Chapter Text
BAU
“Good morning, my fabulous furry crime fighting friends…”
Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia bustled into the briefing room, clutching her ever-present tablet and the screen remote, as the assembled Behavioural Analysis Unit murmured their own greetings in return.
“I hope you’ve all slept well, because we’ve got a doozy of a case in Colorado,” Garcia pointed the remote to the screen, “and all these… icky… photos are now available on your tablets as well for your viewing displeasure.”
“We’ve been invited in by the local PD,” Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner took over the briefing as the rest of the team examined the crime scene photos curiously, “In the last four weeks, four bodies have been found in remote, isolated areas around a small town called Grenville. The methodology, victimology, and signature are highly unique.”
“You’re telling me,” David Rossi leaned back in his chair, idly twirling a pen between his fingers, “those burn marks… they look like…”
“Wings,” Jennifer Jareau remarked, in surprise, “they look like wings.”
Garcia pressed the button again, and four crime scene photos appeared, each taking up a quarter of the screen. Each of the four victims showed signs of extensive trauma, bearing the marks of a heavy beating and excessive violence, sprawled as they had fallen. In every case, either side of the body, the grounds, walls, furniture, any item within range, was scorched black with the distinctive outline of what appeared to be a gigantic pair of wings.
“Kind of looks like a religious iconography,” Emily Prentiss frowned a little as she peered at the screen, “We’ve seen similar signatures in the past with unsubs trying to make their victims look like angels, but nothing so… intricate.”
“It’s a unique signature alright,” JJ agreed, “no wonder the dump sites are all so isolated, it must have taken hours to do… whatever that is.”
“I’m curious as to how it was done,” as ever, Spencer Reid was speed-reading through the case notes faster than anyone else could every hope to, “according to this, there are no traces of accelerants, no indication of an ignition source… and the pattern marks are exact. No over burn, no flare, no other scorching outside of the pattern. These designs are intricate and precise; the execution is flawless.”
“That’s one of the things that’s stumped the local PD,” Hotch agreed, “as well as the fact that two of the victims were found in rooms that were locked from the inside with no indication as to how the unsub entered or exited the room. As you can see, the first victim was found in an alley way, the second in an unoccupied apartment that was about to be rented out, the third in a motel room, and the fourth in a vacant parking lot. The second and third victims were found in rooms locked from the inside… the second victim was on the fourth floor, and although the third was on the ground floor, in all cases, all the windows were locked from the inside.”
“If it wasn’t for the beatings and stab wounds I’d be wondering if there was an unsub at all,” Rossi mused, “I’d be considering some sort of mass suicide pact, and perhaps the victims put the wing designs there themselves… but the coroner’s report is conclusive. Someone did this to them.”
“The design is too consistent to have been done by different people,” Reid noted, picking up the printouts of the photos from the middle of the table, spreading them out, “the shape and style are too similar… yet not identical.”
“Meaning…?” Morgan prompted.
“I think each of these designs was done by hand,” Reid replied, frowning slightly, “I thought at first that maybe the unsub used some kind of stencils, but… look at how the design is placed; each wing is proportional to the victim’s body size, the spread and feather placement vary, and each pattern appears to be burned evenly across a variety of surfaces including wood, metal, stone, asphalt, ceramic tile… look at how the parking lot victim’s burn marks have gaps in. Local police had to rebuild the pattern like a jigsaw because it was seared onto pieces of litter that originally surrounded the body but shifted in the wind… which implies that somehow the unsub did this with remarkable speed.”
“The signature certainly warrants investigation,” Pretiss used her thumb to push back a strand of her long hair as she spoke, “what about the victims themselves?”
“Hotch, you said the victimology was unique,” Derek Morgan was scrolling through the photos on his tablet, “I’m seeing a middle-aged African-American woman, an older Hispanic man, a blonde, white woman in her early twenties, and an Asian man in his early forties. I’d say our killer doesn’t have a type, so what’s the connection?”
