Empire of Moths

Who's Your Daddy?

Jason has gone up against more than his fair share of psychopaths, narcissists, manipulators, and liars in his time at the FBI. But Dean Winchester was something else entirely. 

Based on the few notes they managed to salvage from Reid’s email conversations with Henriksen and the bare essentials left in his official records Winchester was a textbook narcissist and a cold-blooded psychopath. Using his charismatic personality to lure in unsuspecting victims.

However, the man that sat before him now appeared to be anything but. Yes, there was the cocky persona and the flippant comebacks. But all of it felt… hollow. Like a performance, as if it were all an act that Winchester was putting on for their benefit.

Jason confirmed as much when he brought up the boy’s father. At the mere mention of the name John Winchester, the young criminal gave himself away with a nearly imperceptible tell. It was the barest twitch of an eye, but Jason could read it. 

He always could.

When he mentioned his overlapping service record with one John Winchester the young man’s demeanor changed entirely. Instead of the openly challenging cockiness they’d been met with up to that point he grew quiet and sullen. A deep furrow set in his brow and his jaw clenched. Clearly his father was a touchy subject. Jason would have to push that if he wanted to get anywhere.  

“I served with him back in ‘73, an undermanned unit in Long Khánh. For thirteen months we had each other's backs, shared meals, dodged bullets and mortars. Your father was human like the rest of us, but he sure was a damn fine Marine.” Jason expected that the more he spoke the more uncomfortable his subject would become. And there was indeed discomfort on his face. But there was also an odd sort of wonder to it. As if he were a young boy learning about his childhood hero. He did not speak. Jason could only push harder. Force this man to a breaking point before whatever beast was lurking beneath his surface reared its ugly head. 

Jason resisted the urge to frown, barely. 

“From what I know, your father is an outstanding marine and a decent man. So, tell me… what changed?” Jason paused for a moment to give their suspect a chance to speak, he didn't take it. “Was it the war? Did he come back a changed man? Was it losing his first four jobs after returning? Or maybe, it was the night your mother died in that tragic fire.” 

Winchester flinched at the mention of his mother and the glare that followed was absolutely scathing.

It looked like Jason was on the right path.

“Is that it, Dean? Did John go off the rails after Mary died?”

Another twitch. 

“Perhaps, your father thought he was doing what was right for his family,” Hotchner chimed in placidly. Then he shifted in his seat, leaning closer over the table. His hands folded neatly before him. “Or, perhaps he was the one who set the fire,” he intoned darkly.

Jason had almost forgotten the other man was there, he’d been so focused on the suspect and his connection to the past.

His past. 

The older profiler closed his eyes for a moment; just a second, to wipe the images of Bruno and John and all the other men, all the carnage and the pain, from his mind. 

This interview demanded his full attention. 

“Come on, Dean. You can tell us. We know how hard it must’ve been to grow up on the road. Always on the move. Your father’s employment and arrest records show us just as much. How tiring that must have been. And with a former Marine? I’m sure he was strict, regimented. Pre-dawn revelry, five minute showers, high and tight haircuts, every last little flaw neatly squared away…” Jason knew the lifestyle of a Marine was hard to leave behind, he’d watched enough of his comrades raise their children like tiny soldiers to know it for certain.

Winchester glowered at the corner, clearly avoiding Jason’s gaze. 

“It was your father who taught you how to shoot, how to use a knife, how to skin and gut a rabbit, right? It was your old man who showed you exactly how to hunt .”

Yet another twitch. 

Jason struggled to keep the glimmer of triumph from showing in his eyes. He needed Winchester to break, and he wouldn’t do that if he sensed Jason gaining victory over him, he was just that kind of guy. 

“He taught you how to hunt. But did he teach you to hunt people, Dean? Or was that all you? Were you just tired of the old man drinking and beating you senseless? Always moving you and poor little Sammy from city to city seemingly on a whim. Did you just want to be in control for once? Does taking a life make you feel like you’re in control, Dean?” It seemed Hotchner had noticed the same thread of weakness that Jason had. And he had no qualms about tugging that thread until the young man unraveled before them. 

Winchester sneered and rolled his eyes. Very purposely staring at the mirror just over their shoulders, refusing to make eye contact. 

“Nah, couldn’t be,” Jason forced a blasé tone and snorted dismissively, “a kid like little Dean here needs to be told everything. He can’t think for himself. His daddy probably told him exactly what to do and how to do it. Isn’t that right, Dean?” 

The suspect grinned, his eyes were now on the agents, glinting with a kind of fire that sent shivers down the elder profiler's spine. 

“You’d be surprised, Gramps. What I can do on my own.” That cocky aura was back in full force and any flaws in his armor that had once been obvious now seemed ambiguous, opaque. Jason gritted his teeth. 

“You’re all the same, you know,” Winchester sighed as he tipped his head to rest on his fist, straining his cuffs with the motion, “the cops, the FBI, hell, even the Secret Service! You all ask the same exact questions in the same exact way. Don’t you think after all these years I can spot when a pair of authority figures are trying to make me come to heel? Please.”

Winchester scoffed openly, those vibrant eyes locked on Jason with such an intensity it was almost palpable. A burning sensation began to tingle uncomfortably beneath his skin. 

“You can play on my daddy issues all you like, but you’re never gonna make me sing. Besides, dead men don’t typically get a say in what their son’s do with their lives,” he sneered as he spoke, practically spitting the words as if they left a bitter taste in his mouth. 

