zuben_eschamali (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
zubeneschamali) wrote2010-09-02 10:30 pm
zubeneschamali) wrote2010-09-02 10:30 pm
Entry tags:
'Twill Never Be Light (1/1) (PG-13)
Title: 'Twill Never Be Light
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
zuben_eschamali
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Genre: gen
Word count: 5,015
Summary: SPN/Numb3rs crossover: after "Folsom Prison Blues," expert FBI tracker Ian Edgerton catches up to Sam and Dean.
Author's Notes: I finally did a crossover! This was written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_summergen with mute90 's prompt, and the title is from the lyrics to "My Old Kentucky Home." Thanks to rinkle and kasman for beta reading.
Disclaimer: Dean and Sam Winchester belong to the SPN writers and producers, Ian Edgerton belongs to the N3 writers and producers, and the two brothers from Glasgow, KY, really do belong to the Ridge Cemetery.
xxx
May in Kentucky was beautiful, even in the silvery glow of a full moon. The redbuds were waning but still offered splashes of magenta against the yellow-green of new leaves; the mayapples and shooting stars provided sparks of white above their low, deep green foliage, and blue flags marked the wetter ground in vivid blue-purple.
Special Agent Ian Edgerton didn't see any of it.
Oh, he noticed the redbuds to the extent they blocked the vision of his rifle scope, and he marked the blue flags as indicators of where he had to step carefully so as not to splash. It wasn't that he didn't know the name of every plant around him, he just appreciated them for other reasons than being pretty.
Like whether or not they helped him catch his prey.
The call had come three days ago, right after he'd unpacked from L.A. He'd enjoyed the chance to work with the Eppes brothers again, this time on the suspicious crash of a small plane. Crazy as Ian thought the math professor was at first, Charlie had somehow grown on him over the years. And Don had always had his respect, now more than ever. If Ian ever wanted to be assigned to an office full time, L.A. might be the place.
Not that he was one for staying put, not when his skills were needed. Special Agent Henriksen's call was only the latest in a long line of colleagues who wanted his expertise at sniping or tracking, sometimes both at once. Henriksen was one of the latter, suggesting bluntly that two armed and dangerous fugitives like the Winchesters would probably only escape again if they were locked up, and if Ian had to take extreme measures in apprehending them, the Bureau would certainly understand.
Ian’d had to hide a snort of disgust. Much as he was willing to bend the rules when it had to be done, going in with that attitude up front was a mistake. It led you to be more careless, assuming that any option was open to you rather than trusting in the law and juridical procedure first.
He read over the Winchesters' files on the flight to Little Rock, memorizing their appearances and known aliases, his mouth quirking a few times at the appearance of some of his favorite musicians. Henriksen had been right about the impressively-long list of crimes attributed to them, but there was more that he hadn't mentioned. Ian could hear Professor Eppes pontificating about the lack of a pattern among credit card fraud, bank robbery, grave desecration, and the serial killings that seemed to come and go over time. He could hear the behaviorist Megan Reeves explaining that serial killers rarely worked in pairs and nearly always escalated their behavior over time, which was clearly not the case here. Most intriguing was the statement from Diana Ballard in Baltimore, worded carefully as if there was more she wasn't saying, more than the already-startling insistence that the Winchester were the heroes while her now-dead partner was a dirty cop.
After talking to the prison officials and the guard whom the brothers had knocked out during their escape, Ian was headed north, following the traces of a 1967 Chevy Impala that had somehow made its way from the museum where the brothers were arrested to the vicinity of the jail. He had the feeling if he pressured the guard, he'd get the connection confirmed, but he didn't have time for that himself. Let Henriksen take out his frustration on the man.
A week of patient backtracking down country roads, talking to gas station attendants and motel clerks, showing mug shot photos in bars and diners, brought him up into Missouri and Iowa. Then it was all the way east to northern Virginia, and then, as if the brothers had gotten too close to civilization and had to retreat, sliding southwest through the valleys and ridges of the Appalachians. The nightly news broadcasts weren't showing the Arkansas mug shots anymore, but Ian figured the fugitives still weren't going to show their faces any time soon.
Then he read in the morning paper about two deaths in Glasgow, Kentucky: two brothers had shot each other over a woman, locals were confused, family devastated, etc. The final line of the article was a throwaway to most readers, Ian was sure, but having read the files on the Winchesters, he knew that the lure would be too great for them to pass up.
It was the fourth pair of brothers to have shot each other in the same cemetery since the original set in the 1880s.
xxx
A day later, Edgerton was pulling his rented truck into the parking lot of Glasgow's Li'l Country Diner, two spaces down from a sleek black Impala. He shrugged on a leather jacket to hide his holstered weapon and slipped into the diner.
He spotted them right away, hunched over a booth in the back, the older one with his back to the wall and eyes flickering up as soon as Ian walked in. Ian kept his gaze moving casually over the rest of the room, all of his senses attuned to the men in the corner booth. He was rarely pegged for law enforcement, lacking the stiff back or the dark suits, and as he took a seat at the booth kitty-corner from his quarry, he was positive that he hadn't been made this time, either.
"So the Goodwins are both buried there, right?" the older brother was asking in a low voice.
"Yeah, Ridge Cemetery," the younger one replied sullenly. "West of town."
"Good. Simple salt and burn tonight, then we're out of here."
Ian signaled the waitress for coffee. At least he knew where he was going tonight, and where to send backup when he called for it.
Dean was going on, "Look, I know you think we shouldn't be here—"
"It's way too close to Little Rock," Sam hissed. "And way too close to I-40."
"We'll be out of here in the morning," Dean replied. "It's just—I don't know, Sam, we gotta do this one, you know?"
Ian strained his ears for a reply, but if there was one, it was too quiet to hear. Part of him was itching to stand up and slap the cuffs on these two men before anyone else got hurt, but the rest of him recognized the wisdom of waiting until there were no potential hostages in sight, no one but him and his prey. They'd already shown themselves willing to take hostages in the bank, even if that didn't fit with the rest of their activities.