“Gloria Nthembako was a social worker in Nebraska,” Garcia replied, clicking the button to zoom in on each victim as she spoke, “she was married with three children and sang in her local church choir. Ricardo Chavez was a pastor in Kansas, unmarried, but deeply committed to the church he’s been leading for the past forty-two years. Helen Dunn, recently married and dedicated carer to her elderly mother and an active member of a number of her local church groups. Harry Cho was also married with two kids in Phoenix, Arizona, and ran a Christian charity group to fund mission work overseas.”
“So they were all generally considered to be good people,” Rossi noted, “family orientated, religious…?”
“Absolutely,” Garcia nodded, “all of them were either deeply involved in churches or Christian ministry of some kind. Here’s the weird thing, though… a couple of years ago, every single one of them just… disappeared.”
Another click of the screen brought up images of missing persons reports and witness statements, eliciting murmurs of surprise from several of the team members.
“It gets more interesting,” Hotch interjected, “each of these victims apparently suddenly just got up and walked out of their homes or jobs without a word on the exact same day. November 10th, 2013.”
“Why does that date sound familiar…?” Prentiss mused.
“The meteor shower!” Reid exclaimed, “That was the day there was a meteor shower visible across virtually the whole world, it was unpredicted and unprecedented and scientists still haven’t fully explained where it came from and how it was visible across the whole planet.”
“Yeah… and shortly afterwards, each of these four people seemingly willingly walked out of their lives and were never heard from again until they each appeared dead in Grenville – a failing logging town with a dwindling population and limited resources,” Garcia nodded, “it’s as if they fell off the face of the earth and just rematerialised in Colorado as, ugh… dead bodies with wing shapes burned around them… and all exactly one week apart. This is a whole different level of creepy, even for us.”
“This is highly ritualised,” Rossi commented, using his tablet to zoom in and examine one of the victims, “but I’m seeing contradictions here… the victims appear to have been beaten, cut up, stabbed… it’s disorganised, violent, messy. Then once the victim is dead, the unsub takes the time to burn a complex pattern onto every available surface with absolute precision; it’s organised, clean, clinical even… and we have no clue as to how it was even done.”
“There are a lot of questions we need to answer to build a profile on this one,” Hotch agreed, “we’re going to need to dig deep into the victims themselves, they’re as much a mystery as our unsub at the moment. We’re going to need to assess the crime scenes and in particular these wing patterns, and we need to do the usual profiling on our unsub.”
“Every killer has motive, pathology, pattern, predictable behaviours,” Morgan nodded, “there has to be a rational explanation for everything we’re seeing, we just need to find it.”
Hotch gave a tight nod of his own; “Agreed. Dean your go bags. Wheels up in twenty.”
SPN
In the War Room of the Men of Letters Bunker in Lebanon, Kansas, Dean Winchester was in no mood for an argument. He clasped his hands together, leaning forwards in his chair, narrowing his eyes into the kind of intimidating glower that had most supernatural creatures running screaming for both the hills and their mothers.
The target of his ire was singularly unimpressed and unaffected, slouching back in his chair and taking a casual swig from his bottle of beer.
“I dunno what you want from me, man,” Sam shrugged, laconically, “I thought you were done.”
“It was the last piece, Sam.”
“It was mine.”
“No,” Dean held up one finger, emphatically, “no. House rules, Sam. Big brother always gets the last slice of pizza.”
“Dean… you’d already eaten eight of the twelve slices. I was still hungry.”
“It wasn’t eight…” Dean trailed off as he hesitated, counting on his fingers and then making a dismissive gesture, “point is… I always get the last slice. Period. And maybe I’m still hungry too, you ever think of that?”
“After eight slices of pizza?”
“I am a finely tuned machine, Sam, and I need my fuel.”
Sam snorted in a mixture of amusement and derision, then reached down, picking a carrier bag up off the floor from beside his chair. He placed it on the tabletop and then gave it a shove, sending it sliding to a stop just in front of Dean.
“Good job I bought pie back as well then, isn’t it?”
Dean’s eyes lit up as he delved into the bag, pulling out his prize.