Jason’s stomach dropped, a hollow emptiness growing in its place. Yet another comrade gone, buried in the ground before he even got the chance to check up on them. Bile rose to the back of his throat but he quickly forced it down and took a subtle measured breath to calm himself. His distress, unfortunately, hadn’t gone unnoticed as Winchester was staring at him with an odd mix of anger, regret, and… sympathy.

Jason opened his mouth, hoping to capitalize on that small glimpse of this suspected killer’s humanity, when the door to the interrogation room swung open. Morgan quickly strode across the space that separated them and bent to whisper directly in Hotchner’s ear, their team leader nodded then swiftly rose to his feet. Sensing the gravity of the situation Jason followed as all three agents left the room, closing the door firmly behind them. 

“What is it, Morgan?” Hotchner questioned. Impatient and more than ready to get back to their interrogation. They had just barely managed to create an opening, one that was disappearing with every second they stood out in the hallway. 

“It looks like Garcia has decrypted Henriksen’s files and she says you guys are definitely going to want to hear this,” Morgan began. He stopped for a moment to check they were far enough from the door before he continued, “Apparently, Winchester is one sick puppy. She thinks there’s enough dirt in those files to put him away for the next century .”

“A century, huh?” Hotchner hummed thoughtfully. 

“Let’s have a look for ourselves then, shall we?” Jason said as he clapped Morgan on the shoulder. The experienced profiler didn’t get to interrogate his suspect for very long. But what little time he did spend with Dean Winchester told him all he needed to know. 

Winchester was undeniably dangerous, they needed every possible weapon in their arsenal if they were going to bring him down. 

“Lead the way,” Hotchner finally conceded. 

They could only hope whatever Garcia found was enough.

******

Spencer ran a nervous hand through his hair for the tenth time in as many minutes. It was driving him crazy that he couldn’t be in the interrogation room. Hotch and Gideon insisted they question the subject together, hoping to try a “father figure” line of questioning bolstered by their seniority and the influence of the badge. 

In the meantime Spencer was sent to the conference room down the hall to sort through Dean Winchester’s personal items. After making the arrest the team learned that Winchester had been staying at the casino under an assumed name, a false identity known as Tom Fogerty. It hadn’t meant anything to Spencer at first but Derek laughed when he saw it, so he assumed it was some kind of reference. 

The doctor started out with Winchester’s bags. There were only two of them, one full of clothes and another filled with notebooks, a laptop, and several hundred dollars in cash. The car was another story entirely and was currently being combed over by three separate forensics teams. 

Spencer only caught a glimpse of the trunk’s contents but he’d walked away stunned, genuinely and truly stunned for the first time in his career. It was honestly startling how many weapons Winchester was able to fit in such a small space. He pitied those poor overworked forensic techs. 

Opting to start with the more promising of the two bags, Spencer began sorting and bagging the evidence. Latex gloves were familiar, but that didn’t make them any more comfortable, they always managed to make his palms sweat. 

It took him twenty minutes to categorize everything. Another ten to get the laptop up and running with Garcia’s help. She had remote access but was herself struggling with the encryption to access the desktop. Apparently, it was much more sophisticated than Henriksen’s hard drive, which she was only about halfway through cracking. 

They agreed she would have an easier time working on the laptop in person and said their goodbyes. Spencer then packaged up the computer to be sent back to Quantico for her examination. 

His next thought was to start reading the notebooks. But his eyes kept drifting back to that second bag; A complicated killer like Winchester would keep significant items in unlikely places, sandard practice for his kind. 

Pulling out several plain t-shirts and one ratty pair of jeans Spencer couldn’t help wrinkling his nose. Winchester clearly wore the same things often, and had yet to get these items to a washing machine. The dried blood was a dead giveaway. 

He reached back into the bag. 

At first, the young doctor couldn’t really process what he was feeling. Because what he pulled out next was a navy blue cable knit sweater vest. And it looked exactly like the one he’d been missing for months. But, that couldn’t be right. Why would someone like Dean Winchester have Spencer’s vest in his bag? 

Was he stalking Spencer? Did he somehow know that Henriksen had told the doctor about their case? How could he possibly know such a thing? From that original hack? It was possible. Spencer’s heart rate, which had kicked into overdrive the second he felt that familiar wool between his fingers, reached a crescendo. 

It wasn’t until he pulled out a thick plaid flannel that Spencer’s heart stopped. He recognized that flannel, it was a striking red and black pattern, and one he remembered quite clearly. 

Slowly but surely the memories came dripping back into Spencer’s conscious mind. Flashes of this bright crimson flannel, the heat and pressure of another body on his. Clever green eyes, a willing mouth. Fierce primal kisses. All need, no tenderness. 

A sudden flush overtook him. His face burning with a physical heat he could practically feel. 

Oh god. 

Oh no.

Oh Fuck .

Muffled laughter filtered through the speakers. Followed by the occasional rustle of fabric and the deep tenor of Tomas’ voice as he spoke to someone else. It was clearly a butt-dial of some kind. Dennis tried not to let that sting but he had a hell of a time at it. 

After listening to the smothered tale of Tomas’ miraculous survival at PittFest from the man himself, Dennis didn’t feel quite so bad about hanging up. Turns out he and Vanessa, or whatever her name was, were stuck in a port-a-potty together during the shooting.  

Which was gross, but had apparently bound the pair on a “spiritual level.” Or so Tomas was saying. He’s pretty sure he heard Vanessa’s voice in the background, so it seemed like they were telling the story as a couple. How cute. 

