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Chapter Text

As Spencer Reid walked through the doors of the BAU, he took a moment to let the smell of printer paper and freshly brewed coffee waft towards him. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, then walked to his desk in the bullpen. He set his bag down gently on his desk and hurried to grab himself another coffee, throwing out his to-go cup in favor of a clean one. As he was pouring an obscene amount of sugar into his drink(he liked to watch it dissolve into the hot beverage), someone tapped him on the shoulder. He spooked a bit, but was able to keep himself still. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that JJ was standing behind him, bright smile beaming. 

"Spence! You're back! How's your mom doing?"

Spencer took a sip from his cup, grimacing when he could still taste a hint of bitter. He ripped open another sugar packet as he replied,

"She's doing well. Her doctors have high hopes about this new medication."

JJ nodded enthusiastically and squeezed his hand before wandering over to where Prentiss and Morgan were sitting. They were playing what looked to be a game where they flicked pieces of folded paper through the other's outstretched hands.

Prentiss sent one right between Morgan's fingertips and they both let out a hearty "Touchdown!" as JJ giggled off to the side. Spencer joined them and Morgan explained that they were playing 'paper football'. He demonstrated how to score a point, sending a small, paper triangle into the U-shape Prentiss had made. He snickers when it hits her on the forehead. She sends him a glare that could wither a flower before cracking a smile herself. Spencer is just about to attempt his first goal when the door to Hotch's office closes firmly behind him. His face is pensive as he makes his way past the desk where most of the team has gathered and walks into the briefing room, signaling that they have a case. Emily sends a smirk Morgan's way, no doubt mocking him for his loss when he is the one who played football in high school. Garcia hands each team member a file, including Rossi who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, before excusing herself whilst muttering something about cat videos. Hotch clears his throat before summarizing their case,

"Our unsubs are Sam and Dean Winchester, psychopath brothers who roam the United States, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake." Prentiss skims the file before voicing what the rest of the team is thinking, "Aren't the Winchesters dead? They were killed in a helicopter crash." Agent Hotchner set the projector's remote on the table and takes a seat.

"The Winchesters have supposedly died more than once. They were on the top of our Most Wanted List before the helicopter incident. Dean Winchester was even buried in St. Louis after a shootout with police. The brothers were able to make the cadaver's fingerprints match Dean's somehow. Do not underestimate these men, they've been playing this game for a long time. They were raised by an ex-marine, John Winchester, who moved from town-to-town with them ever since their mother was killed in a house fire. Sam was six months and Dean was four. They've always been dangerously codependent. There is no limit to how far they would go to ensure the other's safety."

The team mulls this over in silence before Morgan speaks,

"Sam went to college, though. He had a full ride to Stanford and maintained an excellent GPA. He got a 174 on the LSAT, an almost perfect score. He's highly intelligent and was all set to move forward with law school when suddenly, his girlfriend is killed in a fire in their apartment. Jessica Moore died exactly 22 years after Mary Winchester, in the exact same way. After that, Sam dropped out and hit the road with his brother. They traveled town to town committing various crimes: breaking and entering, grave desecration, a whole lot of credit card fraud, and finally, murder. Dean killed several women in St. Louis before he was supposedly shot and killed by local police. He posed as someone the women loved and waited in their houses, killing them when they returned home. The original suspect, before Dean Winchester was found, was someone Sam went to Stanford with. Once Dean's 'dead', the Winchesters move on, continuing to commit heinous crimes across America. A few months later, the Winchesters are arrested in connection with the murder of a lawyer. They were caught breaking into his office. They were interrogated but managed to escape. A little bit later, the Winchesters are arrested after breaking into a museum. They remained in jail for a few days, awaiting trial, before knocking out a guard and escaping through the vents. The case was picked up by Viktor Henriksen, who tried for a long time to track them down. He was called to Milwaukee when the Winchesters held up a bank, though they escaped by knocking out two SWAT agents and stealing their uniforms. Insurance assessments showed that nothing had been stolen. He finally received an anonymous tip and captured them, waiting in a local police station for a helicopter transport. The helicopter crashed, apparently killing all passengers. The police station was later bombed and everyone, including Henriksen, died. You weren't kidding, Hotch-they're scary good at evading arrest." 

Reid speaks next, "Considering the fact that less than .1% of inmates have successfully broken out of prison, them doing it once would be astonishing. But they've escaped custody five times. It's impossible unless they have someone on the inside. Is there any personnel crossover between their arrests?"

Garcia types quickly, eyes scanning her screen before she says, "Nada. The only people who have worked more than one of their arrests are Henriksen and his partner. I'll check for any personal connections, but it seems unlikely that they would have a close friend everywhere they've been in custody."

She does another search, looking instead for any crossover between the brothers and LEO's.

"Here's something interesting: the guard that they knocked out when they escaped from Green River County Detention Center, he served with John Winchester in the Marines. Other than that, I got zip. These boys don't have a lot of known associates."

Reid chews on the eraser of his pencil and considers the odds of these men escaping custody so many times. It doesn't make sense. A prickling feeling settles on the back of his neck-something's off.

Hotch speaks once more, "The Winchesters were apprehended in Syracuse, Utah 2 hours ago. We've been invited in by the local authorities. This is time sensitive, every minute we give them they can use to escape. Wheels up in 5."

