assured her. “It wasn’t even Henrickson’s fault. There was more to the situation than you probably know.”

Garcia swallowed. She was absolutely out of her mind. “Can you explain it to me?” she asked. She wanted to know more about the enigma of a man that had touched her life if only for a few brief days.

Sam bit his lip, deep in thought. “I’m not sure Dean would want that,” he finally told her. “He really cared about you.”

“Okay, that doesn’t make sense. How could you know that? You didn’t see your brother before he died,” Garcia pointed out. Stupid, stupid, stupid… talk him into strangling you while you’re at it.

“I spoke to Agent Gideon,” Sam responded without missing a beat. “The night Henrickson died. You didn’t know that?”

“I guess I did.” That seemed logical. Sort of. Still… “But why would Gideon tell you about me? I‘m sure you had more important things to talk about.”

“We talked about a lot of things.” Sam shrugged. If he was lying he was very good at it. “I think he would want the opportunity to talk to me now. Why don‘t you give him the choice? If he doesn‘t want to, I‘ll still go. All you have to do is call him.”

That actually sounded reasonable. Worse case scenario Sam Winchester talked Gideon into meeting him somewhere and she could call the team for backup. Unless he snuffed her out before he left. Damn little details. Then again he could just as easily off her now and take her phone with him. “Okay,” she gave in guiltily. If she got Gideon killed to save her own neck she would never forgive herself.

“Thank you,” Sam said with such relief Garcia got caught up in it as well.

She opened the phone and quickly found Gideon’s number and dialed. “It’s ringing,” she said but far to soon her hopes were dashed. “Sorry, it went straight to voicemail,” she told him nervously, going so far as to show him the readout.

“That’s his personal cell?” Sam asked.

“Yeah?”

“No, I already tried that one. It’s in a drawer in his kitchen.” He stopped and gave her a shamefaced grin. “I went there first. Doesn’t he have a cell just for work?”

Garcia gaped for a minute before closing her mouth. “You broke into his apartment?” Of course he did. He broke into yours, too, didn’t he? Definitely not a boy scout.

“Work number?” Sam prodded, pushing the phone back toward her and thoughts of getting out of this alive out of her head.

“Yeah.” Garcia scrolled to the next entry and dialed. “If he’s at his cabin his cell is probably off.” She only had a second to chastise herself for her slip before Gideon picked up. “Sir?”

“No sir,” Garcia said, unable to hold back a shuddering breath. “Please don’t hang up.”

“Ask him if he’ll talk to me.”

Gideon sipped a glass of wine by the fire. So many questions, so few answers. He wasn’t drunk by any means, he was merely morose, lost in his thoughts. The isolation was self imposed and he knew it wasn’t good for him. In fact the last place he needed to be at the moment was in his own head.

Even so, he rolled his eyes when his phone rang. It was probably Reid checking up on him or Hotch to call him on his bad behavior. No, Hotch would never do that even if he deserved it. Gideon groaned as he got up to retrieve the annoying device then glanced at the read out. Garcia. Must be a new case.

He sighed and answered. “Gideon.”

“Garcia? Can this wait until tomorrow?” He knew better. She wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important.

“No sir… Please don’t hang up.” There was something in her tone he recognized immediately. Fear. It flipped a switch inside him and made his blood run cold. In the background he could hear a man’s indistinct voice.

Suddenly Garcia was more than the highly efficient, if unconventional, oft times cheeky tech girl. She was someone who needed help. She had chosen him for whatever reason and he would not fail her. “I’m here, honey,” Gideon assured with his heart in his throat.

On the other end of the line Garcia drew in a sharp breath at the unprecedented endearment. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called…”

“Don’t hang up!” Gideon could hear his own words echo in an unfamiliar voice through the phone. “Do not hang up, that’s an order,” Gideon added.

“Okay.” The poor girl was terrified and he wasn‘t helping.

“Are you hurt?” Gideon gentled his tone, starting with something simple as he gathered his things.

“I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you. Where are you?”

Gideon located his personal address book and cursed silently when he realized he’d never had a reason to put most of his coworkers in it. “Who’s there with you?” he asked, keeping it light as he grabbed a pen to write her address down if her captor would let her give it.

He dropped the pen. Of all the names he could think of Sam Winchester was not the one he would have guessed. Like his brother, Sam came and went as he pleased, always under the radar, and was probably every bit as dangerous as Dean if provoked. “Let me talk to him,” he told Garcia through a dry mouth.

Gideon could feel his own heartbeat. “Go ahead.”

Garcia let out a breath and said something to Winchester before coming back to Gideon. “The night Agent Henrickson killed himself. Did you speak to Sam?”

“Yes,” Gideon answered. He’d tried then to get the youngest Winchester to come in and clear the air. He would find out later why she asked. Right now he needed to start negotiating for her freedom.

