**SPECIAL NOTE** This is going to be much more adult and much darker than my Glee stories. Mostly because Supernatural is a much more adult and much darker show. This is also a Dexter-AU, so it'll be around that rating level. Trigger warnings for semi-graphic depictions of violence, mentions of past trauma, mentions of human trafficking, mentions of child abuse, torture, murder, kidnapping, foul language, drug-use, dub-con sexual contact and character death.

This story isn't all dark, but these and other triggers do make appearances, so don't read if you aren't comfortable. (If you're good with Supernatural/Dexter you should be okay with this.) ***

Happy Reading!

It is estimated that there are anywhere between 35 and 50 active serial killers operating in the U.S. any given year. For the past twenty years, on average, law enforcement has only managed to identify and capture about ten percent. Of those caught, about half are within their first year of killing.

Think about that.

Only 5 of the 50 active serial murderers are discovered and apprehended each year. What about the other 45? What about the ones who aren't actively killing that year? And the ones they're catching are inexperienced, reckless and, frankly, stupid.

So what does that tell you about the ones that are still out there? Those who are skilled and mindful. Who've got it all figured out. Those drug-resistant bacteria, who've survived our weeding out the weak, growing stronger, getting bolder.

Keeping quiet, keeping careful. Keeping patient.

Patience, above all things.

Dean has always been fascinated with fire.

In some ways he finds it soothing. Everything about the flame itself feels pure. The raw power, the insatiable hunger, the indiscriminate destruction; everything burns in the end. Everything is the same.

He closes his eyes and lets the heat wash over him, listens to the crackle of burning leaves as the soft wind sweeps them unwittingly to their deaths. He should have brought marshmallows.

Really, though, he knows he should hate the fire. He knows the image of it should keep him up at night. The stench of the smoke should send him running. The slick cracking of roasting flesh should make him double him over.

And sometimes it does. Sometimes, he wakes up screaming, scrambling away from imaginary tongues of flame, choking on phantom smoke, feeling like his heart is about to explode.

But he can't hate it. He needs it. Still can't escape it after all these years.

And really, where is the good in running from it? When surrendering gives him such pleasure?

Dean stares down at his good work and smiles with a grim satisfaction. The man in the hole is, was, a monster by any definition, a real life vampire if ever a creature existed, and Dean had taken a special pleasure in slicing the sicko's head off. The memory sends a thrill through his body. Decapitation is a new one for him. He's found he rather likes it. Dean can just imagine the public's horror upon the cops stumbling across this particular corpse.

At least they would be horrified if they ever found the bastard. Which they won't. Not for a long time.

Dean kicks some dirt into the open grave as he ponders the questionable wisdom of his actions over the past few days. Choosing to kill Mr. Toasty in there had been a considerable risk on his part. He was much higher profile than Dean's usual vicks; a wealthy executive who had to taken to mutilating and eating call-girls in his spare time. Dean knew the creepo's disappearance would attract a lot of attention. But after seeing the faces of the orphaned kids one of the girls had left behind... Dean just couldn't help himself. The dog had to be put down.

He has a soft spot for kids, he knows, he just prays it won't be enough to end him.

Filling in the grave takes time. It's a long and arduous process that tries even Dean's considerable patience. Even after years of perfecting his craft, this part always makes him nervous.

He's always careful. Scrupulously scouting his location, working in the dead of night. But still, there's always the chance that some late night mourner or watchman might stumble upon his activities. Once, a group of teenagers snuck into the cemetery he'd been working in on a dare. Dean was forced to abandon his grave mid-dig and he barely made it out without being seen.

The body was discovered the next day, prompting authorities in nearby counties to exhume numerous other fresh graves following suspicious sightings in the later months, and earning Dean the affectionate moniker, The Grim Reaper. He despises the notoriety, but it couldn't be helped. Avoiding capture is Dean's number one concern. But not at the expense of children. Never kids.

Nowadays, he is even more cautious, going even further out of his way, choosing a low-smoke, fast burning accelerant, targeting only low-profile vicks. All good things, but he can only dig so fast.

And apparently he can only control himself to an extent when choosing victims. He'll have to lay low for a while after this one.

Maybe pick up a day job.

"Hope you don't mind your new bunkmate, buddy," Dean says to headstone of the poor sucker who'd been interred that morning as he finishes up, "Thought you could use the company."

SucroCorp CEO Still Missing

The headline is all over the news. Frankly, Castiel is tired of looking at it. Honestly, with all the war and disease out there in the world, one imagines people would have better things to worry about than some rich snack food magnate off on a million dollar bender in the Caribbean. But no. People are suckers for a scandal.