Chapter Text

Dean Winchester is not worried. He's been doing this dance with the cops ever since he got arrested for stealing that bread for Sam. He sighs and looks up into the fluorescent lights of the interrogation room. Tipping the chair onto its two rear legs, he puts his cuffed hands behind his head. He knows that the best way this turns out is if the feds think he's crazy. They already do, but projecting an air of nonchalance can't hurt. He tries not to think of Sammy, no doubt chained to a hard-ass chair same as he is. He winks at the the one-way mirror before closing his eyes and humming softly. There's nothing Bon Jovi can't fix, and he happens to find Wanted Dead or Alive fitting. A few minutes later, the door opens and a stern-faced man walks in. Dean notices the slight tension in his shoulders and how his spine straightens fractionally as he enters the room, subconsciously puffing out his chest. To his credit, the man is almost unreadable-Dean's just a little more perceptive than most. This guy, no matter how solid the mask he wears, is afraid of Dean. Dean's stomach turns a bit at the thought, but his grin never falters.

The man introduces himself, "I'm Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner with the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI." Dean's familiar with the BAU, but only as a concept. He's never met one of its members. 

"I'm Dean, but you already knew that. Tell me, did you fly here all the way from Quantico just to talk to little ol' me? Because that's pretty damn flattering," he quips, folding his hands in front of him and tipping the chair back onto all fours. He stares intently at the man, searching him for any emotion other than the original fear he picked up on. Hotch ignores the better part of that statement, already knowing from the interview tapes that he deflects with humor. Hotch spreads the pictures of the bodies on the table for Dean to see, checking or a reaction. Dean doesn't smile or gloat or do anything that the profile says he would. The only visible response is the man paling for a second-just one-before plastering that self-assured smirk back on. Dean hates looking at the bodies, they just remind him of everyone he couldn't save.

Hotch notes the momentary crack in the man's facade before returning to the matter at hand, "As of now, we don't know how many murders you and your brother have committed since he left Stanford, though we estimate it's at least one hundred. There's no saying how many before that, either. You're looking at a long time in prison, Dean, maybe the death penalty depending on where you stand trial. It doesn't look good for you, so you might as well tell us which victims we don't know about so we can inform their families. Surely you can sympathize with losing someone you love?" Though Hotch knows that Dean can't actually sympathize, his psychopathy won't allow it, he's hoping that he can provoke some sort of reaction by mentioning Mary.

Dean looks down, avoiding Hotch's burning gaze and does what he does best-deflects, "Are the monkey suits required or do you actively choose to dress like that?" It comes out as a snarl. Aaron sighs, instead of the outburst he was hoping for, all he got was a throwaway comment. He gathers his papers and leaves, trying to figure which of his teammates has the best chance of getting Dean to talk

 Sam Winchester will never get used to being arrested. It seems that every time someone handcuffs him, they're more aggressive. He looks down at the red rings forming beneath the manacles and sighs, trying to figure out how they would get out of this one. The door opens and a woman with long, brown hair walks in. Struts, actually. She practically radiates confidence. She sits down and introduces herself, "My name is Emily Prentiss, I'm a criminal profiler with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit." Sam is a little intimidated, which is probably the point now that he thinks about it. He leans back in his seat, trying his best not to tower over her even though he's sitting down. "Sam Winchester," he says, starting to reach for a handshake before remembering the cuffs. Emily didn't expect that, though she probably should've. Sam was on his way to being a lawyer, he was used to professional settings. And this, she thought, might be the most professional of a setting a convicted serial killer could get.

Prentiss opens the file and begins to read from it, mostly facts about his academics. Sam nods along, though he looks bored. Odd, Prentiss mused, a narcissist like him should be basking in the recognition but Sam just seems...tired.

Once she's finished talking about school, she sets the file down and looks Sam in the eye. "It must have been hard to lose your girlfriend so suddenly," she sympathizes as she watches for the apathy she had just seen from him. Surprisingly, he looks sad.

He swallows hard before replying. "It was. I miss her a lot, but I had Dean to help me through it."

Prentiss nods. "Is that what you call murdering young women in St. Louis? 'Helping you through it'?" Sam's demeanor shifts quickly, the wistful look replaced by a cold mask that gave nothing away. He stared at her for a long while, daring her to look away. She didn't, not until someone knocked on the window, signaling that her time was up. She glanced at Sam once more before turning and walking out of the room. 

The team has set up shop in Syracuse PD's conference room and they all sit at the table.

"I think we need to adjust the profile," Prentiss says, shaking her head. "Sam didn't show any signs of narcissism and was upset when I brought up Jessica. The latter could be acting, but narcissists can't just turn it off like that," she explains, massaging her temples.

"I agree," says Hotch. "Dean Winchester didn't gloat about his kills or even talk about them, really. He looked disturbed by the crime scene photos, not pleased. He deflected when I brought up the victims, so he obviously feels guilty. We didn't profile them as being capable of sympathy or even guilt, really. It just doesn't make sense." The team shook their heads as they tried to come up with a profile that would fit. After an hour, they drove back to the hotel and went their separate ways, though none of them could get the Winchesters out of their minds.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the team arrived in their government-issued SUVs just as the sun was over the horizon. They needed to get an early start on the profile and the police station was already open. Officers milled about, sipping coffee and chatting. The Winchesters were in separate holding cells, two guards each. The FBI would be damned if they were gonna let them get away again.

The BAU sat down around the large conference room table and looked over the files once more, with the exception of Reid-he had them memorized.

"Let's review," Hotch starts, bringing a marker up to the whiteboard, "Mary Winchester died in a house fire on November 2, 1983. The fire department determined the cause to be faulty wiring. Dean is 4 years old and Sam is exactly 6 months. Their father, John, spends another month in their hometown, Lawrence, before packing up and leaving. We can chart his travels from Sam and Dean's school records. They never stayed anywhere more than 2 months and mostly stuck to small towns. Despite all the moving, Sam Winchester's GPA remained a consistent 4.0. Dean dropped out when he was 17 and got his GED. John Winchester was suspected of child abuse and/or neglect by most teachers and school administrators, and has been reported to CPS at least 9 times, but he always left town before the reports could be investigated. Sam left for Stanford where he maintained a 4.0 and scored a 174 on his LSAT, near perfect, before his girlfriend died in a house fire exactly 22 years after his mom did. A few days before Jessica Moore died, Dean Winchester was arrested for impersonating a federal officer. He escaped custody, though, and has every time since. In the wake of her death, Sam dropped out of college and hit the road with his brother. This is when they started their killing spree. They've been arrested many times, but always manage to get away before they can stand trial."

