Author Name: liliaeth
Artists Name: lightthesparks
Beta: runriggers, just_ruth, faithburke
Summary: The BAU has to deal with a serial killer who believes he's hunting vampires. The unsub's name, Dean Winchester.
Genre: Supernatural/Criminal Minds crossover
Warnings: death of children, religious themes, violence
Pairing: not an issue
Rating: PG 13
Disclaimer: I don't own either, no matter how much I might want to
Notes: Spoilers for s5 of CM and SPN
Jimmy woke up in the middle of a hallway. His hands were tied behind his back and when he tried to roll over he noticed that his legs were cuffed together as well. He closed his eyes, feeling like he’d just spent a night on a bender. Well possibly more than a night. Then he remembered, Amelia, Claire, but most of all, Castiel.
He stared up into the barrels of about six guns. If his hands hadn’t been cuffed already, he’d be raising them in the blink of an eye.
“Cas, where are you?” he whispered, not sure what had happened. He’d gone from blissful slumber in the back of his head, hiding behind Castiel’s overwhelming presence, to full awareness in a room with far too many lights blazing in his eyes.
It wasn’t like the last time he’d been aware. Cas wasn’t gone, not really, but his presence seemed almost subdued.
One of the cops stared at him and crossed himself. Jimmy couldn’t help a chuckle, crossing yourself against an angel? Wasn’t that like … like jumping in a lake to dry yourself?
“He took Winchester.” The cop said.
“Winchester must have knocked him out and ran. Some thank you.” A deep gravelly voice.
Jimmy seriously doubted that, for one thing, there’s no way that Dean ‘could’ have knocked Cas out.
Jimmy groaned and rolled to his side.
“Where am I?” he asked, still a bit groggy.
A man, dressed in a suit came forward and knelt down next to him. “You’re in Garber police station.” It was the same voice he’d heard earlier. “What’s your name?”
Jimmy tried to get up, and cringed. “Jimmy, Jimmy Novak. Where’s Castiel?” he shivered, feeling the warmth where Cas was in his head go cold. “Where’s Sam and Dean? What’s going on?”
“Mister Novak, this is serious. Do you know why Castiel came here?”
Oh shit, hadn’t he given enough? Why did Cas make him deal with this on his own? “I don’t… I’m not that aware when… What happened to Cas?”
The man just looked at him and Jimmy could think of only one thing to do. “Christo!”
But no response, no eyes turning black or demons flinching away. Just men, cops and him in cuffs.
“Mister Novak, you’re under arrest for the murder of Simon Durgiss.”
Jimmy felt his mouth fall open. Oh God no, what had, and then he remembered flashes, Cas rebelling, the archangel, a moment of utter fear and pain as the light tore him to pieces, death and then… sleep, slumber.
“What did he do?” he asked, terrified. And what about him?
“Mister Novak, this is important, where did Dean go?”
Jimmy couldn’t give him an answer, no matter how hard he tried to remember. And Cas was snoring in his head, well something like it.
Derek took the lead. The steps were slippery; a strange thing on an indoor basement. There wasn’t enough light to see what was causing it. The basement door stood wide open, as if inviting them down. He tried the light switch, but to no effect. A flashlight jumped on behind him, and he silently thanked Emily for it.
With every step down, he kept listening for sounds that might tell them what was up. There was the creaking of the wood beneath his feet, Emily’s footsteps behind him. And the sound of someone sobbing echoing through a space that was far too big to be in a regular basement.
You wouldn’t notice anything at first. It seemed a simple basement, empty space, shelves, beef jerky and canned food on one side and Christmas decorations on the other.
He could spot light from beneath one of the shelves. As soon as he pulled the thing it moved forward, like a hidden door.
Emily radioed it in to the agents still at Mrs. Martin’s place.
There wasn’t much light, it looked like one of those tunnels pioneers had dug to give them a safe way out during Indian attacks, or at least an attempt at copying one of those. Someone had placed candles on small ledges on the side. About half of them were lit, the other half had melted down, wax dripping over wood and on the floor. Others had lost their wick about halfway through leaving behind barely recognizable stumps.
There hung a smell of rosary in the hallway.
He heard a woman, possibly a girl, crying and moved forward until they came to a fork in the way. They didn’t even have to talk about it. Emily took the left while he continued onwards.
It took some time before his eyes got used to the limited light, hoping to catch a sight of anything that could help. He ended up facing shelves. There were bottles filled with stale blood. Most of them were covered in dust.
Someone had been emptying some of them in the sink, leaving behind dark brown stains. One of the bottles was left, standing open.
A door creaked, he could hear a giggle behind him. He turned around trying to find it. It sounded almost childlike. He tilted his head, listening for more when a burst of agony spread through his skull. He hit the ground. He tried to get up, when he felt someting crashing down on his head. There was a woman there, he could see her through blurry blood-soaked eyes. She had a shovel in her hand. His hand reached for his head and came back bloody.
“Perfect, perfect. Pretty.” The woman was shaking, rambling. “They took my pretty, took Stan. Stan was…” her face was covered in white makeup that barely hid the gashes in her cheek. She frowned and her wrinkles grew deeper. She looked about late thirties, early forties. The gashes looked fresh, and there was blood on her lips.
“Lovely Clarissa, he used to call me. Said I was gorgeous, my beautiful Stan.” She hit him again and crawled on top of him. He stared up at her, too shaky to push her of.
