Genre: Crossover, drama, character study, angst, mystery, just a smidgen of h/c and finally an explanation (of sorts) -- all totally "gen"

Fandoms: Numb3rs and Supernatural (Winchester "reality", Eppes POV)

Disclaimer: The Eppes boys aren't mine. The Winchester boys aren't mine. The FBI is definitely not mine. Them's the breaks. No harm, no foul, eh?

Characters: Don, Megan, Dean, Charlie, Sam, Alan, David and Colby. No romantic pairings

Spoilers: This fic is set just prior to Supernatural's "Heart" and Numb3rs' "Democracy" episodes and so, for direct spoilers, everything up to those is fair game. There also may be small indirect references to episodes from the rest of season 2 of Supernatural and season 3 of Numb3rs.

Rating: PG for mildish language.

Words: 22000-ish

Other notes: Much, many and more thanks to Rinne and Starrylizard for betaing this. Nonetheless, all mistakes here within are mine and mine alone. It's worth noting that all three of us are Australian, so apologies for any hideous unAmericanisms this contains. Title and lyrics are from "Take a Long Line" (Brewster-Neeson-Brewster). Any feedback for the fic would be very much appreciated. Thank you kindly!

CHAPTER 1

They found him with his head inside a tin-pot crown
Told him his feet stank and took him downtown
Called him agitator, spy and thief
Shut him up in solitary third degree

"Real baby-faced killer, isn't he?"

Megan's voice has that familiar wry, amused tone, designed to tell suspects that she's got their number, but Don knows her well enough to hear the tension underneath. Behavioural psychologist or not, Megan sometimes allows cases to really get to her. It's usually when she can't get a handle on the mindset of the suspect and this one has really messed up every profile she has tried to throw at him.

Deciding not to answer, Don just takes a sip of his coffee as they both stare through the glass at the suspect in the interview room. She can't resist prodding again. "Want me to take a crack at it? Seems to think he's a real ladies' man. Might let something slip talking to a woman."

Don turns to her, raising an eyebrow. Megan has never really had any qualms about letting men underestimate her because she's a woman, and yet she seemed to react instinctively when this suspect tossed a little cheap innuendo at her -- quickly, coolly and thoroughly shutting him down with a few well-chosen words as she slapped the cuffs on him. His only reactions were a shrug and an easy-come-easy-go smile and now Megan knows she miscalculated on that one. She almost desperately wants a chance to make it up, but Don shakes his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. When Megan is on her game, she's one of the best players around, but the frustration currently emanating off her is never a good sign.

Besides, Don wants to take this interrogation himself. Every agent in the building would love to be the one to take this bastard down, but Don's lead agent on the team that made the arrest. Rank hath its privileges. It takes only one glance to let Megan know the way things are going to be and she hands him the file, visibly repressing a sigh. Without another word, he opens the door to the interview room and strides in.

Megan's "baby-faced killer" line really isn't so far off. The prisoner looks up, eyebrows raised and feigning attention, like he's just some high school kid who's been called up to the principal's office for some high-spirited prank. As masks go, it's a good one. Don doesn't bother with a verbal greeting. He takes his time sitting down at the desk and carefully placing the rather hefty case file in front of him. He opens it, making a brief show of shuffling through the papers on top (careful not to displace the photos immediately underneath). Then, looking up to meet the prisoner's eyes, he sees the smirk he was thoroughly expecting, but also a faint edge of curiosity that his opponent doesn't quite manage to hide.

Time to get this show on the road. "Let's gloss over the fine print for the moment and just go for the headlines, shall we?" Don taps the file in front of him. "St Louis. Baltimore. Milwaukee." It's a simple opening gambit, but the key to this is going to be adaptability and manoeuvrability, not overthinking the gameplan from the start.

Don Eppes leans back in his chair, folds his arms across his chest and tips his head to one side.

Dean Winchester allows his eyebrows to twitch briefly and then, with "casual" deliberation, he mirrors Don's pose perfectly.

A gauntlet thrown down and picked up. But still the suspect says nothing. He has no intention of giving an inch. His type never do.

There's no denying that there's a real mystery to uncover here. Something very complex is going on beneath the surface of all this. Don has read through the file and knows that Winchester isn't stupid. Dangerous, unpredictable and often reckless. But definitely not stupid. So there has to be a good reason that, knowing full well that he's on the FBI's radar, Dean Winchester brazenly walked into the Federal Building on Wilshire Boulevard to collect a passport under the pseudonym of Ronald Belford Scott.

But this current staring contest is going nowhere, so Don sucks it up and gives a little ground.

"So, what's your story?"

Winchester shrugs. "Your headlines. How about you tell me the story you want to run?" Another smirk. "And I'll just add my eyewitness details."

That was quite neatly blocked, but Don's got more where that came from. "Well, they say a picture paints a thousand words." He opens the file and starts spreading the most gruesome of the crime scene photos from the three cities mentioned out on the table between them.

Winchester's eyes briefly flicker down to each one, noting what it is but giving it no consideration, then return to his interrogator to maintain a steady emotionless gaze. When Don's tableau of photographs is complete, there is a beat or two before the suspect shrugs.

"And thousands of words later, I'm still waiting on you to say something."

This time it is Don who maintains the silence.

Winchester releases a brief chuckle and shakes his head ruefully, trying to pretend that breaking the silence, as he's about to, isn't a concession. But it really is. Still, he does manage to maintain a facade of disinterest as he looks over the St Louis photographs, deliberately pointing to each one with a casual, "Haven't been there," before stopping at the last in the sequence, one where the victim was tortured but survived. He slowly draws back his hand and again locks gaze with Don who picks up that photo and hold it up to him. "And this one?"

Dean Winchester leans forward to scrutinise it. Then asking permission with another flicker of his eyes, he makes a show of taking the photograph by one corner and turning it to look at it from every angle, before offering another shrug.

"Been there. My brother has a college friend who lives there."

"Would that be the college friend that you tortured within an inch of her life?"

"Never tortured anyone." Calm, collected, matter-of-fact, he tosses the photo back onto the table.

"That's not what she says."

The eyebrows go up in cool surprise. "She still say that?"

Don doesn't answer and grits his teeth against the little smirk of triumph that slowly spreads over his opponent's features.

"Maybe you managed to intimidate some witnesses into changing their story, doesn't mean we haven't got enough evidence to nail you."

Winchester leans back further in his chair and spreads his hands as far as the handcuffs will allow. "Evidence, huh? Gotta all be circumstantial."

It's true. "Oh, yeah? Why?"

And now he leans forward, emphasis in the words as well as the gesture. "Because I didn't torture anyone and I didn't kill anyone." Although said clearly, there's also resignation, as if he's explained all this before to no avail. And he has. The transcript from his "confession" to the Baltimore PD is also in the file and it's hands down the most bizarre piece of bullshit that Don has ever read in a statement.

The protest of innocence is no more believable now than it was then, and Don snorts as he too leans forward. "Then you have to be really unlucky for us to have linked you to so many violent, gruesome deaths."

Suddenly, the rhythm is broken, as Winchester laughs. A quick burst of what seems like genuine amusement. "Yeah, tell me about it."

But there's no way that Don is going to let the suspect set the pace of this interrogation. It's not going to get diverted or derailed now. Not bothering to hide his disgust at these horrors being trivialised, he immediately hits back, "So, torture, murder, people's lives -- it's all just a game to you?"

To Don's surprise, Winchester reacts almost as if he's been slapped. The humour is instantly wiped from his face and for an instant he stares at Don who is almost as shocked to see his words produce this kind of response. Although they were almost a reflex reaction, Don believed them as he spoke them. He's never doubted that he's dealing with a psychopath here, someone to whom human life means nothing.

He barely hears the soft, quiet "no" in response to his question. Both of them seem to be on the back foot for a beat or two and then there is a flicker of a smile from Dean Winchester, sad and slightly self-mocking. The words are almost whispered, barely carrying. "Doing a job that's life and death, day in, day out... kinda find yourself laughing at things..." The sentences aren't finished. He shrugs and looks away.

Don continues to stare silently for a second or two. It's all he can do not to blink. But, no. No. It was a good performance, Don will give him that, but there's no way this bastard is going to sucker Don Eppes into identifying with his sick mindset in any way. And it's opened up a new angle.

"What kind of job are we talking here? You kill for a living?"

Winchester's gaze whips back around and his eyes harden instantly. "There's killing and there's killing." There's no humour at all in his voice now. "I've never killed anything human."

Feeling his foothold strengthen, Don snorts again. "Oh, yeah? So what does and doesn't fit your definition of 'human'? Blacks? Hispanics? Arabs? Jews?"

Once again, a smile slowly spreads across Dean Winchester's face, but this time it's a complete sham. Despite the sneering derision in his voice, his eyes blaze with true fury. "Yeah, that would just fit nicely with the 'Redneck White Trash' profile you've got on file for me, right?" He leans forward again, really getting into Don's face this time. "Last Fed I talked to, talked that White Supremacist crap about my dad too."

And these last words are very carefully measured and slightly bitten off, the anger cold and cutting at first, but the heat rising with each syllable uttered.

Don's turn to play Mr Cool. "You're saying it's not true then?"

"It's. Not. True." Each word precisely spoken, like a nail being driven home.

"What then?"

Again, as if inexplicably, the momentum is suddenly gone. Leaning back, the smirking high school prankster returns. "Why don't you take another guess? You guys capable of coming up with more than one idea at a time?"

But Don isn't fooled for a second. Winchester really wants off this topic. He brought his father into it and that's where he made his mistake. Even the most soulless bastards need something or someone to believe in and Dean Winchester's file shows only two personal connections. There's been no sign of the father in over two years and the prevailing theory is that he's probably dead. The brother, on the other hand... The pattern of recent sightings is fairly constant. Odds on, little brother is around somewhere.

It's time to take everything up a notch, up several notches. Don levels a steady gaze at Dean Winchester, sees his opponent's eyes narrow slightly. It seems that they both realize the point that they've come to, so he might as well be direct about it.

"So where's Sam?"

It's acknowledged with a slight leaning back in the chair, but even though a light chuckle is brushed over it, the tension remains constant.

"Was wondering how long it'd take you."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Look, no offence, but you aren't the first Fed I've done this dance with." A shrug and like flicking a switch, it's back to playing the nonchalant wiseass. "Mind you, last one didn't spend so much time buttering me up. He was more a 'wham, bam, thank you ma'am' kinda guy. But I like your way better. A little slow dancing first. Maybe you could buy me a drink or two later on. Makes me not feel so cheap, y'know?"

The last thing Don wants is to lose the intensity. "Oh, you're a cheap, miserable little piece of shit, make no mistake."

But that just earns him another look of amused surprise, so he goes again for the only trigger that's had any effect so far. "And it seems that the only thing that you give a damn about is your degenerate, psychokiller family."

"You know nothing about my family."

Still trying to keep up the momentum, Don opens his mouth to list details, but Winchester cuts him off.

"Oh, yeah, you've read a file. Believed every word of it too, I'll bet, but you don't know a single goddam thing."

"I know that you've left a trail of death and mutilation in your wake. Somehow wherever you go, every horror imaginable follows. I know the casualties include your brother's girlfriend in Palo Alto, his college friend in St Louis, your accomplice in Milwaukee."

"Hey! Your side killed Ronald. No way that's down to me!" And it sounds like this wiseass psychopath is actually insulted by the accusation.

"But you never looked back, did you? What's one more death, after all? You just continue on your merry little tour of destruction and mayhem. Seems the only one safe from you is that brother of yours." And now Don throws in a carefully calculated shrug of his own. "But maybe not even him, huh?"

For a second, Winchester looks as though he's about to leap across the table and wrap his hands around Don's throat, but instead, he takes a deep breath and again speaks in distinct, deliberate words.

"You know nothing about me. You know nothing about Sam. And for all your files and FBI databases and whatever other shit you've got there, you don't know anything about what's really going on out there in the world, Agent Mulder." He flicks a hand dismissively at the file on the table. "You think that's me? That's my life? That's just some fairytale you and your buddies have cooked up. Made the story up to suit yourselves and never asked whether it's true or not. And you never will. Of course not. It's an FBI file, like it's gospel or something. Hey, who needs the actual truth when you've got a file to believe?"

And Don's mind involuntarily goes back to other FBI files that he has and hasn't read. The file on Matthew Stirling and the bomb attacks that he was accused of -- which were actually (if unknowingly) instigated by an undercover FBI agent. The FBI file on Don's own father that he's only read the bare minimum of, because he's never wanted any more direct conflict between his belief in his father and his trust in the integrity and competence of the FBI -- not any more than there has already been. And when some at the FBI had questioned his father's integrity, Don instinctively knew who to look to for the truth. Family.