Before he could say anything else a deeper voice came on the line. “Agent Gideon?”

“Yes, Sam, it‘s me. First of all, please don’t hurt Penelope.” Personalize her, make him see her as more than a victim…

“Stay here,” Sam cautioned away from the phone, reeling Garcia in no doubt. “I’m not going to hurt anybody,” he told Gideon emphatically. “I… I need your help.”

“Let her go and we’ll talk about it.”

“It’s about Dean,” Sam said as if that changed the fact he was holding an innocent girl hostage. “He needs…” another uncertain pause. “I can’t explain over the phone. I need to talk to you in person.”

Gideon suspected the boy might be delusional but as far as he could tell he really hadn’t hurt anyone yet. “Where would you like to meet?”

“In a very tangible way, I am the police,” Gideon reminded him.

“I know that. But Dean trusts…ted you,” Sam countered. “I’m trusting you, too. Could I borrow something to write on?”

The last must have been spoken to Garcia. If nothing else, the kid was polite, unlike his more boisterous older brother. But Gideon had thought Dean’s colorful personality engaging and felt the world a poorer place for its lack.

“What about Penelope?”

There was an uncomfortable sigh. “I’ll tie her up when I leave and then you can call someone to come and let her go.”

“How do I know you won’t just kill her?” Gideon could, and would, risk his own life but not Garcia’s. It wasn’t a chance he could take.

“Because I’m not a murder,” Sam protested, his frustration clear. “Look, I’ll leave the phone on the table next to her. You can keep talking to her while you drive to the meet. So just stay on the line, okay?”

“Let me talk to her,” Gideon requested. A lot rested on what Sam did now. To his surprise Garcia came back on the line.

“Sir?” Never could he remember her sounding so young.

“Are you okay with Sam tying you up if it gets him out of your apartment?”

“I’ll come with him,” Garcia suggested instead.

“No, that’s out of the question,” Gideon said, again hearing Sam echo him with a firm no.

“It will only be for a little while.” Sam told Garcia. “I’ll use something soft so your skin doesn’t chafe. But you‘re not coming. Things might get dangerous.”

“Sam,” Gideon cut in, determined to make a difference for at least one of the Winchester boys. “If you leave Penelope unharmed, I promise I won’t call any backup. The trust will have to work both ways.”

“Okay,” Sam accepted immediately. “Where do you want to meet?”

“There’s a coffee shop halfway between where I am and Quantico. I can meet you there in an hour.”

Derek Morgan broke every traffic law ever invented on the way over, making what should have been a forty minute drive in only twenty-five. The harrowing trip only marginally kept his mind off what he might find. As directed he didn’t call backup and somehow didn’t pick up a black and white tail in spite of his fancy driving and lights, but no siren.

He came in the back door of the complex as directed and sure enough, the lock had not only been disabled but removed entirely. With his gun pointed towards the floor he made his way up the stairs and to the apartment without seeing a soul. Once at Garcia’s door he ran a hand along the molding at the top and found a key, again, exactly where the unknown caller had said it would be. He immediately put it to use.

No time to steady his nerves, he entered the apartment gun first bracing himself for what he might find and cleared the room. The living area was tidy with everything in its place and no blood or bodies in sight.

“Derek?” came the soft, nearly panicked call from a curtained off area.

Morgan led with his weapon through the drapery into the bedroom to find Garcia propped up on pillows with her hands tied to the headboard, one to each side of her head not too far apart. Her ankles were crossed, her legs covered with an afghan.

“He’s here, Agent Gideon,” Garcia announced loudly, apparently to thin air because there was no one else in the room.

“The perp?” Morgan asked in a hushed voice, still checking every nook and cranny before moving to the bed.

“He’s gone,” Garcia informed him, on the edge of tears.

Morgan holstered his gun and went to her. If he didn’t know better he would say the odd way she had been tied was for comfort. There was already a knife on the bedside table and he used it to make short work of the silk scarves around her wrists. As soon as her hands were free she wrapped them tightly around his torso for a hug but before he could put down the knife and reciprocate she lunged for the open cell phone he hadn’t noticed on the opposite bedside table.

“Agent Gideon? Hello? Agent Gideon?” Garcia looked strickened as she slowly closed the phone and collapsed back against the pillows. “He hung up,” she reported as she clenched her eyes shut.

“What’s going on, baby girl?” Morgan asked gently as he gathered her into his arms. She was shaking badly but refused to cry.

“What have I done?” Garcia asked with her cheek pressed tightly against his shoulder.

“I don’t know. I need a few more details. Come on, sit up.” Morgan pushed her to arm’s length to look at her face. “What the hell did happen?”

“More like who,” Garcia responded as she looked down and rubbed her wrists. “It was Sam Winchester.”

“Dammit,” Morgan swore. “Let me guess. He‘s looking for payback for the man he thinks is responsible for Dean‘s death.”