Prentiss purses her lips, thinking hard about the dynamic that Sam and Dean must have.

"One of them has to be the dominant, right? Otherwise, they wouldn't have been able to continue working together for this long," Emily says.

"That's right," Hotch replies, "though figuring out which is which will be difficult. They both present as alpha males, so there has to be something about their personal relationship we're missing."

Morgan tosses his file on the table and crosses his arms, "Have you ever seen an M.O. change this much, Hotch? It's like they're 20 different people." Hotch shakes his head, brow furrowed.

Maybe if they stuck to one type of crime we'd have an easier time, he thought, but they jump all over the place. They shouldn't be organized enough to escape custody, but they've done it consistently. What are we missing? 

"Alright," JJ finally speaks up, brushing her hair out of her face, "Who's going to talk to who?"

Hotch thinks for a moment before deciding, "Morgan is out for now, he would clash with both of them. JJ should speak to Dean, she can be a maternal influence, appeal to the side of him that misses his mom. I'll talk to Sam, see if he'll respond to a father figure. If that doesn't work, we'll reconvene and come up with a new plan. Reid, Morgan, Prentiss, Rossi, I need you observing. Look at their mannerisms, reflexes, anything that'll give us a leg up on how to approach this."

The team exits the conference room, everyone knowing where they need to be. David Rossi tries to remember any other time he's been this stumped. He can't. He shakes his head and swears to himself in Italian, grabs his cup of coffee, and walks towards the interrogation room.

Sam Winchester has been awake for a few hours. He's been waiting, watching, counting the ceiling tiles. He analyzes every footstep for distance and heft, trying to prepare for who he'd need to fight. You could say he's a little paranoid, especially since they're just sitting ducks for monsters right now.

He perks up as he hears the click of shoes on the tile. They sound almost like high heels, but the noise is too round. Dress shoes, he decides, probably a man. He walks light, a trained fighter. Sam keeps an eye out for him, and a few seconds later he walks up to one of the guards. The guard, heavyset but not out of shape, unlocks the cell and grabs Sam by the shoulder. He resists the instinct to fight it, instead walking in pace with the man. They escort him to the same room as yesterday and Sam is a little disappointed to see that the fluorescent bulbs haven't dimmed a bit. Damn.

The man takes a seat, his suit wrinkling at the creases, and fixes his tie. Sam follows suit, folding his hands on the table in front of him and meeting the agent's eyes. This guy isn't as intimidating as the woman from yesterday, no matter what, and Sam feels himself relax fractionally.

"My name is Aaron Hotchner, I'm an agent with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. I'd like to talk about your brother, if you're willing." Sam shrugs noncommittally. He'll answer if he's comfortable. "Alright, then. Do you and your brother get along?" Sam doesn't see the point of the question, but he answers anyway,

"About as well as brothers can. He can be annoying, but that's what older siblings are supposed to do." Agent Hotchner's expression doesn't change, but he seems to file it away for later. Sam has to remind himself that these aren't normal Feds, like Henriksen; they study psychology.

Sam took an Intro to Psychology course with Jess at Stanford. She hadn't wanted to be alone and Sam was always a dutiful partner. He enjoyed it, actually, and thought that maybe if he didn't become a lawyer, he'd be a therapist. Either way he'd be helping people, and that's the goal. Looking back on what he learned in the class, Sam concluded that Hotchner probably wanted to know about the dynamics of their relationship. This wasn't covered much in the curriculum, but Sam had done research on his own.

He'd read books, especially on criminal psychology, because the subject had fascinated him. Coincidentally, one of his favorite authors was David Rossi, who he supposed was here and thought he was a murderer. 

So much for meeting your heroes. Sam leans forward to adjust how he's sitting and doesn't miss the slight change in the Fed's posture. The man flinches, not enough for the untrained eye to notice, but it's there. He's afraid of me, Sam thought. Interesting.

"Let's skip to the good part, Agent. You don't just want to know how we get along, you wanna know who the leader is. Dominant and submissive. My brother would tell you we're not kinky like that, but all murder duos have them. Well, all murder duos the BAU has profiled. But let me tell you something, Agent, you're not gonna get the answer you want because our dynamic isn't like that. We're brothers, that's it," Sam says, internally groaning at how much he sounds like Dean.

Hotch gives Sam a curt nod and leaves.

David Rossi and Morgan are standing outside, watching the interrogation. They knew Sam Winchester was smart, but they weren't expecting him to call them out on their profiling. Hotch closes the door behind him and jerks his head in the direction of the conference room. The men sit down and Rossi buries his head in his hands.

JJ sat down in front of Dean and leaned forward, trying to relay excitement. Dean doesn't react. He's whistling to himself, mostly ignoring her.

"Dean?" He turns to face her and stops whistling. "My name is Jennifer Jareau, but you can call me JJ. I'm with the BAU. I'd like to talk to you about the past few years," she sends him the most genuine smile she can muster. He returns her with a grin that makes her stomach roll. Everything about him screams dangerous, and not in the sexy way. Not that he's not attractive, he's just a serial killer.

"How was your night, Dean?" Dean settles into his chair, right arm holding his left elbow, arm extended.

"Not terrible. This place is like a hotel. There was a mint on my pillow and everything," he smirks, deflecting is what he does best.

"I'm happy to hear it. How about you tell me what you were doing in Utah before you were arrested?" Dean tries not to laugh because she's talking to him like a kindergartener. Sure, he's got mommy issues, but they're not this bad.