“Heh-hey! There we go! All is forgiven, Sammy-boy, all is forgiven…”
“Yeah, as long as you cut me a slice of that too…”
Dean was about to reply when the door to the Bunker slammed open, and the two brothers instinctively launched to their feet, reaching for their guns… until a familiar figure appeared at the top of the stairs, banging the door closed as he stumbled through it.
“Cas…?” concern threaded through Dean’s voice as he recognised the newcomer.
“What the hell happened?” Sam’s eyes went wide as he surveyed the state of the angel.
Castiel stumbled a little but righted himself as he staggered down the stairs, clutching the handrail for support. His clothing looked even more rumpled than usual, stained with mud and ash, torn in places. His appearance was worse; cuts and bruises marred his face, and he walked with a pronounced limp as he dragged himself over to them, dropping heavily into the nearest chair, breathing heavily as if he were on the verge of collapse.
“Cas… you okay?”
“No,” the angel replied, bluntly, angling a hard look across at Dean, then visibly wincing as he did so, “I am not okay.”
“What happened to you?” Sam repeated, shocked by his battered and dishevelled appearance, “should I, um… should I fetch the first aid kit?”
“That will not be necessary,” Castiel gave a slight shake of his head, “I have come because… because I need your help.”
“Spill it,” Dean leaned back in his chair, not so subtly reaching for the pie as he did so.
“I was…” Castiel stared off into the distance, his expression going a little vacant as he clearly tried to find the right words to convey his ordeal, “I was… summoned. A very old, very strange ritual. I was dragged from where I was to a place in Colorado, when I materialised, there were three of them… three demons. But they were not… they were not normal demons.”
“How so?”
“They were stronger. Faster. More powerful… resistant to my efforts to either smite or exorcise them. They were…” Castiel hesitated, and Dean blinked in surprise; he had never seen such fear on the angel’s face before.
“They were what, Cas?” Sam’s tone was gentle, encouraging, and Castiel raised a shaking hand to press to his head in a disturbingly human gesture from the normally stoic celestial being.
“They were… enhanced,” Castiel murmured, a little distantly, “I could sense it in them. Angelic grace. It was if they had been feeding on it… corrupting it… using it to empower themselves.”
Dean shot a horrified look across at his younger brother; Sam was already opening up his laptop and typing furiously.
“They attacked,” Castiel turned his gaze towards Dean, who was staring at him in open shock, pie completely forgotten, gesturing to a wound at his throat, “they… pinned me down. They tried to drain my grace. They got some of it… not all of it. I was… stronger than they anticipated. I was able to break their warding and teleport myself away… but the effort was costly.”
“So I see,” Dean remarked, dryly, taking in his friend’s bruised countenance, “you gonna be okay?”
“It will take some time for my grace to regenerate,” Castiel sighed, “but yes, Dean. I will be fine. But I am… concerned… about these demons.”
“With good reason,” Sam chimed it, frowning slightly at his laptop screen, “according to the news reports, there have been four deaths in Grenville, Colorado, in the last four weeks. Local PD are calling it a serial killer with a unique calling card…”
“Oh, crap…” Dean groaned, dragging both hands down his face in dismay, “oh, God, no…”
“The killer leaves the victims in isolated places with a distinctive burn pattern around them… in the shape of wings. Two of the deceased were found in locked rooms.”
“Ah, hell,” Dean reached for his beer, taking a deep swig, “you know what this means?”
“It means there’s a pretty good chance this is going to attract more than just our attention,” Sam replied, catching Castiel’s quizzical look, “it means we gotta be careful – we go around flashing FBI badges, we could end up in a lotta trouble.”
“It means that the real FBI – or worse – could be involved,” sighed Dean.
“Does that mean you will not help?”
“Oh, we never said that,” Dean chuckled, humourlessly, “we just said we gotta be careful. What else can ya tell us?”
“The four other victims are indeed angels,” Castiel informed them, rolling his shoulders a little and flexing his neck in discomfort, “they simply… disappeared. Heaven was unable to locate them. It seems these demons have been using an old Enochian ritual to summon an angel, killing them, and draining their grace.”
“And I’m gonna guess that Heaven isn’t gonna do anything about it?”
