Based on rhirules97's tumblr post on a serial killer AU.

found here on ihaveacleverfandomurl's tumblr: post/91535470757/totrytouchthesun-sammyboner-rhirules97

Dean's cell went off.

He groaned and rolled over, pressing his knuckles into his eyes, and grabbed the phone from the motel's generic side table and sat up.

"What is it?"

He could tell he sounded awful. Like a combination of a dying cat and the sound that way too many of the doors made in the motels he'd had to stay in lately. In his defense, he had an excuse. He'd taken a bit of a beating yesterday. Even with experience, being surprised by two giants that probably benchpressed elephants for fun was going to unavoidably result in some bruises.

"Kid, what happened? You get run over by a train or something? I know my boys are a bit rough, but you sound a step away from death's door." The amused, deep voice on the other line wasn't familiar, but Dean Winchester wasn't the type to know most of the people he spoke to.

Not anymore.

"Oh, yeah. You're the dude." His shoulders popped as Dean rolled them back and cricked his neck.

"'The dude'? Really, Hunter?" The voice sounded vaguely insulted, but held-back laughter was bleeding through.

Dean groaned. At least he'd had the presence of mind to keep his name a secret while he was being attacked. People knowing what he looked like was bad enough.

"Client, whatever. This isn't my area of expertise and you did have me beat up yesterday, however you found out where I was. But yeah, I've been more than a few steps past death's door before. Nothing I couldn't handle."

"I suppose you have been."

Dean rolled over to feel for the notepad and pen that resided next to the bedside lamp's base. "I guess you should know I'm not really the type to do this for…clients. Only reason I'm doing it is because you promised to leave me alone after this, understand? I don't want you telling your high-profile friends with their own enemies I'm for hire and send them out looking for me too. Those guys said you'd tell me the details of what exactly you want me to do?"

"Yeah. All right. I get it, low profile man who has his face plastered everywhere." The man was laughing now. "The guy's name is Samuel T. Earl. He works at CellWorks Corp, and ‒"

"Hang on," Dean interrupted. "Samuel?"

"Yes," said the voice impatiently. "May I continue? I'm paying you a tidy sum, here."

"Yeah," Dean muttered, rubbing his jaw, but he was only half listening now as he wrote down the details. The money didn't matter, really. His scams covered his cost of living. But living wouldn't cost all that much if he'd refused this man's unexpected business.

"Well, I believe that's all you'll need to know. I'll deliver the check to the agreed place when the report shows up on the news."

"Hang on." Dean, realizing he'd almost forgotten, dropped his fist into the too-firm bed. Hearing that someone named Samuel was the person he was heading for next had distracted him.

"Yes? I'm afraid I'm a very busy man, Hunter. What is it?"

"Are there cameras? Video cameras in the building?"

"Why does it matter?" The voice was definitely irritated now.

"It's part of my…thing. Is there a camera?"

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. "God, I knew I should have gone for a professional. You sorts are altogether too dramatic and flashy. Yes, there should be plenty of cameras. Like seeing your face on the TV, do you?"

"Ha, yeah. That's it. G'bye."

That wasn't it. That had never been it.

Dean Winchester had started his current profession ever since Sam, his younger brother, had been stabbed to death on a dark night going home after college.

Dean, determined to find his brother's killer, found himself within the chaos of a giant group of unmoral criminals and scum. Wading through the mass of a gang the murderer had been a part of, Dean had found himself killing in order to stay alive.

By the time he found the man who'd pulled the trigger on Sammy, Dean wasn't going to stop.

His violent vigilantism had given him something to do, in the monotone world of black and white.

Dean now hunted down wrongdoers, people who deserved to die. And he killed them.

And, in the name of Sam, he left the chalk marks. What the media called Dean's particular serial killer "trademark." A pentagram, next to the bodies.

His brother had liked that kind of stuff. Occult. He didn't really believe, of course, but he'd said something about finding it interesting. Some time or another Dean had seen him draw that pentagram once or twice in a notebook. When they were younger, before Sam had split for college. Before their father had disappeared.

Before Dean had lost everyone that mattered to him. Only the work mattered. But it had been getting old, lately.

One thing else had brightened the prospect of his continued existence.

Dean grinned as he pulled on his leather jacket. That was the reason for the security cameras.

Angel.

Angel, nicknamed so from the ravings of a miraculous survivor of one of the trenchcoat-wearing mass serial killer's bloodbaths, who insisted frantically for months that the dark haired man had possessed wings when he stood over her, blood dripping from his hands. Of course, the woman was soon after examined and it was pronounced that she'd been hallucinating due to a medical condition, but Angel's name stuck.

Dean wouldn't have cared, as he took down people either above or below the law who were performing wrongs that weren't going to be given any punishment, but as Angel's body count grew, and the footage from his many break-ins began to be featured heavily among the same channels and newspapers that liked talking about "The Hunter's" case, Dean came to realize that out of anyone, this man deserved the wrong end of The Hunter's gun pointed in his face.

It was April, three ‒ no, four years ago. Dean's target had been a high profile female business owner. He'd known they'd be reporting about it for months.

