Notes: This takes place in the 'Angelface' universe, but can be read alone. In this world all parties are human unless otherwise stated, and the Winchester boys are wanted killers of a rather nasty sort.

Happy Valentines day.

She was younger than the girls he usually charmed, sweeter and more innocent with a smile that gave her adorable little dimples. She's the kind of girl that, walking home with him, makes people wonder what a girl like her is doing even looking at a guy like him. Dean knows the answer to that one as clear as he knows daylight; It's because of his clear green eyes, his cheeky smile and the way he can pitch his voice to make it sound like he's speaking for her alone. Girls always like the bad boys, whether they want to admit it or not.

He had gone to the little candy store just twenty minutes walk from the cottage they were renting, his intention only to buy some chocolate liqueurs to go with the traditional Valentine's Day booze. He'd grabbed a box, brought it up to the counter, and then changed his mind completely. Dean had decided right then and there that it was time to start a new Valentines Day tradition.

"Are you doing anything special tonight?" The girl behind the counter asked, polite shop talk as she rang up his purchase.

Dean leant against the counter and shrugged. "No, I'm going it alone this year. Those are my consolation prize for sucking too hard to keep a girl." He turned on the charm then, giving her a rueful smile and waiting until her eyes locked with his before he added; "She dumped me last week for my brother."

"I'm sorry," she said automatically, "that's too bad." She blinked then, and her cheeks coloured just a little as she looked away.

"Yeah, well, you get on with life. It just sucks that she did it a week before 'Fuck-you Singles' Day."

The girl shook her head then. The store was empty enough that even after she'd handed him his change he didn't need to do more than slide a few inches along the counter in case someone else wanted to be served. "If it helps any," she said, a wry smile on her lips, "I never have a date for Valentines. I'm working too, which sucks just a little more."

"That would suck on any Sunday."

"Yeah..."

"Hey," Dean said, opening up the box of candies right there. "What's your name?"

"Belinda," the girl replied, then coloured a little again and gestured to her apron, "it's on my name tag."

"I know, I just didn't want you to think I was staring at your boobs while I tried to read it." That got a laugh from her, and Dean smiled. He cracked open the box and offered it to her. "Want a chocolate, Belinda?"

Now Dean was smiling at her, holding her hand in his as he walked her to the cottage. His smile had been what had tempted her into flirting with him, and what had her chasing after him before he could leave the store. She had asked him whether he wanted to spend some time with her on Valentines, commiserating their datelessness. All Dean had needed to do was suggest a takeout dinner and going back to his place for movies that had nothing to do with romance.

The cottage was a tiny little two-bedroom thing with only one bathroom and a living room that was barely large enough to comfortably fit a three person couch. The furnishings were homely, the kind you'd expect from a young guy living on his own, or from someone who had just been kicked out by his girlfriend.

Dean's smile had Belinda ready to believe him when he claimed that he was keeping his movies downstairs in the basement for storage, his hand on the small of her back convincing her that there was no danger of anything except possibly a kiss in the gloom.

Dean shuts the door behind them and palms the pistol that he always carried. She didn't even have time to scream before he shot her straight between the eyes and let her crumple to the dirt-packed floor. He tucks the pistol away and selects a sharp knife from a nearby bench, a grim look on his face; Romance was messy.

By the time Dean is done, stripped down to just his jeans and a t-shirt to avoid ruining his jacket, he is covered in gore. His hands and forearms stained red with blood, bits of sinew stuck under a couple of his nails from where he'd used his hands rather than the knife. There are drops on his shirt from where arteries had still had enough pressure to squirt.

He wipes the dirty, bloody blade of the knife off onto the edge of his shirt and sets it aside for a meticulous cleaning later.

His footfalls are heavy on the stairs. He shoulders open the basement door without touching the handle or the wood and emerges into the light from the kitchen. Sam stands by the refrigerator, a six pack of bottled beer in his hands. He takes one look at Dean and rolls his eyes.

"Great," Sam says, putting the beer away. "Another body to bury in the basement, right?"

"All for a good cause, baby boy," Dean replies with a grin, his hands cupped around something squelchy and wet.

"You better get back to it before it starts to stink."

"Whatever, Sam. I'll bury it in the morning."

"I hope nobody saw you coming in with it, and I hope it wasn't anyone who's going to be missed. We're supposed to be here for another few months, Dean."

Dean shrugs, completely dismissing Sam's worries or not even paying attention to them in the first place. He looks around, scanning the immediate area for signs of life other than himself or his brother. "Yeah, sure. Where's Cas?"

"If you get blood on the sheets you better not forget to burn them."

It was easier to ignore that comment than dignify it with a response. Instead Dean finds himself searching the entirety of the cottage until he found Cas in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror and wiping the last tiny bits of shaving cream from his face. Blue eyes lock with his through the mirror, turning heated the moment they saw the blood smearing his hands and shirt.