"Well, Sammy and I were gonna go skiing down at Alta, but there wasn't enough snow. So, we just hung around and took in the sights. We drove around and checked out some of the national parks, and we stayed in a little town called Kanab." This is complete bullshit and they both know it, but JJ just keeps on smiling.

"That sounds nice. Could you tell me how the police got involved?"

Dean changes positions, crossing his arms and leaning back, "Well, I suppose someone recognized us from the old wanted posters we were on. Or maybe they just don't like us here in Mormon Land, who knows?" He chuckles a bit, but it sounds hollow.

JJ raises her eyebrows. "I'm sure the serial murder has something to do with it," she deadpans, all kindness gone. She can't keep up the act. He smiles an actual smile.

"Finally. You sounded like a goddamn preschool teacher. I was about to shoot myself from all the patronization. I know every cop and Fed in their right mind hates me and my brother. We're serial killers, it makes sense," he says, exasperation staining the words. JJ doesn't know what to say that, so she just nods. "I know what y'all really wanna hear," he continues, "you wanna know why we do it, how we do it, who we've done it to. But I'm afraid I can't help you there. My lips are sealed. However, if you want to talk about something else, I'm game. Music, sports, your ideal date—they all sound like much better topics. Plus, you strike me as a gal who likes football."

Dean doesn't mention that the only thing they really kill is monsters, so it's less of a who and more of a what. These people deal with human crazy all the time, they don't need to be worrying about supernatural shit too.

JJ tries not to think too hard about the fact that she does like football. Instead, she writes it off as a throwaway comment. She also ignores the flirtation.

The guy's charming, she'll give him that much, but there's something so incredibly unnerving about him. Maybe it's his dead eyes, a constant thousand-yard stare. Maybe it's the hundreds of scars littering his arms up until the cuffed sleeves of his flannel. Maybe it's the fact that he's an unsub, a murderer, serial killer, criminal and she's an FBI agent. Or maybe it's the fact that somehow, she feels a little bad for him.

There's something behind the dullness of his eyes that winks at her like a quarter at the bottom of a fountain. It's not the regular, evil glint their unsubs have. This is different, fiery, but surrounded by such intense sadness that it chills her to her core. It's so strong that she can't stare him in the eye. If she did, she'd get sucked in and she's scared she'd never leave.

So she does what anyone would do: she speed walks out of the room and into the hallway, trying to will her heart to start beating again.

Chapter Text

The rest of the team had reconvened in the conference room by the time JJ stumbled in. She braced herself against the table, knuckles white with the strain of her weight. Spencer shoots her a questioning look, trying to figure out what's wrong.

JJ meets his gaze and shakes her head, taking deep breaths and steeling herself, "I think Hotch should talk to Dean again. He didn't respond at all to my motherly approach. In fact, it irritated him. I think he responds better to tough love. Get straight to the point with him, sir, and you might get results. Dancing around him has gotten us nowhere."

Hotch takes a moment to think it over before nodding, "Let's try Reid talking to Sam. Maybe he'll respond better to a submissive personality. No offense, Reid."

Reid shakes his head, "None taken." Hotch and Spencer leave the room to talk to the brothers and the team, sans JJ, follow. JJ pours herself another cup of coffee and tries to make sense of the raw humanity she saw in Dean. She shivers and goes to watch Sam's interrogation. She needs a break from the eldest Winchester.

Dean looks up as the hard-ass agent from the day before walks in.

He smirks, "Guess you just can't get enough of me, huh? No shame in it, man, I'm quite the catch." Dean sends a wink his way. Hotch's face doesn't register a reaction, just as cold as the first time they talked.

He sits down once again. "Your father, John Winchester, was a marine. He served in the Vietnam War before he met your mother. After she died, he raised you and your brother to be soldiers, fighting his imaginary war. He's been flagged for abuse or neglect in 9 states. Did your father hit you, Dean?" Dean sets his jaw. His eyes smolder at the implication but his smirk doesn't waver.

"Nah, but I bet you a buck yours did, G-man."

Though Hotch's face remains smooth and unreadable, he recoils at the unsub's tone. If there's one thing Dean's sure of about this man, it's that he's got a tragic backstory. Something hunters and feds have in common: there's always something that gets you into the life. There's a reason they sent this guy to talk to him.

Sure, maybe it's because his demeanor resembles his father's, but it could also be his story is similar to what they think Dean's is. Sometimes decisions like that are subconscious. Like the man's uncontrollable, but admittedly small, flinch that told Dean he'd hit the nail on the head.

Inside, he feels bad for the guy, no one deserves abuse. But his smirk on the outside only grows. "That's it, huh? That's why they sent you to talk to me? I'll give it to you man, you've got a great poker face and you're good at your job. I know your unit has a damn near perfect solve rate. But the problem is, everything y'all know about people comes from a book. Sometimes that ain't enough. Sorry about your dad, though. Sounds like an asshole."

Dean really is sorry, but he tries not to let any sympathy seep into the words. Hotch is frozen. He doesn't understand how Dean Winchester, the murderer, the unsub, figured it out. He was controlling his micro expressions, he knows that. Sure, he flinched a little at the accusation but that couldn't have been pronounced enough for Dean to pick up on it, right? Then he pushes those thoughts aside because he realizes that the team now knows. They know about his dad, his longest kept secret. Intellectually, he knows there's no shame in it. He was a kid and the man's dead now, can't hurt anyone anymore so there's no reason for Aaron to feel so upset. But knowing something and accepting it are two very different things. His mask slides back into place, firmer than before. He will not let Dean win.