With a sigh, Dennis hung up the call and returned to reading Anna Karenina. It took him roughly an hour to realize he was reading the same page over and over again. His mind was trapped in the imagined diorama of that moment, Tomas and Vanessa seated in some bar on a double date with another couple. 

Dennis shook his head, determined to let it all go. He didn’t need to dwell on Tomas anymore. That part of his life was over.

Although, he would like to get his stuff back eventually. What little of it there was. Thinking of this, he went to check his messages. He was hoping to see some text from Tomas about dropping his stuff off with Charmaine, his old roommate. But no such luck. 

Instead, he was met with a bunch of goodbye texts and voicemails from just about everyone he knew. Apparently, they all thought he was dead?? Every single one of them! It seemed Tomas had come to the conclusion that Dennis was one of the casualties of PittFest and acted accordingly. 

There were messages from his friends at P-town, back from when he was a server there. Before he “moved in” —if you could even call it that— with Tomas and stopped talking to almost everyone he knew. 

He wondered, briefly, how Tomas had managed to contact all of them. That is until he found a link to a news article in a text chain with his good friend Patty D. Cakes. A drag queen who took him under her illustrious wing when he was little more than a coked out busboy. What he gathered from the article was that the local news had listed him among the dead first, then the national news just ran with it. 

His stomach sank. Oh shit!

Dennis quickly searched for his mother’s name among the flood of bereaved messages. His stomach dropped lower and lower the longer it didn’t show up. 

Oh… 

She must’ve known. She had to know. His mother watched the evening news like her life depended on it. There was no way she hadn’t noticed his name listed among the deceased. No matter how incorrect that may actually be. Did she really let her anger keep them apart? Even in death? 

Tears began to flow down his cheeks. Despite all this, Dennis did his best to draft a “Surprise I’m actually alive!” text. Complete with a poorly lit hospital room selfie for proof. He knew it would be hard to believe, and that he’d be fielding calls all day as a result. But that was a welcome distraction. It certainly wasn’t as bad as getting shot. 

Resolved, he sent the text to every one of his friends who’d reached out. The next several hours were spent fielding tearful calls from every friend he’d made since moving to Pittsburgh. And even a few he made along the way. 

He was honestly quite shocked by just how many people there were. Somehow, he’d become convinced that he wasn’t important to anyone at all. And yet, here was the evidence to the contrary. 

By the time the nurses were changing his feeding protocol— eating through a tube! Yay!— he’d spoken to just about everyone. The exhaustion which came with injuries like his was only exasperated by the onslaught of emotional calls. His already aching head was worse off from all the tears, yet, his heart was lighter than ever. 

Sleep visited him in short bursts after that. Almost like his body was keeping itself awake in the hopes of catching a certain someone in the act. And catch him he did! After a bout of fitful sleep, Dennis came to consciousness. That familiar creak of the vinyl as the doctor took his seat sent shivers down his spine. 

“I bought the bike,” the man stated, matter of fact, “Everyone is pissed at me for it too. Well, everyone who knows. Which is just you and a few others right now. Although, I guess you can’t hate the idea since you’re unconscious,” he had the gall to chuckle, a deep throaty thing, “I just think everyone is stuck on the negatives. No one is thinking about all of the good this could do for me. You know, there’s a sense of freedom on the open road. Nothing ahead of you, nothing behind you. Just the moment as it's being lived. Pure and unadulterated.”

Dennis chanced opening his eyes to watch the older man as he waxed poetic about the freedoms of the open road. And was immediately struck by the roguish charm of his profile. The portrait of a man on the edge. Before he could even really process what he was doing, Dennis was opening his mouth and saying, “You know, you can visit me when I’m conscious too, right?”

Startled brown eyes shot to meet his own. The doctor looked, for all intents and purposes, like he was about to shit a literal brick. Taking pity on the poor man, Dennis tried to smile, to let him know that he really didn’t mind in the first place. But he was pretty sure it backfired. 

Dr. Robinowitz hopped to his feet, sending the crappy vinyl covered chair flying back well over a foot. Dennis raised his brows as though to say, “seriously?” and the doctor looked down, suddenly sheepish. 

“You don’t have to be worried. I suppose I should be honest now and say that this isn’t the first time I’ve been uh… conscious during one of your visits.”

“Oh…”

“Again, please don’t be worried. I honestly didn’t mind taking your confession, as it really did seem like you needed it. But I also feel like I should inform you that I am…” Dennis stalled out, suddenly too nervous to go on. The doctor was eyeing him skeptically now, but he knew that he had to press forward. So, he swallowed his pride and continued, “I am no longer a priest.”

The silence dragged on for so long that Dennis almost thought they’d both spontaneously passed away. Dr. Robinowitz’s face progressively reddened until it was almost the same shade as a tomato. He stumbled back, groping for the door handle as he stuttered out, “You know what? I’m on call and I think they just buzzed me–”

“I didn’t hear anything–

“I’m going to leave now. Good bye.” 

And just like that, he was gone. 

Well… shit.

Part Ten/???

On the morning of his third day in the hospital, Dennis participated in the first ever meeting of the ICU book club. Which did only consist of Lindsey and himself, but still. The blonde nurse had been delighted to see his bookmark nestled almost halfway through the text. Her joy was practically contagious. 

“What do you think about it so far? Do you like any of the characters? What’s your favorite line?” she chirped brightly while checking his IV. 

“Well, Good Morning to you too,” he chuckled. 

Lindsey, flush with embarrassment, sputtered for a second before rubbing the back of her neck and apologizing, “Sorry, Father. I just got excited. It's my favorite book and I don’t have anyone to talk to about it.”