He finished what was actually a pretty good hamburger, listening to the Winchesters bicker like any two brothers over stolen French fries and bites of pie, and they sounded so goddamn normal that it was hard to believe they were wanted for bank robbery and murder.
Ian turned his head when he heard them leaving, in time to catch the younger one's eye. There was something wary and watchful there, a hunted look that normal men didn't carry in the set of their shoulders and the movement of their eyes. Ian gave Sam a friendly nod and got a jerk of the chin in reply. There was no indication that he'd been identified as law enforcement, and he turned back to finish off his coffee before dropping a few bills on the table and leaving.
xxx
It was easier than Ian expected to find Ridge Cemetery; camera crews were still lingering two days after the incident, trying to get footage of the new graves being dug. He stayed in the shadow of a large hickory tree, watching two reporters trying to locate the gravesite of the first pair of brothers to turn on each other in this place. He kept an eye out for the Winchesters, but neither they nor their black car were visible. His call to Henriksen had been met with a curse for not notifying him sooner, since the closest team that could be dispatched wouldn't make it before dawn, which meant Ian was on his own.
As night fell, he checked the Glock at his back and the rifle at his side, the knife in his boot and the smaller pistol at his ankle. He'd scoped out the cemetery after the reporters had gone and found the Goodwins' tombstone, the two brothers united in death as they apparently hadn't been in life. There was a small rise to the north of the cemetery, and Ian set up in the trees there, rifle at the ready, and prepared to wait.
It was after midnight by the time the low rumble of an engine caught his attention. Then there was the creak of a car door, dual slamming doors, and the creak of the trunk. A moment later, the men were coming into view, shovels and shotguns slung over their shoulders. He looked through the rifle scope and lifted his eyebrows. Apparently, Winchester had meant the salting and burning part literally, given the dark blue canister in his hand and the container of lighter fluid in his brother's.
He let them dig for about half an hour, one to a grave, until they were noticeably tiring. Then he sighted through the scope, getting the Goodwins' marble headstone in his sights. The brothers were bent down, both hands on a shovel rather than a shotgun, and Ian gently squeezed the trigger.
The gunshot was loud in the quiet night, the ping of the bullet striking the headstone audible. Dean had managed to drop his shovel and get his hand on his weapon before Ian called out, "Get down on the ground and put your hands on your heads. This is the FBI."
Dean's, "Shit!" was audible even from a hundred yards away, and Ian felt growing satisfaction at having gotten the upper hand. He left the sniping rifle on its tripod and rose to his feet, smoothly drawing his Glock as he picked his way closer.
Both brothers were still on their feet, one on either side of the open graves, but their hands were in the air. "On the ground," Ian barked out as he came into view. "Now!"
"I don't know who you think we are," Sam started in a calm voice, slowly turning towards him, "but we're—"
"You're Sam and Dean Winchester, wanted in Arkansas for theft and escaping federal custody and in Wisconsin for bank robbery and multiple counts of assault of a federal agent." He watched their faces go grim and said, "I would go on, but I want you to get on the ground!"
That time, they obeyed, although neither of them was more than a long reach away from their firearm, not to mention what weapons might be on their persons. Ian came a step closer, enough to look down into the nearest grave and see that they had gotten about three feet down. "Plus multiple counts of grave desecration," he added with a grin, training his gun on Sam's back as he moved closer.
Dean was watching him closely, eyes narrowed, and Ian knew he'd picked right. Threaten the younger one, and the older one would stay in line.
He'd just closed a handcuff over one of Sam's wrists when a chill breeze blew across the back of his neck, enough to make him shiver. "Dean," the man under Ian said sharply.
"I know," Dean ground out from where he was lying face down on the other side of the two re-opened graves.
"Quiet," Ian ordered, reaching for Winchester's other wrist.
Suddenly Sam shouted, "Look out!"
Ian would have ignored it as an attempt at distraction except that he could see something moving out of the corner of his eye. He lifted his head and had to blink twice before he could convince himself it wasn't a trick of the moonlight.
There was a figure standing on the other side of the headstones, pale white-grey and not entirely substantial. It abruptly moved forward without taking a step, and Ian found himself backing up and raising his gun, his mind stumbling over itself trying to comprehend what he was seeing. It was a man dressed in nineteenth-century clothing, a dueling pistol in one hand and his other hand pressed to his gut, liquid trickling through his fingers, and Ian could see through him.
Something moved to his right, and Ian whirled to see Dean Winchester rolling to the side where his shotgun was. "Stop!" Ian barked out, moving his aim to the fugitive.
"Get down!" was the only reply Winchester gave. Ian tightened his finger on the trigger as he saw Dean's hand close around the shotgun.
Suddenly he was crashing to the ground, Sam having taken advantage of his distraction to roll over and tangle their legs together to take him down. Ian swiftly pulled himself free, rising to his knees. Sam was on his back, hands reaching out, one with handcuffs dangling from a wrist, but he froze as Ian pointed the Glock in his face.
The cold wind blew over him again, and Ian looked up to see the ghostly figure standing right over them. "Shoot it, Dean," Sam called out, apparently ignoring the gun pointed at him.
Before Ian could warn him not to, the blast of a shotgun split the air. The see-through figure abruptly vanished, a faint howl of pain trailing after it, a shower of small white pellets falling over the ground and Sam in its wake.
Suddenly, strong hands grabbed Ian’s wrist, shoving the gun up and away and putting him at an awkward angle, without any leverage. Ian didn't hesitate before letting go of the Glock and drawing the spare from his ankle holster, pointing it between Sam Winchester's eyes before the younger man could raise his newly acquired weapon.
"Drop it, FBI," came Dean's cold voice, and Ian didn't have to look up to know that the shotgun had been re-aimed.
He kept his eyes on Sam, who had the Glock in his non-cuffed hand and pointed off to the side, but was clearly sizing him up. "I don't know why you have that thing loaded with salt," Ian said loud enough for Dean to hear, "but I promise you this one has actual bullets."
"This thing just saved your ass," Dean retorted. "Didn't you notice the fucking ghost standing right over you?"
Ian ignored him. "Give me the gun, Sam," he said, one hand reaching for the weapon in Sam's hand while his aim stayed perfectly steady. "Don't make this any harder on yourself."
