Disclaimer: Don't own it.

Warnings: AU (Reid is 17, but the BAU-team are the same)

AN: This is my first fic for Criminal Minds so I don't really know what to expect. This is more an introduction, but I hope it will still be enjoyed. I have started to write the second chapter, but if this chapter sucks, just tell me. I'm open to honest feedback.

- The Wounded -

Chapter 1

Thursday was always a tiring day. Not that John minded because he planned it like that. Getting up around eight, taking a quick shower, eating breakfast and heading to work. His shift ended at five which gave him the perfect opportunity to head to the gym where he would remain for another hour before heading back home again. He always ran the distance, believing it to be another healthy exercise.

During High School, he had been brilliant at sport - or so he thought. No university had offered him a scholarship and therefore his plans to continue studying fell apart. However, he refused to consort to self-pity and had faced life head on. Straight after high school, he had found a decent job in a local factory, moved into his own little apartment and met the girl he knew he would marry someday.

Now, seven in the evening, he was getting ready to meet that girl for a fifth date. If everything went well tonight, he would bring her home, offer her some wine and get things going. He smiled at that thought.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he rubbed a hand across his face. His hair looked good, his skin smelled of perfume – though not overwhelmingly. If only he could pick the right outfit, then nothing could go wrong tonight.

Exiting the bathroom, he walked into his bedroom where his outfit for the night lay neatly on his bed. John gazed at it, still hesitating whether to wear his blue shirt or his red - or perhaps he should go for a green one? Casting a swift look at his watch, he realized he would be late for his date and so he quickly got dressed, picking the red one.

Just when he was about to put on his favourite blazer, his eye caught movement to his right.

He swirled around, his breath hitching in his chest. Before him stood a man, dressed entirely in black and a long knife firmly in his hand. John stumbled back, falling over his own feet and forcefully landing on the wooden floor beneath him. It send shivers of pain through his body and John closed his eyes, praying that when he would open them again, the attacker in his bedroom would be gone.

"Hello, John Ferrer," the man smirked, forcing John to open his eyes.

John found the voice strangely familiar and his mind raced to place it, but it came up empty. All that he could think of was getting away of this madman and his legs desperately pushed him away from the stranger.

"Please," John pleaded, feeling tears invade his eyes. For once, he truly did not care whether he cried or not. He had never before experienced such fear and all that he wanted was to live. "Please, I'll give you anything. What do you want?"

The man's lips turned into two small lines, his eyes burning with sudden rage. "I want you," he spoke slowly as if he wanted every word to cut through John's mind, "to fear me." He jumped forward, pinning down John who desperately tried to escape by kicking his legs and punching around his hands.

However, the blade of a knife sunk deep within his chest, almost with ease which made John cry out in pain. For a moment, he hoped someone heard him, but a hand pressed down on his lips, instantly silencing him.

The knife cut in to his stomach again and again. It was so that John died, looking into the eyes of his murderer, suddenly realizing who he was and why he was dying.

-o-o-

With his foot rhythmically tapping the ground beneath him, Spencer Reid bit down on his nails. They were already so short that the skin threatened to bleed, but the young teenage boy barely noticed. It didn't hurt, at least not as long as he didn't pay it any attention. With one knee against his chest, an arm wrapped around the leg, Reid glanced around.

He knew exactly what to look for, but a part of his brain remained intentionally oblivious. It was getting late – past ten – and the park was almost completely abandoned. There was an occasional man or woman walking a dog and two teenage kids - who were probably older than Spencer - were skating around in the distance. Spencer barely dared looking at them; he wasn't scared, but he also didn't want to attract their attention.

It was when he pulled back his hand, looking at a drop of blood sliding down his middle finger that he felt a pair of eyes on him. Slowly, he looked up to find an adult man gazing at him, a smile playing around the corners of the man's lips. Spencer watched how he reached deep within his pocket, a gesture that would have many running as far away as possible, but he stayed on the bench, his eyes fixed on the movement.

The man who he only knew as Mr. Cameron pulled out a neatly bundled stack of money. It looked pale in the moonlight, but Spencer took it none the less. He didn't need to count how much he was currently holding. He had done this for what felt like a million times already and he knew the drill.

"You'll get the rest later," Mr. Cameron spoke with authority in his voice as he looked down at the lank, pale teenager, "agreed?"

Slowly, Spencer stood from the bench, refusing to swallow or bite his lip now. It would only be a sign of weakness which was not something he could allow to slip past his guard. He needed to appear confident, though he knew his hands were trembling. They always trembled when he was with Mr. Cameron.

"Alright," Spencer said, surprised to find his own voice steady.

Mister Cameron chuckled, turning on his heels and walking away from the bench, knowing that Spencer would follow him like an obedient dog. He didn't even look behind to look at the seventeen year old boy, but kept on walking until they reached his car.

Spencer hated getting into that car.