Dean doesn't wait for him to turn around, but holds out the dark, dripping piece of meat cupped in his hands. He's never actually done this before, never cared enough to even bother with cheap candy and insincere affection. "Happy Valentines, Cas."

"You brought me a human heart," Cas observes. He turns, reaching tentatively towards the heart. "It's still warm."

Juice dribbles from the open arteries with the new pressure on the heart, splattering against the bathroom tiles in abstract patterns. It's dark, almost purple; Thinner, lighter blood follows from a different valve, creating new patterns like bubbles against the old.

Between their combined fingers the heart contracts. A single spasm created artificially between the tension of their hands. It feels like a skipped heartbeat.

"She's still down in the basement," Dean tells him, watching how the pulse beating at Castiel's throat speeds up. "I picked her up from the candy shop, angelface. Just for you."

"She wasn't a demon."

"Just a girl."

Dean can't tell whether Cas is disgusted or turned on by the matter of fact confession. It doesn't seem to matter. He steps closer, the insistent press of his body into Cas' space forcing the other man back against the sink. Dean tosses the heart into the bath tub and sinks his bloody fingers into Castiel's hair. Cas grabs him around the waist to hold him close. Their lips crash together and Dean bites until he can taste blood.

He pulls away to look at Cas and sees nothing but intense blue eyes and gorgeous fuck-me lips puffy and stained with superficial blood. He leans in again to lick the blood away; Soft caresses of his lips and tongue until Cas' hands are digging bruises into his back and his breath is coming out in short, shallow gasps.

"I didn't know," Cas murmurs, his voice soft and rough, "it was Valentines."

"You forgot?"

Cas licks his lips and lets his head fall back, exposing the line of his throat and arching his body so that his chest pressed tighter against Dean. "Saint Valentine was beheaded. They beat him, but he did not die. Impatience led to beheading instead."

Dean presses his mouth to Castiel's throat, scraping his teeth over the adam's apple before he replies; "So I should've brought you the girl's head?"

"So blood is a fair offering," Cas replies, breathy and barely audible. "Dean..."

Dean's bloody hands tug at the waistband of Cas' jeans, hooking his fingers into the belt loops. He uses the leverage he has to yank Castiel away from the sink, and sucks a mouth-shaped bruise onto the junction between neck and shoulder while his hands roughly undo button and zip. Cas doesn't complain as he's spun around and pushed against the sink again. He stares at Dean in the mirror, watching his lover's face when it appears over his shoulder.

He arches his back and lets Dean paint bloody smears over his naked hips. Bites his lips red when he hears the sound of a zip and the shuffling of falling fabric.

"I'll make it up to you," Dean promises, his breath hot against Cas' shoulder. "I'll make it good later."

Castiel says nothing. He braces his hands against the edge of the sink and watches Dean's face in the mirror. He's used to the pain, knows how to keep himself relaxed even as the muscles in his back and shoulders tense.

It's not sweet. It's not loving or gentle. It's intense, painful, dotted with starbursts of pleasure that serve only to make it more unbearable. But he never wants it to stop. Tiny, breathy noises claw their way past his lips. He can hardly remember what it's like without the sparks of pain urging him onward and beautiful green eyes, bright with lust, staring right down to his soul.

If he still has a soul.

Cas glances at the bloody smears on his clothing left by Dean's hands, and the red smudges on his own fingers. He thinks about the girl lying cold in the basement. For him. Just for him. It's so beautiful. It makes him feel sick.

When it's over Dean leans heavily against his back. They stay that way for a few minutes, just breathing, pressed together and still mostly clothed. Then Dean pulls away and Cas makes himself stand without leaning his weight against the sink. He strips off with stiff, mechanical movements and leans over the bath-tub to turn the shower on.

"You're covered in blood," he tells Dean flatly. "I'm not bleaching any more linen."

Dean smirks and kicks his jeans off properly. "So romantic. You're just a goddamn cherub, aren't you?"

"Get in the shower."

The heart, still sitting in the bathtub, is kicked out of the way. It sits in the opposite end to the drain, staining the porcelain pink where it touches. Dean lets the spray from the shower wash over him. Crappy water pressure and a temperamental hot water boiler made up for by the gentle hands that run soap over his body. Castiel washes the blood from Dean's forearms, seeming to forget the smudges of red on his own body and the sticky smears of blood from Dean's fingers that clump his hair together.

Dean smiles at him and cups his face with clean hands that smell like sandalwood. He doesn't say anything, but Castiel understands what he means just the same. The smile isn't the insincere and charming look he gave to the people who don't matter.

Cas doesn't smile back. His eyes soften and that's enough.