Garcia shook her head adamantly. “I… I don’t think so. He said he needed Gideon‘s help. He didn‘t hurt me. He was very concerned when he scared me.”

Morgan harrumphed as he reached for his phone.

“What are you doing?” Garcia asked, reaching out to stop him from dialing.

“Winchester broke in here, held you hostage, and now probably has Gideon. What do you think I’m doing?”

“Don’t call Hotch,” Garcia begged. “Gideon made me promise not to let you. He said to call him instead. Please?”

“Call Gideon?”

“Yes. He wants to see Sam.”

“Of course he does,” Morgan groused as he dialed Gideon against his better judgment.

“Morgan?” Gideon answered right away.

“You know it is,” Morgan replied, angry at the situation if not at Gideon. “Where are you?”

“Let me get the team together…”

“You don’t owe this guy anything,” Morgan pointed out.

“You could be dead in an hour.” In his mind’s eye he could see Gideon’s mild mannered smirk. “Don’t smirk at me, you bastard, you know it‘s true.”

“I think I see him. I’ll call you.” With that, Gideon hung up.

Morgan growled at the phone then turned to Garcia. “Do you have any idea where they were going to meet?”

“No,” Garcia said as she scooted to the edge of the bed then ran into the other room. She picked up a pad of scratch paper and a pencil next to the phone and began quickly rubbing the lead across the page. “But I’ve got the directions to get there.” She held up the now readable imprint from the hastily written message.

“Stay here,” Morgan told her as he kissed her forehead then took the paper and headed out the door.

“I want to go with you,” she called after him but he didn‘t look back.

Gideon had taken up residency in a booth by the front window of the carefully chosen diner. It’s less urban location near his cabin ensured both fewer customers in the way and that Gideon would arrive first. Hyper-vigilant, he watched the scant traffic go by. So when the same dark Chevrolet crept by for the third time and then parked with easy access to the road he knew Sam Winchester had arrived.

“I think I see him. I’ll call you.“ He put away his phone and motioned to the waitress for a refill. “Can I get one for my friend?” he asked when she came over, coffeepot in hand.

She smiled and turned the cup across from him over and poured it almost to the brim with the fresh brew. Gideon inhaled the rich aroma, he had always loved the coffee here.

In the meantime Sam came in the front door and looked around, quickly eliminating the few other patrons before making his way straight to Gideon. Observant and smart. Having seen only photos and glimpses in the dark it struck Gideon that this kid, once hunted by the FBI, skilled in weapons and hand to hand combat, really was just a kid no more than twenty-five. Gideon had a pair of leather shoes older than that.

But Sam was a big kid with impressive height and broad shoulders, not lanky but solid. How it must have rankled Dean, by no means petite himself, when his baby brother went skyrocketing past him.

Sam moved to the table with the fluid grace Gideon remembered from the impound lot. But there was a hesitancy about him now, an uncertainty. The grief was gone, replaced not by anger or rage but by a near frantic need Gideon couldn’t quite put his finger on. Less than thirty seconds into the encounter Gideon knew the young man was no immediate danger. More over, he knew he would do just about anything in his power to help him.

Gideon checked his watch, figuring Sam had a good twenty minute head start on Morgan. And even then Morgan still had to find them. But he would, eventually, after all he did have the best resources of the FBI available. If the conversation needed to continue uninterrupted they would have to move to another location.

Already in a relaxed, non-threatening position with one arm stretched leisurely along the back of the booth, Gideon grinned his best lopsided grin as Sam slid in across from him.

“Thank you for meeting me,” Sam offered immediately, earnestly. “First of all let me say how sorry I am for bothering Penelope. It was never my intention to frighten her and believe me, there’ll be hell to pay for it later.” He was calm and rational above and beyond what Gideon had hoped for.

“You’re probably right about that,” Gideon agreed, especially if Morgan had anything to say about it. “What happened to your face?” The boy had recently been too close to an open flame and it looked like he had used a pair of dull scissors to remove some of the evidence of the encounter.

Sam self-consciously pushed his bangs away from his eyes. “Accident,” he muttered off-handedly. That he didn’t want to talk about it was written all over his red face.

Gideon nodded his acceptance and decided to let Sam control the direction of the conversation. “So. Here we are.”

“Yeah.” Sam reached for the sugar which he liberally applied to the coffee in front of him as he stirred it with a spoon. “I’m sure you have questions.” He batted the ball right back into Gideon’s court.

“Can I get you boys anything else?” the waitress asked as she walked up and set a creamer on the table.

Sam greeted her with a small, genuine smile and nodded his head as he poured a generous dollop into his already sweetened coffee. “Thank you. What kind of pie do you have?”

“Apple, blueberry, pecan, and rhubarb.”

“Can I get one slice of everything but the rhubarb? To go. And a large coffee.”