"Sam, which one was it?" Dean asked.
"The younger one." Sam's voice sounded pained, his eyes never leaving Ian's. "He's the one who was gutshot."
"Nice," Dean muttered. "FBI, that thing's gonna come back, probably with its big brother. And it's gonna be pissed."
Ian almost had his hand on the barrel of his Glock. "So I should sit back and let you do whatever kind of grave desecration you've got planned?"
"Yeah." Dean cleared his throat. "And when we're done, you can take me in."
"What?" Sam burst out, looking away from Ian for the first time.
Ian moved swiftly, his hand closing over his Glock and yanking it from Sam's grip before rising to his feet, keeping the smaller weapon aimed at Sam and pointing the Glock at Dean.
Dean grimaced, but the shotgun aimed at Ian didn't move. "I'm worth more to you than him. You let us take care of these spirits and let Sam go, and I'll come with you without a fight. Even if there is only one of you."
"Dean, you can't!" Sam shouted angrily.
"Shut up," came the automatic reply of a big brother.
Ian opened his mouth to reply when the temperature suddenly dropped several degrees and he heard a faint crackle of electricity. He looked to where he'd seen the strange figure before, but when he felt a presence behind him at the same time Dean barked out, "Get down!", he knew he'd judged wrong.
A second later, he was flying through the air, the old hickory tree coming up at him with alarming speed, and Ian just had time to drop his guns and fold his arms over his head before he hit with bone-jarring force and the world went black.
xxx
When Ian came to, it took a second to realize he was restrained with his own handcuffs, lying at the base of the tree he'd been thrown against. His head hurt like a son of a bitch, but all of his limbs were intact and functional, and for some reason the armed and dangerous fugitives he'd been pursuing hadn't hurt a hair on his head.
The younger Winchester was digging furiously, the older one pacing back and forth, shotgun at the ready. There was another crackle like the moment before a bolt of lightning hit, and then a figure flickered into view, this one larger.
Any doubts Ian had had about it being a ghost vanished when the figure turned and he saw that the back half of its head was missing.
Winchester calmly fired and it disappeared. "They're coming faster, Sammy," he warned.
"I'm digging as fast as I can," Ian heard. Then there was a dull thud as the shovel hit something. "Got it."
Digging into his back jeans pocket, Ian pulled out a paper clip and got to work picking the lock. He had one cuff free and had started in on the other when he heard, "FBI's awake."
Ian looked up sharply to see Dean staring at him. Something pale flickered behind him, and Ian hadn't even opened his mouth to give a warning before Winchester had whirled and fired. "Reloading," he said, reaching into his pocket.
There was the splintering sound of wood being broken. "Gimme the salt when you're done," came Sam's muffled voice.
"You're gonna have to get it," Dean replied. As Ian twisted the little piece of metal in the lock, Dean was efficiently loading two shells. He was snapping the shotgun shut when an icy wind blew past and the ghost with the half-missing skull appeared right behind him.
Ian shouted, but the ghost stuttered forward until it was somehow occupying the same space as the older Winchester. Dean stiffened, arms raising and the shotgun falling from his hand. Then his arms went back to his sides and he went perfectly still.
Ian felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Sam was scrambling out of the open grave, reaching for the canister of salt by the headstone. "Toss me your lighter, man," he said.
When there was no reply, he looked up, and Ian followed his gaze.
He was stunned to see that Dean had drawn a pearl-handled Colt and was pointing it right at his little brother.
"Dean, what—" Sam started and then broke off. "Oh, fuck."
"You never listened to me, did you, Joseph?" Dean said, taking a step to the side and then another, taking him farther from Ian. His voice was odd, with a slight echo to it and more of a twang than Ian had heard from the brothers.
"Dean, this isn't you," Sam said firmly. "Fight it off, man, come on."
Ian shook the second cuff free and slowly crawled forward, heading for the shotgun. Dean didn't seem to see him, all of his concentration on his brother.
"And now you were foolhardy enough to come here, knowing I would best you in any duel you cared to name." The double click of the Colt being cocked was loud in the quiet graveyard.
"Dean, please," Sam said, sounding worried for the first time.
Ian was reaching out to grab the shotgun when he felt the temperature drop. He flung himself flat as the younger brother's shade passed overhead, heading right towards Sam, who managed to bend down and get a hand on his shotgun before the spirit poured its way in just like the first one had done.
Rolling to a prone position, Ian brought up Dean’s shotgun before realizing that he didn't know what he was doing. If he shot the men, would he also be shooting the spirits?
Sam had straightened up and suddenly had a Taurus in his hand that Ian hadn't even seen on him. "You wronged me more than you know, brother," he spat out, pointing the gun at Dean. "And you won't be besting me."
Ian looked back and forth between the fugitive brothers. This couldn't be a trick or a ruse to try and get away—he'd been unconscious, for God's sake, and they hadn't done a thing to him. The only explanation, however unbelievable it was, was that he wasn't watching the Winchester brothers of 2007, but the Goodwin brothers of the 1880s.
He suddenly, incongruously, thought of Charlie Eppes, who would scoff at the idea that ghosts existed, much less could make men do things they wouldn't otherwise dream of. But what else did Ian have to go on but the proof of what his own eyes and ears were showing him?
Dean had rounded the foot of the open graves and was advancing on Sam. "You have been nothing but a spoiled, selfish child all of your life," he snarled.
"And you have never been able to stand on your own outside of our father's shadow," Sam returned angrily. Both of them had steady aim on the other, their faces blank but their voices full of emotion.
Ian's gaze fell on the forgotten canister of salt, and something clicked into place. He briefly wondered why he wasn't letting this play out; if Victor Henriksen was here, he'd probably be popping popcorn while he watched the brothers go at each other. But the fierce protectiveness in Dean's voice when he'd offered his freedom for his brother's, and Sam's shocked and horrified reply, struck a chord in Ian that made him inclined to revisit the contents of their FBI file and wonder if maybe the bravado-filled words Dean had uttered in the Baltimore police station were closer to the truth than anyone wanted to admit.