And far be it from us to deny them one, Cas muses bitterly.

Regretfully, Castiel does not have the luxury of deciding what he should and shouldn't spend his time worrying about. His press-conscious bosses made the Dick Roman case a priority and so here he sits, staring at file after file of Dick's bank statements and personal calendars. The excess alone makes him nauseous. What kind of man drops three million on a diamond-studded, bullet-proof suit?

But as he pours through the pages, something even more disturbing begins nudging at his brain. It seems Mr. Roman might not be as squeaky clean as some would like to believe. He gets a sinking feeling this case is going to drag itself out even longer than it was already threatening.

Small discrepancies keep popping up beneath his careful gaze. Not immediately noticeable, but after days of staring at Roman's life broken down and spread out across painfully white xerox sheets and cheap off-black toner, they are enough to set off that annoying tingling in the back his skull; Bank transfers to nowhere, large chunks of time missing from an otherwise meticulously scheduled routine, phone calls to people who don't seem to exist. The CEO is hiding something. But what? And why? How is it related to his disappearance? Is it related at all?

Cas's vision starts to blur. He shoves the papers away and rubs his eyes.

"Sleeping on the job, Castiel?"

Cas sits up to see a pretty young woman by his desk holding two coffees.

"Agents don't sleep," He answers dryly.

She hands him a cup. It's the good stuff from the shop down the street.

"Real cream? Who died?" Cas jokes, taking the drink. But instead of the shy smile he expects, his partner only looks at him grimly. Cas's smile falls away.

"Who died?"

Hannah chews her lip and Cas watches her face carefully.

"Nobody," she says eventually, "that we know of. Yet. But..."

"But what?"

Hannah sighs. She looks around the office nervously but everyone has their noses buried in their own work. Cas follows her eyes up toward the Director's office. Through the glass doors he can see her talking to several men in suits. Presumably agents, but he's never seen them around the office before.

"They're not going to tell you," Hannah says eventually, leaning in, "But you're going to find out anyway. I don't know how, but you always do." Cas chooses to ignore the wary look she sends his way. "I just figured, it'd be better if you heard it from me first."

"Heard what?" Cas presses, lowering his voice to match hers. She hesitates. "Hannah."

"They found a car last night. Parked just a few minutes past the zoning time and some meter maid happened to pass by and ticket it. Dumb luck, really." She tries to smile but doesn't quite manage it. Cas doesn't like it, he can feel the nervous tingles start buzzing under his skin.

"So?"

"As soon as he registered the ticket, red flags popped up all over the place. Cas, it's... it's his."

Cas suddenly feels his throat go dry.

"Whose?" He croaks, even though he already knows; the tingling in his skull is going crazy. Hannah puts a hand on his arm but he barely feels it.

"It's the Impala, Cas," she whispers, "He's here."

Dean Winchester has precious few things left in this world to care about. Over the years he's lost almost everyone he considers family. His remaining friends are few and not exactly the type of people you meet up with for Christmas dinner. He has no home, no love life, nothing to fight for except his memories.

By the time his brief childhood had finished chewing him up and spitting him out he was left with only two things to call his own; his work and his car.

It was his father's car. A 1967 Chevrolet Impala bequeathed to him after his father's disappearance... the first time. His Baby is his pride and joy and the only real connection he has left to his fractured little family. He loves that car. He really does.

Dean doubts he is capable of feeling anything resembling love toward another person anymore; He can potently, piercingly feel the scarred, scabbed over gash in his heart where that piece used to breathe life into his existence. But it's gone now. Replaced by hatred and anger, pumping the thirst for revenge through his veins like poison, driving him forward, keeping him moving despite all his broken parts.

But he loves that car.

He learned long ago that sentimentality is weakness. Caring for something or someone just gives your enemies a sore spot to exploit. He knows that but he can't help loving Baby anyway. So it really should have come as no surprise that she would be the beginning of the end for him.

Dean sits in a greasy little hole, chowing down on what is definitely not going to make his list of top-ten burgers in America. The place smells like gasoline, there's a drunk who keeps playing the same shitty ballad over and over on the juke box, and there's a junkie couple in the corner screaming at each other in pitches only dogs can make out.

But he enjoys it all the same. Something about these tiny, vulgar dives and crappy food feels like home to him. How screwed up is that?

Dean closes his eyes and leans back in his seat, soaking it all in.