And dammit, when he now looks across at Dean Winchester, for a brief moment what he sees is an angry, frightened kid, determined to protect his father's integrity. Desperate to shield his little brother. Hell, it's been easy to forget up until now, but this guy sitting across from him is actually younger than Charlie. Not that his age should mean anything. No, this "kid" is old enough to take full responsibility for what he's done. Stick with the facts.

The facts of the case file are brutal. Black and white. How could they possibly have been distorted? Don closes his eyes for a second and, uncertain himself whether it's genuine or for show, he lets out a small sigh. Then, opening his eyes again, he puts every ounce of earnestness that he possesses into the tone of his voice.

"Okay, tell me what the truth is, then."

The reaction is pure, genuine surprise. Dean Winchester evidently has his own preconceived ideas about how the FBI works and how its agents are supposed to act and, apparently, Don just broke pattern. You'd think that it'd be difficult to make a smile both rueful and cocky at the same time, but Winchester pulls it off effortlessly.

"The truth? What was it that Jack once said? You can't handle the truth."

Don snorts again, because this guy really is his own worst enemy. "Okay, so you sit there telling me that we don't know the truth, but you won't tell us what the hell you think the truth is. What do you expect from me?"

Winchester just shrugs again, like none of this matters. Don knows that it's done to annoy him. It's working.

"Tell me what you are doing in my town."

A look of appraisal (as if Dean Winchester has the right to sit in judgment of anyone) and then he seems to come to a decision and leans forward again, but this time the stance seems earnest, conspiratorial.

"Okay, you'll never believe me, but here goes nothing. Y'know those unexplained fires you've been having? Three deaths in a week so far, right? And I'm guessing your Fire Department can't identify a source. That'd be enough to make it a mystery for investigation, surely? Even if you don't know for sure that it's arson -- and murder."

"That was you?"

"No!" Winchester throws himself back in his chair, tosses his hands up in a gesture of derision, as if Don is clearly too stupid for him to be bothered continuing this conversation.

And although Don feels like he's setting himself up to have his chain yanked, he has to ask. "Then how do you know about them?"

"Sam saw them happen."

"What?" That resolution to not react was slipping. "What do you mean he saw them? You're telling me he was there? Where were you?"

"No, he wasn't there. When the first one happened we were in Oregon. Well, driving out of Oregon, actually. Sammy got the vision about two hours before it happened, apparently."

"Vision?" Don now has a very real appreciation of how those cops in Baltimore felt. No wonder they roughed this guy up a little. Just when you think you might have made a breakthrough, he dumps this crap on you.

"Yeah. He, y'know, sees stuff and then stuff happens. Usually stuff involving someone dying. And it's either tied up with a certain yellow-eyed demonic son of a bitch, or one of a bunch of kids with psychic superpowers. Turns out, this time it's a chick with freaky firestarter powers. Took a few days investigating and Sam getting slammed with three more of his psychic migraines, but now we've got a lead on her."

"A lead?" And now Don tastes a whole new flavour of disbelief. "You talk about this as if it's a case."

Dean Winchester gives him the most penetrating look that any suspect has ever given him. "That's because that's what it is."

And in that moment everything both crystallises and gets totally blown away. Could this guy actually think he's hunting down evil, maybe even saving the world? For a moment, Don can practically see Megan pacing through the office, gesturing with her hand, as she expounds on some "vigilante model" for the case. But, no. That doesn't fit with the gruesome torture crime scenes in St Louis. Those murders were committed by someone who thoroughly enjoyed and extended the suffering involved. Precisely the sort of monster that any self-respecting vigilante would take great pleasure in taking out...

No. Not possible. But the facts of the matter are that the killings in St Louis were stopped and someone was buried there as Dean Winchester.

One thing that has continually baffled the Bureau's top profilers in their analysis of the Winchester file is the pattern of variation in some of the truly bizarre crimes it contains. Credit card fraud and certain types of vandalism seem fairly constant, but many of the "crime sprees" attributed to the Winchester brothers seem location specific, certainly most of the killings, like the St Louis murders. There's almost always a bizarre "signature" MO which is remarkably similar to each case in that location, but which radically changes when they move on to the next location. Serial killers just don't change their signatures like that, not usually. Some have just decided that the Winchesters are "unique" in this way, probably the sort of case some psychology academic could build a whole career around. Because if you assume that the Winchesters did commit them all, then it defies any other simple explanation. But if you apply the "vigilante model", then maybe things start falling into place...

But just one minute here! The guy is talking about evil killer psychics. People who burn other people to death with the power of their minds, for God's sake! That's just totally deranged. Or is that what Winchester wants them to think?

"You're saying that someone is killing people by setting them on fire psychically? Do you actually expect me to believe that?"

"And do you actually listen to the answers when you're asking questions? I'm pretty sure I said something like, 'You'll never believe me, but--'. Look, you asked for the truth. You're getting it. What you choose to believe, I got no control over."

"Maybe you should start worrying about what a judge and jury will believe."

Another smiling shrug. This guy's apparent lack of concern is quite mind-boggling. "When the time comes."

"And what about your brother?"

Winchester's flippancy disappears instantly and Don restrains his own smile. Once again, back to this, but it might be the only leverage he has to work with. And the suspect's reaction is so consistent, it's unquestionably enough for a breakthrough.

Dean Winchester says nothing in reply, but watches him like a hawk, as Don continues to weave the tale for him.

"What about when Sam is standing in front of that judge and jury, facing the death penalty on numerous counts. We've got two suspects in every case, and only two, and the fact of the matter is, if one of you shoulders the blame, both don't have to go all the way down. You're not stupid. You know that the way that the evidence is stacked, the only one with a remotely salvageable case is Sam. So how about you tell me everything about every one of these cases?" He taps the file. "And yeah, I'll throw the book at you to the full extent of the law, but everything, everything possible will be done for Sam."

For a second or two neither of them dares breathe. Don knows exactly what instinct led him here. As he watches Winchester's eyes widen slightly, the faintest puff of air breathed through his teeth, Don knows he's got him. He really has got him. But the realisation twists his gut rather than bringing any sense of satisfaction. Don knows how and he knows why and he knows. There's no triumph here, only a defeat. Defeat staring at him like a man betrayed.

It's Don that breaks the eye contact between them this time. Looking back down at the file, he taps the document twice, the gesture pretending to be emphatic.

He looks up when Winchester starts speaking again. The tone manages to be flippant, but stumbles ever so slightly over the first word, belying the facade of unshakability that he's trying to put forward.

"Nice try, but you don't have Sam. And even if you did, you'd never let him go. You couldn't. You'd lock him up and he'd be an easy target... No, you've got nothing."

Don sighs, theatrically. "And here was I thinking that you actually cared about your brother." It's just a tokenistic comment, really, and they both know it. After where that last exchange took them, Don needs a break to take stock of things. So he's going to concede this round, but he's throwing a token punch to assure his opponent that the fight will continue.

But Winchester gives a reply that appears to be more of an answer than the comment deserves. Don honestly doesn't know if what he sees in that steady gaze is defiant challenge or grudging respect, but there is no doubting the earnestness of Dean Winchester's words or the significance he gives them.

"What's the point in saving the world, if you can't even save your own family?"

Don raises his eyebrows. It's a brisk counter, but there doesn't seem to be any real impact. He's not even sure where it was aimed.

But it's definitely time to end this round. He wordlessly picks up the photos and places them back in the folder, knowing that Winchester is still watching him for a reaction. Don won't give him the satisfaction just yet. He stands and walks to the door. He needs time to get his breath back. Have the people in his corner help him analyse how the bout is going, where he let his guard down, what new moves he can try. He can see that his opponent wants to keep going, but this is Don's arena. He sets the rules.

Dean Winchester pulls out his most annoying smirk to date. "That it? Hey, can I get a coffee or something during the break? Maybe a magazine to read, if I'm gonna be on my own in here? Or maybe send in Long Tall Sally to keep me company?"

He's still speaking as Don puts his hand on the door, goading him for a response. Patience has never really been Don's strongest suit, so he tosses back a smirk of his own. "Don't worry. I'll be back shortly."

Winchester glances at his watch and chuckles. "Oh, I wouldn't bet on it."

Don turns fully to give him a hard look and the knowing smile that greets him has a dangerous edge to it. Despite the alarm that begins to sound at the back of his mind, Don forces a derisive snort as he exits the room.

Megan catches his eye as soon as he closes the door. He knows what she's going to say and tries to pre-empt her.

"Hey, Long Tall Sally."

"Yes," she says dismissively, "that was a good one." She's not going to be swayed from her purpose. "You almost had him."

He raises his hands, strangely more defensive here than he was in the interview room. "Yeah, I know. Can't win 'em all on the first round."

Megan doesn't accept his mock surrender. She knows him too well. Her gaze is too piercing. "You pulled back."

"He called the bluff."

She doesn't buy his denial for a second and their gazes remain locked until his ringing phone drags his attention away.

"Eppes."

His brother's voice is more than welcome. For the first time since they arrested Dean Winchester, the tension eases. Don even laughs a little as he asks, "What can I do for you, Charlie?"

Less than five minutes later, he runs from the office, Megan hot on his heels, both desperate to reach CalSci before it's too late.

"What's the point in saving the world, if you can't even save your own family?"

He's going to kill Dean Winchester. He really is going to kill the bastard. Slowly.

But first things first.

Charlie.

And it can't be too late.

It just can't.

Take a long line
Take a long line
Take a long line
Reel him in

CHAPTER 2

He tried to appeal to the king of might
He said "I'm just exercising my sacred right"
The king he said "You ain't got no rights
You're a madman, traitor, get outta my sight"

Charlie knows that his friends and family view his organisational skills as somewhat... chaotic. What they don't realise is that there is a very definite order in his "chaos" and what sometimes appears to be random or a mistake is simply a different approach to what might be considered conventional. That's all. For instance, the fact that he is currently making last minute adjustments to the lecture that he's about to give in -- oh -- twenty minutes while simultaneously making notes on the work that his brand new post-grad student asked his opinion on some time last week, well, that just demonstrates his amazing multi-tasking skills.

Okay, so he might have completely forgotten that he agreed to discuss Bronwyn's notes with her before the lecture until that little demanding, unrelenting, Nazi-like beep on his computer reminded him about ten minutes ago. Yeah, so maybe he should have left himself more time, but whatever. Quick and innovative thinking is Charlie's specialty. He's well known for it. If there are no more distractions, he knows he can get all of this done. Absolutely. No problem.

There's a tentative knock at the door.

Of course. Typical.

Charlie looks up -- and up -- to see a very tall student he doesn't know filling the doorway to his office.

"Dr Charles Eppes?"

"Yes." Charlie doesn't sigh, he really doesn't. But he generally saves his poker face for when he's playing poker and so the kid in the doorway leans back slightly, his features slipping into a rather doleful look of apology.

"Uh, sorry to bother you. Is this an inconvenient time?"

Now Charlie does sigh. Oh, who was he kidding? He was always going to be running late anyway. "Yeah, it is, but it doesn't matter." He determinedly summons up a smile (because he's always been proud of his reputation as "the approachable one" amongst the professors at CalSci), gets up from his desk and beckons his visitor into the room. "How can I help you? Er..."

He's fishing for a name because he's not going to call him "kid" or anything like that. That just makes Charlie feel old. The kid -- young man -- student steps forward, offering his right hand.

"Sam. Sam Winchester. And I really need to talk to you about something I've been working on." He looks Charlie directly in the eye and there is definitely an element of pleading. "It's rather urgent."

Under his left arm, he's carrying a folder that he now extends and it overtakes his right hand before Charlie has had time to shake it. For a split second, Charlie isn't sure which hand it would be more impolite to ignore and Sam appears to realise this, pushing his right hand further forward -- just as Charlie has opted to reach for the file in his left. This results in an awkward little hand shuffle and slight juggling of the file, before the handshake ritual is performed.

Then the file ends up almost falling to the floor before Charlie catches it and Sam grimaces. But his expression becomes less awkward and he even smiles slightly when Charlie holds up the file in triumph, as if he thinks the whole thing was a spectacular acrobatic feat. Charlie catches himself smiling back, reminding himself that he really has to stop being such a pushover. Everybody always thinks their problems are urgent -- Don and his team, the CalSci administration, the NSA, everyone -- and he really has to learn to just say no, at least once in a while.