-o-o-

Hotch was last one to enter the conference room. Rossi, Morgan and Prentiss were already seated around the oval table, documents and files scattered across its smooth surface while JJ stood before a white board with a remote control resting in her hand. When she shared a glance with the Unit Chief, she offered him a smile which Hotch only return faintly.

"Tell us," Morgan began the conversation, his fingers leaving pages of the file he held, "what do you have for us, JJ?"

JJ nodded her head and pressed a button on the remote. An image instantly appeared on the screen behind her, showing a young man with his throat slit. It was a gruelling photo, but the team had seen worse – murdered children – but this crime scene definitely had a lot of blood. However, no one deviated their gaze from the photo. This was part of their job after all and they had all learned to live with it.

"This," JJ moved on to the next photo which showed a regular picture of the murdered man, "is John Ferrer. He's the latest victim in a series of killings in Las Vegas. Before him Mike Roddick," - a new picture appeared with every name she called - "Logan Mayer and Roger Anderson have been found murdered in the same way."

"Wait," Prentiss said, leaning forward with her elbows resting on the table, "Roger Anderson is much older than the other three victims. He doesn't seem the fit in."

"Indeed," JJ agreed, sighing a little, "Anderson is 42 years old, a teacher at a local high school in Las Vegas, Nevada. The three other men are all between 23 and 25 years old."

Morgan stood from his seat, the eyes of his team all resting on his body, and moved closer to the screen. His gaze fell on each face before he turned to look at the others, a frown filling his face. "And they don't really look like each other either."

It was true. John Ferrer had short blond hair, blue eyes and a slender figure, but still masculine. Mike Roddick, on the other hand, looked much broader with heavy eyebrows, brown eyes and dark hair. Logan Mayer had soft ginger hair, light eyes and was the smallest of the three young men. And then, of course, there was Roger Anderson who was much older and didn't seem to belong with the other victims. He already grew grey hair near his temples.

"The only thing linking them," JJ continued, "is the MO in which they have been killed. Their throats have been slit at their homes and the coroner places their times of death between 7 and 12 in the evening which is another common factor."

"Something must link them," Rossi said, leaving through the thick files before him.

JJ wished she could give them more information, but this was all she had for now. The rest of the team would have to build their profile with this and when a new victim would arise – one always did – they would be able to work in more detail. "The local police are looking into it right now," JJ said, "and I already have Garcia looking through her databanks. Only Ferrer and Roddick seem to have an evident link which is that they went to the same school with a year difference."

Hotch spoke for the first time. "The same school at which Roger Anderson taught?"

"Yes," JJ confirmed, nodding her head, "but that doesn't link Mayer, he seems random."

Rossi looked up from his papers, a faint grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "Nothing is random."

JJ smiled politely at the Supervisory Special Agent who gladly returned it. "We leave at three," she told them, "so you better go get your bags."

Everyone got up from their seats at once and exited the room, leaving JJ behind to collect the files and papers. Another long journey lay ahead and she only hoped to be home soon. Since she had a son, she dreaded leaving home for too long, but this was still her job and she loved it.

It didn't mean she wouldn't miss Henry or Will.

-o-o-

Spencer carefully closed the door behind him to find his mother sitting before the TV with her arms resting in her lap and her legs covered by a blanket. He couldn't see her face, but he knew she was sleeping since that's all she did lately. Without making much noise, he snuck past Diana, casting a quick glance towards her to see if she was truly alright and then slipped up the stairs.

He waited until he was in the bathroom before removing his clothes. They weren't dirty, but Spencer felt they had a wrong smell and he needed them gone as quickly as possible. Tossing them in the laundry basket, he knew he would have to wash them himself, but he didn't care - he was used to taking care of himself. Stripping completely naked, he avoided looking into the mirror. He already knew what he would find there; a small, broken boy.

Stepping into the shower, he let the hot water run over his head and only when he was sure his mother hadn't woken or was coming towards the bathroom, did he cry. He was disgusted with himself, wanted to scrub himself clean until his skin bled, but he couldn't. His arms suddenly felt too heavy to lift, so in stead he stood completely still, waiting for that suffocating feeling around his throat to disappear.

He didn't know how long he stood below the running water, but when he stepped from underneath it, he found the mirror damp. Slowly, he moved his hand across the surface, revealing himself in the reflection and the image repulsed him. Red dots coloured his neck, thick scratches covered his arms and bruises were started to take shape around his wrists and torso.

Mr. Cameron always got rough near the end.

Spencer inhaled deeply, forcing himself to look into his own greyish eyes when suddenly his arm shot forward. His knuckles collided with the mirror, shattering it and sending a fire of pain through his skin. Blood broke free from the broken skin, but it looked shallow so it wouldn't need any stitches. Cursing himself for having taken such a stupid and impulsive action, Spencer began to collect the broken pieces, feeling like he was actually picking up pieces of himself from the floor.

AN: So...that was the first chapter and I'm not sure what to think about it. Is it any good? Worth continuing? I honestly don't know...'sigh'