“No problem, hon,” The waitress said with a motherly wink, taken with Sam’s easy charm. Gideon half expected her to smooth the boy’s uneven hair before walking off.

“Hungry?” Gideon asked.

“Huh? Oh, no,” Sam replied. His mind was somewhere else. “It’s a peace offering. Dean loves pie.”

“Dean.” Gideon always knew that was where they were going. He took a breath and readied himself for the questions, keeping in mind the promise he’d made to Dean, not to tell Sam he had cried as his death loomed imminent.

“I didn‘t tell him I was coming to see you.”

Gideon frowned, blindsided by the confession. He needed to reassess the situation. Perhaps Sam wasn‘t as centered as he appeared. “Do you talk to Dean often?” he probed gently.

Sam narrowed his eyes as if he were reading his mind, every bit as perceptive as Gideon had thought. More. “You didn’t get Dean’s message,” he finally stated.

“There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover,” Gideon sang softly. He watched Sam‘s non-reaction with interest. “I’ve often wondered how you knew about that. You talked to Henrickson, but he didn’t stick around long enough to hear my little serenade. And in the panic of the moment I’m sure no one else heard it.”

“You never believed it came from Dean? Not even for a minute?”

“It was nice at first to think Dean had somehow found a way to reach back across the veil to me, but when it’s all said and done, I’m a realist.”

“This is going to be harder than I thought,” Sam swore to himself as he knuckled an eye and picked up his coffee for a fortifying swig. He set the cup down and looked Gideon straight in the eye. “Dean is alive.”

Gideon shook his head. His throat tightened as the wretchedness of that moment rushed back to him. “He died in my arms.”

“Yes,” Sam agreed with a maddening calm. “He died and went to Hell. Then he came back.”

“How?” Gideon asked reasonably.

“Well, it wasn’t easy. I could show you the research, recite the incantation but…”

Gideon interrupted. “If it were as simple as that there would be no cemeteries. An incantation that could bring people back from the dead would be common knowledge. You can’t keep something like that under wraps.”

“It not ’that simple’,” Sam fairly growled. “I have… I’m not… normal.”

“Dean told me…“

“He didn’t tell you everything,” Sam cut him off tersely. “I know you stayed up all night while Dean tried to convince you of what we do. I know you didn’t believe him then, and I also know which key elements he left out.”

“Because he told you.”

“Yes.”

Gideon took a sip of his rapidly cooling coffee. “Do you talk to Dean often?” he asked cautiously.

“Every single day. In fact he’s probably climbing the walls of the motel room as we speak…” Sam started but trailed off, his face clouded with concern. “What?”

Realizing his face must be reflecting his horror, Gideon tried to school his features. “Sam, do you have Dean with you? Is he really in a motel room somewhere?”

“Yeah,” Sam answered slowly. “I just told you…” Comprehension dawned and Sam let out a muffled laugh. “You think…” The laugh grew to a chuckle. “You think I’m toting around…” He couldn’t finish the thought as the chuckle became a full blown guffaw and Sam was holding his sides and gasping for air.

People stopped eating to turn around and look. As Gideon pulled out his phone Sam tried to calm himself.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sam muttered as he wiped his eyes. “Oh, God, I needed that. I assure you, Agent Gideon, I‘m not dragging around the rotting corpse of my brother.” He grinned across the table with unrepentant glee.

Gideon was not amused. “How did Ms. Harvelle get the body out of the morgue by herself?” he asked.

“She didn‘t, exactly,” Sam fudged, still smiling. “She was there but Dean walked out under his own power. Look, nothing I tell you will make you believe. Come see for yourself.”

“Why?” Gideon had to ask. “Why now?”

Now Sam sobered completely. “Because Dean needs help. He says he doesn’t remember the Pit, but… he’s different. I think it‘s post traumatic stress or something. He needs your help.”

“Even if I was buying into your story,” Gideon told him, “I’m not a doctor of psychiatry.”

“No, but you know your way around the human mind. It‘s what you do. And Dean trusts you, he‘ll open up to you, he‘s done it before,” Sam pleaded. They stared at each other in silence for a long moment. Sam’s eyes seemed to dim and Gideon knew the instant he gave up.

“Here you go, sugar,” the waitress said, breaking the standoff as she placed a bag and a large to go cup of coffee on the table. “Do you need another refill?”

“No,” Gideon said without taking his eyes off Sam.

“Thank you, no. Just the check,” Sam told her in a defeated tone as he looked away.

“I’ve got it,” Gideon said, pulling out his wallet and plopping a twenty on the table. “Keep it,” he told the waitress as he got up.

“Thanks! You boys come back and see me.”

Sam nodded and faked a smile as he gathered the pie and coffee. He turned and walked out without another word. Gideon followed him out.

“Sam,” Gideon called out as the younger man trotted across the road.

