He's trapped, tied to a chair. A nameless, faceless woman is torturing him. Hurting him. Cutting him with his own blade. She's angry. Furious, actually. She blames him for a lot of bad things. Cas isn't entirely sure she doesn't have the right to.
But it hurts. The ropes aren't even that tight, but he can't break out of them no matter how hard he tries. And he does. He tries and tries but his extraordinary strength has deserted him when he needs it the most, leaving him helpless and utterly human.
She's asking him questions. She wants information as much as she wants to hurt him. It doesn't matter what the questions are. Cas doesn't have the answers. He is powerless to stop the pain.
She yells at him, berates him, moves in to cut him once more.
Suddenly, the door flies open and two men burst into the room, weapons drawn. One is Dean. The other Cas shouldn't recognize, but he somehow knows it's Sam Winchester. Fully grown and still alive.
"Cas!" Dean cries upon seeing the state of him.
There's concern in his voice. A panic and familiarity in his eyes that has no business being there.
And it hurts. Seeing that.
The woman turns back to him, away from the men at the door.
Wordlessly, she pulls the blade back and plunges it into his heart.
"NO!"
Cas startles awake.
Swallowing hard, he takes a moment to release his sheets from their death-grip and wipe the wetness from his face.
He rolls on his side and stares at the red glowing numbers on his clock, breathing carefully through his nose.
3:24 am
He closes his eyes, forces himself to calm down.
His dreams have had this recurring theme lately: helplessness. Cas attributes it to the stabbing two years ago. After losing massive amounts of blood, they'd given him a transfusion. And Castiel supposes whatever it is inside him that grants him his extraordinary strength resides in his blood, because it had disappeared after that.
For almost three months.
Cas wasn't able to reconcile well with that new feeling of vulnerability, of having his secret weapon, his security blanket, taken away from him so unexpectedly. Anyone who noticed how...off he was just assumed the trauma was responsible. Which, in a way, he supposes it is. But even after his strength returned, slowly but surely, the dreams have persisted. And so has that feeling of being shaken to the core, of having everything in his life he believed to be true yanked out from under him.
Though, he can hardly blame all of that on the transfusion.
While losing his strength had certainly been traumatic, losing Dean, and losing at least part of his faith in the system he'd devoted his life to, was even more so. Every time he runs into Dean Winchester, it seems, he finds out something he never wanted to know. He never wanted to know, for example, that Peter Sheridan, a cop, was the one behind all of those murders twenty years ago. He never wanted to know that esteemed FBI agent, Victor Henricksen, had had a wanted criminal seduced and drugged rather than play by the rules. Castiel never wanted to know how much he, himself, actually seemed to care about the beautiful man with the dark intentions. And he never wanted to know what it felt like to be completely powerless.
But now he knows all those things. And he'll never be the same for it ever again.
Cas raises a careful hand and runs it slowly over the scar on his stomach where the blade had entered. It's a bad habit he's gotten into whenever he feels disquieted by such feelings. A reminder of what he's been through and everything that he'd almost lost.
And of what he's survived.
Dean had marked him in more ways than one that day. Leaving him with a scar on his body and a much deeper wound in his heart when he'd realized just how far the young man had fallen and what he was willing to sacrifice to stay that way. Dean had fought tooth and nail against the idea that anyone was capable of caring for him in any way. And it broke Cas's heart to see it.
His feelings only grew more mixed a few weeks later when Dean had called him to...check on him? Tease him? Apologize? It was never really clear, but it had left Cas with a million questions spiraling around his mind, making him dizzy, making him wonder.
Making him wonder why. Why had Dean left him alive? When it would have been so so easy to kill him then and there. Was it really only because he'd wanted Hannah to think she had the chance to stop and save him rather than going after Dean? Or did it run deeper than that? Did it have to do with the way Dean seemed to value his presence? Was it some remnant of the affection Dean had appeared to regard him with as a child? Or was it simply because he could. Maybe Dean was only playing a game with him. Maybe he liked the idea of Cas being out there, tortured by his failures, endlessly chasing his tail in futile attempts to bring Dean in or to make him see the light.
Maybe Dean was just laughing at him.
That certainly seemed the most plausible option. But, at the same time, it didn't feel right. Didn't seem to fit with the rest of what Dean had said and done.
But this is Dean Winchester he is talking about. So who the hell knows?
And that, more than anything else, is what keeps Castiel up at night.
The next day, Cas arrives at the office to the usual hustle and bustle. Before he can even reach his desk, however, Hannah comes running up to him with a file.