Besides, who was to say the ghosts wouldn't keep turning brothers against each other?
Ian rose to a crouch and made his way around the back of the Goodwins’ headstone, watching the Winchesters circling each other while hurling threats and accusations. He kept the shotgun in one hand while he grabbed the salt, hoping that "salt and burn" was the right order in which to do things.
Both graves were yawning open, the half-rotten coffin lids split to reveal bones inside. Ian sprinkled a good half of the salt in one and then the rest in the other, setting the container down when it was empty and reaching for the lighter fluid.
The Winchesters had gone quiet, and he looked up to see them standing back to back, pistols raised. His stomach swooped. They were carrying out a goddamn duel.
Working as fast as he could, Ian squirted lighter fluid over the two graves and reached into his pocket for a lighter. Sam and Dean were slowly walking away from each other, and as Ian flicked the lighter to life, they each came to a halt, twenty paces apart.
Ian froze. He only had one lighter—but there were two graves. And he had no idea which one was which, or even if it made a difference.
There was no time. He flung the lighter into the grave on his left, where Dean had been digging. Fire flared upward, the blast of heat making him step back. He turned, shotgun at the ready, to see that the brothers were turning to face each other, each taking careful aim, and he realized with a sick feeling that he was too late.
Then Dean burst into flames.
Ian was already racing towards him, ready to throw him to the ground and cover him, when he realized that Dean Winchester was still standing. It was the spirit that had gone up in smoke, and Dean was shaking himself as if waking up. He looked at the gun in his hand, then up at his brother, and he threw himself to the ground a fraction of a second before a bullet whizzed through the space where he'd been standing.
Sam's arm was extended, a grimace on his face. "Coward!" he called out, striding forward, gun still pointed at Dean. "Stand up and face me like a man, James!"
Dean was fumbling in his pocket, and Ian suddenly realized what he was looking for. "Here!" he called, putting down the shotgun and holding out his hands.
The moonlight illuminated the expressions flickering across Winchester's face: confusion, mistrust, and resignation. Then he pulled the lighter from his pocket and flipped it to Ian.
Ian lit the device and tossed it into the other grave as Sam fired a second time.
The second spirit went out the same way, flaring into flame-orange brilliance before disappearing. It left Sam standing with wide-eyed astonishment on his face, his gun aimed down at where Dean had been before rolling out of the way at the last minute. "Dean?" he asked tentatively.
"'M fine," Winchester returned from his prone position, sounding exasperated more than anything else.
Sam looked at Ian next, and then at the graves behind him, both still burning brightly. "How'd you know how to do that?" he asked.
"Wasn't hard to figure out," Ian returned. The Taurus was down at Sam's side, and while Ian didn't have any firearms on him, he had a knife he could use, if he had a chance of getting at it.
"You mean you didn't learn it from your medicine man or on a spirit walk or something?" Dean grumbled.
"Dean!" Sam snapped with embarrassed exasperation.
Ian raised his eyebrows. As rare as serial killers were who hunted in pairs, ones who worried about being politically correct were probably rarer still. Also, it was clear confirmation that the Winchesters had gotten a good look at his features at some point while he'd been unconscious.
Sam cleared his throat. "So you're not a hunter?" he asked, sounding as if he already knew the answer.
"Is that what you call yourselves?" Ian asked calmly.
He didn't even have time to react before Sam was pointing the Taurus at him. "I'm sorry," Sam said, and it looked like real regret on his face. "I know it's a shitty thing to do when you saved our lives."
"Don't feel sorry for the FBI," Dean muttered. He'd risen to his feet, the Colt aimed at Ian as well.
Ian slowly raised his hands and looked back and forth between them. This was when he found out who was right: Henriksen, who thought the brothers were cold-blooded killers, or Ballard, who'd portrayed them as upright young men who'd saved her life.
"I guess this means our deal is off," Ian said, nodding at Dean's gun.
Winchester's mouth twisted in a cocky smirk. "We got what we came for," he said, nodding to the burning graves. "Like hell I'm going with you now."
Ian nodded. There was a six-foot drop into flames behind him and two men in front of him who were clearly comfortable with pointing firearms at FBI agents, whatever else they might be. He wasn't going anywhere unless they said so. "So what now?" he asked.
"Get on your knees," Dean ordered. "Put your hands behind your head."
Ian's stomach dropped. Had he misjudged them after all?
Dean rolled his eyes. "Sam, get his handcuffs and his guns."
Ian carefully lowered himself to his knees, facing Dean, as Sam backed away towards the hickory tree. He was too far away to make a grab at the Colt aimed at him, and he was being watched too closely to go for one of his knives. "Why not just shoot me?" he asked.
Dean scoffed. "'Cause that's not our style, FBI."
Jerking his head back to indicate the graves burning behind them, Ian asked, "So this is what you do? Go around the country digging up people's graves to put them to rest?"
"Doesn't matter what I tell you," Winchester said tiredly. "You're not gonna believe a word of it anyway."
"Right, 'cause it's not like I'd help you with your salting and burning," Ian retorted.
Dean grimaced for a moment before his features straightened out. "Tell Henriksen we said hi," he said.
Ian opened his mouth to reply when he heard a rustling behind him, and then something contacted the back of his head, hard.
Once again, everything went dark.
xxx
The agents who found him the next morning didn't give him too much crap about being cuffed to the massive roots of the hickory tree jutting above the ground, probably because of the glare he gave them as soon as they opened their mouths. Ian knew he had a reputation as a prickly bastard, and he wasn't above using it to suit his purposes.
He kept up that same gruffness when Henriksen chewed him out on the phone for letting the Winchesters get away, ranting and cursing for a good five minutes before declaring that Ian's reputation was way overblown and that he was going to be hunting nothing but buffalo if Henriksen had anything to say about it.
Ian was briefly amused at how similar the FBI agent's level of cultural awareness was to Dean Winchester's before he retorted coldly that he had no problem telling his immediate supervisor that Henriksen had told him to bring in the brothers dead rather than alive.
The other agent's bluster trailed off after that, and when Ian got his new assignment the next day in the opposite direction from where he would have guessed the Winchesters had gone, he didn't complain. Someone was going to take those boys in one day, Ian Edgerton thought.