“Our resources are… thin,” Castiel admitted, “I requested assistance, but…”
“You ain’t the most popular name up above,” Dean grimaced, “yeah, we know. So… it’s down to us.”
“Only if you are willing,” Castiel raised his gaze, evenly, “I cannot emphasise enough just how dangerous this will be.”
Dean glanced across at Sam, who gave a slight shrug and a nod. Dean turned to Castiel, and grinned.
“Things were gettin’ too quiet around here anyway. Count us in. Grab your gear, we’ll meet at the car in twenty.”
BAU
The flight from Quantico, Virginia to the nearest airstrip to Grenville, Colorado took just under three hours; the time passed quickly for the BAU team as they reviewed the case files and began to build the basics of a profile. Grenville was a small mountain town surrounded by dense forests; the drive from the airstrip took a couple more hours; Hotch had the team check in to the towns’ only motel first. He let them take an hour to unpack their things, shower, and refresh themselves, before they met in the car park with the two SUV’s that had been provided for the team’s use by the local PD.
“Grenville is too small to have its own police station,” Hotch told the team as they assembled around the vehicles, “There’s a local sheriff who covers multiple towns across the area, so the State police have been called in and set up a temporary HQ using the function room at the Last Stump bar downtown.”
“In a bar? Seriously?” Morgan raised his eyebrows in faint amusement.
“Welcome to small town life,” JJ smiled, “trust me – best place to be. Everything revolves around either work or the bar in a place like this.”
They split into the two vehicles, Hotch taking the wheel of one and Morgan commandeering the other. It took less than ten minutes to drive across the quiet town, pulling into the parking lot outside the bar on the edge of the forest. A tall man with broad shoulders, short-cropped dark hair and tanned skin was standing just outside the bar with his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels; his posture straightened as the SUVs parked up and the team piled out, and he approached quickly with one hand outstretched.
“Which one of you is Agent Hotchner?”
“I am,” Hotch stepped forward, accepting the hand and giving a firm shake, “you must be Lieutenant Anthony Molinari.”
“For my sins,” Molinari offered a tired smile, “thanks for coming… this your whole team?”
“Agents Rossi, Prentiss, Morgan, Jareau, and Dr Reid.”
Each of the agents nodded in turn at the introduction, and Molinari returned the greetings with sharp nod of his own.
“Well… I can’t wait to hear your thoughts on what kind of crazy we’re dealing with. Come on inside…”
Inside the car was warm, stuffy, an ancient heater rattling away in one corner. An older, grizzled man stood behind the bar, idly polishing and putting away some glassware, eyeing the suited agents with unbridled curiosity. The bar was fairly empty, just a couple of older men were playing cars at a table in the corner who added curious stares of their own, but nobody said a word as the Lieutenant Detective led them through to a room at the back. In here, tables had been dragged in to make desks that were piled high with files; extension cords trailed haphazardly around the room from multi-gang sockets that appeared almost dangerously overloaded to run laptops, screens, desk lamps, phone lines, printers, all the gear a mobile police force would need.
There were three other people in the room who raised their eyes expectantly from their workstations. Hotch glanced over each of them in turn, but his gaze was drawn to the huge notice board that dominated the back wall, covering the windows. It was bedecked with crime scene photos, labels, handwritten notes, and despite the volume of gathered information, it seemed that there was very little in the way of tangible evidence.
“Alright, everyone… the FBI are here,” Molinari clapped his hands together, “right, that’s my second, Detective Sergeant Sofia Rodriguez, that’s Detective Ethan Walker, and Detective Lamar Brooks.”
“I’m Agent Hotchner,” Hotch announced, meeting the eyes of the other three officers in the room who were eyeing the team with a mixture of relief, suspicion, and wariness, “these are Agents Rossi, Morgan, Prentiss, Jareau and Reid. We are the Behavioural Analysis Unit from the FBI. We’re here to assist you in profiling and catching this serial killer, but first we need to get up to speed on a few things… and we could do with a private place of our own to work.”