“The Hunter killed him.” She whispered in his ear. “Took away my Stan, my life, my girls…”
“Why the girls, Clarissa?” Morgan needed to gain time, he needed to gain focus, get his hands back on his gun.
She singsonged her boyfriend’s name and writhed against him. “He deserved better, better than me. He was so pretty, he deserved pretty girls. So I told him, I said, ‘Stan, what about a family.” She was smiling, showing bloody teeth. “So he did, for me, we had a family, our girls, our children.”
She swatted Morgan’s hand away from his gun, grabbed it and pushed it away from him. “Stan did it for me. And I knew, knew, he’d stay for the girls, wouldn’t leave me. Wouldn’t leave me …existing, half alive, but never truly so. Not like I’m now.” She sounded sad, broken. Seems like she’d been half insane before, but losing her partner had driven her over the edge and into freefall. “But the Hunter took him, took them all, all but me and my pretty pretty girl.”
Morgan was too weak to do anything but lie there and stare up as she raised the shovel and got it ready to bring it down once more.
There was a loud bang. She shrieked and he managed to squirm away. He looked up into the last pair of eyes he’d ever expected to see. Winchester’s.
Aaron forced himself to ignore Danton. Instead he found Winchester. Sam looked away from the dead agent, focusing all his attention on the man that was barely hanging on to life. It didn’t seem like Sam had exaggerated his skills, but with the lack of tools and first aid equipment, Hotch didn’t think that Johnny would last the hour.
They couldn’t stay here, he knew that. They were sitting ducks. The place was almost impossible to defend, they didn’t have enough look out points to spot anyone coming from outside and the first attack had already shown that they were vulnerable from above.
“We can’t stay in here. They’ll kills us all if we do.” Reid voiced Aaron’s own thoughts. Sam looked up for a second. Hotch wasn’t sure what he could read in the young man’s eyes. Guilt, pain. Blame aimed at himself.
“But where can we go? We don’t know the area.” Grayson rearranged his windbreaker over his bulletproof vest. After what had happened in Monument, they were compulsory when dealing with Winchesters. Yet even wearing one, hadn’t saved Jimmy or Danton.
“Maybe.” Sam spoke up, they all turned to him.”Maybe you should go with his idea.” His being Danton. “Use me.” Hotch could see a dozen situations, all of which would end badly. “He was right, they won’t shoot you, if they think that killing me would bring the devil into play.”
“Why not? They’re going to kill us all if you don’t.” Not all of us, they wouldn’t kill Winchester, not right away and Sam knew it. Yet Sam had still included himself in the ‘us’. Reports did say that Sam was supposed to be the more social of the two brothers.
“Because you’re in my custody, Winchester. And I’m not in a habit of risking a prisoner’s life.” That and Sam might be helpful and friendly right now, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to use the opportunity for an escape attempt.
Sam flinched back. Distrust played in his eyes. “They’re not going to kill me.”
Hotch simply looked at him, holding the younger man’s eyes without blinking. Sam almost instinctive changed his stance, stood straighter as if under inspection. “Yes sir!”, was all he said, before he backed off.
Hotch kept looking at Sam, taking care of injuries definitely wasn’t the only thing that John Winchester had taught his sons.
Reid was eyeing his crutch as if it were something evil. Hotch could understand why. Firefights weren’t Reid’s strength to begin with, add the crutches to that and the young doctor had to be feeling more vulnerable than ever.
“So how do we get out of here?”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I find out.”
Suddenly there was the sound of metal moving against something. Hotch first looked up, trying to find out if they had any more attackers coming down. It didn’t take him long to realize that the sound was coming from beneath them.
There was one door that they’d just blocked with one of the heavy metal tables, the one to the basement. Hotch shared a look with Grayson and the both of them pushed the table aside. Then he raised his gun, and checked the door. He didn’t even need to step down the stairs, as he looked right up at a young girl. She was seventeen, eighteen at most. She wore a white dress that had been pretty once and was now wet and filthy, her hair hung loosely around her face, her curls limp with mud. A large purple bruise covered one eye.
“Please help me.” She said, right before falling into Hotch’s arms.
Emily could hear a dog barking and noticed a wide open door streaming in sunlight. She ignored it. There were footsteps up ahead of her and she followed them. A scratchy noise and then for a brief seconds she heard some vague notes as if out of a music box. It was silenced all too soon.
Her flashlight hit a smiling face and before she could shoot the figure ducked out of the way. She heard another sound and aimed her gun at it. Growling, a badly kept dog was whining in the back. It was sitting over something.
The figure was gone and Emily went over to check what he’d been looking at. It was a woman’s jacket, covered in stains. Emily backed away and kept her gun at ready. She heard sobbing coming from her left and stared into a room that seemed to have naturally formed out of a cave. There were candles all over it, lit ones, unlit ones. In the middle in the circle of light was a young black girl. Sleek brown hair tied behind her back and tears filled her eyes. There were more than one set of chains beside her, but she was the only one there.
The girl was crying.
“Sharon Miller?” Emily asked. The girl looked up and stared at her.
“Please no more, it hurts.” She whispered. The girl was covered in cuts, small superficial ones and most of them looked clean, as if someone had been wiping away the blood.
There wasn’t a key in sight.