But when he'd turned on the TV that night, he'd realized quickly that wasn't the case. A short story on The Hunter's newest victim was quickly followed by breaking news of the murder of 17 people when an unidentified man entered a bookstore and pulled a knife. All the exits had been blocked beforehand, and the man had proceeded to stab everyone trapped inside.

"The store's only security camera was not able to capture much, but we do have this." The screen flickered from the sober newscaster's face to to a grayscale, grainy frame of a bookstore counter. A worker, bleeding from what looked to be deep back wounds, lay across the counter. A man dressed in a light trenchcoat stood over him, and as Dean watched, he turned slowly and looked up, to face the camera.

The smile that slowly spread across his face would have been terrifying to a normal person. Dean wasn't a normal person. Not anymore.

But as the camera slowly zoomed in on the insane grin, even Dean felt a shiver run down his spine.

The months after that, Dean slowly grew more irritated at Angel's reoccurring massacres always taking precedence over his own executed targets. He killed these people for a reason. For several, in fact. To remove these stains upon the world, to make a statement, and, whether or not others believed it, to pursue the greater good. To convince others not to follow in their corrupted footsteps.

Angel's mindless slaughters didn't deserve to have all this attention.

But that's what they want everyone to know, Dean reflected bitterly as he sat on the edge of his bed, polishing his gun one night, the TV blabbering about yet another bloody battleground where, it seemed, Angel had once more escaped unscathed.

They want them to be scared. Scared senseless. Why show the person doing good when you can strike fear into your citizens' hearts with the one doing bad?

"Screw you," he announced to the Angel's image suddenly, another grinning picture as he stared down at the dripping knife in his hand that the screen now featured. "Screw you and your insane shit, you bastard."

The screen unfroze as the reporter stopped talking and Angel's eyes flicked up to the camera, to meet Dean's.

"You know what, Angel? You're next. You think you can kill people for fun? Not for long."

Of course, Dean was nothing if not dramatic.

He wasn't going to let this random killer stealing his spotlight to go down silently. The public was going to know, and they were going to know in a big way.

The murder was the biggest he'd had in years, a mega corporation's head and completely corrupt CEO.

The disguise, the badge, the scanners Dean flitted his way past, it all went without a hitch. After all, the Hunter was a professional.

The cameras were posted in the hallways. CEOs needed privacy. But attention-seeking serial killers didn't.

And when CEOs took regular coffee breaks, serial killers took advantage.

The silenced gun was fired once as the door opened, and the newly lifeless body fell with a dull thud.

With his foot, Dean nudged his victim's head, sporting a tiny hole at the temple. The CEO's head rolled limply, his glassy eyed stare landing on the yellow and green flecked black carpet.

Dean turned his eyes upward, letting the dark satisfaction he felt at a job well done wash over him. The security camera gazed blankly down at him, capturing the shadowed murderer as the mirthless, bone-chilling smirk grew.

His tone was low, but Dean knew his words carried as he grinned.

"Angel. The Hunter's hunting you down."

Angel had responded to the clear thrown gauntlet a mere few days later.

The "Angel's Grocery Store Massacre" consisted of at least fifty people. He had dragged the bloody corpses into a large pile, perfectly displayed directly in view of the store's main camera.

Carelessly kicking a woman's severed head away, he turned to the lens. "Hi, Hunter," he called casually, the same crazy grin twisting his face, lighting his eyes oddly. "It's an honor. I'd say I felt we were alike, but, well…"

He leaned down to pick up an arm from the floor and regarded it. "I'm afraid I'm a little messier. Good luck on your hunting trip." He tossed the arm over his shoulder. "I think you'll need it."

Over the next few years, Angel and Hunter alike had continued their spree. Their communication grew frequent, and became things like a wink, a smirk, even a kiss blown at the camera. Both were positive they'd find the other, and cocky enough to flirt their confidence at their enemy.

Now, years after his promise ‒ that he still intended to keep ‒ Samuel T. Earl was going to be just another body and another video note left for his murdering target, one of hundreds. But Dean didn't realize the monumental occasion that was about to occur. He should have figured from the very beginning, with his sudden eager new employer.

But the moment Dean stepped into CellWorks he was completely certain something was wrong. The silence ran through the entire building ‒ no talking, not footsteps, no noises of machines.

Then the smell assaulted his nose, the thick, throat-choking metal of blood.

Dean plugged his nose, trying not to breathe as he passed bodies lying on the floor in slick pools of red liquid.

He knew, of course. Somehow, he had finally appeared. But Dean knew where Samuel's workspace was located, and he was going to find his target, dead or alive.

The carpet was completely soaked when Dean stepped out of the elevator.

He'd known where Samuel was, too.

Dean stepped over the creatively gored men and women lying in his path.

Samuel worked in the second to last cubicle on the right.

And he was there, in fact. He sat at his desk, hands lying across the keyboard, a giant stab wound in the middle of his back.

