Chapter Text
Hotch had been staring at the same line in the case file for nearly a minute before he realised he hadn’t absorbed a word of it. Neat typeface, stamped onto pristine sheets, was staying firmly on the page, not transmitting to his memory. He rubbed his eyes with a downtrodden sigh. It wasn’t that the paperwork was difficult – just endless and repetitive; the kind of administrative chaff that accumulated between cases, and demanded his attention, whether he liked it or not. Travel reimbursements, maintenance requests, seminar logs, performance evaluations. All things he put off until the last possible moment. He gripped his pen tightly. His coffee was going cold.
On the other side of the office door, bathed in sunshine, the bullpen hummed with the usual late morning rhythm. Low conversation, the distant whir of the printer, questions about previous cases. The noise permeated through the glass door, taunting Hotch, as he sat with the mountain of paperwork.
He had just reached for the next file in the stack when a sharp, frantic knock sounded at his door. Before he could even raise his head to answer, Garcia burst through, eyes wide behind neon frames. “Hotch,” she gasped, breathless and flustered. “You need to come here. Right now.”
-
“How do you know this?” Hotch spoke sharply into the phone, the receiver held to his ear.
The woman on the other end scoffed. “You’re not the only one who knows things, agent.” Her voice dripped with calm arrogance. Exactly the opposite of what he would expect from someone phoning in to a serial killers tip line.
“Ma’am, can we take down a name?” There was nothing from the other end of the line. Hotch employed a different technique. “Just so we can ensure your safety.” And run a thorough background check, but she didn’t need to know about that. If she had nothing to hide…
“I’m perfectly capable of holding my own, Mr Suit-and-tie.” Again with the snark. Hotch closed his eyes, and took a deep breath in. Time for a last-ditch effort. It would involve paperwork, and he hadn’t technically cleared it with the Bureau, but that was a problem for the future. And he had technically been told “whatever resources necessary” for this case.
“There’s a monetary reward for information that results to the capture of the Winchesters. If we take down your details, we can get that sent out to you.” His voice was firm, calm. He was bargaining.
For a few seconds, they heard nothing but the purr of an engine in the background. Eminently, this had piqued their mysterious woman’s interest. Hotch’s fingers drummed a military like rhythm against the table.
“You’re good, Agent Hotchner.” His fingers stopped the motion instantly. So this woman had read up on the BAU before placing the call. She knew exactly who they were. They were on the back foot. “But what I’ve got sitting in the passenger seat is more valuable than your money. Clock’s ticking, agent. Say hi to Sam and Dean from me.” Hotch floundered for words – anything to keep her on the line. But it was too late.
The line went dead. Garcia’s eyes were wide, looking straight into his. Her fingers had been flying over the keys throughout the duration of the call, clicking away at the keyboard with startling precision. He looked at her imploringly. “Please tell me you traced that call.”
Garcia shook her head. “Sorry boss, not quite.” She offered him a thin smile – nothing like her usual bubbly grin. “It routed through at least three spoofed towers, I can’t even pin it to a state. She’s got someone professional on her side. Or she’s adept at avoiding people like us.”
Hotch refrained from smashing his fist against the desk in frustration.
“Gather the team in the conference room. Tell them wheels up in twenty.”
-
Not even ten minutes later, they were seated on the jet the hum of the engines settling into a steady vibration beneath their feet. Reid had spread three maps across the table – a floorplan of the hotel, the immediate area around the building, and the surrounding highway grid. He had already scribbled all over it, ren pen branching out like a spider’s web.
Down the aisle, JJ was stood with her back too them, ear pressed to the phone while they were still in range of a signal tower, liaising with local cops for armed reinforcements. Rossi had the profile in his hands, and was reading, and rereading it, like he might gain some extra insight, or see something new.
Sat around the table, Hotch observed his team members. Reid was examining the maps closely, lips moving in a rapid, near-silent litany of geographical analysis and probability. Both Prentiss and Morgan had spent a couple of minutes looking at the maps, absorbing the essentials, but had since settled back in their seats. Emily’s foot was tapping the ground in a steady beat. Both of them were eying Hotch.
“Does this not all feel too convenient?” Derek finally asked, voice breaking the long stretch of quiet. “I mean, just a call? Saying exactly where our guys are gonna be? With enough time for us to take a flight to get there? Are you sure we aren’t walking into a trap?”
Hotch grimaced. “No.” He didn’t soften it. With his team, honesty really was the best policy. “Which is why we need to be vigilant.”