“Ain’t no room here,” Detective Brooks spread his hands wide, gesturing to the cramped space, “so we took the liberty of booking you folks an extra couple’a rooms at the motel; the owner wasn’t too happy about it but we made her take the beds out so we could fit ya in a couple’a tables for desks, already had copies of all the files and photos sent over there. Will that do the job?”
“That’s perfect, thank you,” Hotch inclined his head slightly, “we appreciate it. We’ve read the case files on the way over here, is there anything else you can add.”
“I wish,” snorted Sergeant Rodriguez, combing a hand through her short, scruffy hair, slouching back in her chair with a scowl and flicking one hand towards the board, “what you’ve seen is what we’ve got.”
“What my Sergeant means to say,” Molinari shot his subordinate a warning look, “is that there are next to no witnesses, the deaths all took place in isolated areas, and there is next to no forensic evidence. What little we do have is either inconclusive or a dead end. We’ve got so little to go on it’s why I called you guys in for the assist. A profile might be the only way we can catch this sick son of a bitch.”
“We’re trying to decide on his nickname,” Detective Walker spoke up, “personally, I like the Angel Killer, but Brooks here reckons Wingman sounds better. Rodriguez wants to go with the Sabbath Slayer…”
“… Because he always kills on a Sunday,” the Sergeant supplied.
“Actually… we try to avoid giving serial killers flashy nicknames,” JJ said, gently, “it tends to grant them the public notoriety and infamy they crave and it can prejudice the investigation by narrowing our focus or creating unintentional bias that can mean we overlook certain other patterns or signature behaviour. We prefer to keep the focus on the victims and the investigation.”
“And, yesterday was Sunday, and there was no fifth victim,” Morgan pointed out.
“At least not one that we’ve found yet,” Rodriguez countered, “sometimes takes a couple of days for the bodies to turn up, they’re usually tucked away somewhere folks don’t often go.”
“Nonetheless,” Hotch said, firmly, “no nicknames, and from this moment on, there will be no further discussing the case with the media without consulting my team first.”
“Well, what would you call him, then?”
“We use the term ‘unsub’, short for ‘unknown subject,” Prentiss replied, “we want to prevent the media from sensationalising these crimes… and to preserve the victim’s dignity as much as possible.”
“Catchy,” Rodriguez commented, dryly, “alright, Agents. So… what do you think of our unsub so far?”
“It’s too early to give a profile just yet,” Rossi shook his head, as he scrutinised the crime board and the now-familiar crime scene photos, “we need to take a closer look at a few things first…”
“Agreed,” Hotch gave a slight nod, “Rossi, you, Reid and JJ stay here. Review the files and get up to speed on anything we may have missed from the briefing notes; I’m particularly interested in any witnesses we can talk to. Morgan, Prentiss, you’re with me. Lieutenant, I’d be grateful if you’d show us the most recent crime scene.”
“Sure thing, Agents. Oh, and Rodriguez? Full cooperation, please.”
“You got it, boss.”
Molinari led them back out to the lot where he headed straight for his car, a dark blue unmarked sedan.
“Follow me.”
Hotch, Morgan, and Prentiss climbed into their SUV and Hotch followed the Lieutenant out of the lot; it took less than ten minutes to cross town, where Molinari turned into the parking lot of a shuttered-up grocery store that had clearly been empty for some time. There were burn marks around the metal security shutters and part of the roof was caved in, apparently from fire damage.
“According to the locals, a chain store tried to open up in town about a decade ago,” Molinari told them, as they exited their vehicles and regrouped, “some locals took exception and burned the place down, nobody took the rap and the chain took the insurance money and left. Been empty ever since.”
“And the victim, Henry Cho? Where was he found?”
“Over here,” Molinari led them over to a corner near the store, “local kids hang out here, usually drinkin’ and smokin’ and generally doin’ whatever kids do when there’s nothin’ else to do. Group of teens found him, freaked, and called 911.”
Hotch came to a stop and folded his arms. The body of Henry Cho had long since been removed, but the marks remained. Blood stained the asphalt, and although the scorched pieces of litter had been removed, no doubt gathered into evidence, the rest of the burned wing impression remained.