"Good morning," he says.
"Three more dead," she answers, shoving the file into his arms, "All beheaded, just like the last ones."
Castiel sighs, taking the file and continuing to his chair.
"It's pretty nasty," she warns as he opens the file up to the grisly photos.
"Burn marks?" He inquires. The last nine victims have had circular burn marks around their eyes and on their chests. This makes twelve killings in six months. Either the drug war is heating up or they have a very, very determined serial killer on their hands. At first, because of the beheadings, Cas and others thought for a moment it might be Dean. But all of the bodies were left intact and out in the open. Not the Grim Reaper's style. Plus, most recent intelligence has recorded sightings of Dean Winchester on the other side of the country.
No. This is something new.
Cas stares at the photos. The burns are there. Arranged across the vics' chests in an almost ritualistic pattern.
"Yup," Hannah says, "I tell you boss, seems like some serious overkill, don't you think? Someone is seriously pissed."
"Or seriously desperate," Cas muses, "People torture for information." Or for fun, a part of him thinks, but he pushes that thought aside, not ready to go there just yet.
"I still stay it's connected to Tiger Lily somehow."
"Probably," Cas agrees without looking up.
If Cas is completely honest with himself, it doesn't make much difference to him. He's been burying himself in his work over the past two years, but his heart isn't really in it anymore. It hasn't been into much of anything for a long time.
"Triple homicide," Cas mutters, almost to himself, "They're getting bolder."
"Or just lucky."
Cas finally looks up at her, "What do you mean?"
"Well assuming the victims aren't random..." she says, which is something they still haven't been able to prove.
"Then three intended vics might have been in the same place at the same time," he finishes for her.
"Right."
It's a long shot. The killer could just as easily have been there to take out one of the victims and killed the other two to eliminate witnesses. Still, it's an angle to work. And none of their previous leads have taken them anywhere useful so far.
"Where?" He asks.
"South Dakota."
Cas's hand freezes on his keyboard.
"Where exactly?"
"Sioux Falls."
Cas opens a desk drawer and pulls out a newspaper from a few days ago. The one with a certain serial killer's picture on page six. The one stating the Grim Reaper had struck again, in Sioux City, Iowa. Less than two hours away from the most recent beheadings.
"What was the time of death? " He inquires.
"They think it was sometime last week," she answers, staring over his shoulder. "Coroner's report hasn't come back yet, but..." she trails off when she makes sense of what she's seeing. "You don't think?"
"No," says Cas, quickly shutting the paper away safely inside his desk, "Of course not. Not his MO."
"Boss," she ventures carefully,
"It's not him."
"We can't know that."
"The last three are a family, Hannah," he insists, "This monster killed a child."
It's true. The unwholesome pictures on his desk depict three family members: a mother, a father, and young boy no older than six. Dean is a lot of things but he would neverhurt a child. Never.
Hannah bites her lip, but doesn't say anything else.
Cas is grateful. He's not sure how he would explain why he believes Dean wouldn't hurt kids, except to point out that the man never has. But for Cas it runs deeper than only that fact. It's something he just knows.
"Anyway," he says, "This guy's brazen. The Reaper hides his kills."
"True," she admits, "So are we going?"
"Yeah," says Cas, "Let's go."
The flight takes just over three hours. Cas spends the trip spinning all sorts of thoughts around in his mind. He can't believe Dean is responsible for killing a child, but it can't be a coincidence that the man was just hours away from the last murder sight right around the time it was happening. Can it? Cas supposes it's possible. But the tingling in his skull disagrees. There's a connection here. He just prays it's not what it looks like.
When they arrive, the last of the local forensics teams are just clearing out. They flash their badges and step under the yellow tape into the humble country home.
The first thing Cas notices is the blood. Or, rather, the lack thereof. Whoever had done this was an especially neat monster. The three bodies are stretched out under sheets with the expected red stains. But there is little to no blood anywhere else. Up until that point, Cas would have guessed there was no such thing as a tidy beheading, but hell if someone hadn't managed to pull it off, so to speak.
A quick peak under one of sheets reveals that the head has been carefully replaced adjacent to the remains of the neck. Almost like an apology for so rudely removing it. Cas shudders at his own dark thought, half-wondering where it came from.
"Boss," comes Hannah's voice from the other end of the room.
He crosses over to the body she's standing near. It's the woman, the mother. He looks down and sees a thin, pretty, forty-something with short brown hair and fair features. There's something else about her, too, though. Something almost...