"I'm sorry, Sam, but I really am incredibly busy at the moment. I actually don't think I've seen your name on any of my student lists. I don't mind helping out other departments. I really don't, but just at the moment..."

Sam's eyes widen slightly. "Oh, sorry. This isn't about a CalSci thing." He coughs self-deprecatingly. "Actually, I'm not a student here. Umm, it's something you need to see because of your FBI work."

To say that Charlie is surprised is an understatement. Again Sam reacts to his obvious non-use of a poker face, his words of explanation almost falling over themselves in an attempt to apologise.

"Your affiliation with the FBI is... well, on your net bio, it mentions that you work closely with them as a consultant and what I've got here," he gestures to the file in Charlie's hands, "well, I don't think the police or FBI will take my word for it, but you and your work," and now he gestures vaguely at the office surrounding, "I thought you might understand the pattern I'm seeing here and maybe be able to convince them. It is a matter of life and death. It really is."

It's not the most well constructed argument that Charlie has ever heard, but there's something very earnest about the kid. Almost against his better judgement, Charlie opens the file to take a look. And blinks.

"Sam, what you've got here doesn't exactly look like a mathematical problem."

"No, I don't really have a mathematical background, but I was hoping that if I showed you the data, you might see the pattern I saw and, well, maybe you might be able to form some kind of mathematical model around it. Do you think you could do that? Maybe?"

Charlie glances up at him sharply, hearing the challenge hidden in the apparently earnest question. Sam half-ducks his head, seemingly embarrassed by his own nerve. "From what I understand, that's what you do for the FBI and I wasn't kidding about the life and death stuff. People are dying in these fires and more will die if they aren't stopped."

Charlie's eyes turn back to the file and he clicks his tongue, as if considering the pros and cons, but he's already pretty much convinced. He'd be lying if he said there wasn't a touch of ego involved. He never could back down from a challenge. But more than that, if lives are at stake, if there's a time limit involved...

One of the things that Charlie loves most about working with Don and his team at the FBI is the way he can often see the benefits of what he's done by the time the case is closed -- lives saved, disasters averted, people finally receiving recompense for wrongs done to them in the past. The rewards of the FBI work seem almost immediate compared to his goals in academia.

Charlie unequivocally loves his work as a high-powered theoretical mathematician. It's challenging in a way that nothing else is. It's illuminating, exhilarating. He truly believes that he can make significant contributions to the advancement of knowledge for the entire human race, but that will take years. And the true benefits of some of his work may not even be seen in his lifetime.

If this file Sam Winchester has put together could actually save lives, does he really have a choice? Anyway, he'll make the lecture. Maybe a little late, but he'll get it done. Bronwyn will understand that he might need a little more time to look over her work. She's just starting out on her post grad work and he'll make it up to her. He really will.

Charlie takes the file back to his desk and sits down to look at it properly. He casts a brief glance up at Sam, who breathes a small but audible sigh of relief, but the kid doesn't hover. He stands back to give Charlie space and, like nearly every other visitor to Charlie's office, it seems he can't resist fiddling with the gadgets and toys that fill every spare inch of bench and shelf space in the room. Charlie keeps his eyes on the file he's reading, but he can identify most of the things that Sam touches from the familiar clicks and clatters each device makes. Then there's a longer, louder clatter and when Charlie does look up at this sound, Sam mutters, "Sorry".

Multi-tasker that he is, even while processing the contents of the file in his mind, Charlie also attempts to solve the other mystery before him, the one gathering marbles from the floor with an apologetic grin. Charlie's no linguist, but Sam's accent is clearly not local.

"Where are you from, Sam?"

Sam looks up, surprised. "Where? Oh, Kansas, originally."

Charlie nods slightly. The file he is reading is clearly not written by a mathematician, probably not by someone trained in any of the physical sciences to a tertiary level. But this work is undeniably the product of a highly organised, analytical mind. He's pretty sure that he knows why this Kansas boy came to California.

"So where did you study? College, I mean."

Sam tilts his head quizzically, maybe wondering how Charlie made his deductions, maybe curious as to where the questions are going. "Stanford. Not mathematics, though."

"Obviously." And Charlie makes no effort to curb the note of judgement in his response.

Sam's eyebrows go up at that, a clear oh, really expression which Charlie is pleased to see. So, the ego of an intellectual is definitely in there. Good.

"Pre-law," Sam says, crossing his arms and lifting his chin slightly, "but I'm taking a little time off at the moment."

"To go into freelance arson investigation?" Charlie asks with false innocence, tempered with a smile.

But Sam abruptly looks down at his feet. He chuckles ruefully, acknowledging the joke, but it's not hard to hear the genuine underlying pain, then looking back up at Charlie, he says quietly, "No, personal time." Hesitation, then a sigh that encompasses both contemplation and resignation, as if he's reluctant to share the reason with a stranger, but then apparently deciding that having come this far, he might as well.

"My girlfriend died," the kid looks away again, "in a fire."

Okay, so maybe that doesn't make Charlie feel like the absolute lowest form of life there is, but it's pretty damn close.

"I'm sorry," he says, almost wincing at the inadequacy, but Sam just shrugs slightly, still not looking at him.

To get away from the awkwardness, give the kid a little space, Charlie turns his attention back to the file.

Sam's work is not only thorough, but it seems that he must have put this together rather quickly. The first fire in the series was only just over a week ago, two more in quick succession, and then one more that breaks the pattern. Charlie can't really see why the last one has been included. The first three are very distinctive. Each of them featured a fierce but short-lived blaze that caused one fatality and did very little damage to the surrounding property, as if the intention was specifically to kill. The objective is murder, not arson. No accelerants or ignition devices could be identified. Three explanation- defying fatal fires in quick succession. And some of the information here is not exactly the kind to be public knowledge.

"Sam," he says slowly, not looking up, "How did you get all this information?"

He senses the shrug without seeing it. "It's amazing what you can find on the internet these days."

Maybe. Not legally, though. Given what Sam has just told him, Charlie can see the kid bending a few rules to gather the evidence to put together his case, and he's obviously got some pretty impressive computer hacking skills. The level of obsession probably isn't healthy, but it's easily understood.

What isn't at all easy to understand is why he's included the fourth anomalous fire in his dataset. Again a fire with very little property damage, but it isn't that hard to explain a fire breaking out in a restaurant kitchen and there wasn't a fatality. Everything else flows so very logically. There must be a reason. He has to ask.

When he looks up, he sees that Sam has been studying him intently, probably trying to gauge his reactions. The kid already knows he's going to be quizzed on his data and draws himself up slightly in anticipation -- which is so very unnecessary. He towers over Charlie by more than a head. There really is no need to push the height advantage, thank you.

"Why is this fire at the Chiyoda Restaurant included?"

Sam's eyes dart away and then back again. It's the first time the kid has looked in the least bit shifty. Then he shrugs. "It has features that match."

Charlie shakes his head. "Not really. And the biggest factor in your analysis is missing. No one was killed."

Sam stares into his eyes with fierce intensity, as if he intends to convince him by sheer willpower alone. "It's one of the same fires. I know it is."

Charlie folds his arms. "Okay, explain to me why." He likes to think he's a fairly open-minded guy. He's willing to open his mind to just about any possibility, if you can offer him some kind of rational explanation.

For the record, "because I saw it in a vision" does not qualify as a rational explanation.

Charlie gapes. He knows he's gaping because his head is filled with so many things he really wants to say at this point in time, but he can't make his lips form the words.

A vision. The kid actually just said that he saw the fire in a vision.

Charlie is now shaking his head in disappointment, even while he gapes, because he's only just met Sam Winchester, but he knows what a tragic waste of a good mind this is. An exceptional young mind really, one which should be a promise for the future. It's such a waste.

No. No, it might be too late for his good friend Larry Fleinhart, but this particular gifted young mind is not going to be allowed to take the last train to Crazyville. Charlie understands, perhaps better than most, the driving need to find answers, to try and explain the mysteries of the universe, but those answers should be sought in logic, not fantasy. With Sam's personal history, it's not hard to see why he might seek answers beyond the rational, but Charlie is not going to allow a tragic obsession to distort the boy's thinking in this way.

"No, Sam." He speaks quietly, but firmly and Sam cocks his head slightly, as if recognising something in the tone. Encouraged that he's garnered his audience's attention, Charlie continues. "I know you probably think that you've had some sort of premonition that felt like a psychic vision, but you really didn't."

"What makes you say that?" And Sam sounds genuinely curious. Maybe there really is hope for him.

"Because those sorts of things don't exist."

"They don't?" Now, there's the faintest hint of amusement in Sam's voice and Charlie bristles. He's not the one being humoured here.

"No, Sam, they don't. Look, you've been working really hard on the analysis of these fires and maybe it's begun to affect your thinking even on a subconscious level, so that you are processing the data on a level that you aren't even aware of. Sometimes the Eureka moment can hit you with an intensity so powerful that maybe, maybe you might mistake it for some kind of psychic revelation."

Sam's eyes widen in surprise, tinged with awe. "Wow," he breathes.

Charlie almost sighs with relief. He actually reached him! So far, he hasn't been able to convincingly win this argument with anyone -- not Larry, not Don and their father and, most gallingly, not that charlatan, Kraft, who once conned his way into an FBI investigation. But now it looks like he's actually managed to make Sam Winchester see sense, and he can't stop the grin of triumph that spreads across his face. "You see?"

Sam starts slightly and then looks a little guilty. "Sorry. I was actually just thinking that you kinda reminded me of my brother there for a bit. And I really wasn't expecting that."

Charlie blinks. "Your brother?"

"Yeah, he can find a way to explain away just about anything he doesn't want to accept." And now Sam is the one grinning. "Of course, the real irony is that Dean's been dealing with the paranormal since before he was five but he's still a sceptic." The grin is garnished with a snort of laughter. "And he calls me 'Scully'!"

Charlie rests his elbows on the table and lets his head fall into his hands. So near and yet so far.

"Dr Eppes?"

Charlie looks up to see Sam looking at him again, his eyes wide with contrition this time. "Look, I don't want you to take this on faith in my psychic abilities. You're a man of science and that's too much to ask. There's a very simple, logical and non-psychic reason that there was no fatality in the Chiyoda Restaurant fire. We got there in time to prevent it. The fatality, that is, of course. Not the fire. Obviously."

Charlie is able to absorb and process data rapidly. Everybody knows that. But this is just a little overwhelming. "You? Who? What?"

Sam draws up a chair to sit in front of Charlie's desk and leans forward as he explains. If Charlie thought the kid looked earnest before, he now watches it taken to a whole other level.

"The Chiyoda Restaurant fire was meant to kill someone. We believe that the intended victim was a Dr Mildred French."

"Millie?" Now Charlie remembers that Millie had mentioned that restaurant to him recently, some dinner to try and encourage overseas investors to donate to the faculty.

"Yes, I believe you know her. Y'see, Dean and I got there first, so the arsonist wasn't able to line up her target. I wanted to confront her, talk to her -- the arsonist, that is -- but it looks like Dean was right and she's too far gone for that. Dean got his eyebrows singed a bit, but no one was really hurt. She got away though and I've got to find some way of stopping her. She'll try again and she thinks she can't be caught."

Charlie once again finds himself floundering in the monosyllabic. "What? Who?"

Sam looks down and takes a deep breath before once again fixing Charlie with his steady, earnest gaze. "These fires, these murders are being committed by Bronwyn Sequard."

And finally this insanity is just too much. Charlie cracks up. He can't help it and the laughter feels good. Of all the ludicrous, insane...

"Bronwyn?"

"I know you think you know her, but the pattern fits. She knew all of the victims, had some axe to grind with each of them. One was a real estate agent who refused to give her the lease on an apartment she wanted. Another was a woman she was seen arguing in public with last week. And the third was a guy that, after we did a little digging, turns out to be an ex-boyfriend. And then Dr French, who apparently is questioning her suitability for some campus scholarship grant she's applied for."

That is true. Millie has voiced her doubts to Charlie, as Bronwyn's supervisor. But that doesn't mean anything. Millie can get a bit hard-nosed about these things, but Charlie is sure that he'll be able to talk her around. He told Bronwyn as much. He told... Oh, no. No.

He only realises that he's voiced the denial out loud when he sees Sam produce a helpless little shrug of his shoulders, as if he wishes he could deny it, but is just unable to.

"We saw her do it at the Chiyoda Restaurant. She set the fire there. Dean and I saw it."

Charlie realises that he's still shaking his head in denial and forces himself to stop. This is ridiculous. Crazy. Totally and utterly insane. He needs time to think. Time.

"God! What time is it?" Charlie looks down at his watch and jumps to his feet instinctively. He's so late! They'll be looking for him.