Prentiss sniffed the air and curled her nose; “Can you guys smell that? It’s like… rotting eggs.”
“Yeah, must be from all the trash,” Morgan grimaced in disgust, “now then… what have we here…?”
Derek crouched down next to the burn marks, reaching out and pressing two fingers into the scorched shape, then raised his eyebrows in surprise as he turned to look at the others.
“This isn’t just surface burning,” he remarked, “these are indented, scorched deep into the asphalt… it would take intense heat to do this.”
“Yeah,” Molinari readily agreed, “what we can’t figure out is how the, uh… unsub… managed to scorch it into the surrounding litter without either disintegrating it or setting fire to the whole lot… even pieces of paper had the scorches you see here, but somehow not enough to burn through the paper despite scouring deep into the asphalt. We just… we can’t figure it, and it’s got forensics absolutely stumped. Their supervisor actually rang me to ask if it was some kind of prank…”
“Our killer is forensically sophisticated,” Prentiss noted, walking slowly around the huge wing marks, “I’d say mid thirties to early forties for this level of organisation. I’m going to say male, but I’m not going to rule out a team at this point.”
“A team? You think there could be more than one of these sick bastards?”
“It’s a distinct possibility,” Hotch agreed, “our unsub has kidnapped victims from across the country – Henry Cho was from Phoenix, Arizona – brought them here, murdered, marked, and dumped their bodies within a week of each other. Each victim was intensely brutalised and then arranged in a highly ritualistic manner.”
“And the… wings?”
“A unique signature,” Morgan noted, “the religious iconography is obvious but our killer could have other interpretations known only to him… or to them, if we are dealing with a team.”
“This signature is highly developed and incredibly detailed,” Emily knelt on one knee beside Morgan, tucking her hair back behind her ear as she did so, “it’s so… neat. Polished.”
“Well, he’s had four attempts to get it right,” Molinari responded, wearily.
“That’s just it,” Morgan turned to look up at the Lieutenant, “I’d say he – or they – have done this before. This signature is too complete; most serials with a signature take time to develop it, refining their techniques with each victim. Signatures don’t just appear fully formed and perfected like this… there must have been other killings elsewhere.”
“Morgan, call Garcia,” Hotch ordered, “have her investigate this particular signature and see if she can find any other similar cases.”
“On it,” Morgan rose to his feet, pulling out his cellphone as he did so, hitting speed dial, “hey baby girl… yeah, momma, we made it here safe and we’re just getting started. Need you to put those perfectly manicured fingers of yours to work and do some searching for
SPN
After nearly eight hours of driving, Dean sighed with relief as he pulled into the parking lot of the only motel in town. Sam waited in the Impala, Castiel in the back seat, as Dean headed straight into the office.
“Need a couple’a rooms for the next few days,” he smiled at the old woman behind the counter, “adjoining if possible, please.”
“Sorry, son, no can do,” the woman offered him an apologetic smile, pushing her glasses back up her nose as she peered at him, “place is fully booked out.”
“What? Small town like this outta tourist season?” Dean’s eyebrows went up, “Somethin’ goin’ on in town?”
“Oh, honey, you have no idea,” the woman shook her head,” haven’t you heard? There have been murders. Four of them! Murders! In this town… been here my whole life runnin’ my daddy’s motel after he passed, God rest him, and ain’t never had a murder here before!”
“Murders?” Dean feigned surprise, “Really?”
“Four of them,” she repeated, with a serious nod, “out of towners, so I’ve heard. Funny thing is, no one knows where they came from or how they got here, only that they turned up dead with these weird wing patterns burned on the ground around them. So we’ve got the State Police in with four rooms booked, and then earlier today the honest-to-goodness FBI showed up with six rooms booked between them, and then they took over the last two rooms to use as some kind of office, I had to have the janitor move the beds into the storage unit out back. Never had the place completely booked before!”
“The police and the FBI are staying here, huh?”
“Oh, sure,” the woman nodded, enthusiastically, “sorry, hon. You could try a couple of towns north if you’re looking for a place to stay if you’re passing through?”
