Chapter Text
One Year Ago
Sam Winchester's photo was displayed on a printout next to one of his elder brother, Dean. That single sheet of paper was the first item in the first folder in a box labeled 'DW SW: Research' that Spencer Reid had sitting beside his desk at home. The Winchester brothers were something of a hobby for the young FBI Behavioral Analyst. After spending all day working to catch the worst that humanity has to offer Spencer found it fun (and yes, he had been teased by Morgan already) to see what he could find on the two brothers that seemed to just keep coming back from the dead. Nothing that he found on them seemed to add up with what he knew about the (dangerously) mentally unbalanced, not to his satisfaction.
The original FBI agent that had taken their case had left behind incomplete notes after he died. Using Henrickson's work as a starting point Spencer started from when Dean and Sam got back together – the fire at Stanford that killed Sam's girlfriend, Jessica Moore. From there he looked at everything. Crime scenes, witness accounts, trace forensics, and even the events leading up to the Winchester's arrival in town. He noticed a surprising trend: in nearly every case people were dying before the Winchester brothers came to town and those deaths stopped not long after Sam and Dean arrived. That did not jive with Henrickson's pet 'serial killer' theory. No, vigilante fit them much better.
Somehow (well, not really since he knew exactly how the events had transpired) Spencer had shifted his research focus from what the Winchester brothers had done onto the sort of strangeness that tended to bring them to town. At first it was slow, he did not know what to look for. Then he noticed the mythology correlations in the Winchester cases and everything seemed to snap into place.
There were so many strange killings and deaths that fit with classical myths from all around the world. Spencer was shocked into utter stillness for longer than he would admit.
Spencer decided that he needed a little help. Explaining everything to Penelope took a whole weekend. By the end he had her promise that she would try to track down phone numbers, credit cards, and their car's license plate for him. Penelope was cheerfully adamant that between the two of them (the best of the best in the FBI, as she put it with mock humility) they would have the Winchester's personal phone numbers in no time at all. Surprisingly enough, she had been right. One month after joining forces Penelope passed him a neon green flower-shaped post-it note with five cell phone numbers on them. She explained briefly that they were all theirs. Spencer just bit back a grin and thanked her.
“Think nothing of it, Junior G-man,” she breezed, “let's just say that you owe me a favour.”
Content to leave it at that, Spencer left work that day thinking about the phone numbers hidden away in his satchel.
That evening Spencer picked up his personal phone, looked at the file folder of research and newspaper clippings on his desk, and dialed the first number.
*
Now
“Now this is just ridiculous,” complained the youngest BAU team member. He scowled at his teammates, crossing his thin arms over his just-as-thin chest. So much for the (meager) muscle that he had managed to put on over the last few years.
“Reid?” Derek breathed. He looked stunned. Well, Spencer noted with asperity, everyone looked stunned.
“Yes, it's me.” Oh, for the love of Pete, there was that soft palate lisp again. It had taken years to grow out of that.
“You're little,” Penelope observed. She reached out a hand and tentatively stroked his head.
Spencer sighed. “Do you have a mirror?” he asked the room in general. Penelope quickly fished one out of her handbag and passed it to him. Flipping the compact open, Spencer examined his face. He sighed and handed the compact back. “I seem to be four again.”
“How did this happen?” Hotch asked, still visibly trying to grasp the recent events.
“Witches, I'll bet,” Spencer said, shrugging his little shoulders.
“Witches?” Derek asked, a black eyebrow rising high in skepticism.
Spencer shrunk into himself. “I knew there was something odd about this case. We might want to pull back for a bit, give them some room so they don't do anything to you guys as well. They can get really nasty when provoked.”
“Witches?” Hotch echoed Derek, his heavy gaze demanding more.
“Yeah, witches are real, and really evil – like, literal-deals-with-literal-demons evil,” Spencer looked like he wanted to cry.
“Witches are real? Like really real? Like, so much magic mojo and they're evil?” Penelope looked heartbroken. Spencer patted her hand sympathetically.
“Does someone have my phone?” he asked. “I think we need a consultant for this.”
“Who?” Hotch asked cautiously.
Spencer grimaced. “Someone who deals with this kind of stuff,” he tried to hedge.
“Who, Reid?” Hotch pressed. Derek found Spencer’s phone and tried passing it to him.
“Not that one, my personal cell,” Spencer directed, not looking his boss in the eye. Derek found the right phone but hesitated handing it over, looking between Hotch's marble-cold glare to his suddenly-four-years-old-again friend.
“Hotch,” he said gently, “this is so beyond what we normally deal with.”
Garcia made a soft noise and knelt in front of Spencer. “Who do you want to call, Reid?” she asked gently. Spencer tried to hide it but he could feel his eyes fill with tears born of fear and frustration.
“Sam and Dean,” he admitted, barely a whisper. Understanding flooded Penelope and she looked nervously up at Hotch, who had heard the quiet admission. His unyielding stare gained a tint of question.
“Who are Sam and Dean, Reid?” he asked, gentling his voice a little.
Spencer uncurled his body a little and stared up at Hotch. He reached out and took one of Penelope's hands and wrapped his little fingers around two of hers. She wrapped her other hand around his and gave him a squeeze. “Sam and Dean Winchester,” he said. “Wanted for grave desecration, murder, arson, vandalism and sundry other charges that they really shouldn't have been charged with.”
