"Supernatural" is copyrighted by Warner Brothers Entertainment Inc.
[Author's Note: This story is the bastard child of a hundred maniacs. (Yay for those who get the reference!) (a) The rock group Hidden Citizens did a gorgeous orchestral cover of Duran Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf." This music inspired (b) a YouTube account holder called I'm Not The Type To Get Involved In A Relationship to sketch out an eight-sentence story featuring Dean and Cas as lovers and serial murderers. I'm Not The Type then had the profound good taste to send the song request and story idea to (c) Darker AngelDove.
AngelDove is an amazing creator of fan videos. Her work is professional quality, and consistently outstanding even over dozens of videos. She has a separate YouTube channel for dark fan videos, logically called Darker AngelDove. Her stunning "Hungry Like the Wolf" video based on I'm Not The Type's story idea inspired (d) me to write this story. It doesn't follow the story line of the video, but that's definitely the inspiration, and I've used as many moments from the video as possible.
I want to thank Janet Fosgate of The Jigger in Kansas City, Missouri, and Capt. Kirk E. Lane of the Mission, Kansas Police Department, for telling me how people in their respective professions would handle difficult situations. And of course, as always, my buddy Robyn, the world's most supportive human!]
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Rexburg, Idaho, June 13th. Cas Novak had always had a freakish memory for dates that were important to him personally, but even without that gift, he'd have remembered the date he met Dean Winchester.
He'd just given a big thumbs-up to a matron buying a lottery ticket – she looked at him a little strangely, maybe he was overdoing the normal-cheerful schtick – and behind her in line at the counter was a man –
Well, stunningly good-looking didn't cover it. But that wasn't all. Dean had a lupine smile, confident, rapacious. "I'll have some beef jerky and a pack of menthols," he said, and locked eyes with –
With a Gas-n-Sip clerk wearing a stupid bright blue vest. Cas wouldn't have blamed him for laughing or looking away. But he didn't. He was seeing what Cas preferred to call his "unusual" qualities, and the normal-cheerful schtick was useless, Cas was exposed. The man's own unusual qualities ran hot and just beneath the surface, he barely bothered to conceal them.
"The jerky's over there." He managed to formulate a complete sentence and raise a hand to point. He turned toward the cigarette rack, asking, "What brand of menthol?"
"What do you recommend?"
As though cancer sticks were fine wine. "I don't smoke."
The man grinned again. "Shoulda guessed that."
Cas turned back to face him. "You shouldn't either. You have a good voice. It would be a shame to lose it."
The man raised his eyebrows, a little admiration for Cas' directness. "All right then, I'll skip 'em," he said, and went to the jerky rack. Cas watched him openly, no point in feigning courtesy.
He paid in cash, which meant Cas had to give him change. Cas focused on not touching the man's hand unnecessarily while the man, Cas knew, was focusing on his face.
The customer stopped at the magazine rack by the door and picked up a car magazine, glanced at it for a moment, held it up to show Cas. "I'm takin' this. You don't mind, do you?"
"I need to ring it up," Cas said as the customer tossed him a wink and a merry smile, walking out the door with the magazine.
Cas watched the door for a moment, starting when a teenager on his phone banged it open.
He sighed a little, went to the magazines, checked the price of the stolen one. He went back to the register and rang it up, paying for it out of his own pocket. Then he wrote what it cost him on a sticky note and put that in his wallet.
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June 16th. After a couple of days off, Cas was working the last shift alone, about to lock up and start the closing ritual, when he saw the thief filling his car out front. "The thief" was what he'd been calling the man in his masturbation fantasies for the last three nights.
The thief was using a Gas-n-Sip Eazy Pump card, which customers obtained by presenting a credit card. They'd apply the cost against his credit card unless he came into the store to pay, and Cas' breath came a little faster.
He moved to the end of the counter and a couple of feet into the store, a spot he knew was out of range of either security camera, and waited.
The thief came in looking tired and testy, not at all the magnetic personality of three days before. But his mouth was as sensual, the spring in his leg muscles as promising. He looked at Cas with a bored expression and turned toward the snack chips aisle.
"You owe me six dollars thirty-five cents," Cas said.
The thief stopped dead, then turned, looking bemused. "What did you say?"
"I said, you owe me six dollars thirty-five cents for the magazine you stole three days ago."
Three steps, the thief was so close they were almost touching, so fast Cas flinched. But he held his ground, trying not to lose focus, trying to ignore the beginning of a sudden erection.
The thief was smiling now. "I was under the impression that was a gift from you to me."