“First of all,” Dennis sighed, “I have to correct you. I am no longer a priest, so you don’t have to call me Father anymore. Now, regarding your questions; I think it is quite interesting so far. Although, I don’t remember all that much about Tsarist Russia, so my take won’t be as nuanced as you might like. I won’t go so far as to say that I have any favorites yet, but I sympathize with Konstantin Levin. He’s… relatable, I suppose. And, I know it's probably overdone at this point, but I quite like the book’s opening line. I find it very… factual.” 

Lindsey, for her part, looked rather like a deer in headlights. It was quite clear to him that she was still mentally stuck on his first point and had yet to process anything else he said. She proved this was the case only a moment later when she tilted her head and asked, “You’re not a priest?”

“Not anymore,” he shook his head softly. 

“But you were one?”

“Yes.”

“And you aren’t one anymore?”

“Correct.”

She paused for a long moment, “Is it impolite to ask why?”

“It is. But, I don’t mind,” he smiled as warmly as he could manage, “there was an irreconcilable difference of opinion between myself and some other members of the clergy. In the end, I decided it was best that I resign.”

“What he means to say is that he tried reporting some diddler to the higher ups and they pressured him out instead.”

Both he and Lindsey looked to the door in shock where a tall woman with choppy dark hair and heavy eyeliner was standing. She looked familiar, but not enough that Dennis could imagine her knowing the truth like that. 

“Excuse me, who are–”

“Jesus, Man. I knew you were drunk that day but I didn’t think I served you that much. Although, I guess getting shot could be a factor…”

“Oh! It’s you!” Dennis exclaimed, “You’re the bartender from PittFest!” 

“Guilty as charged,” she grinned. 

“Visiting hours have just begun, so I’ll let you two catch up. We can discuss Tolstoy later,” Lindsey smiled as she patted his arm and headed for the door.

“She’s cute,” the bartender commented after Lindsey was gone. A certain glint in her eye that let Dennis know this wouldn’t be her last visit. 

“How’d you find me?” 

“I asked the EMTs where they were taking you. Figured if I asked after the priest with a bullet in his gut I’d find you eventually. Had to pretend I was your sister though, so, there’s that.”

“Well, Lindsey knows the truth now. So, I don't know how long that will hold up.”

“Her name is Lindsey, huh?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Don’t worry,” she sounded way too cocky, “Lindsey won’t snitch.”

“How do you know?” he side-eyed her warily.

“Oh, I know,” the bartender waggled her brows.

Dennis rolled his eyes but didn’t press it any further. “What’s your name anyway?” he asked. “You saved my life, in a way. The least I could do is thank you by name.”

“Mallory Cross, but you can call me Mal.”

“Oh the irony,” Dennis sighed.

“What? ‘Cuz my last name is Cross? Oh my god, that’s hilarious! I didn’t even think about it!” she giggled, her hazel eyes scrunched in delight. 

“So, Mal, why’d you go through the trouble of tracking me down?”

“Can’t a girl just care about someone out of the goodness of her own heart?” 

“She could. But is that why you came?”

Mal shuffled her feet for a second, looking anywhere but at him, “... No.” 

“So why did you come to visit me?”

“Here,” she said as she pulled something from her back pocket and tossed it at his chest. The object landed just above his surgery sight and caused him to gasp out in pain. Which only made Mal panic. “Oh shit! Sorry! Should I get Lindsey back? Don’t you have one of those morphine buttons?”

“It’s fine,” he wheezed out after a moment. Then, he finally looked at the object she’d thrown. It was a cellphone. His cellphone, to be exact. “Oh…”

“Yeah, it’s battery was dead and the poor thing was half drowned in what was left of your drink. So, I had to leave it in rice for the first twenty-four hours. Then when it finally turned on, it wouldn’t stop pinging. You’ve got like eight-hundred texts, my guy.” 

Something like dread pulled at his guts as he picked up the phone. His background was a picture of him and Tomas from their trip to Santorini. A trip they took more than two years ago. Back when they still smiled together. 

“Is that the jackass who dumped you at a mass shooting?” Mal asked. She was peering at the screen from his bedside, one brow lifted in curiosity. 

Dennis couldn’t quite remember when he told her about the break up. But he was sure that it probably happened somewhere between his second and his fifth drink.

“He didn’t dump me at a mass shooting… He just dumped me at a music festival. The shooting hadn’t started yet.”

“Yeah, okay,” she rolled her eyes. 

“But yes, that’s him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Tomas.”

“Looks like a douche.”

“Because he is one.” 

“Thought so.”

The pair drifted into silence after that. Dennis had yet to check his messages. They both knew he was avoiding it. He was grateful to Mallory for giving him space, for not pushing the matter.

After a while she just started talking to him like they were old friends. Updating him on her life, all of its ups and downs. Like how her landlord was an asshole who wouldn’t fix a leak in her bathroom even though it was his responsibility. Apparently he claimed that the leak was her fault for using the water “too vigorously,” or so he put it.

Dennis also learned about her band, The Stepford Dolls. There were four members including Mal. She offered him free tickets to their next show, however many he wanted. He couldn’t help but smile as he promised to take her up on it. 

By the time their visit was over, Dennis had completely forgotten about the messages on his phone. When Mal departed with a wave and a promise to come back tomorrow with one of her band’s t-shirts, he was happier than he’d been in the last two years combined. Which said a lot about the state of his life. 

Once he was finally alone, no nurses or visitors, Dennis found himself staring at his blank phone screen. He didn’t want to open it. He didn’t want to read the messages or listen to any voice mails. He didn’t want anything to do with his former self. 