Sam stopped and looked back at him as he opened the door of the well cared for old Impala.

“I’ll follow you,” Gideon said before he knew he was going to say it. The questions had never come. Sam knew things he couldn’t know. Gideon was going to get to the bottom of it if it killed him.

Sam’s smile lit up like the fourth of July. “Okay. That’s great!” he gushed. “Actually, it’s not far.”

Gideon checked his watch. “Good. Don’t lose me.”

“I won’t,” Sam promised, still grinning like a fool.

‘Coffee shop.’ Morgan read the top part of the note again as he stood in front of the rundown diner. The dirt parking lot was deserted but a neon ‘OPEN’ sign shone in the window next to the door. He looked both ways down the road and there wasn’t another business in sight, at least not one that hadn’t been closed for twenty years. This was the place, there was coffee to be had, even if it wasn’t technically a coffee shop. Only Gideon. He stuck the paper in his pocket and went inside.

“Guess I missed the dinner rush,” Morgan said to the old man bussing the now empty counter.

“Sit anywhere, just know we close in half an hour,” came the grumpy response.

Morgan flashed his badge. “I’m not here to eat.”

“FBI?” the lone waitress asked as she joined them just in time to inspect Morgan’s credentials before he put them away.

“I told you there was something off about those two,” the man muttered to the woman as he pushed a tray loaded with dirty dishes across the counter towards the kitchen and wiped his hands on a bar towel.

The waitress planted her hands on her hips. “Oh hush, they were good tippers.”

“Two men?” Morgan asked to get them back on topic. “A dark haired gentleman that looked like he might be a cop and a tall younger guy?”

“Mm hm,” the waitress agreed readily. “The older one has been in here before, every few months in fact. Never caught his name though. And I’ve never seen the young one. I’d remember him.”

“They had quite the little chat in that booth right there. The kid was disruptive,” the man informed Morgan gravely while the waitress rolled her eyes.

“What did he do?” Morgan asked, ready to call in the team if he thought Gideon was in trouble.

“Oh stop it, Ray, they had a good laugh is all. At least that sweet boy did. I don’t think the other enjoyed the joke nearly as much.”

“Did they argue?”

The two diner employees exchanged a mildly surprised glance. “No, they seemed friendly. I thought maybe they were father and son. They took pie to go,” the waitress added adamantly, as if there could be no bad in a world with pie.

“Three slices and an extra coffee. I thought they might be off to meet someone else,” Ray said, scratching his scraggly beard. “They were still outside when I took out some trash. I heard the old fella say he would follow the young one in his car.”

“Follow him where?”

“Don’t know. The young one said it wasn’t far.”

“Which way did they go?”

“South. Away from the highway, so off into the woods.”

Morgan went to the window and stared out to where the blacktop continued on past where the streetlights stopped. “What’s back there?”

“Like I said, woods. Farther back there’s a few farms and some small, unincorporated towns,” Ray clarified. “What’s this all about?”

“Is there anything else you can remember?” Morgan asked, blowing off the old guy’s question as he turned back around to face them. “Please think. It might be important.”

“Well they didn’t like rhubarb,” the waitress finally offered.

Gideon pulled in behind Sam just off the road at a motel that frankly had seen better days. The ‘no v ca cy’ light was on but other than the two vehicles they arrived in there was only a beat up Pinto in the lot and judging by the dust, it hadn‘t moved in weeks. The only light in the small complex, including the office, formed a weak rectangular outline around the drawn curtain of the room on the bottom floor at the end of the building. And Sam had parked right in front of it, naturally. By the time he killed the lights and the engine Sam was already waiting for him in front of the Impala.

“Dean is alive,” Sam reiterated as soon as Gideon stepped out of his car. “Just so you don’t stroke out or anything.”

“Do you actually see Dean?” Gideon asked as they moved toward the door. “Or do you just hear him?”

Sam stopped and gave Gideon a sad, apologetic smile but before he could put the key in the lock the door swung open.

“Where the hell have you been?” a bare-chested man with a towel wrapped around his waist yelled. His hair was wet and he looked remarkably like a living, breathing Dean Winchester. In fact he sounded a lot like him as well. When his gaze fell on Gideon he froze in place. “What the fuck, Sammy?” he growled dangerously.

Sam lifted the bag in his hand. “We brought pie?”

Gideon could do nothing but gape. A shared hallucination? Another imposter? Just how many Dean clones were out there? His mind raced.

The man ducked his head out past them to look around. “Get in here,” he told them when he was satisfied they hadn‘t been compromised. He glared at Sam but snatched the bag of pie in spite of his ire as he went back in, leaving them standing on the threshold.

When Gideon’s feet refused to cooperate Sam kindly gave him a gentle shove inside, closing the door behind them.

