Castiel awakens to an empty bed, the scent of sex and warmth clinging to the inside of his mouth when he rolls onto his back, breathing deeply and stretching his arms over his head. His head feels somewhat fuzzy and his eyes are heavy with a well-rested night, uninterrupted by noise or movement. He stretches until he feels his back cracking, loudly, and collapses with a sigh.
Then, he rolls onto his side, and flicks the light on. He is alone in the bed, the slight warmth in the depression on the other side meaning he hasn't been that way for long, and the sheets are tossed back on the other side. Perhaps Dean went to the bathroom.
Pushing himself up so that he is resting against the headboard, Castiel allows himself a brief survey of the room. It's not as large as he would have thought given the relative square-footage of the ground floor, but it is spacious enough. The window has heavy black-out curtains that tease at the impression of sunlight around their edges, and the walls are painted a muted cream color, like what is done for showrooms before they become an individual's own. Dean never bothered to paint his room because most of the time he spends in here is darkness.
The sheets, similarly, are generic and bland, white and cream duvet and black pillowcases. It is tasteful, almost, and not at all what Castiel would have expected from Dean, he thinks – the man leaves an impression everywhere he goes, except for the places he chooses to stay.
It is then that Castiel becomes aware of music, floating in from behind the closed bedroom door. Curious, he shoves himself upright, stretching again – this time he cannot fight a smirk at the protests of his body, because it sure as Hell hadn't been complaining at the time – and slides back into his jeans from the night before and pulls on his t-shirt over that, leaving the button-down off but folding it up neatly on the end of the bed. Dean's clothes are nowhere in sight but Castiel doesn't take that to mean that Dean has redressed as well. After all, Dean has access to other clothes here.
When he opens the door it is not difficult to find the source of the music – farther into the bowels of the house and away from the staircase, there is another closed door, and so Castiel turns off Dean's bedroom light and shuts the door behind him, padding on silent feet towards the other door. He knocks, because it is polite to knock and this is not his own house, but gets no answer except a slight lowering in volume of the music.
Well, politeness only extends so far, and the door is not locked, so he twists the handle down and lets the door fall open. If Dean does not want him in here, there is plenty of time to catch it and shoo him out.
But Dean does not. Inside this room there is a futon spread out along the floor, and the room is much larger than Dean's bedroom – there are several television sets along the walls and the walls are painted a soft, light blue color. Much more relaxing, Castiel thinks, and the black futon is covered in fluff and dust and haphazard blankets – is dirty in a way Dean's bed simply isn't. Well used, he thinks, and well loved.
Dean is sitting on the futon, three manila folders spread out in front of him, and he looks up when Castiel enters. Almost immediately his cheeks redden, but he smirks at Castiel. "Hey there, sleepy."
"What time is it?" Castiel asks, because he had not checked and Dean isn't sending him out. He closes the door behind him but remains by the threshold.
"Almost eleven," Dean says, just as the news jingle for the top of the hour plays on one of the sets. "Eleven on the dot," he amends with a nod, and then goes back to staring at the folders. He does not appear to even be reading them, really – his hands are still, flattened out across his knees, but his lips are moving and his brow is furrowed. "Sorry if you have somewhere to be."
"It's a Sunday," is all Castiel says in reply with a slight grin, and Dean nods in acquiescence. "New case?"
"Old ones," Dean replies, sighing and rolling his shoulders. Then, he picks up a small universal remote by his feet and starts flicking the televisions off, one by one, until only the music is playing and then that gets shut off too. "I think they're linked somehow, but I can't tell yet."
"You think?" Castiel asks, tilting his head to one side, and Dean nods. "Does no one else think so?"
"Nah." Dean rubs his hand over his mouth, shaking his head. "Doesn't matter, I guess." With that, he flips the case files closed, stacking them one on top of the other, and pushes himself to his feet and goes over to Castiel. "But where are my manners? I made a deal with you last night."
"I don't think we have a good reputation with deals," Castiel replies, but truth be told he's already feeling warm with anticipation and Dean is looking at him like he'll eat Castiel alive given half the chance, and so Castiel doesn't fight it when Dean leads the way back to his bedroom and shoves Castiel down onto the bed.