"We're not here to talk about me or my family, Dean. We're here to talk about you and yours. And at the end of the day, your family are murderers. We have enough evidence to charge you and we will shortly. But before we do, we'd like to know what other atrocities you've committed, if only to inform the families of the people involved. There are a lot of people who need closure and you're the only one who can ensure they get it." Aaron is trying to instill a false sense of importance—responsibility—in Dean, hoping that the soldier in him will respond to it.

But the man doesn't reply, just leans back and starts singing to himself, "We come from the land of the ice and snow. From the midnights sun where the hot springs blow..." He's drumming the beat on the table. Hotch sighs, but doesn't move. This is one of Led Zeppelin's shorter songs, so he waits it out.

He cuts Dean off as he starts on Back in Black, "Big rock fan?"

Deans nods, he's damn proud of his music even if Sammy doesn't appreciate its beauty.

"I get the feeling you're a fan of the classics. Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, your car," Hotch has thrown the profile out completely, trying for anything he can use. Leveling with Dean might get him that. "What year is it, '65?"

Dean shakes his head, "1967 Chevy Impala, best damn car out there." Hotch doesn't know what else to say, so he gathers his things and leaves after giving Dean a small nod. 

Nothing about this makes sense.

Spencer shuffles into the interrogation room, visibly agitated. He doesn't talk to unsubs often—he's not very good at it. But his only job here is to connect with Sam on an intellectual level and he's good at that.

Sam looks up at him. The guy they sent looks too young to be an FBI agent. How old is he, 20? 

Sam can't imagine dealing with serial killers so young. Monsters make sense, humans are just scary. Though, he supposes, making sense of human crazy is the BAU's job.

"Hello. My name is Spencer Reid, I'm with the BAU. I'd like to talk with you, is that alright?" Spencer's tone is gentle. Sam decides he likes this one.

"Be my guest," he gestures to the chair and Spencer takes his seat.

"You know, serial murder is fairly rare, comprising only 150 of the annual 15,000 U.S. murders a year. That's less than 1%."

Statistics are what Spencer knows. It's instinctual for him to fall back on facts and figures when he's uncomfortable or anxious.

Sam nods, "They say the average person walks by 36 serial killers in their lifetime. Most of them don't even know it." Reid can't help but be a little excited that he's found someone else to talk about statistics with, even if he is an unsub.

"And in 2010, there was an estimated 1,246,248 violent crimes in America."

Sam knows this figure, he follows the FBI's yearly reports, "And excluding traffic violations, there were about 13.1 million arrests made that year by various law enforcement agencies."

Reid is nodding furiously, this is exactly what he was supposed to do. He was supposed to 'geek out' with Sam, as Morgan put it.

"You know, Stanford is an extremely hard university to get in to with a 4.3% acceptance rate, especially a full ride. Only .2% of all American college students receive financial aid upwards of $25,000. You maintained a 4.0 GPA despite never staying at one school for more than 2 months. That's exceptional, Sam. You should be pretty proud of yourself."

Sam shrugs, he's heard this spiel from Jess, sans the high school part. She never knew about how often they moved around or why.

"I bet your family was happy," Spencer doubts this, but he needs Sam to open up.

"Nah, my dad kicked me out when he found out I was going to school. He told me that if I was gonna go, I should stay gone. He never saw much use in getting a degree. Dean was proud, though." 

That makes sense, Reid thinks, a father obsessed with his crusade would view his son seeking higher education as a betrayal. He'd lash out at Sam for straying the course. He'd probably cease all contact. Dean, on the other hand, is obviously codependent on his brother. He'd do anything to get him back. To do that, he'd have to get rid of what ties Sam to Stanford: Jessica. Her death would drive Sam right back into his arms. 

Reid is sure he's figured out at least some part of this. "I'm glad you have a brother that appreciates you, even if your father didn't." Sam's eyes fill with sorrow at the mention of John's death. 

He's obviously upset about it. That doesn't make sense, Reid muses, Sam should be glad that his dad is dead. The man's delusion shouldn't allow for love of any kind; he's completely mission-oriented. Sam and John''s personalities would clash too much for him to feel any affection for his father. Dean, on the other hand, was the perfect soldier. He never went to college, never strayed, probably never questioned an order. Regardless of if he loved his father, his sense of duty would leave him unhinged after John's death. He would have become dependent on having someone to report to, a role that Sam probably filled. He became the commander in his father's stead. That means that Sam is the dominant in their relationship. 

Reid is roused from his thinking by a sharp rap on the window. He gives Sam a quick goodbye before leaving, confident that he's worked out the dynamics. He finds the rest of his team in the conference room.

Hotch is sitting at the head of the table, staring off at nothing. JJ is giving him worried glances every few minutes, but doesn't say anything. Prentiss' head is in her hands and Morgan is flipping through the Winchester file again. Rossi is looking at something on his phone, but he doesn't seem terribly invested in it. Reid takes a seat and everyone looks up.

"Hey, Spence," JJ says softly, her gaze kind. "How'd your talk go?"

Reid takes a deep breath before he answers, "It went well. We exchanged statistics and he told me a little about his father. I think I've figured out who the leader is: it's Sam. The first part of the brother's lives was dominated by their father, he made all the decisions. Dean never questioned him, he followed every order. But Sam didn't agree with his father's way of living. He got out, went away to college. Sam told me his dad kicked him out when he found out Sam was going to college. John probably cut Sam off completely. But Dean is fiercely codependent on Sam—he's the protector. He felt abandoned when Sam went away. So he killed Jessica to force his brother back into the life. With nothing keeping him at Stanford, he joined Dean on the road once again. Dean was still following his father's orders and Sam would do whatever his brother wanted. He was distraught; he'd loved Jessica. His brother used that to his advantage, molded Sam into the soldier his father always wanted him to be. When their dad died, Dean lost all direction. Sam stepped into his father's shoes and gave the orders. Everything they did after that was Sam's call. That's why they're so hard to profile, their roles switched." Reid is out of breath but satisfied. He looks around and Morgan gives him a proud smile.