The Dean look-alike was furious. He dropped the bag on the dresser and rounded on Sam and Gideon honestly thought they would come to blows. Even so he doubted he would be able to do anything about it since he hadn’t yet recovered the capacity of spontaneously locomotion.

“There is no case here, is there?” The accusation was low but treacherous. “You just wanted me in striking distance of Jason.”

Sam shrugged guiltily but there was a determined set to his jaw. “Hear me out.” He started to offer the coffee but thought better of handing the enraged man a cup of hot liquid and set it down on the TV instead.

“There is nothing you can say or do to ever justify this kind of betrayal.”

“Dean! Just listen to me.”

Gideon moved forward on shaky legs until he was close enough to reach out and touch the moist skin. “The bullet went in here,” he whispered as he ghosted a hand over warm flesh. “There should be a scar.”

The man let out a sigh and turned livid green eyes to him. “Uh, Jason? This is family business. You mind quietly freaking out in the corner while we settle this?”

There was a nervous laugh and Gideon belatedly realized it was coming from his own mouth. “I thought you were dead,” he told the specter. “You are. You have to be.” He pressed harder until he was in firm contact with the abdomen, so very, very real under his hand. He pulled Dean in for a tight hug, for it was Dean. It really was. “I held you while you died.”

Then Dean was hugging him back with equal ferocity. “I know. You didn’t leave me. You stayed ‘til the end.”

Gideon patted Dean’s back over and over and Dean didn’t push him away. Dean was no longer dead. It wasn’t possible, but here he was.

At long last he held Dean to arms length to study his face. He was beautiful, so full of life. But Sam was right, there was something troubling right under the surface, an anguish so raw Gideon hurt for him. He hurt for both of them for Sam suffered along with his brother.

When Sam tucked a tissue into his hand Gideon reluctantly let go of Dean’s shoulders to wipe his eyes and blow his nose. Dean seemed a little misty himself but played it off, shaking his head like a wet dog.

“I need to talk to my brother for a minute,” Sam told Gideon as he helped him sit on the edge of the bed. “Don’t go anywhere, we’ll be right back.” Then Sam herded a much subdued Dean into the bathroom and shut the door.

Where would he go? And how would he get there? His legs didn’t seem to work anymore but his mind was in overdrive. His whole world view had been turned upside down and shaken. Gideon fingered his damp shirt, damp from a hug with a freshly showered dead man.

He tried to reconcile what was happening with his personal reality but what started as a whispered exchange behind the bathroom door was slowly, steadily rising in volume. Finally the words were more than muffled sounds and Gideon could no more tune them out than fly. If he closed his eyes he could make out their respective dispositions, almost see their expressions from their tones alone. But the expected drama sounded more like a tragic comedy.

“Like ‘Weekend at Bernie’s‘?” Dean asked with a laugh. “Dude. That would be awesome.” Too joyful. He was trying to avoid the topic at hand.

“No it wouldn’t,” Sam shot back. He wasn‘t having it. “What would be awesome about me dragging your smelly ass all over creation?”

“Hey, my ass does not smell.” Righteous indignation.

“Uh, yeah, it does. And it would smell a lot worse if you were six months dead.” Good point, Gideon thought. Without some kind of preparation a body would be hard to hide for long. A point he himself had missed earlier when he’d made the assumption they were now discussing.

“Yeah, but... Come on, ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’! You loved that movie.” Dean wasn’t giving up so easy.

“No, you loved that stupid movie. I heard about it every time we dug up a corpse for a year! And stop changing the subject. Gideon’s still sitting right outside this door.” Now Sam was the angry one.

“So?” No, no, they were both angry.

“So please, just talk to him.” A request, honest and forthright, no doubt accompanied by that look Sam seemed so good at.

“I told you…”

“I know, there’s nothing wrong. Look at my face, Dean. Look at my peeling, red face and tell me nothing’s wrong.” So Dean was responsible for Sam’s burn and now Sam was using it as leverage. That couldn’t be good.

There were a few seconds of silence then a simultaneous thump and crash on the wall. Just as Gideon started to get up Sam’s voice came through again, none the worse for wear. Apparently the wall had taken the brunt of Dean‘s outburst.

“Real mature, Dean. Let me see.” Culpable.

“Get off me.”

“Is it broken?” The hand? Maybe, Gideon thought, but Dean’s spirit was definitely headed that way.

“Dude.” The anger was fading but that wasn‘t necessarily a good thing. Now Dean just sounded empty.

“We’re gonna have to pay for that.”

“Cheap fucking tiles.”

“Dean…” Sam demanded, begged, pleaded… all in one word.

“What do want from me, Sammy?” Dean asked, more defeated than Gideon had ever heard him, and Gideon had been there when Dean hit rock bottom.

“Just talk to Agent Gideon, that’s all I’m asking. I won’t even listen. I’ll… I’ll leave. Please.”