Sam also stands, pleading with him. "Please, you've got to listen to me!"

Charlie has taken a half-step to dodge around Sam and get to the door, when something occurs to him. He plants both feet firmly and glares up at his visitor, the height difference having no effect on him now.

"So, did you come to me because of my connection to the FBI or because of my connection to Bronwyn?"

Sam looks a bit uncomfortable, but he doesn't back down. "Both, really. I really wanted you to help me get the FBI on board, but I also thought you would be concerned for the people you work with here at CalSci."

"Why should I believe you?"

Sam gestures at the file still on Charlie's desk with a faint air of helplessness. "The evidence is all in there. You can verify it for yourself."

"And your story about seeing Bronwyn do it? How do I verify that? You said your brother was with you? Why isn't he here with you now to back up your story?"

"There was somewhere else he had to be. Besides, hanging around with academic types really isn't his thing. If he can, he leaves me to do the..." Sam stops abruptly, apparently biting his tongue against what must have been ill-considered words.

But Charlie is well and truly fed up with information being rationed to him piece by piece. He wants all the cards on the table right now. "Leaves you to do what?"

"Leaves me to do the geek stuff," Sam admits sheepishly.

And in response to that, Charlie half-crosses his arms and drops his head onto the palm of one hand. Against his will, he finds himself half-smiling again. "So, he's your older brother then?"

Sam chuckles and spreads his hands -- a classic you got me gesture. "Yeah, about four and half years older. Thinks I'm a total geek and still treats me like a kid half the time."

Yeah, that's not at all familiar. Charlie gives up and just lets the grin spread across his face. He likes this kid. He's not at all sure that Sam Winchester isn't certifiably crazy, but Charlie likes him nonetheless.

"Okay, I don't know where you get your ideas about that psychic stuff and, frankly, I don't want to. And I'm sure you've got the wrong end of the stick with the stuff about Bronwyn." He holds his hand up for silence when Sam opens his mouth to protest. "But the analysis you've put together definitely should be put to the FBI."

Sam's eyebrows shoot up. "Really?"

"Yes, really. I'll give my brother a call."

"Now?" Sam asks, with an almost puppy-like eagerness.

Charlie looks again at his watch and sighs. He's so very late now, there's no real point in hurrying. "Yes, okay, now."

Sam watches him as he pulls out his phone and Charlie could swear that the kid is about to start bouncing with excitement. Despite the seriousness of what they're about to discuss, Charlie has to fight to keep the mirth out of his voice as he responds to his brother's terse phone greeting.

"Hey, Don! Do you think we could meet up sometime today? Someone's come to me with a very interesting dataset and preliminary analysis on a set of fires and I think it's something you guys might wanna look into. His name's Sam..."

Suddenly, Sam leans across, enunciating carefully so he can be heard over the phone, "Sam Winchester."

Charlie is astounded to hear Don swear in response and it makes him turn in reflex, to look at the phone in his hand. In that instant, a forearm slips across his throat. He has time to call out to Don before it clamps down like a vice, shutting speech down completely and restricting his breathing enough for him to momentarily see stars. He thinks he can still hear his brother's frantic shouts, as the phone falls from his hand.

What happens next is a blur. He feels himself being dragged across the room, vaguely registers that the door has been shut and wonders when that happened. As he falls into a chair, the pressure on his throat is released and he starts to cough, but that is cut off when a gag is quickly tied in place. He finds that he can't remember if his hands were tied to the chair before or after he was gagged, but as he struggles to get his bearings, Sam looks up from tying his legs to those of the chair, his expression apologetic again. Unbelievably, he still seems to look every inch the harmless, earnest kid who walked into the room. You'd be convinced that all he wanted to do was help, if he didn't happen to be currently gagging and tying someone to a chair in their own office.

"I'm sorry. I know how uncomfortable this is. I really wish I didn't have to do it."

The voice and eyes are still amazingly sincere and Charlie can't help but wonder if Sam actually expects to be believed. He watches as Sam walks over to pick up Charlie's phone from where it slid into a corner of the room during the struggle (although calling it an actual struggle might be considered optimistic on Charlie's part). Sam ends the call and pockets the phone, then goes to Charlie's desk and, after a brief search, he retrieves Charlie's pass and some other papers for the FBI, slipping them into another pocket.

There's a difference in the way he moves, Charlie notices. Up until now, Sam's movements have had a certain awkward hesitancy to them. He'd slouched slightly, mostly kept his hands in his pockets, all of which accentuated his gangly youthfulness. Now all his movements are purposeful and economical, unhurried, as he efficiently searches through Charlie's desk and Charlie realises that the way Sam is moving now reminds him of Colby Granger. Sam Winchester moves like a soldier. This can't be good.

Charlie begins to struggle against his bindings when Sam sits down at the computer and begins typing. All the complex security that usually protects his work isn't going to stop Sam getting at the files that Charlie already has open which include some of his work for the FBI. At this stage, it's scarcely a surprise to learn that Sam ties knots which are practically immovable, but Charlie struggles on even though he quickly realises it is pointless.

His captor glances towards him and offers a rueful smile, before turning back to the keyboard, speaking as he types away. "I know you won't believe this, but you really don't have to worry. I'm just gathering a little information. I won't damage any of your files. Most of what I want isn't here anyway, but I can see this stuff is important and, despite what Dean says, I know that your brother and friends at the FBI do actually track down genuinely dangerous criminals, as well as wasting time with the likes of us."

He grins at his own joke, but there's no way that Charlie finds any of this amusing.

Sam Winchester is wanted by the FBI. Charlie has no idea what for, but the way Don reacted...

Charlie closes his eyes. His brother must be going quietly -- or not so quietly -- insane right now.

He hears Sam make a call and reopens his eyes to see him using Charlie's phone. It sounds like he's called the fire department, reporting a fire at the very lecture theatre Charlie should be at right now. Then Sam ends the call and stands up to face Charlie. His expression is once again filled with reluctance and contrition. He still moves like a soldier, but his face is regretful, perhaps the soldier that didn't want to go to war.

"Dr Eppes, I really am very sorry. I've called the fire department down here just in case, but you've got to listen to me when I say you mustn't go anywhere near Bronwyn Sequard today. She's dangerous. She really is."

Oh God, exactly how insane is this kid? If he's delusional, would he actually hurt Bronwyn, trying to punish her for what he thinks she's done? Charlie can't let that happen. He's got to get out of here, warn her.

Suddenly, Sam Winchester gasps in pain. One hand is pressed to his forehead and the other swings out to try and brace himself using the top of Charlie's desk, but he falls to his knees anyway and the gasp becomes a moan of pure agony. Charlie can't help but stare in morbid fascination, as Sam drops both hands to the floor and hangs his head, panting, trying to get his breathing back under control.

When Sam lifts his head again, Charlie expects to see anger, for some reason, but what he sees instead is fearful concern. His eyes are bright with tears, although that might be purely from the sheer physical pain that he apparently just went through, and it seems to cost him a lot to drag himself to his feet. One hand lands heavily on Charlie's shoulder.

"Listen to me! You've got to listen to me!" The kid is really begging now and the impact is increased by the edge of tears in his voice. "If you go near her, she will kill you. She will see you as you enter the lecture theatre. She will then stare at you for a fraction of a second. You will see the firelight briefly reflected in her eyes. And then she will direct a column of flame straight at your head and incinerate you where you stand! If you try to approach her, that is what is going to happen. So please. Please, just don't."

By the time he's finished saying this, their faces are only inches apart and Sam draws back to study Charlie for a moment. Charlie thinks Sam Winchester is insane and doesn't try to hide it. Sam runs one hand through his hair in frustration and then brings both up to cover his face, keeping them there as he speaks through his fingers in deliberately measured tones, the voice of someone forcing themselves to remain calm.

"I can't stay here and deal with her. I just don't have the time." He drops his hands and looks at Charlie again. His expression is still filled with worry and remorse, but the frustration has been replaced by determination. "I can't stay. Really. I have to get to Dean before he gets impatient and does something stupid, like getting himself shot trying to escape." A small, sad chuckle breaks through. "Or just pisses someone off enough that they find an excuse to shoot him." The mirth fades into one more sigh. "Please! I can only tell you what I know. Call it one of your 'Eureka moments', if you like. If you go near her, she will kill you."

Charlie knows his expression doesn't change. He's not going to pander to the delusion and Sam throws up his hands in a gesture of exasperation.

"Look, at the very least duck -- I mean, really duck, if you even think you see a hint of fire around her."

And then Sam Winchester turns to leave, but sticks a hand backwards for something he dropped on the desk when he was hit by that seizure or whatever it was. His hand seems to snag on something which he picks up to look at and Charlie can see that it's a book of Milton prose, lent to him by Larry as part of his friend's bid to turn him into a 'Renaissance Man'. The book is important to Charlie for that fact alone, and when he sees Sam smirk with undisguised mischief, the sudden jerking movement he makes almost overbalances the chair. Sam's expression becomes almost gleeful, as he tucks the book under his arm. "Don't worry. You'll get it back."

He doesn't touch Charlie again but leans in to emphasise his warning one more time. "Don't go near her. Wait for the cavalry to arrive." Then he abruptly strides past his captive to the doorway behind him. Charlie hears the door close again and the lock turn. Then there is silence.

The doorway is behind him, and Charlie now realises that Sam positioned the chair like this so that he could keep an eye on both Charlie and the only entrance to the office while he worked at the computer. Charles Eppes has been played like a fiddle. Nothing about this whole encounter has been accidental or left to chance. Every single aspect of this has been meticulously planned out and efficiently executed.

The FBI file on Sam Winchester must be fascinating. The kid is insane, but he has the intellect of a criminal mastermind. Then, like a blow to the back of the head, the further implications of that sink in.

The fires! What does it mean about the fires? Is any of that data true? Could Sam himself be the one responsible for those deaths?

But if he's a killer, why leave Charlie alive? Why alert the FBI? Because now it's obvious that he manipulated Charlie into making the call to Don. So what the hell was that all about?

Too many questions. Too many dangerous questions. Charlie knows that he's got to get free. He's got to do something. He again struggles against the immovable bonds, until he hears a heavy pounding on the door and someone shouting his name. The only response he's able to produce is a pathetic gurgle in the back of his throat, but whoever it is doesn't wait for a response anyway. He hears a key turn in the lock and figures that it's probably campus security. They'd have a master key.

Two security guards quickly make their way around the chair so that he can see them before they start untying him. He recognises both of them, even though he can't put names to faces at the moment. He just nods when they ask him if he's okay because he's trying to spit the taste of the gag out of his mouth, and they have to steady him when he stumbles slightly, standing up too quickly, already heading for the door.

He's got to get to Bronwyn. He still doesn't know whether Sam Winchester is going to try and harm her, even kill her. And he's not sure how coherent he is as he tries to explain this to the security guys, but he notices that they do seem to be helping him along, rather than holding him back. All three of them race to the lecture theatre. He only vaguely registers other things they tell him. Don called them. They are sorry about the delay in finding him because they went to the lecture theatre first. That's where they thought he was supposed to be. Yes, that is where he's supposed to be.

And finally, finally they get there. Charlie spots Bronwyn right away and she turns to look at him. The oddest sense of foreboding hits him, like a sort of morbid deja vu. Bronwyn's eyes widen slightly, when she seems to take in the presence of the campus security guys accompanying him. Then those eyes harden and flash with anger. He's never seen that look in her eyes before. He's never seen that look in anyone's eyes because for an instant they literally seem to be lit by fire from within. And he doesn't know where the instinct comes from, but he throws himself to the floor, dragging the security guys with him. But still he sees it, the column of flame hurtling towards him. Like the fire itself is driven by a ravenous hunger. Maybe he has seen "Backdraft" too many times.

He hits the ground heavily, but he still feels the intense heat overhead. Screams of terror pound his ears, one scream dominating the rest. Agony more than terror, a scream of someone, a woman dying. Bronwyn, he thinks. He has to know for sure, but he can't lift his head. Everything hazes into a blur of darkness, noise and the smell of burning.

He doesn't know how long he lies there. It's not the first time he's thought he was going to die, but he thinks it's the first time he's ever imagined himself in Hell. Then he feels someone half-lift him to his feet and help him stumble out of the room, and out of the building altogether because he can now smell the open air. The tortured cacophony of screaming has been replaced by a reassuring muttering and Charlie registers the familiarity of the person half supporting his weight. He recognises a combination of voice, touch, rhythm of movement and a host of other factors he couldn't calculate if he tried.