"She look familiar to you boss?" Hannah asks.
She does. In truth, he'd barely glanced at the pictures, having seen the same gruesome carnage over and over again this past half year and not being especially eager to linger on them any longer than necessary. But now, seeing her up close, he can feel the sickness rising in his stomach.
"She's the sheriff, isn't she?" He rasps.
"I think so. I heard some of the others talking." The hushed voices and wary looks they've been getting since they arrived suddenly make a lot more sense.
It's been almost ten years, but yes, looking at her now, her countenance is unmistakable.
"What was her name?" Hannah asks.
"Jody," says Cas, the name coming to him in a sudden awful rush of memories.
"Mills. That's right."
Cas swallows around the lump in his throat with some difficulty. He stares at her lifeless face, so peaceful in death, and the memories come crashing over him like a river through a busted dam.
"...Get off my property before I make that shell of yours a permanent part of it." The shotgun cocks in the older man's hands and Cas's eyes widen comically.
"I'm with the FBI."
"I don't care who the hell you are. Unless you've got a warrant-" He raises the gun to his eye.
"My name is Castiel Novak. We spoke on the phone."
The man pauses, frowns, lowers the weapon.
"Novak? From Chicago?"
Cas could have sighed with relief, "Yes."
Singer lets the gun fall to his side.
"The hell, fed? I could have killed you. What in the blazes are you doing here?"
"I need your help. John and the boys disappeared again. I'm chasing down every lead I can think of."
"A simple phone call might have sufficed."
"You saying you wouldn't have hung up on me?"
Singer bites his lip thoughtfully, "You're smarter than you look, fed."
"I need information."
"I already told you-"
"You didn't tell me those little boys were cold-blooded killers," says Cas icily.
Singer opens his mouth to reply, when there's a loud crash from the back of the house.
"Excuse me, fed." The older man says before slamming the door in his face.
Cas stands there, startled into motionlessness. He hears shouting from inside the house. Singer and another man.
He can't make out most of it, but he thinks he picks up on the words "body," and "still alive." There's another crash. More shouting.
"Excuse me," says a voice from behind him.
Cas turns and sees a young woman in a Sheriff's uniform standing on the bottom step. Her police car sits parked a little ways back.
"I received a noise complaint for this residence. Is Bobby around?"
"Jody," Cas mouths silently, the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.
"How did she get caught up in all this?" Hannah wonders aloud.
"In all of what?" Cas asks, shaking himself back to reality, "We don't even know what's going on here." He can't quite keep the anger out of his voice. This is ridiculous. Twelve bodies and no solid leads, and now... Now, because of their incompetence, Sheriff Mills, a loyal public servant, a mother, a friend, is dead. And so is her family.
Cas doesn't know who this monster is or what they want.
But it doesn't matter.
Things just got personal.
3 Days Earlier
Dean lands hard on his back, knocking his head against the hardwood floor. His vision swims for a moment, but he can make out the dark shape hovering over him. Dean doesn't hesitate. He sweeps a leg and brings the monster down on top of him, rolling as he does. He scrambles to kneel on the monster's chest and brings the knife down. Once. Twice. Three times. Four times.
Over and over he stabs the man in the neck, the face, the chest, screaming and grunting and swearing as he does. His rage is enough to produce red blotches in the sides of his vision. All he can see is blood and flames and anger. So much anger and hatred in that moment. No room for anything else. No room for any thought besides kill, kill, kill.
Finally, after what feels like hours, when there's nearly nothing left to stab, Dean begins to come back to himself, the exhaustion creeping in. He feels the blade slide from his sweaty, bloody hand and clatter to the ground.
He slumps back on his haunches, sitting on the creature's stomach, on the thing that scarcely deserved to be called a person even when it was alive.
And cries.
The tears mix with the blood splattered across his face and run into his mouth. He can taste the salty-metallic flavor and spits it out onto the monster for good measure.
He gasps and closes his eyes, pushes himself off of the body and collapses on the ground beside it, breathing heavily.
It's over, he tells himself, it's over, it's over.
But it's not over. It will never be over. Not until he stops it. Not until he gets to him.
And he will get to him. He willfind him. If it's the last thing he ever does.
Later, when he's burning the body, all the tears have vanished. That part of him is empty, drained. All that's left is cold, calculating hate. A focus and a drive that would terrify an Olympic champion. He knows where the bastard is going next and he will beat him there. This will nothappen again.
He has one last thing to he has to do though, before he moves on.
Dean makes his way to her house. It's a place he knows well. Too well.