“Should we not verify the source first?” asked Prentiss, not unreasonably. It wasn’t pushback as such, it was the kind of questioning authority that was productive. Hotch knew he could be hotheaded, and people like Prentiss were necessary to keep him in line. But they couldn’t afford to take the safe route this time.
“Need I remind you of the last spree the brothers went on?” His tone was a bit too aggressive, voice tight and tense. Both Derek and Emily shuddered – almost imperceptible, but Hotch was trained to notice things like this. Even Reid stopped his quiet muttering. None of them needed reminding. Six deaths, one of them being Gordon Walker. Most of them beheaded. It had been utter carnage. Having a profile for the Winchester’s did little to reassure you when faced with a slew of headless corpses.
It had put them all on edge when the information about Walker came through. That he’d escaped from prison, only to be found days later, brutally murdered. One of his acquaintances had also been killed, and four civilians. It had the brothers fingerprints all over – both figuratively, and literally.
The team had been riding a high ever since profiling them, but that had given them a stark reminder that the job wasn’t over. They still needed to apprehend, interrogate, and convict the brothers. And until they did that, the body count was only going to rise.
Hotch looked at each of them in turn. “We can’t sit on a credible location. Not with their escalation curve. We go in, we prepare for every variable, and we adapt.”
-
Preparing for every variable meant the operation had grown to a scale the team only saw very infrequently. JJ had managed to secure an armed squad of fourteen men that would help them breach the hotel room, as well as any local cops that were available. With any other UNSUB, it would have felt like overkill. But they all knew what the Winchesters were capable of, disarming SWAT team members with ease and efficiency.
The rest of the flight had been spent briefing the team. Despite the sprawling white clouds rolling by beneath them, Hotch needed everyone to have both feet firmly planted on the ground. Getting blindsided by the occasion was a sure way to allow the Winchesters yet another escape from law enforcement, and he was determined not to let that happen. This wasn’t a standard takedown. This was the kind of operation that ended in commendations… or funerals.
As the altitude decreased, they were all confined to their seats again, already strapped into their tactical gear. Hotch hadn’t wanted to waste any time when they landed. He could see everyone mentally briefing themselves. They’d all helped contribute to the “What to do when you encounter the Winchesters” technical document; don’t engage without backup, separate them as soon as possible, always have someone monitoring the situation from afar. That last one was why Garcia wasn’t present with them – she’d been left at Quantico. There were still questions surrounding how Dean faked his death, or how they’d gotten away in Baltimore; if the boys did turn out to have extreme persuading powers upon interaction, best to have a member of his team never interact with them. At least, that was the formal reason Hotch would give. But he had an ulterior motive.
Although he knew that they interacted daily with the worst kind of criminals – sadists, perverts, pedophiles – the Winchesters had been a whole different kind of crazy. There was a reason nobody else had figured it out, and a reason he’d given the team a whole week to profile them: nothing about the brothers made sense. It had taken a complete systematic breakdown to try and explain the varied MO, the complicated power dynamics, the conflicting personas. But that time that they had so needed might not be readily available to them here – dealing with the brothers live and in the flesh. Rarely had they dealt with UNSUBs so capable of disarming and escaping police officers. If he could shield just one of his team members from having to deal with that, he was going to. So, Garcia stayed home.
“We’ve commandeered the sheriff’s station in Monument,” JJ informed him, sat just across the aisle, coffee forgotten on the tray-table in the excitement. “It’s only got one interview room, but given that the Baltimore escape was during transit, it’s best to limit their time in vehicles.” Hotch nodded his agreement. From a cursory look at Reid’s map, he could see that the station was only a few blocks away – the drive would take mere minutes.
“Two cells, though?” he inquired.
JJ nodded. “There’s four, and they’re in pairs.” She pulled a PDF floorplan up on her laptop, pointing at the black lines. “So we’ll be able to effectively limit communication between them at the station, even when neither is being interviewed.” While depriving the brothers of seeing each other would certainly enrage them, it would prevent them from planning an escape, keeping them in the BAU’s grasp. Hotch ran the roster again, mentally slotting each team member into their positions. Every variable accounted for. Every blind spot anticipated.
-
It had been under an hour since they’d gotten the call when the convoy rolled into Monument, but Hotch could only hope that even that hadn’t been too long. The anonymous woman had said – blithely, almost smugly – that she was calling in advance, and that the targets would be in the hotel room in approximately an hour. Hotch had pressed her, demanded clarification, but she’d batted his questions away like flies. If the UNSUBs weren’t so dangerous, he might have written the whole thing off as someone’s idea of a joke.
