Cent'anni, Sam reminisced, may not actually have him living for a hundred years in health.

Even so soon after inhaling the deadly pathogen, he could feel his chest rattle with each incoming breath. It was slightly unpleasant, though not entirely uncommon for Sam to feel when he caught a slight cold. Just the same, Hotch always made him go home when he caught something, insisting that neither Reid did as good of work when they weren't feeling one hundred percent. Which, in turn, meant that Hotch definitely wanted Sam out of the anthrax-filled room and to a hospital as soon as possible. Though Sam did agree that a hospital would be a very good idea very soon, there was also something he needed to find first; two things, actually. What killed Dr. Nichols and where he hid the cure.

One leg jittered as the nerves settled deeper upon Sam. Think think think! He commanded his brain, the desperate force of reality settling over him. A set of notes caught his eye, seeming off and Sam gazed deeply at them, staring from one angle then another. He flipped open the booklet, finding what he was looking for.

The first was a distinctive hand, a clumsy cursive being difficult to read. It looked like perfect writing in comparison to the second hand. This hand was perhaps one of the sloppiest that Sam had ever seen, and considering his own atrocious hand writing that was saying something. The letters seemed partially formed and the spacing was funny, almost so that all the letter had the same amount of space between them making it difficult to tell where one word began and where another one ended.

-thedifferencebetweenresultsforthefirststrainandthesecondstrainwasfascinatingtosee!Despitethefacthatbothwe...

Sam's head hurt just looking at it. He groaned, rubbing at his temples.

"Nichols had a partner," he called into his phone the second Hotch picked up.

On the other end, Hotch seemed to nod. "That's good, Reid, find yourself a possible cure and get the hell out of there."

"Yes sir." Sam hung up.

His fingers shook slightly as he dialed a second number, that of one Penelope Garcia. "I can't call Mama's hospital without telling everyone that I'm sick, so could you maybe record a message for my mom for me?" Sam's voice broke slightly and he pulled back a sniffle.

"Oh one-eight-four," Garcia's voice came through. "Of course I can do that. Just give me a minute." The sound of violently typing keys came through and Sam pulled back another sniffle as his lungs rattled. "Go ahead, Sam."

Inhaling deeply, Sam began his message. "Hey Mama. It's Sam. If, if you're hearing this message it means that something terrible has happened and that they couldn't save me. Please don't be mad at the government, Mama, I died doing what I love. And I really want you to know that, no matter what, I love you more than anything else in this world. I'm proud to be your son, everyday."

Garcia offed the recording and choked back a sob.

"Thanks, Garcia," Sam murmured and hung up. A tear slid down his face and he choked, beginning to cough. His lungs rattled.

He returned to digging through the piles of notes, glancing over them with an efficiency that very few possessed. Averaging around a thousand words a minute and comprehending around ninety percent of it, Sam was a very efficient reader even if he didn't reach his younger brother's levels.

Something caught Sam's eye. He quickly skimmed the page over a few times. His comprehension must have gone down with his headache. The words blurred slightly before Sam truly did understand what he was reading. It seemed to be a thesis, and was written in the same atrocious hand that Sam had seen before. A protégé, perhaps?...

He called Garcia again, passing on the information and hanging up just as Dr. Kimura made her way to him.

"You said the cure would be hidden somewhere we don't suspect," she held something out and Sam focused on it. "What about Dr. Nichol's inhaler?"

He never sent the recorded message, and for that Sam was eternally grateful.

Years passed again, and when saddled with a leg injury that kept Sam out of the field for several months, he took to teaching a few classes at the Academy. Most of the time, Sam taught classes on human behaviour and how different pieces of a crime scene helped to show what the criminal was like. He used the Boston Reaper as en example, explaining how the overkill with his knives shows that he was of a more sadistic personality. Some of the cadets excelled, others did not.

"Agent Reid!" A voice shouted from behind Sam and he turned with a stoic expression on his face.

One of his cadets stood behind him. "Cadet McCall," he greeted the exuberant young cadet. McCall was one of the cadets that showed promise in most fields even if he was far from brilliant with behavioural analysis. "Is there something I can help you with?"

The youth nodded brightly. "I understand that I'm not doing so well with your class and I was hoping that you'd be willing to help me get ahead with behavioural analysis."

Sam considered. "McCall, behavioural analysis is something of a knack for some and near impossible for others. Learning it is difficult and requires a lack of any prejudice. Are you prepared to drop all your previous ideals." McCall looked hesitant but nodded. "Good. I recommend you read some of Agent Rossi's works. He's one of the best profilers I've ever come upon."

Again, the cadet nodded and accepted his answer. A flicker of disappointment crossed his face but he hid it well.

Sam turned around again, moving through the Academy and outside, breathing in the fresh air. In the back of his car sat a bag packed for a few week trip, a college tour that would give him time to visit his mother at Bennington. He smiled at the thought, well prepared for a long-anticipated visit to his darling mother and a recruitment tour. The airport wasn't far away and for that Sam was grateful.

Chuck sat in the back of the audience in the Stanford lecture hall. He watched with delight as the man he had once known as Sam Winchester gave a presentation, there on recruitment tour in hopes of bringing more people to the Academy.

Now in his early thirties, Sam was around six feet tall and had slightly curly auburn-brown hair that dangled slightly longer than his ears. In this light, his eyes looked dark though his face was warm and welcoming. Having spent many years watching the man, Chuck could recall the times when Sam Reid was awkward and didn't fully understand the social graces that would have made him an excellent speaker. Years with the BAU had helped to improve those social skills and now he seemed the shining example of an FBI agent.

One kid sitting towards the front of the hall called something out to the genius. "Have you ever been hurt on the job?"

With a laughing grin, Sam answered. "I'm the one giving this presentation because I'm not currently cleared for field work. I broke my leg in a chase. If I hadn't, I would be working a mass gravesite that was just discovered in rural Michigan. Aside from that I've been shot once or twice and been psychologically tortured."

Chuck grinned at the answer, smiling as he watched the brilliant man.. If it took taking Dean Winchester out of his life to make him happy, then so be it. Chuck had never liked Dean anyways.

So I hope you all enjoyed this, but it is now complete. Someday I might go back and expand, add more and all of that but right now I'm not quite ready to do that. I hope that I one day have the confidence to rewrite this and make it better than it is now, and when I do it will be you guys who are the first to know.

Thank you to all of the people who have reviewed or favourite or read this. I hope that you all enjoyed it.