But it sure as hell wasn't going to be him.
Author:
zuben_eschamali Rating: PG-13 (language)
Genre: gen
Word count: 5,015
Summary: SPN/Numb3rs crossover: after "Folsom Prison Blues," expert FBI tracker Ian Edgerton catches up to Sam and Dean.
Author's Notes: I finally did a crossover! This was written for
spn_summergen with mute90 's prompt, and the title is from the lyrics to "My Old Kentucky Home." Thanks to rinkle and kasman for beta reading.Disclaimer: Dean and Sam Winchester belong to the SPN writers and producers, Ian Edgerton belongs to the N3 writers and producers, and the two brothers from Glasgow, KY, really do belong to the Ridge Cemetery.
xxx
May in Kentucky was beautiful, even in the silvery glow of a full moon. The redbuds were waning but still offered splashes of magenta against the yellow-green of new leaves; the mayapples and shooting stars provided sparks of white above their low, deep green foliage, and blue flags marked the wetter ground in vivid blue-purple.
Special Agent Ian Edgerton didn't see any of it.
Oh, he noticed the redbuds to the extent they blocked the vision of his rifle scope, and he marked the blue flags as indicators of where he had to step carefully so as not to splash. It wasn't that he didn't know the name of every plant around him, he just appreciated them for other reasons than being pretty.
Like whether or not they helped him catch his prey.
The call had come three days ago, right after he'd unpacked from L.A. He'd enjoyed the chance to work with the Eppes brothers again, this time on the suspicious crash of a small plane. Crazy as Ian thought the math professor was at first, Charlie had somehow grown on him over the years. And Don had always had his respect, now more than ever. If Ian ever wanted to be assigned to an office full time, L.A. might be the place.
Not that he was one for staying put, not when his skills were needed. Special Agent Henriksen's call was only the latest in a long line of colleagues who wanted his expertise at sniping or tracking, sometimes both at once. Henriksen was one of the latter, suggesting bluntly that two armed and dangerous fugitives like the Winchesters would probably only escape again if they were locked up, and if Ian had to take extreme measures in apprehending them, the Bureau would certainly understand.
Ian’d had to hide a snort of disgust. Much as he was willing to bend the rules when it had to be done, going in with that attitude up front was a mistake. It led you to be more careless, assuming that any option was open to you rather than trusting in the law and juridical procedure first.
He read over the Winchesters' files on the flight to Little Rock, memorizing their appearances and known aliases, his mouth quirking a few times at the appearance of some of his favorite musicians. Henriksen had been right about the impressively-long list of crimes attributed to them, but there was more that he hadn't mentioned. Ian could hear Professor Eppes pontificating about the lack of a pattern among credit card fraud, bank robbery, grave desecration, and the serial killings that seemed to come and go over time. He could hear the behaviorist Megan Reeves explaining that serial killers rarely worked in pairs and nearly always escalated their behavior over time, which was clearly not the case here. Most intriguing was the statement from Diana Ballard in Baltimore, worded carefully as if there was more she wasn't saying, more than the already-startling insistence that the Winchester were the heroes while her now-dead partner was a dirty cop.
After talking to the prison officials and the guard whom the brothers had knocked out during their escape, Ian was headed north, following the traces of a 1967 Chevy Impala that had somehow made its way from the museum where the brothers were arrested to the vicinity of the jail. He had the feeling if he pressured the guard, he'd get the connection confirmed, but he didn't have time for that himself. Let Henriksen take out his frustration on the man.
A week of patient backtracking down country roads, talking to gas station attendants and motel clerks, showing mug shot photos in bars and diners, brought him up into Missouri and Iowa. Then it was all the way east to northern Virginia, and then, as if the brothers had gotten too close to civilization and had to retreat, sliding southwest through the valleys and ridges of the Appalachians. The nightly news broadcasts weren't showing the Arkansas mug shots anymore, but Ian figured the fugitives still weren't going to show their faces any time soon.
Then he read in the morning paper about two deaths in Glasgow, Kentucky: two brothers had shot each other over a woman, locals were confused, family devastated, etc. The final line of the article was a throwaway to most readers, Ian was sure, but having read the files on the Winchesters, he knew that the lure would be too great for them to pass up.
It was the fourth pair of brothers to have shot each other in the same cemetery since the original set in the 1880s.
xxx
A day later, Edgerton was pulling his rented truck into the parking lot of Glasgow's Li'l Country Diner, two spaces down from a sleek black Impala. He shrugged on a leather jacket to hide his holstered weapon and slipped into the diner.
He spotted them right away, hunched over a booth in the back, the older one with his back to the wall and eyes flickering up as soon as Ian walked in. Ian kept his gaze moving casually over the rest of the room, all of his senses attuned to the men in the corner booth. He was rarely pegged for law enforcement, lacking the stiff back or the dark suits, and as he took a seat at the booth kitty-corner from his quarry, he was positive that he hadn't been made this time, either.
"So the Goodwins are both buried there, right?" the older brother was asking in a low voice.
"Yeah, Ridge Cemetery," the younger one replied sullenly. "West of town."
"Good. Simple salt and burn tonight, then we're out of here."
Ian signaled the waitress for coffee. At least he knew where he was going tonight, and where to send backup when he called for it.
Dean was going on, "Look, I know you think we shouldn't be here—"
"It's way too close to Little Rock," Sam hissed. "And way too close to I-40."
"We'll be out of here in the morning," Dean replied. "It's just—I don't know, Sam, we gotta do this one, you know?"
Ian strained his ears for a reply, but if there was one, it was too quiet to hear. Part of him was itching to stand up and slap the cuffs on these two men before anyone else got hurt, but the rest of him recognized the wisdom of waiting until there were no potential hostages in sight, no one but him and his prey. They'd already shown themselves willing to take hostages in the bank, even if that didn't fit with the rest of their activities.
He finished what was actually a pretty good hamburger, listening to the Winchesters bicker like any two brothers over stolen French fries and bites of pie, and they sounded so goddamn normal that it was hard to believe they were wanted for bank robbery and murder.