Hotch, seemingly snapped out of his funk, finally speaks, "Good job, Reid. I think that's a plausible theory given the circumstances. But I'm not sure if it applies here. I don't think Dean really takes orders anymore. A dominant plays off of a submissive's insecurity, but Sam reads as more insecure than his brother. However, I cannot definitively say he's the submissive. I don't know what works here short of them both being dominants. But we've never seen a pair of dominants who were able to maintain a partnership this long. They would've parted ways or killed each other by now. It's possible that their bond as brothers prevented that, but I don't think it's just that."

Rossi gives an exasperated sigh and scrubs his hand over his face before taking a little black notebook from his pocket and flipping through it. He jots a few things down quickly but doesn't say anything. Reid reaches down to adjust his socks. JJ drums her fingers against the coffee cup in her hands, brow knit and face pensive. Hotch has his hands folded in front of him and he's staring at them as if they hold the meaning of life. Morgan gets up to grab a drink and Prentiss follows him.

They approach the water cooler silently. Derek hands Emily a plastic cup before filling his own.

Emily pauses before asking the question that's been weighing on her since she watched Dean's interview, "Did you know?" Morgan takes a sip.

"No, and there's never been any reason to suspect it. But if there's ever been a time that I wanted to break the no-profiling rule, it's now. My question is, how did Winchester know?" Emily shakes her head.

"No clue. As far as I could tell, Hotch didn't give any indication that he had a personal connection to the questions he was asking. Unless Winchester is better at reading micro expressions than a trained team of behavioral analysts, I'd say it's magic."

They think over the events of the day a little longer before returning to the conference room. It's gonna be a long night.

Chapter Text

   Spencer had noticed something off about the rest of the team as soon as he had returned from his talk with Sam. When Morgan and Prentiss left, he surveyed the room more closely. Everyone was on edge, but Hotch especially seemed to be off in his own world. Rossi was muttering to himself in Italian—Reid caught a few words here and there because of its similarity to Latin—and JJ was drumming her fingers absently, gaze boring into the file in front of her.

Finally, Spencer bit the bullet, "What happened?" He tries to catch one of his colleagues' eyes but finds none. Hotch stands abruptly and leaves. JJ leans over and puts her hand on Spencer's arm.

"Winchester brought up Hotch being abused by his father during the interrogation. I don't know how he knew, considering none of us did, but with how Hotch has been acting...it's true," she says softly as if the words could reach their leader where he was standing on the other side of the station.

Reid blinks once, twice, then nods. He starts to review his memories of Hotch, slowly analyzing every behavior, tic, and mannerism he's ever seen the man exhibit.

"Spence, don't," JJ says, "We don't profile each other, especially not right now. That's not what Hotch needs." Rossi nods but stays silent. He's known Hotch the longest of all of them and thus, is the most disturbed by the unsub's revelation. They sit in silence until Morgan and Prentiss return.

   Sam sits under the piercing glow of fluorescent lights, eyes perpetually squinting.

If I  knew that the police were gonna pick us up, I wouldn't have suggested coming out to Utah.

He sighs, that's a lie . The werewolf had killed five people already, it needed to be done. This sucks any way you slice it but at least we’ve killed a monster. Another in an infinite line. A hunter's job is never done.

Sam has been stewing in this concrete room for at least an hour. The scrawny agent, Spencer, had left hastily. Sam could only hope his brother hadn't offended the BAU too badly. He was good at that.

He was trying to keep himself busy by sorting through useless knowledge from middle school: Prophase, Metaphase, Anaphase, Telophase, Cytokinesis, Daughter Cells. 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, etc. Stratus, Cumulus, Nimbus, Cumulonimbus, Cirrostratus, Nimbostratus, Stratocumulus. Actinium, Aluminum, Americium, Antimony, Barium, Berkelium, Beryllium...Bismuth! Bohrium, Boron, Bromine, Cadmium, Calcium, Californium, Carbon, etc . Right before he can get to Cerium, the lights flicker. Shit. Okay, chill out. This may just be lights flickering for no reason. Fluorescent lights do that sometimes. But with our luck, honestly, what are the chances?

His inner monologue is cut off by another flicker and he searches the room for something to pick the lock of his handcuffs with-he's no good bound. 

Under the table, just beside the frontmost leg lies a small paperclip. Sam reaches to grab it, then sheds his manacles, rubbing his irritated wrists. The lights are just plain flashing by now. He peeks through the window of the door and, when he sees no one, makes his way down the hall. He follows the signs on the walls to the other interrogation room, thankful that there’s no one talking to his brother right now.

He knocks lightly on the door and watches as Dean’s head snaps up, guard falling immediately when he registers the familiar face. Sam enters the room as quickly and quietly as possible, passing his brother the paperclip. He watches as Dean deftly picks the lock, only a few seconds faster than Sam himself had, and then ducks to avoid his brother patting him on the head. It doesn’t work.

“We got a problem, Dean.” Sam points at the still flickering light and his brother rolls his eyes and curses. “You think you could call Cas? He kinda still thinks I’m an abomination and all that.”

Dean nods and bows his head in a quick prayer, then,

“You called?” Castiel stands just to the right of the table, trenchcoat still swaying from his flight.

“Y’know, Cas, we coulda used you a few days ago when the cops were busting down our door.”

The angel tilts his head to the side, “You were not in any immediate danger.”

Sam takes his chance to speak, “Are we now?”

Castiel looks to the left, considering. “I feel the presence of at least three demons within this building.” Now it’s Sam’s turn to curse.

Dean claps Castiel on the shoulder, “Alright, up and at ‘em. Let’s gank these SOBs before they kill the nice Feds.” The three of them leave the room, cautious and guarded.