He tries to say his brother's name, but he's coughing too hard. His knees give out again, but fortunately what they land on is soft grass and Don's grip switches from holding him up to a reassuring pressure on his back. His vision clears enough to register vague shapes and the flashing lights of fire engines. It's at least another minute before he finally manages to croak out Don's name, to let his brother know that he's aware of his presence, and he hears Don sigh in relief.

Charlie doesn't know how long they sit there. A paramedic arrives and Charlie earns himself an oxygen mask.

Don doesn't say much, just occasional mutterings that include Charlie's name, as well as some curses and rather vicious threats against unspecified persons. His arm has now slipped around Charlie's shoulders; his grip feels tight enough to bruise.

Charlie doesn't say anything, he just breathes.

His mind is plagued with enough unanswered questions to drive him nuts well into the next century, but Charlie just breathes.

All he can do is just breathe.

Take a long line
Take a long line
Take a long line
Reel him in

CHAPTER 3

They put him aboard a well wound whirlwind
Pulled out his teeth and told him to grin
He gave them a smile, pulled out a bottle of wine
And said "I never existed, you've been wasting your time"

"How ya doing, Mr Eppes?"

David Sinclair smiles as he approaches to escort Alan up to the office where his sons have sequestered themselves away for the past two days, but there's an element of relief in the greeting which makes the older man raise his eyebrows. Alan has always appreciated David's seemingly indomitable level headedness and good humour. The look of genuine relief in the young FBI agent's eyes confirms that Allen was right to come down here. His presence is obviously needed.

"Fine, David," he says automatically, but when David raises his own eyebrows, Alan tempers his response. "Maybe a little concerned." He offers a small smile of his own. "I mean, it's not really unusual for me to go for days without seeing any sign of Don, but I live with Charlie and even when he decides to do the hermit thing, obsessing over his work, I usually just have to go out and take a look in the garage."

David nods. "Yeah, I kinda see your point."

"And that's not even mentioning that two days ago Charlie was in the hospital for smoke inhalation. Some might say that he should be taking things a bit easy."

"Some might say," David agrees with a wistful sigh and Alan chuckles. It's not like he doesn't know the level of obsession that both his sons are capable of.

"So, is it because the problem itself is just far too engrossing for him to take it easy, or is it because he's taking it too personally?"

"Charlie's not the one taking it personally," David mutters under his breath, avoiding Alan's gaze, as he opens the door for him.

Alan sighs. That's more or less what he'd been expecting too.

As David leads him the rest of the way up to the office, there is a silence that is at least companionable, if not completely comfortable. Alan has been a visitor to Don's "war room" before. He knows that this case has involved several deaths and he knows that Charlie's life was apparently threatened. So he thinks that he can gauge the level of tension to expect, but he's taken aback at the intensity of the gazes that swing towards him as he enters the room.

Even though he knows that they had already been told he was arriving, everyone stops what they are doing to look at him and, since Charlie was apparently mid-explanation as he entered, that can definitely be called unusual. There is a second or two of silence before Don offers, "Hey, Dad. Welcome to the party," with some forced jocularity. Charlie, Megan and Colby say nothing, although Megan gives him a small nod of greeting.

Alan takes a quick look round the group and then acknowledges Don's greeting with a mumbled thanks that might not be exactly gracious, but reflects the contagious unease that he senses in the room. It's nearly nine pm on a Saturday and Don's team seem to be the only ones in the office at the moment, but somehow Alan feels a little crowded -- which is ridiculous. He shakes off his hesitancy and strides over to join his sons who are both standing in front of a board covered in maps, crime scene photos and a couple of mug shots.

"So this is them?"

Don shrugs in acknowledgment. There's no need to actually voice an answer because the names "Dean Winchester" and "Sam Winchester" are very clearly written in felt tip underneath each mugshot. Alan has already heard the basic -- sanitised -- facts of the case from Don, two days ago while Charlie was in the hospital. Serial killers. Multiple murders across the country. Murders too gruesome to describe.

"God, they're kids!"

He feels slightly naive, even as he says it and Don's response is weary and not a little irritated.

"Trust me, Dad. They're not kids"

But as Alan steps closer to study the defiantly lifted chin and the belligerence in the eyes of Dean Winchester, he can't help but remember another kid, fiercely declaring that he had no idea how the neighbour's window came to be broken and defying anyone to prove he had anything to do with it. A quick glance across to his eldest son shows him that same look of defiance again, echoes of the past in the present, but rather than confront it, Alan turns back to the other mugshot.

Sam, the younger brother if he remembers rightly, has a touch of sadness in his eyes and maybe the faintest hint of confusion, as if, at the time it was taken, he wasn't completely sure why he was there. It does make him look a little more youthful and vulnerable, but his jaw is still firmly set. Even if he doesn't know what's going on, there's going to be no surrender. Less antagonism perhaps, but equal determination and he can't be more than early twenties which makes him a kid in Alan's book.

"What are they then?" Alan turns around, addressing his question to the whole group and Megan's face slowly melts into a smile. His eyebrows go up, although he's not surprised to see that she has a theory. She always was an exceptionally bright young woman.

"Well, that really is the question, Mr Eppes."

"Oh, really?" The way Alan heard it two days ago, the judgement had already been handed down on these boys, or at least, the unofficial judgement from Don and his team. He's more than a little curious to learn what has transpired since then to bring such a forgone conclusion back into question now. "I thought you had a very comprehensive file on them." He says it challengingly and, without looking, can feel Don's gaze on him intensify.

"'Comprehensive' is the eye of the beholder," Charlie snorts and Alan turns to look at his youngest.

Alan asks, "What do you mean?" at the same time that Don says warningly, "Charlie..." and the family genius gives a very familiar small toss of his head as he determinedly focuses on his father, rather than his brother.

"Well, the file does contain a lot of data, but there are also a lot of inconsistencies in that data and there is a definite bias in the way those inconsistencies are being dealt with. It's as if the conclusion has already been decided and the data is being adapted to fit it, rather than using the data available to determine a logical conclusion."

"Oh, c'mon, Charlie," Don objects. "People have been working their asses off for months, putting together that file. You can't just wander in, take one look at it and make pronouncements like that. You gotta have proof."

"Proof?" There is a touch of incredulity in his voice, as Charlie turns to his brother. "You want proof that the people handling this case are just ditching the data that doesn't show what they want? Okay."

Charlie starts rifling through various folders that are spread over the desk in the centre of the room, talking as he goes.

"There are actually two ways to approach the analysis of this file, y'know? Firstly, you can use the file itself to analyse the actual events of the case and in that scenario, it makes sense to simply follow the chronological order in which the crimes were committed. You would have to assume that events occur sequentially, with each event building on the next, and so that would be a logical way to determine how the sequence of events unfolded. And it means that, if the Winchesters did commit all the crimes they are accused of, then there should be a logical progression of the events which then could be clearly demonstrated by some form of mathematical model but there isn't."

"He's right," Megan interrupts and when Alan looks at her, she looks down with a brief self-conscious chuckle before meeting his gaze. "I know we often just assume that goes without saying with Charlie, but it's not just the math that doesn't add up. The sequence of events doesn't show a logical progression from a psych profiling point of view either. If they were thrill killers, you'd expect a fairly consistent general pattern, with progressive escalation of the violence, but that's not what's seen. The 'murder sprees' occur irregularly with varying intervals in between, and more importantly, the intensity of the crimes fluctuates. There are batches of extremely gruesome crimes in one area -- violent, bloody, torture of the victim before death and/or mutilation of the body after -- and then when they move on, sometimes there is a series of comparatively less bloody crimes with simple clean kills or no deaths at all. There's no logical reason for a thrill killer to step down the violence of their attacks."

Alan casts a look at Don, who is doing his best to look inscrutable, before turning back to Charlie. "You said that there were two ways to look at it. So, what's the second?"

Charlie grins slightly. "To look at the way the file itself was put together. To analyse how each case was attributed to the Winchesters and why it was added to the file and that doesn't have to follow a straight chronological order. You remember that vector analysis I did to track the transmission of that influenza virus a few years back? Well, you can apply something similar here."

That's too much for Don to accept without challenge. "An FBI file is like a disease? C'mon Charlie, give me a break here!"

Charlie shrugs off the disdain. "It's a way of looking at it, yes. The spread of an opinion, like a conclusion of guilt, can be viewed like the spread of a disease. Only here, it's not really as if people are being infected by the contagion. It's more like, if an unsolved crime incident has a "point of contact" with the Winchesters, then it becomes infected and they are automatically assumed to be the perpetrators of that crime. And if you view the file in that way, then the St Louis murders are effectively "patient zero". That is the point at which Dean Winchester came to the attention of law enforcement at a federal level, but he was assumed to be dead at that time and so the 'disease' went into what might be considered the equivalent of an 'incubation period'. Other subsequent crimes and murders occurred and remained unsolved, like they were lying 'dormant', so when it was later discovered that Dean Winchester was actually still alive and the crimes could be attributed to him, then the file 'spread' to include them."

"Yeah, but I don't exactly see why that isn't logical, Charlie," Don interjects and Alan has to agree with him. "If it's discovered that he wasn't dead like he was supposed to be and he can be placed at the scene, it makes sense that he becomes a suspect where he wasn't before."

"Being in the area at the same time the crimes were committed isn't exactly incontrovertible proof of guilt to me. Where as more than 'same place, same time' is usually required to indicate guilt, the people putting together this file were already pre-primed to automatically attribute the crimes to the Winchesters, like the disease was lying dormant and only needed to be triggered. And anyway, the inclusion and exclusion of cases isn't consistent or logical. To give you an example, for a while there seems to have been a push to include what was known as 'The Bloody Mary deaths' in Toledo, Ohio. There were a couple of suspicious deaths, quite bizarre bleeding from the eyes apparently. The first man was thought to be a stroke, but then a young woman who was known to be a friend of the family also died in the same manner. Both of the deceased man's daughters gave positive IDs for Dean and Sam Winchester being present in the area after his death, although another witness that was questioned refused to confirm the details. Prints lifted from a vandalism and assault case at a Toledo antiques store were analysed in retrospect and came up with possible matches for both brothers' fingerprints. There were no further Bloody Mary deaths after the time of this break in. So, on the basis of the prints and witness IDs, the cases were initially included in the file, but then discarded when the second death directly overlapped with one of the St Louis killings."

"And this proves?" Don challenges Charlie, but it's Megan who answers.

"That the people putting the file together wanted Dean Winchester for the St Louis killings. The Toledo deaths, while gruesome, were never proven as murder, so they would be considered less of a 'prize' by someone trying to deliberately build up a serial killer profile. And since the incidents conflict with each other, they disregarded the one that didn't fit the picture they wanted."

"Exactly!" Charlie pounces, poking holes in the air with one upraised finger. "The evidence for the St Louis killings consists pretty much only of one witness statement which has since been retracted. And that same witness was the one who falsely identified the body as Dean Winchester, she apparently now says she was mistaken -- and that would now seem obvious, I suppose, since he's turned up alive since then -- but it really undermines the strength of the evidence. So, logically, the Toledo case should be weighed at least equally with the one from St Louis, but it wasn't." He waves his hands around in a gesture of frustration. "You can't just discard data because you don't like what it tells you."

"But don't you do that kinda thing all the time?" Colby asks, in all apparent innocence, but Charlie turns on him with a glare that would melt the polar ice caps.

"What?" he asks with the sort of quiet, measured pseudo-calm that could easily precede a homicide.

"Well," Colby fumbles slightly, but then shrugs a little. "You often come in on a case and say 'This fits the pattern, so this, this and this'. Then later, something else turns up and you say, 'No it's part of something else, so now it's that, that and that instead." He waves his hands a bit, as if to say "QED".

Charlie blinks slowly and Alan has to fight hard to hide his smile.

"No," Charlie draws the word out, as he shakes his head, apparently piecing together exactly what Colby is trying to say. "I mean, yes, I refine my data, but I don't just throw out data because I don't like what it implies. The idea is to find a pattern that best fits the data, not make the data fit your favoured pattern. All data points -- all of the crime incidents -- should be assessed under the same criteria. If two data points conflict, you can't just dump one because it interferes with how you'd prefer to view the case. You have to weigh each up without bias and see which evidence stands up better. If they are of equal weight then you can't just dismiss one arbitrarily. You must find another way to resolve the conflict."

Alan nods. "So what patterns are we talking about then, Charlie?"

Charlie takes a deep breath. This is obviously "The Big Sell" but it's also fairly obvious that Charlie is not really worried about selling it to his father. It actually seems more targeted towards the other member of his family, whose scepticism is beginning to seem a little forced to Alan's mind.