But fate has a funny way of forcing your hand. Just as he was about to shut the phone off, hoping to avoid his problems for one more day, it rang. Tomas’ smiling face filled the screen. Guilt swelled in his gut the longer he ignored the call, until he couldn’t take it anymore. 

After all, it wasn’t right to keep letting Tomas think that he might be dead. That was just cruel. He couldn’t imagine if things were reversed. Even though he knew he would regret it immediately, Dennis answered the phone.

Part Nine/???

“You know, you don’t have to plan an entire road trip just to kill yourself,” Heather raised a brow before throwing back the rest of her midori sour. 

“I still can’t believe you drink that shit.”

“Don’t change the subject. You’re better than that.”

“Am I?” he raised his own brows. 

“You should be,” she sighed. 

“You’ve got me there.”

“Look, you’ll still be you whether you’re on the road or not. Different scenery isn’t going to change that. We both know it. So your whole trip is pointless… unless the entire point is to die in some ridiculous accident. In which case, you’re a complete idiot.”

“Couldn’t be a doctor if I was a complete idiot.”

“Alright, a half idiot then.”

Michael sucked in air through his teeth, “Ouch.”

“Don’t talk like you’ve been talking then ‘ouch’ me, Unc.”

“What did you just call me?”

Heather grinned, “Ask Jake next time you see him.”

“I will,” Michael nodded, throwing back his own drink. Whiskey, neat. 

“In all seriousness though, don’t do it. Okay? If not for yourself, then for everyone who has to deal with the emotional crater you’ll leave behind.” 

Michael frowned into his empty glass before holding it out, indicating to the bartender that he wanted a refill. Heather sighed and rolled her eyes. The conversation wasn’t going anywhere productive. They were both too stubborn for that. 

“So, when are you getting out of here?” he asked as casually as he could manage. 

“Tomorrow.”

“I knew you were moving fast, but I didn’t think it would be that fast.”

“Yeah, well,” she shrugged, choosing not to elaborate further. Sometimes they were so similar it was frightening. It’s part of why they never really worked. 

“You’ll be missed.”

“They’ll get over it sooner than you think. Life moves at warp speed in the Pitt.”

“I wasn’t talking about them.”

“Michael, we had this discussion already–”

“Let me finish. I’ll miss you. Not just for what we were. But because you are actually one of the few people in this world I can stand to have an honest conversation with. Poor Jack can only take on so many of my problems by himself.” 

After a long pause Heather smiled, a small pleased thing, “I’ll miss you too. I know you’re old, but you do know they invented these really cool things called phones right? You can still call me and yap my ear off. You know, if you want to.”

Michael rolled his eyes playfully, “Kids and their damn phones.”

*****

Heather did not, in fact, allow Michael to ride his bike home drunk. But she refused to give him a ride in her car either. So he wound up walking it back to the hospital parking lot. Which was a hell of a lot closer than his house at that point. 

The night shift was in full swing when he entered the building. And it was absolute chaos, of course. After all, the Pitt never sleeps, their city won’t let it. Jack sent him an odd look when he walked through the staff entrance. He was clearly confused as to why Michael had returned. 

“The hell are you doing back here?” He voiced his thoughts aloud. 

“Had a few too many and needed somewhere to park my ride,” Michael shrugged. Hoping that if he kept things casual Jack would just let it slide.

“So you drove here drunk?”

“No, I walked it here.”

“How the fuck did you walk a car here?”

Michael didn’t answer. 

“You bought the bike, didn’t you?” Jack sighed, exasperated. 

“I did.”

“Goddamnit, Robby!” He looked like he wanted to say more but a patient was rushed in by the paramedics. Apparently they’d fallen from one of those billboards on the highway while trying to tag the damn thing. “We aren’t done here!” he cried out as he ran to tend to their injuries. 

“Sure we aren’t,” Michael muttered under his breath as he took the opportunity for what it was and made his escape. Except, he didn’t head for the break room or the on-call room. Instead he found himself walking up the stairs to the ICU. At this point, he was done questioning himself about why he wanted to do this. He just knew that he wanted to do it. 

Room 12 was as eerily quiet as he remembered, the priest a peaceful figure at its center. Without any preamble or much thought of any kind Michael walked right in and took his seat next to the bed. He should probably be more concerned about how normal this was beginning to feel, but he wasn’t. It just felt inevitable for some reason. 

“I bought the bike,” he opened tonight’s confession with a self-depracating chuckle. “Everyone is pissed at me for it too. Well, everyone who knows. Which is just you and a few others right now. Although, I guess you can’t hate the idea since you’re unconscious.” Michael went on to defend his decision, going on about freedom and open roads. Trying to convince himself as much as the unconscious priest. That is, until everything changed. 

“You know, you can visit me when I’m conscious too, right?”

Startled out of his own skin, Michael turned from staring at the whiteboard on the wall to looking into a pair of wide blue eyes. The priest was awake. 

Oh fuck.

Part Eight/???

Interview With a Vampire... Killer

When they arrived at the station the agents; Hotchner, Reid, Morgan, Jareau, and Jason himself stood to watch as Winchester was pulled from the backseat of the cruiser. Their suspect didn’t resist much, although there was a snarky comment thrown over one shoulder about being careful with the hair. How he wanted to look good for his new mug shot.

The humor left a bitter taste in Jason’s mouth. He could already tell that this was going to be a long and laborious interrogation. This subject wasn’t about to make things easy for them.