The carnage inside is enough to make even him feel a little sick. Blood everywhere, heads and bodies dumped unceremoniously on the floor. Jody and her family don't deserve to be found like this. And Dean can't have the authorities getting to this monster before he does. That maniac is his kill.
Dean gets to work cleaning the scene. Carefully scrubbing the blood from all surfaces. And gently, oh so gently, replacing the severed heads of the victims with their respective bodies, closing their eyes. That part makes him a bit nauseous, but it's the least they deserve. After all, this is his fault.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers to the Sheriff's lifeless form. "I'll get this bastard, Jody. I promise you."
And with that he exits the small country home, leaving his last traces of mercy behind him.
The next day Dean finds himself in Blue Earth, Minnesota. Ages ago Dean and his father stopped a psychotic woman from basically brainwashing and subsequently wiping out the whole town. The monster could be planning a massacre... or maybe just... maybe just the Pastor. Strangely, that seems more his style. To hit Dean where it hurts the most. In the way he would feel most responsible for the death. Sicko.
Dean pulls up his hoodie and slowly exits his car, where he's hidden in it a back alley behind the church. He's had to be a lot more careful these days. After the events two years ago, the public has become much more hyper aware of his activities. His face is still featured in the news sometimes, more and more so lately with the trail of bodies he's been leaving chasing after the big boss monster. It's only a matter of time before someone realizes he's revisiting the sights of past kills and then... then he is royally screwed. But until then...
Dean loiters around the side of the chapel until the service lets out. He sneaks through the exiting crowd without drawing too much attention and slips inside the doors. He waits until the last of the parishioners clear out before making his way the pulpit where the Pastor is tidying up.
He looks older. Of course he does. It's been, what? Fifteen years? Dean's a little surprised he's still working. But then again, not so much. In all his years he's yet to meet a more loyal servant of Heaven.
"Pastor Gideon?" He says casually.
The Pastor glances up from his work, "Yes? Can I help you?"
"I hope so." Dean pushes back his hood and the Pastor's eyes widen.
"You..." he breathes, "What are you doing here?"
"Relax," says Dean, "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to help you."
"Help me? The way you 'helped' last time?"
Last time. Dean sighs. Last time the crazy whore who'd been turning the townspeople against one another was Leah Gideon, Pastor Gideon's daughter. Even though John had managed to convince the Pastor that his daughter had had a psychotic break and was more or less dead already, it was still painful for the man to give Dean's dad the go ahead to put her down. They had no choice, really. Leah seemed perfectly sane from the outside and left no direct connection to the murders she instigated. That was where John and Dean were meant to come in. When all other forces failed.
It must be particularly painful for the Pastor to see Dean again, as the then eleven year old boy had wound up being the one to actually pull the trigger.
"Nothing like that," Dean reassures him, "No one you know is going to get hurt. You have my word."
The Pastor scoffs. "Yeah," he says, "I can take that right to the bank."
"Hey," says Dean, "I'm trying to help you. You're in danger."
"Of course I am," he replies, "You're here, aren't you?"
Dean tries not to let it show how much that stings. Not to let on how close to home the man has unwittingly hit.
"There's someone coming for you. I don't know who or how many. But they'll be here soon. The next few days at most."
"Why should I believe you?"
"Why would I lie? Why the hell else would I come back here?"
"So, I'll call the police."
"And tell them what? A crazed serial killer told you another crazed serial killer is coming after you with no proof whatsoever? The police are useless."
"So what do you suggest?"
"I have a plan."
Gideon rolls his eyes up to the high ceiling.
"Great."
The man goes along with it, of course. What choice does he have really? Dean is grateful for his compliance. He's used to people not thanking him when he saves them, but when you get right down to it, he's found that people will always choose life, no matter who they have to trust to get it. And the Pastor is no exception.
Dean tails Gideon for the next three days. Careful to stay out of sight but to always keep the Pastor in his. He doesn't sleep. He encourages Gideon to stay in public as much as possible. He camps out in his car outside the Pastor's house at night.
And he waits.
On the third day, Dean's sitting in his car outside a coffee shop, waiting for Gideon to come out when there's a loud rap on his window. Dean startles out of his reverie and looks up. He rolls the window down.
"Why are you following me?" The pretty young woman demands.
"Following you?"
"You think I don't know when I'm being followed? This is third time I've seen you today. Just sitting in your car like some stalker freak, staring at me."
Dean is a little thrown. She stands there, hands on her hips, clearly expecting an answer.