“Actually… we’re here on business, could really do with bein’ in the town…”
“What kinda business?”
“Uh… the private kind,” Dean replied evasively, “my, uh… client… wouldn’t like me discussing it, I’m sorry.”
“I understand,” the woman gave him a slightly suspicious look, but let it slide, “well… if you don’t mind paying a little extra compared to my rates, my cousin on the other side of town has a few apartments he lets out to seasonal loggers. It’s out of season so the place is empty, I know he’d let you a room if you want his number?”
“Oh, that’d be swell, thanks,” Dean turned on his most charming smile, “appreciate it.”
She jotted down the number and the address and handed it over with a; “There you go, dear. I’ll call Joe and let him know you’re on your way, he’ll meet you there.”
Dean thanked her again, jogging out to the car and jumping in.
“Yeah, no, we can’t stay here,” he announced, without preamble, “sorry, Mary, there’s no room at the inn, and the local wise men already got all the stables cornered.”
“Your biblical references are as flawed as ever, Dean…”
“He means the State Police and the FBI have got the whole place booked out… and even if there was a room available it wouldn’t be safe to stay this close to them,” Sam explained, with wry amusement, “are we sleeping in the car, then?”
“Nah… got us a lead on a cheap apartment downtown. Figure that’s our best bet.”
Dean drove through the town; the apartment block was a four-storey building in red brick with a crumbling façade and cracked windows. Bidding Castiel to wait in the car and stay hidden, Dean and Sam approached and rang the buzzer on the front door. A grizzled looking elderly man with shoulder-length hair, a scruffy beard and no front teeth opened the door and peered at them.
“You the drifters Gloria called about?”
“I’m Dean, this is my brother Sam. We came about a room for rent?”
“Yeah. I’m Stan, the landlord. Ground floor is mine, you’re on the fourth floor. I always let from top to bottom so I get my peace and quiet. Besides, heating’s out on the second floor and third floor electrics are dodgy.”
“The rent?”
“Two hundred a week. Cash. Up front.”
Dean grimaced, but counted out the cash, paying for the week. Stand pocketed the cash and tossed him two keys on cheap plastic fobs with “401” written on in fading black marker. Dean immediately passed one to Sam.
“There an elevator?”
“Hell no. Take the stairs or grow wings, kid.”
Stan shuffled off and slammed the door into his room; there was a lump of wood near the front door that Dean used to wedge it open. It took only a few minutes to grab their duffel bags and fetch Castiel from the car, before making their way up the flights of stairs to the two rooms on the top floor, opening the door to 401.
The space was small but functional; there was a battered couch facing a tiny, ancient television set. A tiny square table by the window had two old wooden chairs either side of it, and there was a small kitchenette to the back of the room. To the left of the front door was the bedroom; Dean and Sam both groaned at the sight of only one double bed.
“Looks like you’re on the couch,” Dean announced, firmly, tossing his bag onto the bed with authority.
Sam snorted but said nothing, dropping his bag on the floor accordingly. He had no doubt they would not be getting much sleep anyway.
Adjacent to the bedroom was a bathroom whose fixtures might once have been white but had been stained brown by age and a distinct lack of the frequent application of cleaning products. It held a toilet, sink, and a shower cubicle; Dean turned it on expectantly, heard the clatter of old pipes, and watched in dismay as a paltry drizzle of water sputtered from the limescale-coated shower head. He turned it off, and sighed, shrugging to the others.
“I guess it’ll do.”
“So… what’s our cover?” Sam was already pulling out his laptop, plugging it into the outlet nearest to the table, letting the battery recharge – he had run it flat while researching the case in the car, opening it up and powering it on.
“You are normally FBI Agents,” Castiel sounded puzzled, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, “will that not suffice in this case?”
“Hell, no,” Dean shook his head emphatically, “the motel lady – Gloria – she said the real FBI are already here. We can’t just flash fake badges and hope they don’t check us out. No, we gotta come up with something else.”
“Reporters?” Sam suggested, “Covering the story?”
“Nah…” a grin split Dean’s face, “nah, we’re bounty hunters.”