Times like now, after a clean kill is completed, the body burned and buried, Dean experiences a wonderful feeling of bliss. All the demons shouting in his head go quiet for a time and the weight of tragedy seems to lift from his shoulders- not all the way, but just enough that he feels like he can really breathe.

The period doesn't last long, and within weeks he'll be out, jonesing for another fix. But for now... he's almost happy.

These moments are what he lives for.

But like a snake shucking off its rotten old skin, they leave him vulnerable.

After a few drinks and a groping session with the waitress in a nasty bathroom stall, Dean stumbles out of the bar and heads through the back alleys toward his car, still chugging the remains of his last beer, humming the lyrics to that damned Johnny Cash song.

He is so relaxed, he feels so good and numbed out that he almost walks right into it.

Luckily, his brain never completely checks out on him. The pain is always there, nagging at him, and so is his paranoia.

Sirens and police lights are nothing special in the city, but something about the way the lights bounce off the brick ahead of him, the way the sounds echo, the low rumble of voices, makes him pause. And listen.

Between the barking dogs and shouting from across the way, Dean picks out snippets of hushed conversation from just ahead.

"... not that stupid."

"...fine line between "stupid" and "confident" with these guys. Looks like Winchester finally crossed it."

"Damn. Can you imagine? After all that, we catch him on a parking ticket?"

Well, shit.

Dean presses himself flat against the brick wall and focuses on controlling his breathing.

A parking ticket?

Sloppy. Very sloppy. He can't afford mistakes like this. His father would be so disappointed.

He swallows hard and forces his foggy brain to process.

His day-job idea is scrapped. His picture will be broadcast all over the networks by morning. It won't be the first time, but the general populace have startlingly short memories when it comes to stuff like this. Everyone always thinks it can't happen to them. In the case of The Grim Reaper, for most of them, that's probably true. Good, law-abiding citizens have nothing to fear from him or his lighter. But they don't know that. The hunt will be on. He has to get out of the city, fast.

But not tonight.

Not alone.

He can't.

He opens his eyes and peers, oh so carefully, around the corner, just catching a glimpse of the beautiful black chevy as she's taken hostage by the enemy.

"I'll be back for you, Baby, " He whispers, disappearing into the night, "I promise."

Special Agent Castiel Novak is not a rebel. He doesn't understand the need to break rules or struggle against authority. He's always valued instruction, knowing without a doubt his role in life and what is expected of him.

It's probably why federal law enforcement is such a natural fit for him. Why he was recruited at such a young age. He can't imagine the terrifying emptiness of going off on his own, without a plan. Criminals baffle him in that regard.

But it's never been a hinderance to his work. In fact he believes it's part of what makes him such an effective soldier.

He has questions, of course, doubts and independent thoughts. Agent Novak is no hammer. But he has faith.

Faith in the system. Faith that those in power got there for a reason and that, by virtue of their status, they have a privileged vantage point of any situation: They can see the whole chess board, while he is just one small piece. Following their lead makes sense.

That's what he's always told himself, anyway. It what he wants to believe. And it wasn't until his first, no, second run-in with the criminal Dean Winchester that he really began to wonder whether his faith might be misplaced. A ground-shaking proposition for someone like Castiel.

That kid had screwed with his brain in ways he doesn't want to even try to sort though. And yet...

"You have to let me take this case."

"No."

"You know I'd be invaluable."

"No."

Anna won't even look at him as she shuffles through the papers on her desk, ignoring the calls on hold that are blinking wildly. She's a little frenzied and Cas can't blame her. Between the usual caseload and the pressure from the Dick Roman disappearance, and now Dean Winchester on top of it all, Anna has her hands full coordinating task forces and dealing with PR. Cas knows he must be pushing his luck with the director, but he stands his ground. He needs this.

"Please, just. Give me access. No one knows this case better than I do."

Anna picks up and slams down a receiver to stop the ringing. She glares at him, exasperated. "Of course not. That is exactly the point."

Cas tilts his head, confused.

"You're too close to this, Cas. You're crazy if think I'm letting you anywhere near this case after what happened last time."

Cas bites his lip, "Respectfully, Director, I think you're overstating things."

Anna runs a tired hand down her face. "Damnit, Castiel, I swear to God."

A clerk sticks his head through the door holding a fax, "Director?"

"Not now!" Anna barks. The frightened man scurries away.

Cas just stares at her. She groans. "Close the door."

He does.

"Sit."

He sits.

She looks at him for a long, hard moment.

"What is this, Cas," she asks eventually, "really? I'm asking as a friend. Why this case?"

Cas can hear the honest concern in her voice.