His baby brother was asking for the world. Would Dean give it to him? Gideon found himself hoping he would. He prepared to find his voice and add it to Sam’s.

It got very quiet and then once again there were soft murmurs. Finally Sam stepped out of the bathroom. Behind him Gideon could see Dean at the sink, his head hung low. Sam dug through a bag and came out with a pair of boxer briefs and a pair of jeans which he took back to the bathroom and set on the closed toilet lid before backing out and closing the door.

“He needs a minute,” Sam said, dispirited in spite of the fact that he had won the argument. He collected the ice bin and moved to the door. “I’m gonna get some ice.”

“Dean’s fist?” Gideon asked, proud he could string two words together without blubbering.

“Yeah. He‘s never been a wall puncher. I don‘t know where that came from.” Sam opened the door but didn‘t proceed. The reason became obvious very quickly. He backed into the room, Derek Morgan following with his weapon trained right between Sam’s eyes.

Garcia let out a groan of disappointment. Gideon’s coffee shop was closed. She sat in Ester and stared at the dark building. Not only had she lured Gideon right into Sam Winchester’s clutches, but Derek was no doubt headed into harm’s way as well. She wadded up the second etching of Sam’s scribbled message, and boy, he must have really been stressed to write so hard, and tossed it into her open purse.

She tried Derek again but he still wasn’t picking up and she’d given up on Gideon long ago. “It’s okay,” she told herself. “There’s more than one way to track a stud muffin.”

Turning the car around in the empty street she headed to Quantico. If anybody could locate her missing troops, she could. If not? She might just have to ruin Hotch’s weekend.

Sam backed further into the room, raising his hands over his head and Morgan kept pace until they cleared the door.

“On your knees, hands behind your head with your fingers interlocked,” Morgan ordered rapid fire, leaving the door open behind him. “You okay?” he asked without sparing a glance to Gideon.

“I‘m fine,” Gideon declared as he jumped to his feet even as Sam complied with Morgan‘s directions. “Put the gun down.”

Right on cue the bathroom door crashed opened and a half dressed Dean appeared, weapon in hand and pointed at Morgan. “I swear to God, Morgan, if you hurt my brother…”

This was the most dangerous part of Dean. If there was a cold blooded killer inside the man, and Gideon still wasn’t convinced there was, threatening Sam would be the quickest way to bring it to the surface. But Morgan was a hair-trigger away from finding out once and for all.

“Winchester,” Morgan gasped, his gun wavering only slightly as he took his eyes off Sam for a split second before refocusing. “What the hell?”

“Put the guns down, both of you,” Gideon insisted as he put his own body between them. Sam was the only one he couldn‘t protect.

“Jason, get out of the way,” Dean told him as he jockeyed for a better firing position. Gideon moved with him, shielding Morgan.

Morgan didn’t appreciate the gesture either. “Damn it, Gideon, he’s still wanted for a string of murders.”

“Not anymore. I’m dead, remember?” Dean goaded, making a scary face.

“Yeah, yeah. How’d you work that? Pay off somebody at the hospital?” Morgan asked, grasping at straws for a logical answer for the apparent resurrection.

“Yeah, that’s it. You got me. I paid ‘em in the blood that was oozing out of my lifeless body,” Dean’s tone dripped with sarcasm. “Jackass.”

Sam kept his hands on his head but turned his torso slightly so he could see Dean. “Everybody just calm down,” he cautioned, a little wild-eyed himself. “I take it you two know each other?”

“Yeah, he ruined my suit.”

“It was out of fashion anyway.”

“Whatever,” Morgan snorted before allowing his gaze to travel back to Dean in puzzlement. “You keep a weapon in the bathroom?”

“Don’t you?” Dean’s voice was steady but there was still murder in his eyes.

“Dean,” Gideon breathed. He had to stop them before things got out of hand. There would be no bloodshed, none of these young men would die tonight. He trusted Morgan not to fire, he was a consummate professional, but Dean was already on the edge. Dean was the unknown. “Look at me.”

“He’s got my brother.” There was no emotion in Dean’s voice but Gideon believed he was seconds away from taking Morgan out of the picture permanently. The tension grew exponentially.

Gideon approached him carefully and put a hand on his chest. Dean was so tense it was like pushing against a granite wall. “Give me the gun,” he whispered.

Dean slowly covered Gideon’s hand with his own left hand, patting it once before twisting Gideon’s wrist and pushing his thumb into the pressure point. Gideon let out a gasp of surprise and pain as Dean forced him back behind him and to his knees. He held him there almost effortlessly, never taking his eyes, or his gun, off Morgan. “He’s got my brother,” he repeated.

“And now you have Gideon,” Morgan responded, his cool façade starting to crumble.

“No, he doesn’t,” Gideon insisted from his place on the floor trying to keep the grimace out of his voice. “Look where he put me. He’s protecting me, keeping me out of the line of fire.”