Their kiss is messy and slow, Dean pressing down with his full weight onto Castiel's body. Dean knows that Castiel can overpower him – he'd shown that before though damned if Dean knows where he keeps all that hidden strength – but Castiel accepts the weight of him with grace, biting at Dean's lower lip in a playful warning that makes Dean shiver.
Castiel arches his body up into Dean's, already breathless with want as Dean's skilled hands start to wander up and down his body, finding out and teasing at all the sensitive spots around Castiel's hips and thighs and flanks that make him moan and shudder, his legs spreading out to give Dean enough room for his head and shoulders.
His fingers trail across the darkened bruises sucked onto Dean's neck, as Dean slides down him, mapping a trail with his mouth and his hands as he goes. Castiel slides his nails against the soft hair at the back of Dean's head, sleep-mussed and fluffy, and he drags his palm over Dean's shoulders just to feel the new knots created by Dean's sleep and the forced fold in his body from last night.
He wants to feel it all, drink it from Dean's mouth, and consume this man from the inside out. And when Dean finally gets his cock free and slides Castiel into his mouth, it is all Castiel can do to simply lie back and let him.
Dean is not exceptionally talented in this area, more used to the deep-slide and softness of women than the hard jut of a man, but he is enthusiastic and Castiel cannot fault him for that. The older man closes his eyes, lets his hand settle on the back of Dean's head – not pushing or guiding, merely letting Dean set the pace for now – nails gently scraping across Dean's nape in a soothing gesture that, if anything, spurs Dean onwards. Dean has an urge to succeed, he supposes – to strip down any and all measures of control set in place so that he can see everything, expose everything to his all-seeing gaze.
The slick-wet sound of Dean's mouth on him is almost as arousing as the visual Dean presents, when Castiel folds his free arm behind his head to prop himself up for a better look. The sight of Dean's lips, spread wide and red around Castiel's girth, makes him tighten his hold until Dean muffles a soft sound of discomfort, but he keeps going like the eager boy he is, wrapping tight fingers around what he cannot reach and letting his saliva drip down and get them slick as he strokes.
Castiel gasps, stifling a rough curse behind his teeth, and tilts his head back towards the ceiling because he cannot stare at Dean any longer, otherwise he will not last. Dean's eyes flash to his face, knowing and blackened, and Castiel can feel gentle fingers cupping his balls, squeezing his shaft tightly as Dean sucks harder.
The small, blunt scrape of teeth is what sends Castiel over the edge, and he grabs Dean's hair hard enough to hurt and forces him to stay down and swallow it all. Dean does, rough-edged and panting hard when Castiel finally lets him go to breathe, swallowing more than once to get rid of the taste.
For a long second, they simply stare at each other, Dean blushing and hard and Castiel reeling from the orgasm. Then; "Come here," Castiel growls, snarls more like, as he reaches up to yank Dean down and over his hips, legs falling on either side. Castiel roughly grabs at his clothes, shoving the halves of his jeans apart and damn near breaking the zipper doing so, but then he has a hand around Dean and the younger man is shaking and breathing hard and spilling over Castiel's hand in less than a minute. "There we go," Castiel murmurs, sounding pleased with himself when Dean collapses forward and buries his face against Castiel's neck. "Fuck, Dean, you're so fucking perfect."
Dean has to laugh at that. "Alright, pillow-talk," he replies with a smirk, blush darkening on his cheeks. Red is definitely Dean's color. Then, Dean is pushing at his shoulders. "Let me go. I need to shower."
"Alone?" Castiel asks with a raised eyebrow, but despite his best efforts Dean is apparently more coordinated after an orgasm than Castiel is, because he slides from the bed with ease and tucks himself back in, ignoring the fresh stain of semen on his clothes.
"We can't all have lazy Sundays," Dean says with a small, one-shouldered shrug. "There's food downstairs, and I'm not kicking you out yet, but I do have to be productive at some point today."
Castiel rolls his eyes with an overdramatic sigh. "I suppose you have to go solve a murder and save someone's life," he says long-sufferingly, earning a smirk from Dean. "That's what I get for falling for a good boy."
"Tell you what," Dean says, stepping back so he is between Castiel's legs where the older man is sitting on the edge of the bed, legs slung over the side. He takes Castiel's face in his hands, running his fingers through the man's hair just to mess it up more, and tilts his head up for a long, dirty kiss. "In the other room, there's a crossword puzzle book. If you can finish the one I've got going by the time I get out of the shower, I'll let you ruin the whole point of one."