"Okay, so the pattern that the FBI has been trying to push so far is a "serial killer" psych profile and it just doesn't stand up to scrutiny any way you look at it. But if you map the Winchester brothers known movements over the past couple of years, then what they actually fit is a kind of hunting pattern. They've only sporadically left evidence for us to follow, but when they do, the pattern runs this way. There are a series of deaths, disappearances or just mysterious violent incidents. Then, at some point after the incidents have become public knowledge, the Winchesters or evidence that Winchesters have been there is found in the area. Not long after that, the incidents cease and the Winchesters disappear. And if you accept that they arrived around the time that actual evidence of their presence at the scene first appears, rather than dating it back to when the killings or whatever first started, then there isn't any of that overlap problem in the timing of cases. So, far be it from me to advocate jumping to conclusions without enough evidence, but tell me, Dad, in your unbiased opinion, what's your first thought about all that?"

Alan's eyebrows go up at Charlie's belligerence. It would seem that his theory has met with very strong resistance from his brother and Alan can't yet see why Don would be digging his heels in over this. But if he's going to find out what's going on in his eldest son's head, it's not going to be by directly asking. He still feels very out of the loop and he needs more information about the whole situation.

"Okay, Charlie, I get what you're saying." He glances towards Don, who has fixed an impassive stare on his younger brother. "But maybe there's more to it than that. Like why are you only looking at the past couple of years? Isn't there anything about them from before that?"

Again Megan pipes up and Alan begins to feel a bit like he's being tag-teamed. His peripheral vision catches Don putting a hand to his forehead and realises that, no, it's actually Don that's being tag-teamed -- and by two of the people whose opinions he respects most. And yet he seems to be refusing to accept what either of them has to say. What the hell is going on?

"Not really," Megan is saying. "Dean has a juvenile record for a few incidents of vandalism, but nothing that screams 'future serial killer in the making'. And Sam seems to be completely squeaky clean until two years ago. In fact, he's a bit of a wunderkind. He got into Stanford University on full scholarship, supported himself through a Pre-Law course and ranked in the 99th percentile on his Law School Admission Test score. Had an interview for Law School at Stanford on the day his life went up in smoke -- almost literally."

Alan's gaze swings back to the photo of the younger Winchester boy. The family genius. Interesting. He's vaguely aware of his own 'hmmm', as Megan elaborates.

"He had been sharing an apartment with his girlfriend, Jessica Moore. No apparent contact with his family for at least a couple of years, according to his friends at college. And he seems to have had a lot of friends at college. The boy was at least well-liked, if not one of the popular crowd. Then the girlfriend dies when their apartment burns down during the night. She had told friends the day before that Sam had gone off with his brother for a couple of days, but both the Winchesters were present on the night of the fire. Dean was the one that called 911, after apparently pulling Sam from the burning building. Their story was that Dean had dropped Sam home, but then gone back when he'd forgotten something, found the place on fire, dragged his brother out, but was too late to save the girl."

"And they mysteriously disappeared straight after that?"

"Not really. They stayed in town for around a week. Sam convincingly grief- stricken and trying to find out why the fire happened. His brother hanging around and, to all intents and purposes, being supportive. They left without incident after the funeral, saying that Sam needed to get away from the memories, and neither was suspected of anything. It was all just put down to a terrible tragedy that no one could have foreseen."

"Until the Winchester file was created," Charlie interjects. "Now it's considered suspected arson and guess who's prime suspect?"

Alan can see how the FBI might have built a case like that, but Charlie obviously has another working theory. "So, how do you see all this fitting into your pattern?"

"More or less, the same way I saw it when Sam himself told me that his girlfriend died in a fire." Alan's eyebrows go up at that, but he doesn't interrupt Charlie when he seems to be on a roll. "He's let his grief become an obsession. He couldn't save his girlfriend from whatever killed her and the guilt drives him to hunt for answers--" He drops his voice in a way that is obviously meant to convey significance. "--in all the wrong places".

"What do you--?" Alan begins to ask the invited question, before he remembers something else he was told the other day. "What about his brother? A couple of days ago, I thought that the theory was that the older brother was a psychokiller who dragged his younger brother around as an accomplice. When did that theory change?"

Megan seems to take this as a personal criticism. Possibly because as the psychologist on the team, she thinks that the responsibility falls to her. Her reply seems both defensive and apologetic.

"Well, when we started out, we only had the file information to go on. As Charlie said, that's been skewed in a certain direction. And we'd never actually seen either of the Winchesters in action, aside from a very small amount of news camera footage from the attempted bank robbery in Milwaukee. We hadn't even seen the actual footage of Dean Winchester's so-called confession in Baltimore, only read the transcript. I got to watch Dean's interview here and then review the tape several times. And okay, we went into the interview with the assumption that he was a psychopath, a thrill killer, because that was the basic profile that we'd already been given in the file. But he reacted with genuine emotion to the accusation that he didn't care about the lives that had been lost. One of the few times he reacted emotionally at all. That's not the reaction of a psychopath -- which sort of pulls the foundations out from under our original profile. Dean clearly didn't think that he would be believed when he offered up his (admittedly bizarre) explanation for why he and Sam got involved with this case. He may very well be delusional and something of an anarchist, but he really doesn't seem to be a true sociopath. Instead, there was a certain righteous arrogance about him, like he believed that what he was doing was right, even if we didn't, and that was all that mattered to him -- much like the Milton quote."

Alan isn't sure that he heard right. "The Milton quote?"

David reaches across and picks up a large, battered paperback from one of the desks and flips it open to show Alan. "It's Larry Fleinhart's copy of 'The Complete Prose Works of John Milton'. Sam Winchester lifted it from Charlie's office and they left it opened at this page, the beginning of something called 'An Apology For Smectymnuus' with Charlie's cell phone sitting on top, so we couldn't miss it."

Alan reads the yellow-highlighted passage aloud, "The best apology against false accusers is silence and sufferance, and honest deeds set against dishonest words," and he can't help but be impressed by the style and audacity. "So you think they might be trying to tell you something?"

It's such an obviously rhetorical question that no one gives him a direct answer, but Charlie seems to feel the need to explain the circumstances.

"When Sam took Larry's book from my office, along with my cell phone, he seemed to make the decision on the fly, although the majority of what he did had to be meticulously planned."

"Yes!" Megan jumps in again. "They have a deadly combination of complex pre- planning skills with flashes of spontaneous innovation. It's unbelievable."

"And there's no doubt in my mind that we are dealing with a genius level of intelligence here. The arson analysis that Sam left in my office is simply brilliant. Although he's clearly using non-mathematical techniques and math would obviously have made his analysis much more effective, the analysis in that file accurately predicted a sequence of fires, to the point where they were apparently able to identify the arsonist and intercept the fourth fire, at the Chiyoda restaurant, and prevent the fatality."

"Or maybe it's more 'psychic' than 'genius'," Colby interjects and this time there is definite mischief in his eyes. "After all, they both said that Sam saw the fires in those visions he has."

"Visions?" Alan's eyebrows go up. Okay, that is definitely news to him. "Sam Winchester has visions of the future?"

"No, he does not!" Charlie, quite unsurprisingly, adamantly denies this -- which is undoubtedly the reason that Colby and the others are so obviously amused by it. "It's got nothing to do with any so-called 'psychic powers'. They're simply putting a pattern together."

Even Megan can't fully repress a slight grin as she explains. "During Dean's interview, he said that the reason that he and Sam came to LA was because Sam had some kind of psychic premonition of the first fire. And Sam told Charlie that he knew about the Chiyoda Restaurant fire because he saw it in a vision. Also, from what Charlie described, Sam might have had one of his 'psychic migraines' while he was in Charlie's office."

"No, no, no!" Charlie has actually started waving his hands in the air. He stops when everyone turns to look at him and moderates his tone. "Well, he possibly had a migraine, yes. But, actually, that might be the reason he thinks he has visions."

Alan is more than used to dealing with his younger son's scepticism in this area. "Okay, how?"

"Migraines can be associated with hallucinations, especially in the prodromal phase when the migraine is just starting."

Megan snorts a little at that. "Yes, but Charlie, those are usually just simple sensory hallucinations -- light distortions, weird sounds, odd smells -- that sort of thing."

"I know, I know." Charlie holds up his hands again, but this time in partial surrender. "But, in rare cases, more complex hallucinations have been reported and, in Sam's case, I think his are being influenced by his conscious mind to a degree. He's obsessive and all the information and analysis that he's already been mapping out in his mind influence the form that the migraine hallucination takes. So, it feels like a visual premonition, but really it's just a combination of the pieces of the puzzle falling into place at the same time a migraine hits."

He casts a hopeful gaze around the group, seemingly to see if anyone is willing to say yay or nay to this. But everyone else is exchanging glances with each other, probably because none of them really wants to be the one to suggest that Charlie himself is falling into the "trap" of trying to make the data fit his own preferred pattern.

Alan steps in, partly to defuse the awkward silence and partly because something else has just occurred to him.

"Wait a minute! This is completely different from the story I heard two days ago. You're now saying that these boys didn't cause any of these fires and, furthermore, they actually told you who did? What makes you believe them now?"

Charlie shrugs a little sheepishly. "Well, I talked to Millie and I've looked more into Bronwyn Sequard's recent history."

"Your student, Bronwyn?" Alan asks, incredulously. He only met her once, but she seemed like a perfectly ordinary and stable girl. And she was the one fatality from the fire at CalSci, could only be identified from dental records. Blaming it all on someone who died seems a little convenient to Alan. "And what's Millie got to do with all this? I've left a dozen messages on her phone today. I'm beginning to get the feeling that she's avoiding me."

Megan's sigh draws his attention and when he looks over to her, she shrugs slightly. "To be honest, Mr Eppes, I think she might be avoiding you because she's feeling a bit guilty. She might be thinking that this is all her fault."

"That's totally ridiculous! How could she be to blame for any of this?"

Megan holds up her hands to forestall his anger. "She's not to blame. Not really. I just think she's blaming herself. I talked to her, after the fire at CalSci, and she mentioned that it was the second fire she'd nearly been caught in this week. So, she tells me how she was helped, virtually escorted, out of the Chiyoda restaurant by a very tall and personable young man named Sam and how he got her talking about her work and the people that she worked with, while they waited for the Fire Brigade..." Megan starts waving her hand in circles, indicating that how that conversation progressed should be obvious. But even though it is obvious, Alan doesn't want to interrupt her train of thought yet. "So, she said she mentioned Charlie and how he worked with his brother at the FBI quite often. She thought it was just a friendly chat. The come down from the adrenalin rush from escaping the fire probably contributed too. And from the way that Charlie describes Sam, I'm sure he was a very sympathetic listener and quite adept at coaxing the information he wanted out of her."

Alan blinks. "So you think that's where he and his brother got the idea for all this?" He waves his had around the office, not really apropos of anything, but they know what he means anyway.

Charlie shrugs. "It would appear so. Apparently, he started out asking Millie about Bronwyn and by the end, they were talking about me and Don and the FBI. Two days later, Dean Winchester walks into a Federal building, knowing full well that he'll be arrested and his brother turns up at my office less than two hours later. The way they timed it--" Charlie shakes his head, a mixture of disbelief and admiration.

Megan nods vigorously. "They anticipated our movements and reactions perfectly. The co-ordination, the timing, all spot on. We took Dean into custody and interviewed him almost immediately, showing him the hardcopy of the Winchester file when we did so. Then we raced off to the rescue when we perceived Sam to be a threat to Charlie. Gave him time to get back here, where we're holding his brother. We practically jumped to their command."

"But why?" Alan lets his frustration show. It's all very well knowing how the Winchester brothers accomplished this elaborate misdirection, but he still can't see what the point of it all was, especially with the amount of risk involved. "Why go to all this trouble? Surely, these two would be better off avoiding the FBI all together, right?"

Megan exhales slowly and looks up at the ceiling for a moment, before speaking. The rest of the group goes conspicuously quiet, as if they are hanging off her words as much as Alan is. This must be the part of the explanation that really is neck-deep in speculation.

"Okay, if I put together all the information that we've gathered about Dean and Sam Winchester's movements in LA over the past week -- that's what the Winchesters themselves said, other eyewitness reports and the contents of the file Sam left in Charlie's office -- the sequence of events goes something like this. They arrived in LA about eight days ago. Dean said that they came specifically to investigate the fires with the implication that they intended to put a stop to them. After analysing the first three, they intercepted the fourth and identified the culprit. As they don't have the authority to arrest anyone, God only knows what they intended to do about it. But they did encounter Millie French and from her, they learned about Don and Charlie. Obviously, they must have done some more research before coming up with their plan, but it would seem that they then decided to not only use us to stop these arson murders, but also seized the opportunity to break into their own FBI files."