“Dean, he’s not going to shoot me,” Sam said. “Right? What’s your name? Morgan?”

“Not unless I have to.”

“And you’ll be dead before Sam hits the floor,” Dean promised coldly.

“Do you hear that, Gideon?” Morgan asked, making a point. “He means it.”

“I do mean it,” Dean confirmed.

“This is stupid,” Sam said as he lowered his hands.

“Watch it,” Morgan warned as Sam stood to tower over him even if it was inadvertently.

“Sammy!” Dean yelled in a tone that brokered no arguments.

Sam ignored him. “Put your gun down,” he told Morgan. “Please. Before my brother blows your brains out and becomes the killer you already think he is.”

“Do it, Morgan,” Gideon pleaded.

Morgan hesitated another moment before grudgingly lowering his weapon. Dean followed suit an interminable thirty seconds later. They stared each other down even as Dean released his grip on Gideon and helped pull him to his feet.

Gideon rubbed his hand distractedly as he watched Dean shove the gun into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back and turn to grab a black tee shirt off the bed.

Still wary and more than a little bemused, Morgan holstered his weapon and glanced outside before closing the door. “So, seriously, how the hell can you be alive?” he asked as Dean tugged on the shirt as if nothing had just happened.

“I was deep undercover for the NIA,” Dean lied easily, sitting on the nearest bed and picking up a pair of worn socks from the floor. He put them on before propping himself up against the headboard since all the pillows in the room seemed to form a nest on the other bed. “By ‘killing’ me they were able to pull me out without blowing my cover.”

“Bullshit,” Morgan scoffed.

“CIA? DEA? No? Alrighty then,” Dean said with a smile. “You explain it.”

Morgan turned to Gideon who took a deep breath. “As near as I can tell Dean died and went to Hell where Sam here,” Gideon said with a gesture to the younger Winchester, “Who has abilities yet to be disclosed, brought him back to life through some sort of incantation.”

Sam shrugged sheepishly as Morgan turned to glare at him.

“So nobody is going to tell me,” Morgan complained as he pulled out his phone. “I guess we can hash this out in interrogation.”

“Put it away,” Dean grumbled. “I’m not going anywhere with you. Unless you plan to shoot me. And look how well that turned out last time. I just don‘t stay dead, do I?”

Morgan moved between the beds to turn on the lamp and get a better look at the supposed corpse.

Dean jumped at him. “Boo!”

“Prick,” Morgan groused, pulling back in spite of himself. Gideon wondered again how no one had ended up dead.

“What can we do to convince you?” Sam asked with the same earnest expression he‘d bowled Gideon over with at the diner. “Anything, you name it.”

Morgan threw up his hands and put his phone away but he didn’t look happy. “Keep talking.”

“No, dammit,” Dean swore at Sam, leaning forward and pointing a finger at Morgan. “We told him the truth, if he doesn’t believe it that’s his problem.”

“You can understand it’s a little… off putting,” Gideon implored Dean.

“Off putting? It’s the freaking after life, Jason,” Dean said. “You believe or you don’t believe.”

Suddenly Gideon had an inspiration. He moved to sit on the foot of the bed to address Dean. “You once told me you’d take me on a hunt if you could.”

“Not gonna happen. Did someone say pie?” Dean bounded off the bed to grab the bag he’d taken from Sam and with an afterthought the probably lukewarm coffee as well before returning to the same spot.

“That’s a great idea,” Sam chimed in looking first to Gideon and then to Dean.

“Don‘t even think about it,” Dean cut him off as he opened the bag from the diner. “So you don’t believe in Heaven either?” he glanced up to ask Morgan. “What? Are you like Agnostic or Atheist or whatever?”

“Oh, I believe in Heaven. I might even believe in Hell,” Morgan said as he joined Dean on the bed to reach over and grab the paper bag. “I even believe maybe you’re headed there someday. I just don’t think you’ve already been. What? No rhubarb?”

Dean yanked the bag back, ripping it in half and spilling three clear plastic containers on the bed. “Rhubarb? No. That’s like, worse than mincemeat. Here, take the… what is that? Pecan. The apple’s mine.”

Morgan popped open the container with the pecan pie and used his fingers to lift it to his mouth mostly to keep Dean guessing, or so Gideon assumed. “Not bad,” he reported. He and Dean sized each other up, again, but at least for the moment a truce was in place.

“Why not?” Sam persisted as he took a seat on the other bed. “We can show them what we do.”

“Because I said no,” Dean told him through his first bite of apple pie which he pretended to enjoy. “Blueberry?” he offered to Gideon and then Sam. “Fine. More for me,” he said when they refused.

To be continued...

Disclaimer - Images, characters, and settings taken from various television shows are the property of their respective owners, producers, etc.  No copyright infringement intended, I'm just having a little fun.