Ian turned his head when he heard them leaving, in time to catch the younger one's eye. There was something wary and watchful there, a hunted look that normal men didn't carry in the set of their shoulders and the movement of their eyes. Ian gave Sam a friendly nod and got a jerk of the chin in reply. There was no indication that he'd been identified as law enforcement, and he turned back to finish off his coffee before dropping a few bills on the table and leaving.
xxx
It was easier than Ian expected to find Ridge Cemetery; camera crews were still lingering two days after the incident, trying to get footage of the new graves being dug. He stayed in the shadow of a large hickory tree, watching two reporters trying to locate the gravesite of the first pair of brothers to turn on each other in this place. He kept an eye out for the Winchesters, but neither they nor their black car were visible. His call to Henriksen had been met with a curse for not notifying him sooner, since the closest team that could be dispatched wouldn't make it before dawn, which meant Ian was on his own.
As night fell, he checked the Glock at his back and the rifle at his side, the knife in his boot and the smaller pistol at his ankle. He'd scoped out the cemetery after the reporters had gone and found the Goodwins' tombstone, the two brothers united in death as they apparently hadn't been in life. There was a small rise to the north of the cemetery, and Ian set up in the trees there, rifle at the ready, and prepared to wait.
It was after midnight by the time the low rumble of an engine caught his attention. Then there was the creak of a car door, dual slamming doors, and the creak of the trunk. A moment later, the men were coming into view, shovels and shotguns slung over their shoulders. He looked through the rifle scope and lifted his eyebrows. Apparently, Winchester had meant the salting and burning part literally, given the dark blue canister in his hand and the container of lighter fluid in his brother's.
He let them dig for about half an hour, one to a grave, until they were noticeably tiring. Then he sighted through the scope, getting the Goodwins' marble headstone in his sights. The brothers were bent down, both hands on a shovel rather than a shotgun, and Ian gently squeezed the trigger.
The gunshot was loud in the quiet night, the ping of the bullet striking the headstone audible. Dean had managed to drop his shovel and get his hand on his weapon before Ian called out, "Get down on the ground and put your hands on your heads. This is the FBI."
Dean's, "Shit!" was audible even from a hundred yards away, and Ian felt growing satisfaction at having gotten the upper hand. He left the sniping rifle on its tripod and rose to his feet, smoothly drawing his Glock as he picked his way closer.
Both brothers were still on their feet, one on either side of the open graves, but their hands were in the air. "On the ground," Ian barked out as he came into view. "Now!"
"I don't know who you think we are," Sam started in a calm voice, slowly turning towards him, "but we're—"
"You're Sam and Dean Winchester, wanted in Arkansas for theft and escaping federal custody and in Wisconsin for bank robbery and multiple counts of assault of a federal agent." He watched their faces go grim and said, "I would go on, but I want you to get on the ground!"
That time, they obeyed, although neither of them was more than a long reach away from their firearm, not to mention what weapons might be on their persons. Ian came a step closer, enough to look down into the nearest grave and see that they had gotten about three feet down. "Plus multiple counts of grave desecration," he added with a grin, training his gun on Sam's back as he moved closer.
Dean was watching him closely, eyes narrowed, and Ian knew he'd picked right. Threaten the younger one, and the older one would stay in line.
He'd just closed a handcuff over one of Sam's wrists when a chill breeze blew across the back of his neck, enough to make him shiver. "Dean," the man under Ian said sharply.
"I know," Dean ground out from where he was lying face down on the other side of the two re-opened graves.
"Quiet," Ian ordered, reaching for Winchester's other wrist.
Suddenly Sam shouted, "Look out!"
Ian would have ignored it as an attempt at distraction except that he could see something moving out of the corner of his eye. He lifted his head and had to blink twice before he could convince himself it wasn't a trick of the moonlight.
There was a figure standing on the other side of the headstones, pale white-grey and not entirely substantial. It abruptly moved forward without taking a step, and Ian found himself backing up and raising his gun, his mind stumbling over itself trying to comprehend what he was seeing. It was a man dressed in nineteenth-century clothing, a dueling pistol in one hand and his other hand pressed to his gut, liquid trickling through his fingers, and Ian could see through him.
Something moved to his right, and Ian whirled to see Dean Winchester rolling to the side where his shotgun was. "Stop!" Ian barked out, moving his aim to the fugitive.
"Get down!" was the only reply Winchester gave. Ian tightened his finger on the trigger as he saw Dean's hand close around the shotgun.
Suddenly he was crashing to the ground, Sam having taken advantage of his distraction to roll over and tangle their legs together to take him down. Ian swiftly pulled himself free, rising to his knees. Sam was on his back, hands reaching out, one with handcuffs dangling from a wrist, but he froze as Ian pointed the Glock in his face.
The cold wind blew over him again, and Ian looked up to see the ghostly figure standing right over them. "Shoot it, Dean," Sam called out, apparently ignoring the gun pointed at him.
Before Ian could warn him not to, the blast of a shotgun split the air. The see-through figure abruptly vanished, a faint howl of pain trailing after it, a shower of small white pellets falling over the ground and Sam in its wake.
Suddenly, strong hands grabbed Ian’s wrist, shoving the gun up and away and putting him at an awkward angle, without any leverage. Ian didn't hesitate before letting go of the Glock and drawing the spare from his ankle holster, pointing it between Sam Winchester's eyes before the younger man could raise his newly acquired weapon.
"Drop it, FBI," came Dean's cold voice, and Ian didn't have to look up to know that the shotgun had been re-aimed.
He kept his eyes on Sam, who had the Glock in his non-cuffed hand and pointed off to the side, but was clearly sizing him up. "I don't know why you have that thing loaded with salt," Ian said loud enough for Dean to hear, "but I promise you this one has actual bullets."
"This thing just saved your ass," Dean retorted. "Didn't you notice the fucking ghost standing right over you?"
Ian ignored him. "Give me the gun, Sam," he said, one hand reaching for the weapon in Sam's hand while his aim stayed perfectly steady. "Don't make this any harder on yourself."
"Sam, which one was it?" Dean asked.