It was standard practice to let guys like Winchester stew for a while before opening the conversation. So the team felt no rush as they gathered around the conference table, not with Winchester already secured in a holding cell. With an armed guard at that. 

For a moment no one spoke, they stood in perfect silence. Listening to the ring, ring, ring of the speaker phone at the center of the table.

“Welcome to the Wacky Wonderful World of What the Frick. Garcia Speaking.” Her initial greeting was met with more than one pair of raised eyebrows. 

“I’m guessing you’ve found something?” JJ asked hopefully.

“Oh my dear sweet precious unicorn. Yes and no. But mostly… no.” There was a deep sigh from the other end of the line. 

“Enlighten us.” Jason spoke evenly. 

“Okay, so you know how there was that explosion last year? The one that took out Deputy Director Steven Graves, Henriksen and his partner, as well as the Winchesters.”

“We’re familiar.” Hotchner answered. They all knew the story. It had been big news when it first happened. They even attended the Deputy Director’s funeral. Practically everyone stationed at Quantico was there. 

“Well, I guess the post-incident investigation team was sleeping on the job or something.” She huffed in frustration. “Because there was like, zero investigation. The incident report itself just writes the whole thing off as a gas explosion. Which is S.U.S.P.I.C.I.O.U.S. that spells suspicious!” Garcia exclaimed emphatically. 

“That sure sounds suspicious.” JJ said with a hint of humor.

“It really really is.” Garcia continued. “Now hold onto your socks because I’m about to blow them off. I looked into the case, the original one that sparked Henriksen’s obsession. And guess what? The whole thing has been wiped from the system. The only trace left of the Winchesters on the FBI database is their bare bones bios and a declaration of their death in the Colorado explosion. Whoever did this was good.” 

“But you can track them down, right Dollface?” Morgan was leaning on the table, getting closer to the microphone. 

“Would that I could, my love. But no such luck. When I said they were good I meant good good. Like, me levels of out of this world computer genius.” A rapid fire flurry of typing ensued. Which was shortly followed by the staccato clicking of Garcia’s heels as she began walking. Her words were punctuated by the occasional huff as she clearly covered a lot of ground. “They routed the IP through so many servers it would take a whole team of me’s to unravel it all. Not only that but they slipped in and out of the system undetected right after the explosion. So their trail has long since gone cold. But,” she began before the team got too discouraged, “I managed to track down Henriksen’s old partner. SSA Hanna Thompson. She told me that Victor kept back ups of all his most important cases on hard drives in his office. She also said that he was extra paranoid about the Winchester case, so she thinks there’s a good chance it was encrypted and then hidden.” 

There was the distinct sound of a security door opening and then closing in rapid succession. 

“I’m guessing you’re on your way there now?” Hotchner ventured. 

“Righty-O! Mr. Bossman.” She chirped back immediately. “Lucky for us, no one has moved into his office yet. So, it’s unoccupied for now. I just pulled up at his door. Did you know he was just three floors down from us?” 

That revelation was quickly followed by the sound of rustling and clanging as Garcia, no doubt, tore the room to shreds. The team back at the station listened to the cacophony of chaos for some time. Several of them wincing whenever Garcia made a particularly troubling sound. 

After fifteen or so minutes —during which Jason had turned to Reid hoping to formulate a strategy based on what they did have— there was a triumphant cry over the speaker. 

“I found it! I found the hard drive!” Garcia exclaimed happily. 

“Good work, Garcia.” Hotchner acknowledged her effort, his voice as close to fond as it could get. “How long do you think it will take to decrypt?” 

“It should take at least a couple hours once I get it hooked up to my system. Maybe a full day if he was really good at encryption.” 

“Alright, we’ll let you get to it. Call us back as soon as you crack it.” His command was followed by a cheery ‘will do’ and then the call was over. 

Reid, who was now hunched over what little of the Winchester file still existed on his laptop, turned to Jason and spoke thoughtfully, “Dean’s records start sometime in middle school, as far as we can tell. We can’t access the files, we just know they exist. With as early as they began I can only assume they had an unstable family life. It appears that after the death of their mother on November 2nd, 1983 their father took the family on the road. There is very little information on him as well. One has to wonder just how influential he was to his sons.” 

Jason nodded, absorbing every detail. “What do we have on the father?” He inquired. 

“Not much.” Reid returned honestly. “John Winchester, born 22nd of April 1954. Former United States Marine. He served in Vietnam—“

“Which company?” Jason interrupted. His heart was nearly in his throat. The older man couldn’t believe he hadn’t connected the dots earlier. 

“Oh.. uh…” Reid paused for a moment, “Echo Company. Second Battalion, first Marine Regiment.” 

Jason took in a deep breath. His hands began to tremble ever so slightly, so he clenched them tight to keep it from showing.  

“Does that mean something to you?” Reid asked. All wide eyed curiosity. 

“Yeah it means something.” Jason pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. They felt gritty, like they were full of sand. “I served with John Winchester back in Vietnam. He was a good Marine. We weren’t close. But he saved my life, I saved his. We were comrades. I always wondered what became of him.” 

The silence that followed was just a hair shy of being awkward. As were most silences with young Spencer. 

“I hope… I hope we can answer that for you.” Reid finally settled on his response. Jason couldn’t help but smile at his effort. 

“I hope so too.” He sighed. But he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. There was just this nagging feeling that they’d find more questions than answers on this case. 

******

Pacing from one end of his cell to the other, Dean couldn’t possibly feel more like a caged animal. The secretive terrified glances from the local beat cops guarding him didn’t help matters. 