"You were under no such impression. You know you shoplifted, and I reimbursed the company out of my own pocket."
"Well. You shouldn't have done that."
"You are obligated to repay me."
The thief rolled his eyes, looking around the otherwise empty store. "'Obligated?' What are you, the Gas-n-Sip police?" He leaned so close, Cas could feel the breath on his face. "You want to put me in handcuffs?"
It took Cas a moment to be sure that his voice would be steady. "I just told you. You know what I want."
The thief ran his eyes down Cas' body and back up again. "Yeah, I do."
He turned abruptly, pulled out a money clip as he walked to the other end of the counter, and put a twenty by the register. "For the gas. Wouldn't want to steal anything," he said, still smiling, and stole a bag of chips on his way out the door.
Cas stood still for a moment, watching the thief cross the parking lot. He seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.
Then his unusual qualities took over. He normally tried to prevent that, but tonight he yielded, going to the door and locking it, moving to the side exit as he slapped off some of the light switches, letting himself out quickly. The closing ritual was utterly unimportant.
He looked around the corner of the building, where the parking lot lights showed the thief in his car, chewing as he folded a half-eaten bag of chips and tossed it on the passenger seat. He started the car and pulled out.
Cas' car was parked at the side of the building. He went to it, got in, pulled out of the lot, spotted the thief's car, and fell in a few car lengths behind it. He was moving more smoothly than he'd have thought possible, eyes clear, single-minded. And the thief's car was easy to follow, a black behemoth from the 1960s, before anyone cared about mileage.
Even at 11:00 at night there were a few other cars on the main road, but when the black car turned left onto a residential road it was just the two of them. Cas didn't know if the thief realized he was being followed, and didn't care.
The black car took several turns through streets lined with single-family single-story homes. Clearly the driver realized by now that he was being followed, but he certainly didn't seem concerned, obeying every speed limit, stopping at every stop sign.
Finally he turned left onto Highway 33. There was a little more traffic here, but not so much that the car was hard to follow, and Cas tailed it to an edge of town near the railroad tracks.
There were times when this part of town was active; this was not one of those times. There were streetlights, but without the lights of homes or open businesses, spaces between the lamps were pitch-black.
The muscle car pulled over and parked on the street in front of the offices of a lumber yard. Hulking stacks of lumber on canopied sets of shelves about 30 feet long, looking like black monoliths at this moment, formed a narrow passageway between the lumber yard and a defunct farm supply store next door.
The thief got out of his car and, without a look back at Cas, acting like he had some kind of business to attend to, disappeared between the monoliths and the building.
Cas turned off his engine and killed the headlights. He got out of the car and stood, letting his eyes adjust. There was a train whistle somewhere far away, not on the nearby tracks; nothing moved out here.
"You think I'm afraid," Cas whispered.
He walked the block to the thief's car and looked down the passage where he'd disappeared. Nothing living was visible.
He started down the passage, monoliths on his right and a wall of peeling paint and boarded windows on his left, only remembering when he was about halfway to the back of the building that he was still wearing the stupid blue Gas-n-Sip vest. He certainly didn't look like a stealthy tracker, but he didn't want to lose the thief, so he moved forward, being as quiet as he could, peering to his right over an empty shelf.
The thief stepped out from his left, grabbed Cas' vest and spun him around by it like a stone in a slingshot, slamming Cas' back painfully against the back wall of the old store. He was pinned there by the other man's body, a hand gripping his wrist, a knee between his legs, chest against his chest.
"So what are you?" the thief whispered in his ear. "FBI? State cops? Or just local law?"
"I'm – I'm not a cop. I just – "
"You were just following me for fun?" The thief reached under his brown leather jacket and pulled out a knife. Cas later learned that this was considered a small-bladed tactical knife, but at the time it looked like a machete, and he felt a sick jolt of terror, his heart racing.
"You know who I am, don't you?" the thief said.
"I don't – I'm not – "
The knife was sheathed as fast as it had shown, and the thief cupped Cas' chin, looking into his eyes with a smile, speaking very distinctly as though giving instructions. "I think you know I'm a killer. And I know you're a cop."
Oh. Role-playing.
Cas wasn't especially good at this, even when he wasn't contending with tachycardia and a bruised ribcage. But he managed to stammer out, "Even if – even if I were, I wouldn't tell you."
Still smiling, the killer gave a slow nod, as if to say, Well done. Then he asked, "So what do you want?"
"What do you – What – "
"What bribe will you take to keep from reporting that you found me?"