“Bounty hunters? Seriously?”
“Hell yeah. We’re bounty hunters hired by the family of someone who disappeared under similar circumstances to the murder victims. We’ve been employed to come here to see if their missing loved one turns up so we can bring them home… for a decent fee, of course.”
“Of course,” Sam chuckled.
“What is a… bounty hunter?” Castiel looked bemused.
“Someone who finds people for money,” Sam supplied, “usually wanted criminals or people who owe money… or, in this case, a missing person.”
“What other missing person would fit the profile of the victims?” Castiel looked even more confused, “If you are concerned about the real FBI checking the facts of your cover story…”
“Well, I figure one James Novak would fit the profile,” Dean replied, with a grim smile, “a devout family man who suddenly up and disappeared one day? Maybe he’s got relatives who would pay a pretty penny to find out what happened to him.”
“Ah,” Castiel nodded in understanding, “my vessel. Of course.”
“It’ll mean you’ll have to lay low, Cas. Stay out of sight until we find these demons… if you’re even up to fighting them.”
“Another few hours and I believe I will have regained enough grace to heal my injuries,” Castiel lowered himself onto the couch carefully, “very well. I will remain here.”
“Uh… Dean?”
The older brother glanced up; Sam was sitting at the table, gazing at his laptop screen in dismay.
“Problem?”
“You could say that. The, uh, the FBI agents you mentioned…?”
“Yeah?”
“They’re not just any FBI agents,” Sam’s expression was grim, “according to a local news site, they arrived a couple of hours ago… it’s the Behavioural Analysis Unit, straight from Quantico.”
“So?” Dean shrugged, carelessly.
“Do you know what the BAU does?”
“… Paperwork? Get in the way? Mess up our hunt?”
“They hunt killers, Dean. Serial killers. Honest to God psychopaths. They’re experts in psychology and behavioural science… and their resources are insane. According to this, they flew in on their team’s private jet.”
“Okay… so they’re book smart nerds with a lotta money, guns, and some fancy toys,” Dean remarked, with a dismissive wave, “they’ve got nothing on us.”
“That’s the problem, Dean… I think they’ve got everything on us,” Sam turned his focus back to the glowing screen before him, “there’s no such thing as a secret from these guys. They’ve got their own Technical Analyst with crazy hacking skills…”
“Better than yours?”
“Astronomically better,” Sam conceded, “we gotta be careful with these guys, Dean. Avoid contact as much as possible… we’ve gotta wrap this one up fast a get outta here, ASAP.”
“Yeah, good plan,” agreed Dean, “alright, Cas. You stay here, rest up. Me and Sam are gonna go and check out that latest scene, see if we can pick up anything that might lead us to these demonic sons of bitches.”
“You must be careful,” Castiel’s expression was grave, “they are extremely dangerous… and they will be difficult to kill.”
“Yeah, well… Sam’s got the demon blade and I’ve got an angel blade, figure that’ll cover most bases,” Dean replied, casually, “we’re just gonna check it out. Anyone knocks that door, don’t answer. Hide in the bedroom if you need to, just stay hidden, okay? We’ll pray to you if we need you.”
“Understood.”
The drive over to the scene of the last angel death took only a few minutes; Dean rolled the Impala up to the lot and then immediately stepped on the gas a little to drive past, muttering curses. The black SUV, blue sedan, and four figures in the otherwise empty lot screamed ‘law enforcement’ to two men very used to evading officials whenever necessary.
“Do you think they saw us?”
“No,” Sam craned his neck to peer out of the window, “looks like they’re just leaving. Circle the block and they might be gone.”
Dean did as he suggested, and, sure enough, by the time they pulled back around, the two vehicles were gone.
“You know… we’re going to run into those guys at some point,” Sam noted, conversationally.
“Yeah, well, I’m all for postponing the inevitable at this stage,” Dean grumbled, slamming the door shut and joining his brother as they stood and surveyed the last remains of the slain angel.
“You smell that?”
“Yeah. Sulphur. It’s demons alright,” Dean gave a tight nod, “great. Well, then… let’s take a look around.”