Castiel raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "And if I don't? Or can't?" he prompts, placing his hands over Dean's and dragging his thumb under Dean's palms, just to make his fingers curl.
Dean smiles again, dark and promising, and leans in for a dry drag of his mouth against Castiel's, just shy of kissing him again. "You wouldn't want to disappoint me, would you?" he asks, and Castiel's eyes darken at the challenge, the parody of his own words from before. Dean knew it would strike a chord with the other man – Castiel does not like being told he cannot do something. Does not like the idea of being challenged or cowed into submission or defeat. Dean smiles and presses a chaste kiss against him again. "I'll see you in a little while."
"Alright," Castiel answers, voice rough, and he follows Dean out and towards the other door while Dean grabs another change of clothes and heads to his shower. On the way, his phone rings and so Dean answers, watching the door close behind Castiel, and puts it on speaker, setting it on the small shelf over the sink while he undresses and gets the water running.
"Winchester."
"Dean, we need you down at the station," Pike's voice filters through from the other end; "Might have a possible hit from the video outside Bradbury's apartment. Not sure yet – could use your eye."
That's code for 'we're not sure if someone standing around is suspicious or not, what do you think?'. Dean scoffs, shaking his head, and sighs. "Yeah, alright, I can be there in an hour."
"See you then," Pike says in reply, and Dean nods to himself and turns his phone back off as he steps into the shower.
A possible lead – this case was moving a little more quickly than the others. It had taken four days for reporters to even establish that Amelia Milton had been married, and then another four to find her husband's body. If they could get a decent lead out of this video, Dean might actually catch the (son of a) bitch.
Dean comes back out of the shower to find a note taped to the door: Something came up. I'll see you tonight. A phone number follows it and Dean smiles, taking it down and transferring Castiel's number into his phone, before he takes the stairs down and lights the note on fire and puts it in the sink to rinse. There is evidence that Sam has come home and eaten, and when Dean looks outside the paint is slightly smudged but it has not been redrawn – so Castiel left after Sam was already home. Alright.
He sends Castiel a text as he's grabbing a sandwich from the fridge and unwrapping it to eat. There's an Irish bar on sixth. Best baked potato you'll ever have. Seven sound good? And then he's grabbing his jacket and repainting the line outside the door just in time to receive an I'll see you there.
He doesn't think he could fight his smile even if he wanted to – despite the fact that he's likely about to walk into another darker facet of the murder investigation, and his sleep had been fraught with nightmares, he feels fairly buoyed by the idea that he might see Castiel again tonight, assuming something else doesn't 'come up'.
The police station is practically buzzing, especially considering the fact that it is early Sunday morning, but still Dean easily locates Mister Pike and gives him a half-hearted salute as the man waves him over. "Whatcha got for me?" he asks, already leaning over the man's shoulder and peering at the flickering computer screen in front of him.
"Check this guy out," Pike murmurs, pointing towards a blurry image of a suited man standing close to the wall, not moving with his hands in his pockets and his face shadowed by the brim of a hat. "He's in here for thirty-eight minutes of video, just watching people go by – or, maybe, the apartment. What do you think?"
Dean takes the keyboard from him, rewinding the clip to the very beginning of the man's appearance. He keeps checking his phone, Dean notes, though he can't make out anything useful about it like color or model. Still, everything is important when it comes to a murder investigation, and so he does not fault Mister Pike for presuming that this man might be linked.
"This the tape you forwarded to me?" he asks, and catches the man's nod out of the corner of his eye. "Gimme a minute?"
Pike nods again, vacating his seat and leaving Dean to his work. The half-hearted offer for coffee goes ignored as Dean rewinds the entire tape, eyes scanning the scene fervently – this is Dean at work; focused and on edge and just waiting for something to fall out of place. Some weird misstep in the two-dimensional images reflected back to him, something that catches his attention.
He closes his eyes, and breathes out, doing his best to tune out all of the outside noise around him. Given that he has spent so much time training his brain to do the exact opposite, it takes a while for him to be able to focus purely on the images he is watching – with his ears not engaged, they tend to wander and while he might find the stilted conversation of this morning's awkward post-affair interesting on any other day –.