“Criminals?” Derek crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. Hotch was frowning too. Spencer pressed forward.
“They hunt down dangerous supernatural creatures,” he explained, feeling a desperate need to make Derek and Hotch understand. “I was looking into their case as sort of a hobby, you know, because it just didn't add up. They got blamed for so many things that were happening before they even arrived in town and when they did arrive, yes, sometimes things escalated, but then the killings stopped. They weren't causing the deaths they get blamed for, they're stopping them. But the problem is – and I have done my research on this and I have gotten proof – is that everything they hunt is not human. Hotch, please, they've helped me before and they're good people. Can we at least call and see if they can... offer advice?”
Hotch did not say anything for a long while. Spencer tightened his hand around Penelope's, nervous about what Hotch would say. He really did not want to go behind his boss's back for help, but he would. So help him, he would.
Finally Hotch nodded, an abbreviated jerk of his head. Derek passed Spencer his phone. “Put it on speaker,” Hotch directed as Spencer entered the number from memory. Spencer did as he was asked and held the ringing phone gently in his lap.
“Hello?” answered a gruff male voice after three rings.
“Dean?” Spencer said.
“Who is this?” Dean asked, obviously confused.
“Dean, this is Spencer Reid,” Spencer's gaze flicked up to Hotch and Derek briefly. “I got into a little trouble. Maybe a lot of trouble, actually. Re you in the middle of a case? Can you consult now?”
“Spencer Reid?” Dean sounded clearly disbelieving. “Right. How old are you kid?”
Spencer sighed. “Dean, it's me, Spencer. The first case I sent your way was a kappa that was drowning people in a river outside of Tacoma, Washington. You gave me Garth's number so he could give it to someone closer to the region and to better disseminate any other cases I found. Sam and I are playing chess by email. I think I got whammied by a witch and I'm now four years old again.”
There was a long moment of silence from Dean. Then another voice joined the conversation. “Spencer?”
“Hey Sam,” Spencer greeted, trying not to sound like he wanted to cry. Being four again was terrible for his ability to maintain a level of professional maturity.
“How did you manage to get tangled up with witches?” Sam asked.
“I'm not certain that it is witches,” Spencer admitted. “I think it has to do with a case that my team and I are working on right now.”
“Your team?” Sam asked.
“Case?” Dean followed up.
“I, uh, yeah,” Spencer stammered. “I'm part of the Behavioral Analysis Unit with the FBI.”
“You're a Fed?” Dean exclaimed. He sounded betrayed. Spencer winced. “Dude! Not cool!”
“Dean, please,” Spencer pleaded. “I promise I wasn't trying to trick you. I wasn't setting up any kind of entrapment scheme either. Not once when I contacted you was I acting as an FBI agent. You have to believe me!”
Muffled conversation emanated from Spencer's phone. The voices were harsh and rapid. Finally, they came to a resolution.
“Send Sammy the details,” Dean instructed. “Where are you?”
“Washington, DC,” Spencer answered. “Local PD gave this one to us.”
“Anyone else know what happened to you?”
“Just my boss, Penelope, and one other member of my team,” Spencer answered, looking up cautiously, unsure whether he was permitted to give out Derek and Hotch's names. Penelope was already known.
“They gonna be okay with us or do you want we keep out of sight?”
Spencer tilted his head as he looked at Hotch, asking silently what he wanted. Hotch answered for himself.
“I would much rather meet you in person, Mr. Winchester,” he said.
“Alright,” Dean said after a pause. “Just one question: you plannin' on arresting us when we show or will we actually be allowed to do our job and help Spencer?”
“I plan on extending you the benefit of the doubt,” Hotch said carefully. “Spencer seems to think that you are trustworthy. I trust his judgment.”
“That's good to hear,” Dean said. He sounded just a little approving. “You still there, Spencer?”
“Yes,” Spencer shot his boss a pathetically grateful look. Hitch just nodded and closed his eyes briefly.
“You hang on there, kid, you got that. Sammy and I are only a couple days out. You send what you got to Sammy and try to keep out of sight. Don't know how you're going to explain being four again. You got someone you can stay with? Or can stay with you?” Dean sounded honestly worried. Spencer flushed.
“I can take care of myself, Dean,” he protested.
“Not sayin' you can't,” Dean said with a surprising amount of sympathy. “Just that there's a lot of things that a four year old can't reach without help. Be safer and easier if you had someone taller than you around until we can get you sorted, you know what I'm sayin'?”
Spencer grimaced but acknowledged the wisdom of Dean's words.
“You can stay with me,” Penelope offered gently. Spencer squeezed his eyes shut and nodded.
“Look,” Dean spoke again, “How about we call you when we roll into town. We can meet up then and go over everything, okay? See you in a few days, alright? And keep out of trouble. Best if you just back off and lay low 'till we get there, you understand?”
“I know. I will,” Spencer promised. He could at least restrict himself to research with Penelope.
“We'll restrain out investigation until we have a better understanding of what it is we're dealing with, Mister Winchester,” Hotch announced.
“Well look at that, a Fed with sense,” Dean drawled. “You do that, Agent, and try not get yourselves killed.” And the called ended.
“Reid,” Derek said, his voice low and dangerous, “you have a lot of explaining to do.”
Spencer closed his eyes and tried to swallow the lump in his throat.
“I know.”