Alan blinks. Several times. "They what?"

It's almost a surprise to hear Don contribute to the conversation, which is unnerving in itself. His son isn't just a team leader in name only. Don leads his team. To realise how much he has stepped back in this discussion feels so very wrong.

"It seems that one of the Winchesters has considerable computer hacking skills." The familiar dry tone still doesn't settle his father's unease. "We're assuming it's Sam."

"Yeah, because older brothers would obviously be far too cool for that geek stuff," Charlie says equally dryly, but with his chin lifted and shadows in his eyes.

Don doesn't look at his brother, as he flatly states, "And because we actually lifted Sam's prints from the keyboard. Dean's were found on a coffeepot in a nearby break room. Some of our top techs looked into the files that were accessed and probably the most galling thing they found was what information the Winchesters apparently didn't bother to access. They actually didn't go near their own profiles on the database, which the experts seem to think indicates that they've hacked into the database before. What they accessed on the computer was mainly various files from 1983. Just about every unsolved arson case, particularly fatalities. Several other unexplained deaths in 1983 and also every reported sudden death in the past two years of people born in 1983."

"What's the significance of 1983?"

Don shrugs, but not in a way that says that he doesn't know. More in a way that says he doesn't want to explain, so Megan steps in again.

"Sam was born in 1983 and their mother, Mary Winchester died in a house fire that same year."

"An unsolved arson case?"

"It was attributed to faulty wiring, but sometimes I think that's arson investigation speak for 'we don't really know'."

"So, are you saying that they broke into the building to hack into the FBI computer? But why go to all that trouble and take all those risks, if they had already managed to hack in before anyway?"

David steps in, in his turn. "The techs say that what they accessed here would be almost impossible to get from an external hack. Something about the complexity of the data search and the amount of information they accessed. They then sent it out to various IP servers in several countries; the ones we've been able to identify so far are in Singapore, Vancouver, Melbourne, Dubai and Prague.

"But those were obviously just to cover their tracks." Charlie jumps in again, to clarify. "The final destination for the information will be somewhere in the US."

"They also took the hard copy of their investigation file and that contains some documents that couldn't be accessed by an external computer hack," David adds and then smiles when Alan looks around at the various photos and documents taped to the boards and screens, not to mention those strewn across various desks. "Yeah, these are extra copies that we had to make. Our records show Charlie's pass being used, presumably by Sam Winchester, to enter the building, but there's no actual surveillance footage of either of them entering or leaving this building. Even the footage of Dean being brought in with us, at the time of his arrest, is gone. One tech from the 7th floor, where they hacked into the computer system, remembers briefly talking to Dean outside the breakroom on that floor. He told her that he'd just transferred in from the office in Kansas City. Less than ten minutes after she says that she spoke with him, there is a record of a car being signed out using Colby's ID."

Alan turns to look at Colby Granger, aware that everyone else in the room has also turned their gaze in that direction. Colby frowns slightly and sits a little straighter in his chair. Alan doesn't mean his stare to be accusing or critical in any way. He's just caught by surprise because he knows that Colby is an exceptional hand-to-hand fighter, even for an FBI field agent. But it seems everyone in the team is somewhat defensive today.

"Hey, I was getting him some water that he asked for and someone comes into the room behind me, calls out to him. I turn around and it's his brother, Sam. I'd seen his mugshot, but you don't expect the guy to just show up in the office like that. And then before I know it, Dean puts me in a choke hold from behind. I mean, how the hell was I supposed to anticipate that? He was supposed to be cuffed to the table!"

Alan blinks. Colby throws a pointed glance at one of the items on the table and David picks up the evidence bag in question and hands it to Alan. It takes Alan a second or two to recognise the small twisted piece of metal that it contains, and then another few seconds to process and accept what they are implying.

"He picked the lock with a paperclip?"

There is a sigh from Don and Alan turn to see him rubbing the bridge of his nose and then dropping his gaze to the floor as he mutters, "Looks like it."

"How'd he get hold of a paperclip, anyway?"

No one answers. Alan turns and looks around the group. They are all pointedly not looking at him or each other.

Don lifts his gaze from the floor. "Charlie, show him."

Charlie shoots him an apologetic look, but Don turns away. "I need some more coffee."

Charlie's sorrowful gaze follows his brother out of the office, before he turns to look at his father. He directs Alan's attention to a screen to his left and brings up what appears to be a freeze frame from a video recording of an interrogation. The subject is Dean Winchester and he is leaning forward, hand poised to take what looks like a photograph from his unseen interrogator's grasp. Charlie presses another button to zoom in on the edge of the photograph that the prisoner is about to grasp and there is very definitely a paper clip attached there. Alan can't help but be a little impressed. "And no one noticed that he'd swiped it?"

Charlie shrugs helplessly and throws his father that "lost little boy" look that rarely fails to get him what he wants. And when Alan looks up, the rest of them are also looking at him expectantly, as if he can fix everything. When exactly did he become father to Don's whole team? But there's no point in railing against it, not when he wants the same thing they want, after all.

"You know what?" he ventures, feigning contemplation. "I think I need some coffee too." Which earns him a warm squeeze on the arm and a grateful smile from Megan.

It's not five minutes walk to the break room, but Alan stretches it out to ten. This conversation is going to be a minefield. Discussing these sorts of issues with Don always has been and even after decades of experience, it never really gets any easier.

When he arrives in the break room, Don is brusquely filling the coffee machine. Probably not an unusual sight to someone who knows him casually, but Alan can see the uncharacteristic fixation with the task, rather than the more going-through-the-motions way he would do it, if getting coffee were the only thing on his mind. And Alan knows that his highly observant elder son was aware of his presence the moment that he stepped through the doorway, probably even anticipated it before he arrived, but Don still feigns mild surprise when he turns to see his father standing in the room.

"Wanna cup, Dad? Had to start another pot. We've been hitting the caffeine pretty hard today."

"Looks like it's not the only thing that's been hit hard."

"Oh, yeah?" Don's expression turns wary and Alan knows that he's already stepped on landmine number one. He can't just lift his foot off without triggering the explosion anyway, so instead he carefully stands his ground.

"Is it possible that you might be taking this case a bit too personally, do you think?"

Don rolls his eyes and shakes his head, exasperation and denial in equal measure, and even if it wasn't totally convincing, it would have fended off most people -- but not his father. Alan stares his son into a verbal response.

"Okay, I screwed up, Dad." Don turns away and starts pacing, the coffee apparently forgotten. "And maybe I'm taking it personally because I made mistakes and maybe because of them, there's a serial killer out there on the loose when he should be in custody."

"And maybe there isn't. Charlie and Megan don't seem to think so." Alan says it mildly, but it cuts to the heart of the issue and Don's step catches. He stares hard at his father before looking away.

"Yeah, looks that way, doesn't it?"

"But for some reason, you don't know whether or not you want to believe it, believe them."

Don's gaze swings back. Alan can virtually see him summoning up a focus of anger to work with and, knowing that it's a gamble, he brings out the big guns to pre-empt Don's next salvo. "I think you saw something of yourself in that kid, didn't you?"

Don stares in disbelief for half a second, and then snorts. "Dad, two days ago, I would have put a bullet in his brain as soon as look at him."

"I know," Alan mutters, and he does know. He's seen Don with that level of anger, that close to the edge, once before when one of his team was threatened. This time it was his brother. Alan has no doubt at all that Don would have shot first and asked questions later.

Don's jaw tightens, but the defiance bleeds out of his eyes, leaving only the pain behind and Alan has to fight down a sigh. Contrary to what his son might think, he doesn't blame him for that reaction. He worries for him. And it's hard to know what to say, in these situations. Hard to know what will actually penetrate through the defensive barriers without deepening the wounds or causing new ones.

Alan takes a few steps in an arbitrary direction as he considers his next words. It's more to show Don that he's pondering, than anything else, because Don needs to know that the words have been well considered, not just thrown out as part of a father's blind attempts to console.

"Donny, you know that you don't give your trust easily. People have to really earn it." Don opens his mouth immediately, but Alan lifts a hand to forestall the response for a few moments more. "I'm not saying that's a bad thing. It means that earning your trust is something that people value highly and they'll work hard to earn and keep it. Just look at your team. That's partially because you don't just give it on a whim."

Don swallows and studies his hands for a moment before looking back at his father.

"And your point is?"

"You don't trust easily and I'm sure this Dean Winchester kid never asked for your trust. But what I think is that there must have been a moment, at least, where you thought you knew what he was thinking. I'm going to take a bit of a longshot here, but I'm guessing that it had something to do with having a younger brother to look out for, to protect -- and then he used that against you, by threatening Charlie."

Don turns away to check the coffee machine, but his shoulders slump slightly and Alan thinks he might actually have made a breakthrough. However, when Don speaks again, his words are not what his father expects.

"I used it against him first."

"What? How so?"

This time Don allows himself a sigh, as he turns back again. "I more or less offered him the chance to save his brother by taking all the blame himself."

"And did he?"

"No, but I'm pretty sure he was going to."

"How do you know?"

"Well, obviously, I don't!" And that outburst has all the hallmarks of Don lashing out because he feels as if he's being backed into a corner.

Alan doesn't exactly pull back because he knows that will get him nowhere, but he pitches his tone somewhere between coaxing and chiding. One word is all it takes.

"Donny."

Don tries to maintain his hard stare, but soon his gaze softens. He knows that his bluff has been called.

"Yeah, I know Charlie and Megan are making a lot of sense. They always do, right?"

"Well, nearly always," Alan allows and waits for Don to continue because this is only half the message.

"So, that kid." Don injects the word with derision, but Alan can see that the mockery is directed inwards, towards himself. "He would have handed us his own head on a plate, if he thought it would save his brother. Told us exactly what he thought we wanted to hear. And now it looks like the crimes -- the atrocities -- that he would have been taking the blame for and which would have earned him the death penalty several times over -- it looks like the Winchesters might even have been the ones that put a stop to them."

This is the crisis point. Now that the admission is out there, Alan has to say something in response, but there's no easy way for an FBI agent's civilian father to suggest to him that he might need to turn his approach to the investigation completely on its head.

"So, losing prisoners never looks good for an agent, but maybe instead of dangerous felons, there are a couple of crazy but idealistic kids out there, trying in their own way to save lives and make the world a better place?"

Don's eyes harden again and Alan knows that he's made a wrong move before he finishes speaking, and yet Don waits for him to stop before giving full reign to his derision.

"Or perhaps what we've got out there are a couple of vigilantes with no respect at all for the law and who probably now think that there's nothing they can't get away with -- and who could go off the rails at any time! Yeah, maybe they want to do the right thing and they're definitely cocky enough to think they'd know what's right no matter what anyone else wants to tell them. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, Dad. There's just so much crap out there. Not just crime. Not just danger. But true evil!"

"Donny." Alan tries the same tone again, but this time Don is having none of it.

"No, Dad! They say that if you fight evil head to head for long enough, you run the risk of starting to become just like what you're fighting. It's the way things are. The evil keeps pushing you and you have to keep pushing back. I don't know any other way -- but at least I've got Bureau procedure and my team and now, God help me, even a shrink to stop me from crossing the line. Those kids out there have no back up. They answer to no one -- no one at all. And just one mistake, just one bad call could be all it takes."

The silence is abrupt when Don finishes this tirade. It's a volatile silence. Don stares at his father, demanding a response, and Alan stares back at his son, fully aware that the wrong response could set the whole minefield off and end any chance he has of reaching Don over this issue. When he breaks the silence, his voice is quiet, but not at all tentative. He needs to convey this gently, but with conviction because Don needs to know that he himself believes it.

"And maybe one really good call by someone like you -- that might be all that it takes too."

"What?" Don blinks and looks at his father like he's crazy, but he's really listening now, hoping against hope for an answer he can believe in.

"You're right that those boys have no respect for the law, but that's probably because they don't trust the law at all. And do they have any reason to trust in the law? It sounds like that for the past two years every agent of the law they've encountered has hunted them down like they're the scum of the earth."

"Actually, there's one cop in Baltimore..."

"What? A cop that doesn't think they're guilty? Why do I get the feeling that no one is listening to what this guy has to say?"

Don sighs. "It's what she's got to say, actually. She says the Winchesters saved her life. It seems to involve some police corruption scandal in the department and she ended up shooting her own partner. Self-defence, she says and IA is still investigating, but it looks like the partner was already under suspicion. So her story will probably stand up, but the whole thing is not making her very popular in her own department."