Stop it, he thinks to himself, rubbing a hand over his mouth and shaking it off.
It takes him a while – one-hundred-and-seven minutes, if he were counting, but then he leans back and waves vaguely for Mister Pike's attention, waiting until he feels the heat of the man next to him and can smell his oddly earthly cologne. "There," he murmurs, pausing it and tapping his fingers against the screen. Mister Pike peers closer. "She's made a round of the place three times in the past ten minutes of footage alone – seven times altogether." He rattles off the times of her appearances and hands the keyboard back to Mister Pike for him to enhance and zoom in as he pleases.
"What about that man, though?" the detective mutters, eyeing Dean.
"He was waiting for someone, true," Dean concedes, rubbing his hand over his mouth again before going to his eyes. He hates computers – they always fuck up his eyesight for hours afterward. "But he doesn't reappear after. This woman, she…" He shrugs, waving vaguely towards the screen. "When people are lost, they don't keep turning left, do they? She does. She's not lost, and she's not following anyone. She's scoping the place out."
"Alright, let's see if I can get a better look of her," Pike murmurs after a quick once-over in Dean's direction.
"Two-forty-two is the best shot of her," Dean replies, cracking his knuckles and wincing at the loud sound. He can feel the nervous thrum of energy from possibly finding a suspect before they leave the city, of finally catching the bitch before they – although it is looking more and more like a 'she' – leave town and becomes just another unsolved number.
"Let's see…" Pike mutters when he's focused, which would be irritating under any other circumstances, and has irritated Dean before, but Dean's senses are wide open and totally focused on the image of the woman, as slowly Pike goes frame by frame until she is almost facing the camera. As he watches, the computer scans over the grainy image of her face, the poor software doing its best to soften the corners and sharpen the edges and erase the shadows to give a clearer image.
Dean sucks in a breath. "Holy shit," he whispers, and it escapes him before he can stop it. Mister Pike doesn't hear him, too focused on his work and unable to hear Dean's soft exclamation, but Dean's fingers are curling into the edge of the desk and his heart feels like it just tried to jump a cliff.
"There she is," Pike mutters in satisfaction, printing out a copy of the woman's face. She has dark eyes and a wild mane of black hair, and her face is set into a mask of concentration and focus, eyes settled on something out of the frame. "She looks kind of familiar…"
Dean swallows. "That's her high school sweetheart," he says, avoiding Mister Pike's eyes because secrets always come through the eyes. "She was in the picture by Charlie's bed – younger, shorter hair, but definitely her."
"Sweethearts, huh?" the detective answers, mouth twisted in a grim smile. "So, reunion gone wrong? Spurned lesbian lover?"
"No need to get excited over the sexuality of it," Dean bites out, shoving himself to his feet. "Charlie and this woman used to date. That's a tie, a link somewhere, and it's better than anything else we've got."
"I'll put an A.P.B. out," Pike replies, somewhat chastised, and Dean nods, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Thanks for the eyes, Dean. I'll let you know if we catch anything more."
"Sure." Dean swallows, clearing his throat, and then makes a quick getaway out of the offices and towards the main foyer of the building, before he bursts out into the sun-brightened street below. The air is crisp and cool and a balm against his forehead, but he still feels too warm and his chest is tight with what he has seen. At his feet he can feel the big black cat pushing against his legs and trying to trip him over so that it – she – can devour him.
Because that woman – yes, he had not seen her face, but that hair was unmistakable – was the one Castiel had been having dinner with, when Dean was out with Lisa. Dean had been in the same room as her two fucking nights ago – how could he not have smelled the blood on her hands? He shudders at the thought, at yet another reminder that he's not up to one-hundred percent right now.
And Castiel knows her. What does that make him? A brother, a lover, an accomplice?
"Fuck," Dean growls, raking his fingernails over his scalp harshly enough to try and center and ground him. "Fuck," he says again simply because he has to put into some kind of sound the thoughts flying through his head – if he doesn't let them out they'll spin around his head like hornets and sting him again and again until he can't concentrate on anything else. They'll consume him.
He needs to go back to the case files – there is an undeniable link between Charlie and this woman, he should be able to figure out who she is and therefore what connection she might have to the other murder victims. And to Castiel.