"The younger one." Sam's voice sounded pained, his eyes never leaving Ian's. "He's the one who was gutshot."
"Nice," Dean muttered. "FBI, that thing's gonna come back, probably with its big brother. And it's gonna be pissed."
Ian almost had his hand on the barrel of his Glock. "So I should sit back and let you do whatever kind of grave desecration you've got planned?"
"Yeah." Dean cleared his throat. "And when we're done, you can take me in."
"What?" Sam burst out, looking away from Ian for the first time.
Ian moved swiftly, his hand closing over his Glock and yanking it from Sam's grip before rising to his feet, keeping the smaller weapon aimed at Sam and pointing the Glock at Dean.
Dean grimaced, but the shotgun aimed at Ian didn't move. "I'm worth more to you than him. You let us take care of these spirits and let Sam go, and I'll come with you without a fight. Even if there is only one of you."
"Dean, you can't!" Sam shouted angrily.
"Shut up," came the automatic reply of a big brother.
Ian opened his mouth to reply when the temperature suddenly dropped several degrees and he heard a faint crackle of electricity. He looked to where he'd seen the strange figure before, but when he felt a presence behind him at the same time Dean barked out, "Get down!", he knew he'd judged wrong.
A second later, he was flying through the air, the old hickory tree coming up at him with alarming speed, and Ian just had time to drop his guns and fold his arms over his head before he hit with bone-jarring force and the world went black.
xxx
When Ian came to, it took a second to realize he was restrained with his own handcuffs, lying at the base of the tree he'd been thrown against. His head hurt like a son of a bitch, but all of his limbs were intact and functional, and for some reason the armed and dangerous fugitives he'd been pursuing hadn't hurt a hair on his head.
The younger Winchester was digging furiously, the older one pacing back and forth, shotgun at the ready. There was another crackle like the moment before a bolt of lightning hit, and then a figure flickered into view, this one larger.
Any doubts Ian had had about it being a ghost vanished when the figure turned and he saw that the back half of its head was missing.
Winchester calmly fired and it disappeared. "They're coming faster, Sammy," he warned.
"I'm digging as fast as I can," Ian heard. Then there was a dull thud as the shovel hit something. "Got it."
Digging into his back jeans pocket, Ian pulled out a paper clip and got to work picking the lock. He had one cuff free and had started in on the other when he heard, "FBI's awake."
Ian looked up sharply to see Dean staring at him. Something pale flickered behind him, and Ian hadn't even opened his mouth to give a warning before Winchester had whirled and fired. "Reloading," he said, reaching into his pocket.
There was the splintering sound of wood being broken. "Gimme the salt when you're done," came Sam's muffled voice.
"You're gonna have to get it," Dean replied. As Ian twisted the little piece of metal in the lock, Dean was efficiently loading two shells. He was snapping the shotgun shut when an icy wind blew past and the ghost with the half-missing skull appeared right behind him.
Ian shouted, but the ghost stuttered forward until it was somehow occupying the same space as the older Winchester. Dean stiffened, arms raising and the shotgun falling from his hand. Then his arms went back to his sides and he went perfectly still.
Ian felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Sam was scrambling out of the open grave, reaching for the canister of salt by the headstone. "Toss me your lighter, man," he said.
When there was no reply, he looked up, and Ian followed his gaze.
He was stunned to see that Dean had drawn a pearl-handled Colt and was pointing it right at his little brother.
"Dean, what—" Sam started and then broke off. "Oh, fuck."
"You never listened to me, did you, Joseph?" Dean said, taking a step to the side and then another, taking him farther from Ian. His voice was odd, with a slight echo to it and more of a twang than Ian had heard from the brothers.
"Dean, this isn't you," Sam said firmly. "Fight it off, man, come on."
Ian shook the second cuff free and slowly crawled forward, heading for the shotgun. Dean didn't seem to see him, all of his concentration on his brother.
"And now you were foolhardy enough to come here, knowing I would best you in any duel you cared to name." The double click of the Colt being cocked was loud in the quiet graveyard.
"Dean, please," Sam said, sounding worried for the first time.
Ian was reaching out to grab the shotgun when he felt the temperature drop. He flung himself flat as the younger brother's shade passed overhead, heading right towards Sam, who managed to bend down and get a hand on his shotgun before the spirit poured its way in just like the first one had done.
Rolling to a prone position, Ian brought up Dean’s shotgun before realizing that he didn't know what he was doing. If he shot the men, would he also be shooting the spirits?
Sam had straightened up and suddenly had a Taurus in his hand that Ian hadn't even seen on him. "You wronged me more than you know, brother," he spat out, pointing the gun at Dean. "And you won't be besting me."
Ian looked back and forth between the fugitive brothers. This couldn't be a trick or a ruse to try and get away—he'd been unconscious, for God's sake, and they hadn't done a thing to him. The only explanation, however unbelievable it was, was that he wasn't watching the Winchester brothers of 2007, but the Goodwin brothers of the 1880s.
He suddenly, incongruously, thought of Charlie Eppes, who would scoff at the idea that ghosts existed, much less could make men do things they wouldn't otherwise dream of. But what else did Ian have to go on but the proof of what his own eyes and ears were showing him?
Dean had rounded the foot of the open graves and was advancing on Sam. "You have been nothing but a spoiled, selfish child all of your life," he snarled.
"And you have never been able to stand on your own outside of our father's shadow," Sam returned angrily. Both of them had steady aim on the other, their faces blank but their voices full of emotion.
Ian's gaze fell on the forgotten canister of salt, and something clicked into place. He briefly wondered why he wasn't letting this play out; if Victor Henriksen was here, he'd probably be popping popcorn while he watched the brothers go at each other. But the fierce protectiveness in Dean's voice when he'd offered his freedom for his brother's, and Sam's shocked and horrified reply, struck a chord in Ian that made him inclined to revisit the contents of their FBI file and wonder if maybe the bravado-filled words Dean had uttered in the Baltimore police station were closer to the truth than anyone wanted to admit.
Besides, who was to say the ghosts wouldn't keep turning brothers against each other?