A sign hung on the back of the chair. "TAKE A BREAK." An arrow at the bottom pointed to the right. Dean, too jaded at the overly dramatic welcome at this point, followed the arrow down to where the hall stretched out to his right and left. Another arrow, pointing left, was slashed into the carpet.

At the end of the hall, a large door stood ajar. Dean, gritting his teeth briefly, took a step in.

"Hello, Hunter."

The mass murderer was sprawled on the break room's black couch, looking as at ease as if he'd been receiving massages rather than killing a building full of people.

He stood lazily, his smile easy as he stepped forward, closer to Dean.

Before either could blink, the Hunter's gun was at Angel's forehead, and Angel's knife was at the Hunter's throat.

Angel's smile widened. "How about you put the gun down. I'll put the knife away and we can talk. We've never gotten to talk! What's your name?"

Dean glanced around the room. Was he being recorded? This damn guy…

Angel noticed as he sheathed his knife, walking back to flop down on the couch again, resting his arms on the back. "Don't worry, Hunter. No bugs here."

Cautiously, Dean placed the gun back into his pocket, eyeing the man he'd been hunting for four years. A wave of tiredness washed over him.

"I'm Castiel," the dark haired man said abruptly, adjusting his tan trenchcoat and settling back.

"Dean."

"So nice to finally meet you, Dean. You can call me Cas. I believe some of my friends asked you to come here. Can I just say, you're even more attractive in person. Such a nice jaw."

Dean blinked.

"It's great to talk to someone like me ‒"

"No. I'm nothing like you." Dean took another step toward Castiel, anger fueling his growled words.

Castiel's eyes widened in curiosity. "Really? You believe that?"

"Yes. I kill people who deserve it. You kill innocents."

Cas's gaze drifted downward, pondering.

"Do you believe in God, Dean?"

"No." The question wasn't that hard to answer. Maybe at some point he'd had a little faith, but when Sam had died, it had all vanished. If there was a God, why would they have let a good kid wanting nothing more than the education he deserved die?

"Interesting." Cas looked up, catching Dean's eyes again, smiling again. "I believe in God."

Dean stared at him. "But wouldn't you also believe that you'd go to hell?"

"We're all sinners, Dean." Cas shrugged, still smiling. "No one is innocent. We sin every day. Humans are made that way. We're all going to hell, one day or the next. And just because you kill what you deem are bad people doesn't mean you've sinned less than I have. But anyhow ‒" He patted the couch next to him. "‒ come on, sit. Obviously you want to talk to me."

Dean, doubting the man's sanity more than ever, warily perched on the edge of the leather cushion.

"Comfy, isn't it? I'd take it home with me, but I killed any people that I could have help me get it out of the building." Cas laughed and Dean could feel his eye twitch. "So, Dean. Why do you do it?"

"It?"

Cas waved his hand. "The killings. You do it to remove those you consider evil, hmm? People who 'deserve it' more than others. I've been paying attention, believe it or not, to every target of yours on the news. What brought you down the road?"

"I don't have to talk to you about my reasons."

"No, but I'm probably the first person you can talk to about it."

"My brother, all right? They killed my brother. Bastard guys sick in the head, for no reason at all. They didn't get any punishment. I had to give it to them myself, and then I figured, hell, there are people that deserve to die in the world. Why don't I just give them what they deserve?"

Cas was silent, watching Dean intently.

"What do you want from me?" the Hunter finally demanded, standing. "You come here, kill my target, murder all these people, want to have some little heart-to-heart…what's your game, Angel? Why do you do it?"

"Cas," said Angel, a more quiet smile twisting his mouth into an almost sad curve as he, too, stood. "It's simple, Dean. I'd have stopped years ago, but… It's for you, it's all been for you."

The sharp point was drawing blood from his side before Dean knew it, but Castiel hadn't buried it in his lungs…not yet, anyway. The gash was more than superficial, but the Hunter wouldn't go down so easily.

Cas's hand was at Dean's collar as he pulled the Hunter closer, his breath caressing Dean's cheek as the blue eyes he knew so well held his own green ones. "Oh, Dean. This is a predicament, isn't it?"

"I'd agree."

Angel barked a laugh as he realized the cold muzzle of the gun was pressed between his shoulder blades. "I'm so glad I got to play this little game with you, Dean. You've been really wonderful. I just wanted to tell you that before we, well…you know."

"Yeah?" Dean panted as the knife pressed inward, warm blood spreading across the stomach of his shirt. Both of them could hear the click of his gun as he readied it.

"Yeah," laughed Cas, and kissed him.

The Hunter shot Angel in one of his dying breaths. They gasped their last together, mingled oxygen as Angel's arms came up from the weapon buried in Dean's side to wrap around his Hunter, pulling him closer as they slowly toppled over, the hungry kiss only breaking as their bodies hit the floor.

Angel had been lying when he'd said the room hadn't been bugged. And the Hunter had known that. The camera hidden in the corner of the room had been child's play to pick out, and he'd revealed his name knowing full well. Sam was gone. Dean had fulfilled his vow made in his memory. And he'd found Angel.

The Hunter was done hunting. And the Angel was ready to accompany him on the way out.