With that decision, Dean feels a little calmer, and he raises his head and does his best to breathe out slowly. He turns around and hurries back inside to ask for a copy of the picture from Mister Pike, and with that done he all but runs home and seals himself into his second room again to drag the case files out as well as his notebook.
He keeps the televisions switched off.
This is important.
The giant black cat is back. Only this time there are three of them – three large beasts prowling through a city, as big as a two-story house but light and completely unnoticed. The citizens are asleep and do not notice the glowing yellow eyes of one, or the abyssal black of another. One of them is the color of a cent, rust and ruin carved into her bones, blood between her eyes as she curls her lips back and snarls. Another is black like the first, with grey around her muzzle and feet, barbs sticking out of her shoulders and wrapped tight around her neck. The first one – the one that Dean keeps seeing – is sleek and healthy, glossy and black. The smallest of the three of them but undeniably the most powerful one. The three of them are advancing on him, he can hear their low rumbling growls in his head, the distant roar of giant animals creeping closer, ready for a hunt.
There is a wolf by his side, just as large but shrouded in darkness with eyes like a blood moon, and when he tips his head back and howls, two of the cats drop, hissing, backs arching and fur standing up straight, but do not advance. The whole cat, that is sleek and unharmed and powerful, is the only one that can advance. The only one that shrieks in anger and keeps on coming.
Dean can feel the wolf snarling. They're going to attack each other. One of them is going to die.
His phone snaps him out of the dream – though can he call it a dream? He isn't lying down and he's still fully clothes – and he hastily wipes his hands over his face to clear it of sweat, and grabs blindly for his phone, answering and pressing it to his ear without checking Caller ID. "Hello?"
"You're late."
Dean breathes out, blinking a few times to try and clear his vision, and frowns in an attempt to momentarily place the voice. Then it hits him; Castiel. "Oh, shit, really?" he asks, grabbing the TV remotes and flicking on the news on mute – the time in the corner indeed tells him that it is currently seven-forty-seven. "Shit, I'm so sorry. I can be there in ten."
"It's no trouble," Castiel replies smoothly, in a way that makes Dean think it actually is no trouble, because they've only known each other two days and Dean is by far not the only ass in the city. "Are you alright?"
"I, ah, got wrapped up in a case," Dean says, and that is the truth. The vision, though, was not. He's been having those more often, and honestly they scare the living shit out of him. His hands are sweaty and a brief glance in the mirror tells him he looks pale and sallow. "Guess I lost track of time."
"The infamous Dean Winchester getting lost in his own head?" Dean pauses at that, because Castiel sound amused, but also concerned. Like he's reading something in Dean's voice that Dean doesn't even know about. It makes him think – Castiel knows the woman from the tape. He had dinner with her not two nights ago. And that might mean something. Because he only came to town recently, 'for a job' that he didn't specify, and this woman – Dean is pretty sure he would remember her if he'd ever seen her before. Granted, it's not a small city and people can hide from his sight all the time, but Dean purposefully keeps his circles wide open and the fact that both of them could so easily fall into his radar after having been there for no time at all worries him. "Dean? Are you sure you're okay?"
"I, ah, yeah." He coughs, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'm really sorry I missed dinner. Can we raincheck?"
"Of course," Castiel replies smoothly. "How about tomorrow night?"
"Sounds good," Dean croaks, his voice rough and weak-sounding even to his own ears.
"I'll see you soon, Dean." His voice is a low purr, a promising growl, and Dean shivers and flinches at the same time.
"Bye, Cas," he says, hanging up quickly and breathing out. He's tired, he's hungry, and he feels like Hell.
When he gets downstairs, Sam is reading the paper and eating one of the sandwiches Dean prepared the day before. He gives Dean a cursory wave in a hello, then does a double take and looks up at his brother as Dean sits down at the table near him and presses their lower legs together harshly, craving the contact. "Dean? You okay?"
"I had a…" Dean swallows, rubbing a hand over his face and back through his hair. He's walking a fine line between classified material, needing answers and not having Sam commit him to a mental institution. "I kind of had a moment today."