There are three signs that something is wrong.

The first that Spencer notices is that the lights are flickering, first every so often, then near constantly.

That’s odd. It can’t be a bulb burning out because every light is flickering. Maybe there’s something wrong with the breaker. Spencer doesn’t get a chance to mention it because the second weird thing happens.

A scream cuts through the station and all heads snap up instantly. Spencer’s teammates all draw their guns and snap to attention, looking for the source of distress.

The third thing might be the weirdest of them all. A man walks through the bullpen, slow and deliberate, and no one stops him. Actually, now that he looks closer, no one is moving. It’s as if time has stopped. As the man draws closer, Spencer can see that something is very wrong with the man’s eyes. They have no pupils. Or, rather, they’re all pupils.

Spencer knows just when the rest of the team sees it too because Morgan whispers, “What the hell?” The man’s smile turns malicious, as if he’d heard it, and two black-eyed women round the corner behind him. Before the BAU can take action, though, a gunshot rings through the air and the man’s body recoils.  A wound that would otherwise be gushing blood is smoking and it smells faintly as if someone left their bacon in the frying pan too long. Spencer’s nose wrinkles at the foul odor.

From the direction of the gunshot comes, “How do you like that, you black-eyed bitch?” Spencer recognizes Dean Winchester’s voice and the rest of the team turns in his direction, the strange man forgotten momentarily.

Dean Winchester cocks his shotgun, a casing clinking as it hits the ground, and he and his brother fire in unison, this time hitting the two women. They snarl at the unsubs, baring their teeth like wolves, before their lips quirk into a grin.

“Sam and Dean Winchester, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Almost as much of a pleasure as it will be to hear you scream while I tear the flesh from your bones,” the blonde one on the left says, voice tinted by a mocking tone.

What? Are these other unsubs? Have the Winchesters crossed paths with them before? No, she said they hadn’t met yet. And who’s the man in the blue tie? How did he get here? And furthermore, how did the Winchesters get out? And where did they get those guns? Spencer almost misses Dean’s response as a million questions flit through his mind.

“You’ve heard of us, then?”

The brunette answers this time, “I don’t think there’s a demon in Hell who hasn’t. You guys are kind of famous, which will make it so much more satisfying to be the ones who finally drag you into the pit.” Dean grins a manic sort of grin.

“Y’know, plenty of y’all have tried. Have you heard what happened to them?” The demons don’t say anything, remaining silent as all three advance. Sam nods his head towards the man in the coat and he walks toward the “demons”, placing his hand on the first one’s head. The man screams as his eyes flash white and he falls to the ground, the only thing remaining a limp body and scorched sockets. The same thing happens to the two women. 

   Morgan is the first to break the silence. “Okay, what the Hell just happened? Where did they come from? Where did this guy come from? How did you get out? How did they get in?”

The man in the blue tie nods at the brothers, “If that’s all, then I’ll be going,” and he’s gone in an instant. Spencer feels the compulsion to pinch himself, but manages to suppress it.

Hotch turns to the Winchesters, “Drop your weapons and keep your hands where I can see them.” Sam and Dean’s guns clatter to the ground in near perfect unison, and they both get on their knees as Sam speaks, hands behind his head.

“Okay, okay. Sorry about that. Just had to make sure they couldn’t hurt anyone. I know you’re all probably confused right now, but if we go somewhere a little more private, we’ll explain everything.”

Morgan puts away his gun to cuff them, then shrugs, “They gotta go back to their cells anyways.” Everyone but Hotch holsters their weapons before walking the Winchesters to the holding cells. Hotch’s eyes remain careful and his posture rigid. His breathing has calmed and his lips press together in a firm line.

   Once they arrive and the boys are behind bars, he finally lowers his gun.

“Talk,” Hotch says. It’s not a bark, but it’s a damn near thing.

“Alright, man. You’re not gonna believe me, but the assholes with the black eyes? Those were demons. From Hell. And the guy in the trenchcoat was Castiel. He’s an angel: wings, halo, whole kit and caboodle. He smited the demons. Smite? Smote? Whatever. They’re gone now. You’re safe.” Spencer looks at his colleagues, gaging their reactions. Prentiss and Morgan’s eyebrows are practically through the roof, Hotch’s face is dark, JJ looks concerned, and Rossi seems to be praying.

The Winchesters don’t come across fanatical or deranged, just tired. They don’t look like they’re indulging a fantasy. They look like they’d rather be doing anything but having this conversation. Which, to be fair, most people prefer not having to talk to government agents at all. But this is peculiar and it’s just one more thing that doesn’t fit the profile.

Reid’s brow furrows, and Prentiss says, “Why should we believe that?” Dean gives Sam an annoyed look and mouths something that looks like I told you so .

Sam shakes his head before turning back to the BAU, “You shouldn’t. Anyone with half a mind would call us crazy and be done with it. But you saw their eyes and what Cas did to them. Do you have any plausible explanation besides something implausible ?” Spencer, despite his near encyclopedic knowledge, can’t seem to come up with anything. He slowly shakes his head.

Morgan looks from him to the Winchesters and says, “So what? We’re just supposed to trust you because we don’t know what happened? Everything’s peachy and you guys aren’t murderers?”

Dean shrugs, “We don’t murder humans. We were raised to gank any monster we find: ghosts, wendigos, werewolves, vamps, rougarous, demons, and a whole bunch of others that we don’t need to get into. Killing people is literally the opposite of what we’re trying to do here. The goal is for everyone to survive. But we don’t normally catch wind of a monster until they’ve killed some poor son of a bitch, and that sucks. And, in all honesty, it makes us look pretty bad to folks like you. But we aren’t crazy and we aren’t murderers. We were fully prepared to just escape like normal and you guys could continue on your merry way without any knowledge of what goes bump in the night. But those demonic dicks kinda ruined that.” 