It’s not like he had anything better to do. The texts he’d managed to send off while that doe-eyed junior FBI agent watched on in concern made sure of that. One had been for Bobby, letting him know he was caught and to send a team to clear out that nest. The response had been immediate, Bobby was on it. His second text was to Sam. He knew his brother wouldn’t take the news very well. Which is why he was glad he had to destroy the phone before he got a response. He really dreaded having that conversation with Sam.

So, he knew there wasn’t anything left for him to do. His only responsibility for the next week or so was to wait for his inevitable demise. Might as well do that in police custody. It wasn’t exactly his ideal scenario but, at his core, Dean was an optimist. He knew he could have some fun messing with the feds until lights out. 

It struck him then that being torn apart by hellhounds in front of a live audience might be a bit awkward. But there wasn’t much he could do about it, so he didn’t dwell on the matter for very long. 

Instead he preferred occupying himself with more enjoyable things. Like trying to name every band member from every band he’d ever listened to. So far he had twenty-four names down with about two hundred left to go. 

He’d just finished listing all of Mötley Crüe when the outer door of the holding area creaked open. Dean, who’d been half hanging upside down off the bed, quickly flipped himself back upright. Only wincing slightly at the strain that put on an old knife wound in his side. 

The pair of walking badges that appeared before him, sadly, didn’t include Agent Peter Parker. Instead, Dean was faced with Grumpy Old Man numbers one and two. Both grim faced and perfectly unreadable. Textbook feds. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Gentlemen?” Dean snarked with a half-assed bow and a flourish of his wrist. The feds were, naturally, unimpressed. Dean was having fun already. 

It was only a little disappointing when they both ignored his question. Instead they motioned for Dean to stick his hands through the slot in the door. He was again handcuffed then, once he was secure, the door swung open and the younger of the two led him out into the hall. The older man with the receding hairline followed close behind. Looming over Dean’s shoulder like some kind of dark omen. A feeling the elder Winchester knew intimately considering his current circumstances. 

“What? No foreplay before Uncle Sam bends me over?” There was a twitch of discomfort on the younger man’s face. Those dark brows knit together as his frown deepened. 

One of the beat cops in the hallway with them stifled a snort in the shoulder of his uniform. All it took was a glare from Mr. Eyebrows for that same cop to lower his gaze, fully admonished. 

Dean rolled his eyes at the whole spectacle and wondered idly how much he’d have to annoy these guys before they decided he was a lost cause. It wouldn’t take more than a few hours by his estimation. It usually didn’t. 

As they walked it became clear to Dean that something was going on with the older of the Grumpy Old Men. The way his eyes tracked Dean’s every movement made his skin itch. He hated being under such close observation. Because the closer people looked the easier it was to see the real Dean through all the bullshit. And he definitely didn’t want these guys seeing that. 

Dean was, in all honesty, kind of shocked that anyone at the FBI still knew who he was. He and Sammy were supposed to be completely wiped from the system. Ash was like Jimi Hendrix with a keyboard and he’d promised to take care of it. Dean had no doubts that the hillbilly savant of computers had pulled through. So there must be something else going on here, though he couldn’t say what. 

As they walked through the station Dean could feel eyes tracking his progress. A cursory glance revealed several more feds and a few detectives watching him with clear disdain curling their lips. He even caught a glimpse of that floppy-haired nerd. Though it was only a glimpse. 

The interrogation room was pretty standard fare. Dean had been in hundreds of other rooms just like it. He very purposely did not think about how depressing that was as he took his seat at the table. Waiting patiently for the Agents to make the next move. 

“Dean Winchester, born January 24th 1979 to John and Mary Winchester in Lawrence, Kansas.” The broody one with the eyebrows began in a characteristically deep voice as he flipped open the file before him. Careful to tilt it just so, keeping Dean from seeing its contents. As his comrade spoke the older man slipped on a pair of reading glasses and pretended to examine his own file. 

“I am SSA Hotchner and this is SSA Gideon. We are with the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI and we have some questions we would like you to answer.” Eyebrows, who was apparently known as Hotchner, spoke with a severity that Dean found impressive. Other suspects may have found it intimidating but there was little in the normal world that could faze a man like Dean Winchester. 

“It is Dean Winchester, correct? Not… Tom Fogerty? As your I.D. suggests?” Hotchner raised one of those damned brows knowingly. Almost humorously, if Dean were to believe the man was capable of humor. And he honestly doubted it. 

“I’m sorry, Agent… Hotchner, was it? But I’m not sure who this ‘Dean Winchester’ even is, let alone why you’d think I was him.”

“We’ve matched your prints, Dean.” That deep voice and blunt manner of speaking were really something. Dean had to hand it to the guy. They were clearly bluffing but the hunter didn’t exactly have much to live for at the moment. Not with the hellhounds knocking on his door. If he really concentrated, he could hear them howling somewhere off in the distance. So, he decided to just play along with the feds for the time being. They’d all know the truth soon enough. One way or the other. 

“Well, can’t blame a guy for trying. Right?”

“Your father is John Winchester, he served in the Marines. Echo Company, isn’t that right, Dean?” The older man was staring at him with a focus that was honestly impressive. 

“What’s my father got to do with anything?”

“Your father is a proud man, Dean. He served his country with honor. Do you really think he’d agree with what you’re doing? Do you think any of this would make him happy?”

Dean snorted. Almost entirely against his will. It was just so damn hilarious. This guy had no idea what John Winchester wanted. Hell, Dean hardly ever knew what the man wanted and he was his son! No chance this suit knew a thing about his father. 