Sam immediately sets the paper and food down, his other leg bracketing Dean's first in so Dean has double the contact and almost immediately Dean can feel himself relaxing a little. "What triggered it?" he asks, sounding calm and professional but Dean hasn't had an episode like this since their dad died and really it is fucking worrying.
"I…" He looks down, breathing out heavily again, and tries to remember. "I don't know. I don't remember anything today since the precinct."
"Dean, it's okay." And Dean wants to snap at him because it's not okay, his brain doesn't forget things, doesn't blank things out because what good is it to him if it does that? "Talk me through your day, then. We'll figure it out."
"Right." He sighs again, pressing his lips together hard enough that the edges white out, drumming his nails against the countertop. "Well, Pike left a message for me to come to the precinct, said there was some footage I should look at. And I did."
"And?" Sam asks, when Dean stretches the silence on too long because he's trying to figure out just which parts of his story he's going to tell Sam and which parts he's going to keep to himself. He won't tell Sam about his visions – those will only worry him and Sam doesn't need Dean's welfare to be added to the list of things he has to deal with. Should he tell Sam about Castiel? Maybe Sam's super lawyer powers will get him access to things that Dean shouldn't or can't legally get. Sam doesn't exactly know about Dean's late-night habits involving men but he doesn't think he'll be surprised either. Sam's kind of laid back like that, in a way.
He breathes out steadily. "I recognized someone," he finally says. And it sounds so stupid, because yeah, so he recognized someone. Hardly earth-shattering. "She… I'm almost positive she had something to do with the case. But that means that our mutual acquaintance might as well."
"Wait, back up." Sam holds a hand out across the table, catching Dean's attention. "How did you recognize her?"
"When I went out with Lisa, she was in the restaurant having dinner as well."
"Who with?"
"Some guy," Dean replies, trying to shrug it off as he turns his face away. "Point is, I think she has something to do with it. And I was going over the case files in my room and I just totally blanked out the past, like, six hours."
"You must have seen something," Sam says, pressing his lips together and frowning. "You must have figured out something, in those files, something you hadn't seen before." Dean can feel his brother's eyes on the side of his face, calculating. Sam can read people almost as well as Dean can, he knows, and Dean shies away from being read like that but he knows he doesn't have anywhere to hide from Sam. Sam knows him better than anyone. "Tell me about the guy she was having dinner with."
Dean immediately goes tense. "What about him?"
"You tell me," Sam replies, bracing himself on his elbows against the edge of the counter. His eyes are sharp – he knows Dean's hiding something from him.
"He…" Dean sighs, rolling his eyes and rubbing a hand over his mouth. "His name is Castiel. I met him a couple nights ago. I didn't…I can't read him right, Sammy." It feels like a dirty confession – this is what he does, and the fact that when it comes to Castiel he had to resort to fucking Google makes him sick to his stomach. "And he was having dinner with her and I should have known. I should just know, shouldn't I?"
"You don't have to know all the time, Dean," Sam murmurs, concern and worry written clearly on his face and Dean wants to punch him because he needs to stop looking at him like that. "Even you can't see everything at once."
"I should have known." Dean stands, abruptly disconnecting himself from Sam and immediately missing the strong warmth of his little brother by his side. "I need to go back to those files. Something is missing. I know it."
"Do you want some help?" Sam asks, standing also, paper and food forgotten, and though Dean wants to tell him not to worry about it, to stay and maybe go see Jess or whatever it is Sam chooses to do when he works late nights, he simply turns and heads back up to his room, unsurprised when he hears Sam follow. It is probably for the best – if he does freak out again at least Sam will be able to snap him back out of it.
"I don't have to remind you that this shit's still classified. At least Bradbury is – Blake and Milton might be written off by now, I don't know. They shouldn't be but apparently no one gives a fuck that they're all related somehow," he says, taking his seat on the futon again and sending Sarah Blake and Amelia Milton's file towards Sam, who sits down with his back against the wall and takes them. "Charlie Bradbury's the most recent," Dean adds, sending her file Sam's way also. "All different causes of death, all different settings and times and – Hell, there's not even climate or marital status tying them together. Charlie was a lesbian; Sarah and Amelia were hetero… Fuck." Dean rubs the back of his neck, sighing heavily. "There's no suspects for any of them yet except the woman I saw who knows the guy -."