But as the SUVs turned off the main road, tires humming against cracked asphalt, it became clear this was anything but a joke.
Up ahead, the hotel rose out of the winter haze: grand, five stories, the kind of place that people travelled half the country to visit. JJ’s voice crackled in Hotch’s earpiece, confirming the local units were staging two blocks south. Prentiss scanned the sidewalks automatically, hand hovering near her holstered weapon. Reid muttered something about fire exits and line-of-sight angles under his breath. Even Rossi, usually unflappable, leaned forward in his seat.
Then Morgan swore softly.
Hotch followed his line of sight – and his stomach dropped, just a fraction.
Parked on a narrow side street, half-shadowed by a dying pine tree, sat a black ’67 Chevy Impala. There was no mistaking it. The car might as well have been a calling card.
Hotch snapped to the radio. “Eyes front. The Impala is here. Repeat, the Impala is confirmed on site.” A chorus of hushed acknowledgements answered back. He kept his gaze fixed on the sleek black shape as the SUVs rolled past, its chrome glinting under the pale light as if it were watching them in return.
They couldn’t afford to divert men yet – not when the Winchesters were potentially feet away – but once the brothers were in custody, that vehicle became priority one.
Hotch narrowed his eyes. “Difficult to make a great escape,” he said under his breath, “if you don’t have your getaway car.”
-
The hotel lobby was clean, sophisticated. Soft silk adorned the windows in curtains that were probably never closed, always allowing outsiders a glimpse into the luxury inside. A chandelier was mounted at the top of an impossibly high ceiling, crystals sparkling and sending light bouncing along every surface. It smelled faintly of citrus and something floral – expensive, subtle, completely at odds with the armed team ghosting in behind Hotch.
They walked in at a brisk, controlled pace. Hotch and JJ had contemplated phoning ahead and warning the hotel staff that a tactical operation would be taking place at the hotel, but had decided against it. Nothing spooked civilians faster than the word FBI. And nothing would scare the Winchesters faster than spooked civilians.
Hotch flashed his badge the second he reached the desk, placing it down with the quiet authority of a man who’d done this hundreds of times. Two mugshots followed – Dean and Sam Winchester, both grim, both dangerous.
Behind him, the team split with silent efficiency. Morgan and two locals swept toward the elevators. Prentiss headed for the stairwell. Rossi cut toward the fire exits, voice low in the comms as he called them in. Only Reid stayed at Hotch’s shoulder, clutching the folded floorplan like a lifeline.
“Special Agent Hotchner,” he said, voice firm. “FBI. Have you seen these two men?”
The clerk blinked, startled, glancing between Hotch and the photos. His professionalism cracked for a moment; he swallowed, throat bobbing.
“Yeah, came in about five minutes ago. I noticed because,” his nose wrinkled distastefully, the slightest sneer visible, “they aren’t our usual clientele. I didn’t book them in, but someone else must’ve done, because they didn’t come to the desk.”
Or, Hotch thought privately, they didn’t come to the desk because they had no intention of paying for a room. And given that this place was almost always fully booked – he’d read that on the website on the plane – they clearly weren’t looking for a bed. They were looking for someone.
“Can you tell me who was staying in Room 331?” he asked, urgency threading his voice.
The clerk quickly ran his fingers over the keys, hands shaking slightly. He paused, then did it again.
“That’s… odd. The file’s empty. No name, no number. I’m certain it was a woman—she booked a spa appointment and a manicure earlier today—but everything else is gone.”
Reid leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Erased or corrupted?”
“Erm…” the clerk hesitated, looking unsure, unsettled. Hotch held back a growl of irritation. He’d get Garcia looking into that later, but for now they had bigger fish to fry.
“Okay, nobody is to be allowed onto the third floor. No access to anyone, that includes staff. These men are armed and highly dangerous.”
The young man behind the front desk went paper-white, Adam’s apple bobbing as he nodded. “Y-yes, sir.” He fumbled for the phone, hands trembling as he relayed the lockdown order to his colleagues.
Hotch exhaled through his nose – one small variable finally under control – and motioned for Reid. They crossed the lobby quickly, shoes muffled against the high-pile carpet, and slipped into the stairwell.
“We’re assuming the woman – the caller – was staying in 331?” Reid murmured as they climbed, his voice low, careful. The soft red runner swallowed their footsteps.