 “None of this would make him happy. But not for the reasons you’re thinking.” Dean allowed a cheeky grin to slide across his face. He leaned back in his seat, relaxing his posture. Laying the cocky persona on thick. “How would you know anyway? What makes you think you know what my father wants?”

“Because I served with him.”

Dean swallowed nervously. 

Well fuck.

“I keep thinking about buying a motorcycle and just riding till the wheels fall off. And, I know, I know, that’s basically a death sentence waiting to happen but, what can I say?” Michael shrugged, “I’ve spent my entire life sacrificing for others to the point that I don’t actually have a life of my own. So what is there to lose, really?”

He leaned back, fully aware that his conversation partner was unlikely to respond. The unconscious priest made a cute little snuffling sound in his sleep which Michael took as answer enough. 

“Exactly,” he nodded, crossing his arms, “and really, what’s so wrong with me wanting to enjoy whatever time I have left in the exact way that I want to spend it? Huh? Dana keeps telling me not to buy the bike but we both know I’m going to do it anyway. The last few days have just solidified that for me. They’ve given me the clarity I’ve been missing. Losing Leah, it…. It made me look at things from a different perspective. I mean, I love Jake like a son but that doesn’t make me his father. He loves me too but it's not in the same way that he loves Janey. I don’t think there’s a single person on this earth who loves me like that. I mean, really, outside of this hospital, what is there for me? An empty house and the occasional hookup, that’s what. I just think it’s time I move on, look for something different, you know? Allow myself to experience life instead of just suffering through it…” Michael would have gone on but the door opened and a nurse whose name he didn’t know walked in. 

“Oh! Sorry, but visiting hours have been over for a while now, you’re going to have to leave,” she asserted nervously. 

“Right, my apologies,” Michael got to his feet, tucking his jacket over his arm so that it covered his ID badge on the way out. He didn’t need rumors flying around about his late night visits to the Father. Rebecca was one thing but two nurses whispering about Dr. Robby’s weird fixation on an unconscious man would be a problem. He wasn’t quite ready to take off on sabbatical just yet. 

By the time he made it back to his empty house he was well and truly exhausted. The day after PittFest was only somewhat less of a shit show. They still dealt with an overwhelming number of patients in life or death scenarios, it was an ER, after all. He was lucky he didn’t pass out in some random alley on the way home. 

Once there, a quick check of his fridge confirmed that he didn’t have anything to eat, not even leftovers. He cursed under his breath as he checked his pantry for instant ramen or box mac and cheese, anything to avoid paying those ridiculous food delivery fees. Unfortunately for him, he was out of luck. All he had was a baggie of rice he’d used to dry out his phone after dropping it in a puddle a few months back. And he wasn't quite desperate enough to eat that right now. 

Ordering from an app was easy but Michael wasn’t really an easy guy, so he opened the drawer full of take-out menus looking for the Chinese restaurant that he knew was open past midnight. One quick call later and he had an order of beef and broccoli lo mein and hot and sour soup on its way. 

He tipped the delivery guy, generously because he wasn’t a monster, then headed back inside to eat. It was better than anything he could make, so he was more than satisfied with the meal. As he ate, however, it became harder to ignore just how quiet his house was. The silence threatened to swallow him whole. 

By the time he was crawling into bed, his aching muscles crying out in relief, he was trapped in an echo chamber of his own making. Thoughts of what had been, what could be, and what never was plagued him right up until the moment he dropped out of consciousness. 

The next day wasn’t much better. Michael woke up, made his coffee, then stared out the window at his quiet street. No easy morning conversation, no clatter of dishes as someone else shuffled around the kitchen. Just him and the silence. 

He wasn’t scheduled to work a shift today, which was both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand it meant he could try to get some rest, but on the other hand it meant twelve straight hours of uninterrupted time with himself as his only company. Yikes. 

After a long run to the gym and back he was discouraged to find that the majority of his day off still lay ahead of him. Filling time wasn’t really one of his skills, thus his career choice. You don’t have to think about what you’re doing next when the universe keeps throwing curve balls at you. 

Eventually, he found his way to a Harley Davidson dealership where he was shown around by a nice enough guy in his late twenties. The models they had out on the floor were nice and he wound up taking one for a test drive. A truly gorgeous XR-750 that made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t in a very long time. 

Dana didn’t know it, but he’s had his motorcycle license for the last six months. He’ll tell her one day, when he’s closer to biting the bullet and actually going on his trip. But for now, this was just for him. His secret. 

He bought the bike right there and then. The ride home was just about the most free he’s ever managed to feel. Miles of open road laid bare before him. That was the upside to living in the outskirts, there was a lot of nothing between him and everyone else. Just the way he liked it.

Of course, the prospect of heading home to sit alone in his empty house wasn’t all that appealing. He wound up on the roadside calling the only number in his phone he knew would pick up. 

“Hello,” Heather sounded tired. Like he’d just woken her up.

“H-Hey,” he stalled for a moment, unsure of how to ask for what he wanted without sounding like a totally selfish asshole. 

“What do you want, Michael?” 

“Would you like to grab a drink with me?”

“Michael–”

“Don’t worry, it's nothing like that. I’m just… I’m thinking a lot tonight.”

“That’s never good.”

He chuckled, “hah, yeah… I uh… I bought the bike.”

She was quiet for a long time after that. He almost thought she had hung up on him until her voice crackled through the speaker, “Alright, I’ll meet you at Ruggers in twenty minutes. And Michael?”

“Yeah, Heather?”

“Try not to die on the way there, okay?”

“No promises.” 

Part Seven/???