"Castiel," Sam says hesitantly, like he's not sure if he's getting the name right.
"Yeah. Novak," Dean confirms with a nod, sighing and stretching out along the futon until he feels his spine crack. He feels exhausted and tense, and the futon smells like sweat and anxiety from his dreams on it. He turns his head to one side, listening to Sam's breathing and the occasional flicker of pages turning over, and spies the crossword puzzle book he had left unfinished. He sits up, then, reminded of his challenge to Castiel, and picks it up, flicking to the one he'd told Castiel to finish.
He almost laughs. "Son of a bitch," he mutters, garnering Sam's attention. "He didn't even finish it. Cheating bastard."
"Who didn't?" Sam asks, frowning over at his brother.
Dean swallows, setting the book down again. "Castiel may have spent the night here last night," he says, rolling his shoulders and half expecting an outburst from Sam, but all he gets is a slight widening of Sam's eyes and a jerky nod. "I, ah, wanted to see if he could finish it." He gestures to the book in question. "Turns out he hadn't – just made me believe he had."
"…Oh," Sam replies, choosing to not delve into the subject further, and goes back to the case studies. Dean trails off again, swallowing, eyes narrowing when he looks back at the book once more. He picks it up again, fingers trailing over the missing squares – or rather, the incorrect ones. The missing answer – the capital of Mozambique – is instead full of a random mesh of letters than the actual answer.
He'd tried to make it look like he'd solved the damn thing. Instead of leaving it blank, admitting the wrong and the ignorance, Castiel had tried to deceive Dean. Tried to lead him astray.
That, he thinks, says an awful lot about him.
"Dean," Sam says, brow furrowed and snapping Dean out of his thoughts. "These dates…they're all pretty close together, considering their geography." Dean nods – he'd thought of that too. "And you're absolutely positive that they're connected somehow?" Another nod. "Then, well, that means whoever is doing this knows exactly when and where they're going to have to hit. If we take into account the fact that a murder like this would probably take a day or two to stake out, and driving time and everything…These weren't spur of the moment kills, were they?"
Dean shakes his head. "Charlie's was. I don't think she was the original target. I think she was an accident. She…" He presses his lips together, remembering the raw betrayal painted onto the walls. "Our suspect wanted something from her and when she refused to give it, they killed her." He shrugs one shoulder, swallowing and looking back down at the crossword puzzle. "She didn't have to die. Her own hubris made sure she did."
"Amelia had a kid," Sam murmurs, flicking over to her case file. "But the child and the father went missing before her death? And they found her back with…Claire?"
"Yeah," Dean replies, straightening a little because Sam has this tone in his voice like he's about to say something very important – like he's leading Dean towards a revelation. "She filed a missing person's report two days before Claire showed up with her body. Time of death was the same day, though, so someone took her and brought her back specifically to kill her. Like a message?"
"And the father…" Sam turns another page, folding it back and holding the file up so that it receives better light. "Huh. That's weird."
"What is?" Dean asks. He hadn't paid much attention to the father – he was a different case file anyway and, in Dean's head, unimportant because there has been no discernible reason for his death. A tragic accident that left him on the side of the road with no I.D. or anything on him until he'd been I.D'd later by his mother.
"Claire and James – the father – had the same last name, but Amelia was listed under her maiden name." Sam's mouth twists, eyes narrowing as he tries to decipher the tightly-woven scrawl. "Claire and James were…does that look like Novak or Nomak?"
What? "Novak?" Dean repeats softly, his voice suddenly leaving him in a harsh gust as he all but dives for the folder Sam is holding, grabbing at the notes and staring in shock. How can he have not seen it? There, in tiny scrawl within the Officer's Notes: prime suspect, husband-father Jimmy Novak, deceased. No picture, but there doesn't need to be. Novak is hardly a common name within the United States, and now…now a Novak has shown up at two crime scenes. "Oh my God."
"What?" Sam asks, leaning over Dean's shoulder to stare at the writing, but Dean isn't looking at the folder – staring out, he presses the folder back into Sam's hands, and it feels like he cannot breathe. "What, Dean, what is it?"