"So... instead of running or getting help, you decide to come up and confront this potentially dangerous psycho by yourself?"
The woman huffs and rolls her eyes, "It's broad daylight, jackass."
"It is now. But I if I really was who you think I am, what makes you think I wouldn't follow you home?"
"Because if I see you again, I'll mace ya. And then call the police. Got it?"
Dean has to fight not to burst out laughing. If she had any idea...
"Okay," he says, "No more following. Got it."
"Damn straight," she says, turning on her heel and stalking away.
Dean watches her go, most specifically watches a certain part of her walk away and raises an intrigued brow. Maybe when all this is over he really may track her down and follow her somewhere... much more discretely of course. He's got to be more careful. He lucked out this time in that this particular woman hadn't recognized him. Next time he might not be so fortunate.
He turns his attention back to the coffee shop and finds to his horror that Gideon is gone.
"Shit," he hisses. Focus, he thinks angrily, You and motherfucking focus!
He starts the car and drives off, cursing himself the whole way.
By nightfall he still hasn't found the man, and he isn't answering any of Dean's calls or texts. Dean tries calling one more time.
Someone picks up.
"Gideon," he snaps, "Where the hell are you? I've been looking all-."
"Hello, Deano," says a oddly familiar voice. He recognizes it for sure. But he can't place it for the life of him.
"I think we've got a few things to discuss, wouldn't you agree? Seems I've got something you want. And you've got something I want. Makes for a solid trade, don't you think?"
"Who the fuck is this?"
"Nobody to worry your pretty little noggin about, I promise. What you should be asking is what I want from you."
Dean grips the steering wheel.
"You know," the voice drawls, "You really oughtta keep better track of your stuff. You take your eye off something one minute, any old psycho can just wander up and take it."
Dean suddenly remembers where's he's heard the voice before and wants to smack himself for not placing it sooner.
"You."
The woman laughs. "Little ol' me."
"You-"
"You men," the woman intones, "Always thinking with your dick. The lost riches of Atlantis could be sitting in front of you and you wouldn't notice if a nice piece of ass strolled on by."
"You flatter yourself. Like, majorly."
"It worked, didn't it? I got what I wanted, or rather, I got what you wanted. And that's way more fun anyway."
Dean grits his teeth and tries to keep his breathing level.
"What do you want?"
"What we've always wanted, Deano. For you to back the fuck off."
"Not gunna happen."
The woman sighs dramatically, "I was afraid you'd be like this. Looks like you're in for a little demonstration. I know this is radio, but his screams of pain should still get the message across nicely, I think."
There's a noise Dean knows very well on the other end of the line; the fizzling sound of metal burning flesh. He hears Gideon cry out.
"Oh, I'm sorry," the voice tells the Pastor sweetly, "Did that hurt? It's not my fault, you see. Your pal Deano is being very uncooperative."
The sizzling sound again. Another moan.
Dean can't take it anymore.
"Alright!" He says, "Enough."
"Oh, I don't think so. I think we can dig the point in a little deeper." She draws out the word "little" and Dean can imagine her pressing the brand deep into the Pastor's skin. Yes, definitely a second degree burn if the sounds he's making are any indication.
"I said stop!" Dean practically shouts.
"Whatever you say," the woman relents. He can still hear the Pastor groaning in the background, "Provided you give me what I want, of course. My father is growing tired of your going around, poking our boys and setting them on fire. It irks him just a dollop. And me too, quite honestly. We understand your vengence is very important to you, but this is business, see? We need you to put your personal feelings aside and see things our way."
"Just let the man go. If it's me you want, come find me."
"All in good time, Deano."
"Let him go," Dean growls, "Or I swear to you. I will track you down and chop off your head."
"Oh, I'd love to see you try, sweetheart."
"Yeah? Well, that makes two of us."
"Just relax, Deano," she says. The woman rattles off an address, "You'll find your Pastor there. A little worse for the wear, but very much alive."
"Am I supposed to thank you?"
Suddenly the sweetness vanishes, and the woman's voice turns cold and dark. "I meant what I said before, Dean. Stand down," she warns, "Or we'll go after someone you really care about."
The bitch hangs up.
Dean's thoughts flash down the short list and he feels his throat close up.
No.
There are very, very few people left in this world that Dean Winchester actually gives a damn about. And he will not be responsible for the death of another one. Never, never again.
He's going to find this bitch and her father and whoever else he has to.
He's going to track them down and chop off the head of this beast once and for all.
And then he's going to burn their whole organization to the ground.
He's going to need some help.