"You know why."

Anna glances over his shoulder through the glass, her glare warding off any curious eyes.

"All the more reason you should stay away."

"Please. This is the first time Dean's popped up on our radar in two years. We can't risk him slipping away again."

"We have people on it, Agent Novak. Good people." He starts to speak but she cuts him off, " Objective people."

"You don't trust me?"

Anna purses her lips. "You know that's not it."

"Please. Anna. I need to finish this."

Anna pauses for a long moment, searching his face, her expression inscrutable. Finally, she leans back and shakes her head, "I'm sorry," she says tiredly, "But it's out of our hands. The higher-ups have assigned two of their own to the Winchester case. And I happen to agree with their choice." Castiel feels his chance slip through his fingers, like a dog ripping its leash from his grasp."You're out."

He shakes his head.

In a rare moment of tenderness, Anna reaches out and touches his hand.

"Let it go, Castiel," she says softly, "It'll all be over soon, I promise you. We're going to catch this bastard."

Cas leaves her office with her words ringing in his ears, but he fears, and the prickling beneath his skin confirms it, the adventures of Dean Winchester are far from over. And letting go may yet prove to be a feat beyond his will.

Four days.

Four long, boring, almost-sober days.

Days spent locked up in a skeezy motel room, running up the charges on his stolen credit card on the minibar and porn. Enjoying the fuck out of the vibrating bed. Stealing wary peaks between the dusty curtains. All with a gun on his nightstand, a knife under his pillow, and a police scanner hissing in the corner.

Those were his days.

His nights were another story.

Dean's spent the past three nights hounding the Chicago streets tracking down his car- he may or may not have had to break a few fingers to get his information- and staking out the impound lot where they were holding her. Now, he perches on top of low building near the enclosure and waits.

There's a chill in the air and the full moon's warped reflection stares back at him in pieces from spider-webbed windshields and busted mirrors. This is the place wayward cars go to die.

A wiser man, a more practical man, might have made the smart move and farmed this job out; had someone else steal the car. But Dean will be damned before he lets a stranger drive his Baby. He doesn't even use those automated car washes.

When the time is right, he scurries down the fire escape and cuts through the padlock without a problem. He doesn't bother hiding his face; the time for worrying about cameras is long past.

He starts silently slipping towards the Impala, weaving in and out of the orphaned vehicles. He can't help but notice there are some really nice machines in here. It's such a waste. He makes a mental note; after this Dick Roman thing blows over he oughta do a little shopping in a place like this. Having a couple back-up cars might not be such a bad idea.

He's nearly there when he hears the growling.

Dean jumps in spite of himself. His body stiffens and he slowly pivots in the direction of the sound.

Two of them. Asleep in a pile. Black masses of mangy fur and claws, heaving slowly as they breathe. One of the animals growls again, in its sleep, revealing a row of sharp, pearly teeth.

Dean gulps.

He hates dogs. He always has. All he sees are four-legged, sharp-toothed demons with fur. They shed and slobber on everything. And they follow you. Like, everywhere.

If he's completely honest with himself, they make him uneasy. Anxious, even.

But he's not afraid of them. That'd be ridiculous. He just doesn't like them. There is a difference.

Still, avoidance does seem the best plan in this case. Just to be safe.

Dean takes a deep breath and starts to inch past. He knew the damned things were there, he also waited until they fell asleep. But he still doesn't like it.

Why the fuck did they have to drag his Baby to someplace with dogs? Aren't they like the poor-man's security? What happened to those beautiful electronic alarms? With wires that can be cut and no jaws to snap around your ankle? Dean thinks those are much better.

Thankfully, he reaches his car safely and performs a quick check-up as best he can in the dark. Except for a few minor scratches, she seems unharmed. Lucky for the assholes who'd laid hands on her. Very lucky.

He jimmies the lock and grips the door handle. It feels smooth and cool beneath his fingers. He breathes a sigh of relief.

"Missed you," he whispers, running a hand across the frame. He's ready to go home.

He smiles and pulls open the door.

That's when all hell breaks loose.

Castiel is not supposed to be here.

Technically, he shouldn't even know where it is that he's not supposed to be. Anna and the others had gone to surprising lengths to keep the location of this sting underwraps, but as his partner kindly reminded him, Cas has a way of sniffing these things out when he wants to.

He wonders if this constitutes rebelling in some sense. Anna warned him to stay away from the Winchester case, but he isn't here in any official capacity. He is on his own time. And how Cas chooses to spend his free time- whether it's drinking beer, or watching cartoons, or sitting in his parked car across the street from an impound lot at midnight- is really none of the agency's business. Right?