He unfastened Cas' pants, and his warm slightly rough hand smoothed under Cas' underwear and clutched his straining cock. The confident pulling and squeezing, the hardness of that splendid body, were a thousand times better than he'd fantasized. He came almost at once, thrusting desperately, uttering broken groaning gasps, clutching at the man's shoulders to stay upright, pleasure blasting his brain.
The killer gave him a last couple of caresses. Then he wiped his hand on Cas' vest, unhooked Cas' hands from his shoulders, and pushed Cas to his knees – not hard to do, since there were no bones in his legs.
"Or, I don't know, would you rather have something like this?"
He unzipped his jeans briskly, put his hand behind Cas' head, and guided Cas' mouth to his groin.
Cas sucked and pulled eagerly, wanting to give as much pleasure as he'd received, even if that seemed impossible. But the killer thrust into his mouth spasmodically, demanding more as if he loved what he was getting, clutching Cas' head and shoulder.
He came in Cas' mouth, but then pulled out and, deliberately, splattered Cas' vest with semen. When he'd caught his breath he said, "So much for – your cover – as a Gas-n-Sip wage slave, Steve."
Cas laughed explosively, wiping his mouth. "It's not my vest. Mine got torn, it takes a week to replace them. My name's Cas."
The killer gave a bark of laughter, zipping up. "Well. Better start workin' on a story for Steve."
Cas looked up. "What's your name?"
The killer hesitated. "Don't you know? Detective?"
"The name under all the aliases."
There was a moment of silence, as if the man were as startled by Cas' sincerity as Cas himself was. Then he said abruptly, "My name's Dean Winchester," and left. A moment later Cas heard the roar of the muscle car's engine from the street.
It was two minutes before he pulled himself together enough to zip up his pants. It was three more minutes before he got to his feet and staggered back to his car.
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June 20th. Cas was going quietly insane. All he could think about was Dean's provocative smile, Dean's hand on his cock. His mind was glazed over, hypersexual, and his concentration was shot.
He'd never felt the need to open a Facebook account. Feeling pathetic, he'd done so, even though he was betting Dean Winchester wasn't on there.
He was, but after looking over his page, Cas knew almost nothing more about the man. Infrequent posts celebrated victories by the University of Kansas basketball team, noted his attendance at a car show in Idaho Falls, responded to a friend's engagement picture with, "Congratulations, great looking couple." Of the thief with lava just under the surface, the master of mind-blowing anonymous sex, there was no hint.
Maybe his Facebook friends saw more, and Cas came damn close to making a friend request, but held off, in part because he doubted if Dean's friends saw more than strangers saw.
Two posts caught his attention. One from the engaged friend, posted about six months ago, read, "You were right, Sam figured it out. Thanks for the referral. Nice guy, too. How are you two brothers?" To which Dean had replied, "He got the brains I got the looks, fuck you very much," with a laughing-face emoji.
The other was a picture posted about a year ago, captioned "Meg Heller was with Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, and Jim White at Idaho Falls Bar and Grill." There were three men sitting at a table in the photo, so presumably Meg had taken the picture. Dean was on the left, looking into the camera with a direct almost challenging smile that made Cas' breath come fast. He assumed that the lanky, long-haired one on the right, with the stupid grin of the slightly intoxicated, not quite looking directly into the camera, was Sam. He made that assumption because the man in the middle wasn't looking at the camera at all; he was looking at Dean in a way that would have been really weird if he were Dean's brother.
Open longing, somewhat mournful. Cas empathized, but you couldn't look at Dean like that, he'd hate it. Nobody would like it that much, but Dean would outright hate it.
White had a red mark on his arm, maybe a welt. Cas wondered if Dean had given it to him. He looked back at Dean's grin and felt himself getting out of control again.
Maybe he needed a splash of cold water. He went to White's page.
He was as quiet about his personal life as Dean was. He worked at Brigham Young University-Idaho, here in Rexburg. He obviously enjoyed classical music, reporting his attendance at piano and symphony concerts and giving brief, enthusiastic, knowledgeable reviews. He shared photos of himself with his mother and father, sister and brother-in-law, and nephew. If the Meg Heller photo had ever been on the page, it had been deleted.
And then, about two months after the photo had been posted on Dean's page, White had posted something entirely atypical: "Life is Hell and then you die. If you're lucky."
There was a cascade of replies from friends, all baffled and worried by the post. His sister simply wrote, "You're a good person and a good brother. Things will be all right if you believe."