 Hotch takes a deep breath. Then another.

“Okay. Alright, I believe you.”

Morgan looks incredulous, “Just like that? Hotch, these guys are murderers. Everything proves that.”

Hotch shakes his head, “No, it doesn’t. Maybe the reason the profile doesn’t make sense is because there’s nothing to profile. Look back on it: we were searching for a dynamic that would allow two serial killers to collaborate for prolonged periods of time without one calling the shots or killing the other. But if they’re just brothers, they don’t need a dynamic. There’s no patterns or devolution. This is more akin to hunting animals than humans, right?” He looks to Dean for confirmation and he nods. “Then it’s a logical assumption.”

Prentiss starts, “Occam’s Razor: the simplest explanation is often the best one.”

Reid jumps in, “That’s actually a common misinterpretation. The concept of  Occam’s Razor, ‘entities should not be multiplied without necessity,’ means that when comparing theories, one must assume that the one with the least complications is the most plausible, though it is not meant to actually be a method of selecting correct hypotheses. It’s really more of a guideline. A sort of philosophical troubleshooting, if you would.”

Everyone takes two seconds to stare at him, and he looks away sheepishly. Sam’s eyes, though, hold more marvel than judgement.

Hotch steps toward the cell and, after looking to his teammates for objections, unlocks the door and then the brothers’ handcuffs.

“Thanks,” Sam says, and Dean mumbles something to that same effect. They glance at the agents: Morgan and JJ hanging back, cautious, Hotch’s stare penetrating but posture less rigid, Prentiss and Rossi tracking the Winchesters’ movements lazily, and Spencer gazing at them in wonder.

They look at each other, then, “So, what do we do now?” 

Chapter Text

The Winchesters and the BAU are huddled around the table in the conference room, filling in the blanks in their files. 

“Alright, so, the murders in Louisiana?” Morgan asks Dean.

“Goddamn shapeshifter. Stole my face and killed as many people as it could. It got shot still looking like me, and that’s what they buried.”

JJ cuts in, “The bank robbery?”

Sam chuckles, “Believe it or not, that was another shapeshifter. See, a shapeshifter’s eyes give off a weird glow when caught on camera, and we’d figured out that someone at the bank was one by watching the security footage. Unfortunately, so had Ronnie, but he thought it was a ‘mandroid’. We were all set to take care of it when Ronnie burst into the bank with a gun and took everyone hostage. Eventually, we managed to gank the damn thing and escape before we could be arrested, but Ronnie didn’t make it. Sniper shot the poor guy.”

“So, when a shapeshifter assumes another’s form, does it perfectly mimic their DNA? I mean, it must if the coroner was able to match its prints to yours, but what else does it copy? Does it also take memories? Because if it did, it’d have to form some sort of telepathic link with the victim. Speaking of which, the victim would have to be alive, wouldn’t it? I mean, telepathy is one thing, but posthumous telepathy? That’s just impossible. There’d be no brain activity to receive. Though, I suppose if we accept the existence of ghosts and spirits, they must still have some sort of consciousness or awareness. But with no functioning frontal lobe, how do they even experience thought? How would-”

Morgan taps him on the shoulder, “Woah, woah. Calm down, nerd boy. Not everyone’s always going a mile a minute. You gotta slow it down.”

Sam smiles, “That’s alright, Agent Morgan, I got it. To answer your questions, yes, shapeshifters can perfectly mimic anyone’s DNA, but they have to have been in physical contact with the person first. As for the memory thing, the shapeshifter knew everything Dean did, but it had to keep him alive to maintain the link. As far as we know, they do not retain the victim’s memories after they die. The ghost thing is a little harder to answer. Truth be told, we don’t know everything . Ghosts are a fairly common phenomena, but there are just so many different types. We do know that they all have one thing in common: a tether. All ghosts are kept in the mortal plane by something. It could be their corpse or biological remains, something of sentimental value, an element of their death, or something else. I don’t quite know how ghosts retain consciousness with no real brain. I can say, however, that most of the ghosts we face have very limited awareness of who they are or what they’re doing. Vengeful spirits are ghosts trapped in our world by unfinished business who devolve to the point of madness. I’d liken it to rabies, at some point the need for revenge or justice overcomes all other trains of thought and it becomes their sole focus.”

They go on like this for a little while, normally with Reid talking circles around the rest of his team and Sam being the only one who even has a clue what’s being said. But eventually, they’ve answered all the questions the BAU has for them.

Hotch, ever the professional, shakes both their hands. “I’d like to thank you both very much for your time and sincerely apologize for this misunderstanding. We’re grateful for the information you’ve shared with us and glad you’re not murderers.”

Sam and Dean both nod, “You’re not so bad yourself, G-man. Bit of a hardass, maybe, but we can fix that.” 

Sam smiles at Hotch and kicks Dean in the shin. He winces but manages to keep his composure. 

“We appreciate all that you and your team have done for us, Agent Hotchner. Please call us anytime if you need help with anything or think you might’ve stumbled into our kind of case.” 

The team nods in agreement before JJ pipes up, “There is something we’ve yet to discuss though, boys. Everyone in this precinct still thinks you’re murderers. Now, I don’t know what your angel friend did to all the officers to make them forget about the demons, but I don’t think that’ll work for you two. What’re we gonna do?”

Dean grins, “I don’t know, Sammy. Think we can take ‘em?”

The brothers share a knowing smile and Dean raises his fists, “C’mon, Morgan, I know you’ve wanted to go against me since you got here.”

Morgan mirrors Dean’s stance, “You’re on, man.”

Sam and the rest of the BAU look on amusedly before getting to work staging the Winchesters’ daring escape.

Yeah, Sam thought, just another day in the life.