Cas shifts uncomfortably in his seat as he watches a lone motorcycle rumble along the street ahead.

Maybe the director had a point earlier. He's hardly exhibiting the greatest judgement right now. He hasn't even seen the kid yet and already he's gone and got Cas acting out of character.

He should leave, shouldn't he? Just go home and let the fine men and women of the Chicago PD handle this like they're meant to.

Let Dean go.

Hell, the kid probably won't even show tonight. He hasn't attempted to get at his vehicle all week and there's been no sightings of him since the car was impounded. Maybe Dean'll make the smart move and cut his losses. Maybe he's already fled town.

But Cas seriously doubts it. Dean is smart, but also incredibly reckless. He wouldn't leave. Not without that car he loves so much.

Something tells Cas bailing now would be a mistake.

He can sense it, the tingling sensation running amuck inside his brain. There's an excitement, an anticipation in the air; like the city is holding its breath, suspending all the night in a moment of crystallized silence, like a roller coaster peaking at the top of the hill, and any second now it'll all come crashing down.

And come hell or high water, Cas plans to be here when it does.

It's another hour before a sudden movement catches his eye. A dark shadow shifts atop a low-standing building and drops to the ground. Cas sits up, at once at attention.

As far as he can see from his limited vantage point, no one else has noticed. Or, if they have, they aren't doing anything about it. Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks. He's been sitting here staring at nothing for hours now, with more caffeine pumping through his system than is probably safe for a human.

But no, there it is again, moving smoothly, stealthily behind the wire fence. The shape of a man.

Cas's breath catches in his chest.

Dean.

How long has it been? Seven years? Eight?

It feels like just yesterday he pulled that kid out of the literal and metaphorical fire. The same kid who'd then turned around and made it his life's mission to water the earth's hallowed ground with the devil's blood.

The shadow keeps moving, slinking slowly toward the center of the lot, out of Castiel's field of vision. Cas feels an irrational flicker of panic but forces himself to stay put. The FBI and the local PD will have barriers set up all around the block. There's nowhere for Dean to go.

But something's itching at the back of his brain, all the same. Nagging at him, sending shivers down his arms. This is all too easy. He can feel the sudden shift in the space around him, the moment of weightless apogee and then...

A blaring alarm shatters the silence of the night.

Cas jumps and cranes his neck, searching for the source, but it's not alone. First one, then another, then another. Car alarms, fire warnings, flashing lights and screaming sirens. The entire street explodes in a cacophony of sound and light.

Cas leaps from his car, hand flying to his gun, every sense on high alert.

Nearly every car on the surrounding streets is flashing and honking and someone's triggered the fire alarms in the neighboring buildings. He can see his comrades lurching from their hiding places, shouting in confusion. Backup from down the block arrives, bringing with it even more noise and blinding flashes. And inside the lot, the guard dogs are going crazy in the chaos.

But through it all, Cas hears something. A sound low and rumbling in sharp contrast with the high-pitched whines. Like a bass note, humming beneath the melody. He turns his head just in time to see the sleek motorbike pull up along the far side of the gated lot.

He doesn't have time to second-guess himself before he's running.

The streetlights are out, broken, behind the lot. Cas squints past the dark spots in his vision, trying to make out the shapes ahead of him. He rounds the corner and catches sight of a man leaping down from the fence, landing in a crouch beside the parked bike.

Just behind the figures, two huge, black dogs are snarling and clawing viciously at the barbed fence now separating them from their prey. The cage rattles as one of them rears up on its hind legs and smashes into the wire mesh.

The man jumps on the back of the bike and the engine revs.

Instinctively, Cas raises his weapon.

"Freeze! FBI!"

In the glow of the bike's headlamp he sees them turn toward his voice. More importantly, he sees him.

Caught in the red and blue lights of the nearing police cars. Their eyes lock and Cas sees the recognition dawn across the man's features. Cas is frozen in place.

Suddenly Dean's face breaks out into a brilliant grin. And he winks.

Before Cas can react, the engine revs, Dean slips a black helmet over his head, and the motorcycle lunges forward, tearing out of the alley and nearly knocking the agent off his feet.

Cas stares after them, dumbstruck. Barely registering the puddle of filthy water he is now standing in or the fading wail of sirens as his co-workers speed after Dean and his accomplice, in what Cas knows will be a fruitless chase.

Cas feels like he might be sick, memories old and new attacking his brain, numbing his body.

What has he gotten himself into?