Cas shook his head slightly. Things wouldn't be all right if White kept falling for men like Dean. He clearly needed someone as emotional as he was, no matter how he tried to keep his emotions a secret from his friends and co-workers. And Dean needed someone whose emotions were enclosed safely, maybe revealed occasionally under rare circumstances.
Someone like me! How convenient! he'd thought with a half-ashamed grin as he'd left the website.
That was in the middle of the four days of erotic obsession. By day he stared numbly at TV or slept after vigorous masturbation that left him feeling empty. At night he stumbled around the Gas-n-Sip ringing things up wrong and spilling ice on the floor.
Then on the night of June 20th, he was sweeping the floor, about to end the closing ritual, when someone rattled the locked front door right next to him. He looked around, and Dean was standing there.
They stared at each other through the glass for a moment.
Then Cas swallowed and opened the door a crack. "We're closed."
"I noticed. What the hell, I thought you guys were open twenty-four hours."
Cas pointed to where the hours of operation were printed perfectly clearly on the door. "That's the other guys. We have a better selection of auto supplies and reading material."
That amused Dean. "So. Stalked any killers lately, Detective?"
Cas' heart hammered, but his voice was steady. "I'm always on the hunt."
Dean turned and left, getting into his car. Cas relocked the door and dropped the broom in the middle of the floor, heading for the side exit.
The black car led Cas back to the residential area where it had been the other night. At a stoplight he tore off the blue vest and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt.
Dean slowed in the middle of a block of worn but well-kept 1950s ranch houses, turning into a driveway. Cas drove past, did a U-turn at the end of the block and drove back slowly, pulling up on the other side of the street as Dean was unlocking his door.
Cas strode across the lawn as Dean looked around, putting the keys back in his pocket. "You're under arrest, Winchester," he said as he reached the door.
"For what? Loitering on my porch?"
The last four days of pent-up passion burst as Cas grabbed Dean, spun him, and brought one arm up behind his back. He crushed Dean up against the door, his groin against Dean's butt, his mouth at Dean's ear, as he managed to choke out, "You know what you did."
Dean caught his breath, then said, "Yeah, I do. But all the evidence is in the house, and you won't get in without a warrant."
Cas' brain was blank, overtaken by lust. He literally said, "Um – uh – "
Dean said (in a tone clearly implying "Lord, give me patience"), "Unless, of course, you illegally force me into the house."
Cas twisted the doorknob and pushed Dean at the same time. They both stumbled over the threshold and crashed to the floor. Dean kicked the door closed and Cas rolled him over, wrenching down the neck of his T-shirt and sinking his teeth into Dean's neck.
Dean went still for a moment and moaned. Cas grabbed the button of Dean's jeans with a shaking hand. Dean let him get one hand inside and then grabbed him. They grappled, rolling on the floor and banging into a chair, wrestling for superiority. The knife sheath on Dean's belt gave Cas a moment's unease, but it was well secured.
Cas won, kneeling astride Dean's chest, one leg pinning Dean's arm. Dean grunted in pain and laughed at the same time. "OK, you're stronger than you look."
Cas opened his pants and prodded Dean's sensual mouth. "Give me – " He was incapable of anything else. "Give, give me – "
Dean let him in and went to work. Ferocious pleasure shot up Cas' penis and spread through his pulsing thighs, his shaking hands, his heart, his open mouth. A last shred of thought warned him not to hurt Dean, but then it was all gone, his mind his control his balance, and he fell sideways, hitting the floor heavily, dragging a leg across Dean's face.
After a few moments Dean pulled himself out from under Cas like someone who's just had a bookshelf collapse on him. Cas was relaxed to the point of anesthesia, watching numbly as Dean sat in the chair, took off his work boots and socks, then stood and stripped off everything else.
Greek god, Cas thought, actual thought beginning to return to his brain.
Dean squatted beside Cas, smiling that wolf's grin, and Cas stared at him. "OK," Dean said, "you know you're going to have to pay for that, right?"
Cas drew a breath. "I would expect – nothing less."
Dean chuckled and put his hands under Cas' arms. Cas shambled to his feet and Dean marched him down the hall to the bedroom.
Twenty minutes later, now also naked, bent over Dean's bed, Cas lay gasping for air. His ass hurt brutally, but everything else felt so good he didn't even want to move from the awkward position.
Dean came back out of the bathroom and pulled and manipulated Cas onto the bed. He turned the light and lay down next to Cas, catching Cas' legs between his own. Cas didn't know if he was being protected or held captive, and didn't care.