“Likely,” Hotch answered. “Garcia will dig into it once the situation is contained. I’m thinking accomplice.”
Reid shook his head immediately. “In violent crimes, an accomplice who turns on their partners is very rare. They’re willing to kill – most of them take matters into their own hands. The Winchesters
definitely do – we’ve got Papazian and Walker’s death certificates to prove that. I don’t see how an accomplice of theirs would turn to the police for help. And with Walker recently dead, they’re not exactly magnets for volunteers.”
Hotch nodded, absorbing the theory. “What are you thinking then?”
“I’m thinking some knowledge of the brothers being wanted, but no idea about the true extent of their crimes. More along the lines of spurned lover.” Reid put out his theory. Hotch considered it. He’d had it in the back of his mind since the call, the woman’s voice equal measures commanding and sultry. Just Dean’s type, if his previous sexual encounters were anything to go by.
As Reid and Hotch went up to the third floor, Hotch radioed in to try and gather if everyone was in positions. He got the affirmative just as they opened the door and entered the corridor. The hallway was quiet – unnervingly so. The thick carpet absorbed every sound, the air smelled faintly of disinfectant and floral freshener.
Morgan, Prentiss, and three local armed officers were standing outside the door. Jenkins, Wu, and Parsons, if he was remembering the file correctly. They’d passed more flanking the corridors from outside, guns not drawn, but ready for combat nonetheless. In the corridor, all guns were out and safeties clicked off – Hotch and Reid had done theirs on the stairs, to try and avoid any noise in the corridor.
As Hotch and Reid approached Room 331, Prentiss lifted a hand for silence. She leaned in, ear nearly pressed to the door. Hotch mirrored her, closing the final inches of distance until he could just make out the muffled voice bleeding through the wood.
Dean Winchester.
“Oh, I’ll find you, sweetheart. You know why?” His tone was a low, venomous purr. “Because I have absolutely nothing better to do than track you down.”
Hotch waited for Dean to say something else, but there was nothing. Clearly he was on the phone. Yet another thing for Garcia to try and track.
At the prolonged silence, Hotch shot a look at Reid. They were in the right place. No turning back now.
He gave the hand signal. The officers tightened formation. Morgan shifted his weight, muscles coiling like a spring. Prentiss braced beside him.
The door splintered inward as Morgan’s boot met the lock.
“Hands in the air!”
“Down on your knees!”
“Drop the weapons! Now!”
The room exploded into motion. BAU and local officers swarmed inside, guns trained on the two men in the middle of the floor. Dean and Sam stood frozen for a heartbeat, each gripping a 9mm, tension radiating off them like heat.
Hotch barked orders, voice cutting through the chaos.
For a fraction of a second, Dean’s eyes snapped to his – feral, furious, the kind of look that usually came right before violence. His lip curled, and he spat a single word.
“Bitch.”
Every instinct Hotch had screamed brace for bloodshed – they all knew how quickly the Winchesters could turn a room into a battlefield.
But then, almost simultaneously, both brothers dropped their guns. The rage that had been written clear as day on their faces was washed away, and a new emotion left in the residue. Something quieter. Hollower. Resigned.
It unsettled Hotch more than the fury.
Morgan had Sam on the floor in seconds, knee in his back. Jenkins shoved Dean down hard enough that the carpet burned his cheek, pressing his back with more force than was probably necessary. Hotch didn’t intervene; the officers had all seen the case file. They knew exactly how twisted these men could be.
“Sam and Dean Winchester, you are under arrest.” Hotch began reciting their rights, even though he was sure the brothers wouldn’t need it. They’d gone through this process enough before to know it already. While he was speaking, studied their behavior. Neither of them seemed to be resisting much, both just staying face down in the carpet as the cuffs were secured. When he’d finished speaking,
Dean craned his head up to look at him. Then around the room to Reid, then Prentiss.
When he finished, Dean craned his neck to look up at him. His gaze flicked around the room – first to Hotch, then Reid, then Prentiss.
“Where’s Hendrickson?” he asked, the words bitten out from where his chest was pressed to the floor.
Hotch held his stare, steady and cold. “You thought you had trouble when it was just Hendrickson. You’ve got an entire unit now, Dean.”
Neither brother replied. They simply shut their eyes and let their foreheads touch the carpet.
Hotch allowed himself the smallest, tightest smile. After too many bodies, escapes, and near-misses…
They had them.