"And what do you think of her and her story?"

"Well, I don't know the details of the IA investigation, but being the whistleblower in any department takes guts. Most cops know that no one will thank you for it. But that doesn't mean she can't be wrong about the Winchesters -- or maybe she's just finally gone over the edge herself."

Don looks like he's about to start pacing again and Alan once more resorts to the low coaxing tone. "Gut feeling, Donny?"

Don snorts. "My gut feeling had me and half my team running around like rats in a maze two days ago."

Alan just continues to stare at him and Don caves.

"It all fits in with what Charlie and Megan have been saying. In fact, Megan has been trying to get that Baltimore detective on the phone, but hasn't managed to get a hold of her yet."

"So Charlie's math, Megan's new psych profile and your gut feeling all..."

"All that doesn't just make the Winchesters' files just disappear, Dad. The Bureau has accumulated a lot of evidence against them and they aren't going to just do a complete about face on the case because of the theories and gut feelings of one team in LA and a civilian consultant!"

"But Don, someone's got to take a stand. This isn't just a wild hunch from a bunch of crackpot amateurs. These are well-reasoned theories from highly competent professionals, with considerable experience and reputations. Are you trying to tell me that no one would listen to you? To any of you? C'mon, Donny, I find that hard to believe."

Don finally throws up his hands in frustration.

"Dad! It's not like we haven't already tried!"

The silence is heavy, as Alan blinks and tries to overcome his astonishment enough to ask, "What?" But Don's previous words permeate the silence.

We already tried.

We tried.

Alan now knows that he walked into this lacking a vital piece of information. Don's apparent resistance to Charlie and Megan's theories doesn't stem from any unwillingness to back them, to go into battle for them. He's already gone into battle and taken a beating. He's needed to reassess where he himself stands and the arguments he's been running are probably partial echoes of what others in the FBI hierarchy have already used against him. Alan feels like the entire geography of the dispute has been rearranged around him. This is a completely different battlefield; not to convince Don to consider a new perspective, but to help him keep hold of the one that he feels slipping away.

Before either of them find their voice again, Megan suddenly appears in the doorway, with a "Hey, guys!" that's chirpy enough to make both Don and Alan slowly turn to look at her with matching looks of perplexed inquiry. But she just smirks as she says, "You gotta come see this!" and turns back the way she came without waiting for a reply.

Whatever new development has occurred, she is clearly enjoying it too much to reveal all just yet and there's no question that they'll follow. In fact, by the time they get back, Don has strode about five paces ahead of Megan and Alan.

"Okay, what's up then?" Don's tone clearly declares that the man in charge is back.

Charlie and Colby are both working intently at separate computer terminals and David is engaged in a quiet, but vigorous, phone conversation. Charlie briefly glances up and hands his cell phone to his brother before turning his attention back to his computer screen. "Someone sent me a text message."

Don snorts. "Well, it obviously works better than leaving you a voice mail."

Alan steps up beside him, as Don lifts the phone to look at the display. The screen contains only two numbers, separated by a comma. Alan realises what they are at the same time Don says, "Longitude and latitude?"

Charlie grins. "The co-ordinates for San Huberto, California. Population approximately four thousand two hundred with seasonal fluctuations due to the tourist trade. About seventy miles south of San Francisco."

"And is there something happening in San Huberto?" Alan asks.

It's Colby who answers him. "Well, just over an hour ago, there was a fire in their local museum, destroying its most famous exhibit."

"What exhibit would that be?" Don uses his dry, sceptical tone, but can't hide the fact that he's intrigued.

"Part of the bow of the schooner Robert McKellar which was the only wreckage that has been recovered since it sunk off the coast of San Huberto in 1849. It had left San Francisco and the rumour was that gold from the early gold rush was part of its undeclared cargo. Apparently there's no real evidence to support that rumour, but it didn't stop numerous fortune hunters over the years trying to recover the wreck. More than half of them have died in the attempt even though the waters where the wreck is believed to be are usually considered not particularly treacherous. In fact, the wreck of the Robert McKellar is San Huberto's local ghost story. Stories of mysterious apparitions, even ghosts threatening vengeance on anyone trying to steal their gold..."

Don's eyebrows have been steadily climbing and he finally cuts his agent off. "And where did you get this from?"

Colby clears his throat self-consciously before he says. "Supernaturalcalifornia dot com."

David Sinclair is clearly a hair's breadth from sniggering, but he still backs up his partner. "The local sheriff mentioned those stories too, and the local fire department says that the fire was apparently very well contained, only took out the room where the Robert McKellar exhibit was. The security guard was knocked unconscious and left a safe distance outside the building. And I just tracked down the name of the owner of the phone that the text was sent to Charlie from. It belongs to one Bud Chiari who has registered it as his work phone at the San Huberto Museum."

"The unconscious security guard?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me! Who vandalises a museum, knocks out the guard and then steals his phone and texts their co-ordinates to a mathematician who's known to be a consultant with the FBI?" Don endures the silent stares for less than half a second. "Oh, c'mon. No way!"

"Why not?" Charlie is openly grinning now, but the grin is wiped off his face when Don hits back.

"I gotta better question for you, Charlie. Why? Why would they do something like that?" He's almost in his brother's face now.

"Maybe an even better important question is what are they doing?" Alan is amazed when they both turn to look at him. He almost never manages to get through to his sons when they are arguing with each other that intensely. He glances around to see that Megan, David and Colby are also looking at him. "What?"

Megan smiles at him. "Maybe Charlie's not the only member of Don's family who should be an official consultant to the Bureau. You're absolutely right. You'd have to know what they are doing before you can figure out why they're doing it." She picks up the volume of Milton prose and taps it against her chin.

"The best apology against false accusers is silence and sufferance, and honest deeds set against dishonest words." David ponders the highlighted passage aloud, then adds, "But arson isn't exactly an 'honest deed' -- even if it was clearly done in way that made sure no one was hurt in the fire."

"Maybe owning up to it is the honest deed." Megan shrugs. "Maybe there's more to this arson than meets the eye. Maybe that's why they sent a message to Charlie, they want him -- or perhaps want us to look into it." She stops for a moment, dawning realisation clear on her face. "That's amazing."

"What exactly about it is amazing?" All trace of belligerence is gone from Don's tone. He's just clarifying the facts of the case now.

"Well, to essentially flag their position to the FBI like that, it's a hell of a risk. Or maybe it's some sort of show of trust?"

"What do you mean?"

"They sent it to Charlie. They'd know he'd pass it on to us for sure. It's like they're saying they trust us to look into it further -- that we'll 'do the right thing' with the information. And while I'm sure that if we put an APB out on them in San Huberto, they'll already be long gone, it's still a hell of a risk. For them to agree to take that kind of risk on our response is really an amazing gesture of trust, given these guys' background."

"Wait a minute. Why does it have to be that they both agreed to it? It only takes one person to send a text message."

Megan shakes her head emphatically. "Not with the way these guys trust each other."

"How so?"

"That stunt they pulled here a couple of days ago was too complex, too outrageous for them not to trust each other completely on every level. I'm pretty sure they got the idea from meeting Millie French at the Chiyoda Restaurant and if that's the case, they had only a day or two to plan it and they put everything on the line. To pull something like that off, they have to have total faith in each other's abilities and loyalty. Each has to know that the other one will come through in exactly the way he expects. Dean getting himself arrested. Sam getting Charlie to call. Sam getting back here in time. Both getting the access that they wanted -- or it would have all been for nothing. To put that much on the line with everything so finely balanced, the trust has to be total. And sending that text message? There's no way either would open them both up to that kind of vulnerability without complete consent from the other. It would break the trust in a way these guys just aren't capable of."

There's no dispute when she finishes. In fact, there's a sense of agreement, almost like the rekindling of lost camaraderie, in the few seconds of silence that follow, before Charlie breaks the moment with the question, "So, are we going to had this over to Henricksen?"

Alan feels once again blindsided by the new twist in the conversation.

"Hand it over? Who's Henricksen?"

"A complete asshole," Colby Granger says definitively. David Sinclair raises his eyebrows at that, but he's grinning. As is Megan. Charlie gestures towards Colby with his hand to indicate his complete agreement with the assessment. Only Don offers his father any sort of clarification.

"Special Agent Victor Henricksen is the Bureau's agent officially in charge of the Winchester case." Don looks like he's willing to stop at that, but Alan raises his eyebrows a little further and Don releases an almost-sigh before continuing. "He turned up here this morning, demanded all the work we'd done be turned over to him and basically told us our further involvement was not required."

"After which, Don all but told him he was a complete moron," Megan adds.

Don gives his father a shrug that could pass for sheepish, but it's clear that he still stands by that assessment. "Nevertheless, he's still the agent in charge of the case."

Charlie laughs, undeterred and brightly cheerful. "But Don, we've got absolutely no proof that the text even came from the Winchesters. That's just our supposition. So, is there really sufficient reason for us to hand any of this information over?"

Megan raises her eyebrows. "He's got a point. And why would Henricksen believe anything we say anyway? Charlie proved that it was practically impossible for the Winchesters to have committed all but three of the murders that Henricksen wants to pin on them and you had to appeal to further up the chain of command to get him to even look at that evidence. I think Charlie's right -- maybe we could run this one ourselves... "

Alan walks into the centre of the group and starts waving his hands around. "Wait! Wait just a minute! Are you telling me that since this morning all of you have been officially off this case and yet you are all still here working on it well into a Saturday night?"

They all look at each other silently and then look at him. This time, it's Charlie that shrugs sheepishly.

"I don't believe this!" Actually, that's a lie. Alan fully believes that all of them are so committed to this, that they won't be able to let it go. But there's no point in dragging it out here and now, and clearly someone has to get that through to them. "For God's sake, this case -- which isn't even officially yours anymore -- isn't going anywhere tonight." Don opens his mouth to interject, but Alan cuts him off. "And even if there is going to be another development, you'll probably get a text message -- from the suspects themselves. No, you people need to sleep. And eat for that matter." He puts his hands on his hips and is quietly pleased to see Megan -- and also now, David -- both trying to hide a smirk behind their hands. "Dinner," Alan insists. "Now. I'm buying."

Colby sits up straighter. "Where?"

"Well, I know that steakhouse three blocks down from here is still open, but really I don't care as long as there's plenty of good food. And alcohol."

Colby is on his feet by now, and Don has also quietly reached for his jacket. He fishes in the pocket and tosses keys to his brother. "Charlie, you're driving."

Charlie fumbles, but only slightly, before he catches them. "Hey! What? Why?"

Don grins. "Wouldn't want too much alcohol destroying any of those valuable brain cells."

Charlie snorts. "Whatever. At least I have brain cells that I can spare. And actually, I don't mind. It's quite funny being the only one sober when you guys have had a few. You really don't know what you're saying and you never remember half the things you've let slip."

"Yeah, right," Don says dismissively. He's already halfway to the door, instinctively taking the lead and expecting the rest of them will follow -- as they always do. "Tell yourself what you need to, Charlie. We all know which of us can handle our liquor and which of us can't."

"No, you only think you know!"

David and Colby both turn back for a moment to grin at Alan before following the bickering brothers through the door. Megan has already snagged his elbow and murmurs, "Honest deeds set against dishonest words," only loud enough for him to hear, as she escorts him along.

Alan smiles. "And truth springs from argument amongst friends."

To his chagrin, neither of his sons has ever been particularly interested in literature or philosophy. It's one thing that he and Margaret failed to give them. Don thinks that actions speak louder than words and Charlie believes that there is more truth in numbers. But one of the many reasons that Alan values Megan and Larry Fleinhart, both in his life and the lives of his sons, is they truly appreciate the beauty found in thought and word.

Sure enough, Megan throws him a megawatt grin. "Hey, I like that. Milton?"

Alan shakes his head. "Eighteenth century Scottish philosopher named David Hume." The faintest of sighs escapes him and Megan squeezes his arm slightly -- an unasked for, but genuinely appreciated assurance that things will be okay. He's not even sure why he suddenly feels rather melancholy. Don and Charlie are off arguing in a way that, for once, their father can just sit back and enjoy watching his sons argue. They're about to sit down to a good, well-earned meal in the company of friends that they trust with their lives. If truth can't be found in that, then Alan doesn't know where it can be found. Then again, he's often thought that the point of the truth was to continually seek it, even if you don't always find it.

But anyway, what matters now is that, three blocks away, there's a steak dinner with his name on it.

Take a long line
Take a long line
Take a long, long, long, long line
Reel him in

The End