Ian rose to a crouch and made his way around the back of the Goodwins’ headstone, watching the Winchesters circling each other while hurling threats and accusations. He kept the shotgun in one hand while he grabbed the salt, hoping that "salt and burn" was the right order in which to do things.
Both graves were yawning open, the half-rotten coffin lids split to reveal bones inside. Ian sprinkled a good half of the salt in one and then the rest in the other, setting the container down when it was empty and reaching for the lighter fluid.
The Winchesters had gone quiet, and he looked up to see them standing back to back, pistols raised. His stomach swooped. They were carrying out a goddamn duel.
Working as fast as he could, Ian squirted lighter fluid over the two graves and reached into his pocket for a lighter. Sam and Dean were slowly walking away from each other, and as Ian flicked the lighter to life, they each came to a halt, twenty paces apart.
Ian froze. He only had one lighter—but there were two graves. And he had no idea which one was which, or even if it made a difference.
There was no time. He flung the lighter into the grave on his left, where Dean had been digging. Fire flared upward, the blast of heat making him step back. He turned, shotgun at the ready, to see that the brothers were turning to face each other, each taking careful aim, and he realized with a sick feeling that he was too late.
Then Dean burst into flames.
Ian was already racing towards him, ready to throw him to the ground and cover him, when he realized that Dean Winchester was still standing. It was the spirit that had gone up in smoke, and Dean was shaking himself as if waking up. He looked at the gun in his hand, then up at his brother, and he threw himself to the ground a fraction of a second before a bullet whizzed through the space where he'd been standing.
Sam's arm was extended, a grimace on his face. "Coward!" he called out, striding forward, gun still pointed at Dean. "Stand up and face me like a man, James!"
Dean was fumbling in his pocket, and Ian suddenly realized what he was looking for. "Here!" he called, putting down the shotgun and holding out his hands.
The moonlight illuminated the expressions flickering across Winchester's face: confusion, mistrust, and resignation. Then he pulled the lighter from his pocket and flipped it to Ian.
Ian lit the device and tossed it into the other grave as Sam fired a second time.
The second spirit went out the same way, flaring into flame-orange brilliance before disappearing. It left Sam standing with wide-eyed astonishment on his face, his gun aimed down at where Dean had been before rolling out of the way at the last minute. "Dean?" he asked tentatively.
"'M fine," Winchester returned from his prone position, sounding exasperated more than anything else.
Sam looked at Ian next, and then at the graves behind him, both still burning brightly. "How'd you know how to do that?" he asked.
"Wasn't hard to figure out," Ian returned. The Taurus was down at Sam's side, and while Ian didn't have any firearms on him, he had a knife he could use, if he had a chance of getting at it.
"You mean you didn't learn it from your medicine man or on a spirit walk or something?" Dean grumbled.
"Dean!" Sam snapped with embarrassed exasperation.
Ian raised his eyebrows. As rare as serial killers were who hunted in pairs, ones who worried about being politically correct were probably rarer still. Also, it was clear confirmation that the Winchesters had gotten a good look at his features at some point while he'd been unconscious.
Sam cleared his throat. "So you're not a hunter?" he asked, sounding as if he already knew the answer.
"Is that what you call yourselves?" Ian asked calmly.
He didn't even have time to react before Sam was pointing the Taurus at him. "I'm sorry," Sam said, and it looked like real regret on his face. "I know it's a shitty thing to do when you saved our lives."
"Don't feel sorry for the FBI," Dean muttered. He'd risen to his feet, the Colt aimed at Ian as well.
Ian slowly raised his hands and looked back and forth between them. This was when he found out who was right: Henriksen, who thought the brothers were cold-blooded killers, or Ballard, who'd portrayed them as upright young men who'd saved her life.
"I guess this means our deal is off," Ian said, nodding at Dean's gun.
Winchester's mouth twisted in a cocky smirk. "We got what we came for," he said, nodding to the burning graves. "Like hell I'm going with you now."
Ian nodded. There was a six-foot drop into flames behind him and two men in front of him who were clearly comfortable with pointing firearms at FBI agents, whatever else they might be. He wasn't going anywhere unless they said so. "So what now?" he asked.
"Get on your knees," Dean ordered. "Put your hands behind your head."
Ian's stomach dropped. Had he misjudged them after all?
Dean rolled his eyes. "Sam, get his handcuffs and his guns."
Ian carefully lowered himself to his knees, facing Dean, as Sam backed away towards the hickory tree. He was too far away to make a grab at the Colt aimed at him, and he was being watched too closely to go for one of his knives. "Why not just shoot me?" he asked.
Dean scoffed. "'Cause that's not our style, FBI."
Jerking his head back to indicate the graves burning behind them, Ian asked, "So this is what you do? Go around the country digging up people's graves to put them to rest?"
"Doesn't matter what I tell you," Winchester said tiredly. "You're not gonna believe a word of it anyway."
"Right, 'cause it's not like I'd help you with your salting and burning," Ian retorted.
Dean grimaced for a moment before his features straightened out. "Tell Henriksen we said hi," he said.
Ian opened his mouth to reply when he heard a rustling behind him, and then something contacted the back of his head, hard.
Once again, everything went dark.
xxx
The agents who found him the next morning didn't give him too much crap about being cuffed to the massive roots of the hickory tree jutting above the ground, probably because of the glare he gave them as soon as they opened their mouths. Ian knew he had a reputation as a prickly bastard, and he wasn't above using it to suit his purposes.
He kept up that same gruffness when Henriksen chewed him out on the phone for letting the Winchesters get away, ranting and cursing for a good five minutes before declaring that Ian's reputation was way overblown and that he was going to be hunting nothing but buffalo if Henriksen had anything to say about it.
Ian was briefly amused at how similar the FBI agent's level of cultural awareness was to Dean Winchester's before he retorted coldly that he had no problem telling his immediate supervisor that Henriksen had told him to bring in the brothers dead rather than alive.
The other agent's bluster trailed off after that, and when Ian got his new assignment the next day in the opposite direction from where he would have guessed the Winchesters had gone, he didn't complain. Someone was going to take those boys in one day, Ian Edgerton thought.
But it sure as hell wasn't going to be him.