The windows are darkening, light fading and shadows merging into the form of the giant black cat, teeth bared and dripping saliva onto the floor. Dean sucks in a breath, shrinking back against the wall as he sees it coming closer. Vaguely, he can hear Sam's voice, Sam calling for him, but he dares not look away from the giant red-black eyes of the cat, curling up next to the window as though about the pounce on him. Its ears are flat against its head, tail poised like a serpent over its back, and Dean swallows, sure that it will pounce on him at the first movement he makes.
"Dean!" Sam's hand on his shoulder, shaking him hard, snaps him out of it, and abruptly the shadows flee from the room leaving the twilight of the setting sun shining through, and Dean gasps, new sweat broken out along his hairline, his skin clammy and pale once more as he tries to recover from the vision. Tries to convince himself that if he blinks the cat won't resurface. "Dean, what is it? What did you see?"
"I have to go check something," Dean says, pushing himself abruptly to his feet and shoving Sam's hand off of his shoulder. At least, he thinks that might be the words he tries to say, but they mostly come out as a jumbled mess and he isn't sure if Sam understands him. He staggers out of the end room and down the corridor, past his bedroom. The giant cat is rolling around on his bed, there, purring loudly as its fur sheds against the dirty sheets.
He runs down the stairs, all but fleeing towards Sam's office where their only computer is, and he slams the door shut behind him. This room is too small for the cat to get into, he knows, and hurriedly he sits down and boots the computer up. Sam has his computer password-locked, but Dean has known it since Sam bought the thing three years ago because, unfortunately, his brother is not very complicated when it comes to password protection.
"Come on, come on…" His eyes dart over the loading screen, expecting to see a flash of black fur in the dark reflections in the screen's corners. He can hear the animal pacing outside, just waiting for him, harsh growl thrumming inside of Dean's chest. "There we go."
His fingers fly over the keyboard, and he finally sits back with a heavy sigh when gets to the high school website for Charlotte Bradbury. Her familiar face is grinning at him from behind her uniform and lacrosse stick and he swallows when he sees the roaring head of a jaguar emblazoned on her chest. The black cat snarls at him from the picture, and with shaking fingers he follows the link down the left-hand side to the graduating class.
Eyes wide, trying to see everything at once, he scrolls down slowly. Bradbury is near the top, but just before her. "Oh my God." That's it – that's her. Sarah Blake. Farther down is Amelia Milton – younger, dainty and pixie-like and her eyes sparkling blue with life and happiness.
When he gets to the 'N's, he almost stops himself. There's no going back from knowing this – an undeniable link between the three murders (five, six if he counts the auxiliaries), that he cannot unknow once he knows. He'll have to tell Pike, and Henricksen, and they'll hunt Castiel and his lady friend out of town or arrest them or God knows what else and -.
Castiel could have murdered people. He could have been hiding in plain sight, throwing himself into Dean's line of vision to either hide or protect his friend, or to throw Dean off course entirely. Filling in the gaps instead of leaving blank squares.
He breathes out, pressing his mouth against his fist, and scrolls down.
There they are. James and Castiel Novak – twin brothers. Both graduated with honors, one headed for Illinois, the other for California, one with an interest in film and advertising, the other...criminal psychology. "Fuck," Dean whispers, almost laughing because it's just too fucking perfect. It's too fucking perfect.
"Dean?" Sam's voice is on the other side of the door, knuckles rapping against it before he pushes the door open to peer inside. "Dean, are you okay? Talk to me, man."
Dean looks between the two of them, and then clicks on the picture of James. "I found him," he tells Sam, shaking his head again and not sure if he wants to laugh or cry or shoot something. "Both of them – James and Castiel. Twin brothers. Fuck." He shakes his head once more and his breathing is shaky, leg jerking underneath the table because he can't sit still. He stumbles across a picture of the two of them, James with an arm slung around a young Amelia and kissing her on the forehead, his other hand resting on Castiel's shoulder as he grins at the two of them. They look so much younger, so much lighter in this stupid photograph. "This." He taps his finger against the screen, to the tan material slung over James' arm. "You even took his coat, didn't you, you son of a bitch."
"Dean, what -." They both turn and look up at the sound of knuckles rapping against the door, sharp and swift, and Dean fixed wide eyes on Sam, getting up from the chair after shutting down the computer. "Who is it?" Sam calls, already heading towards the door. Dean can feel the subtle shift in the air as he follows, feel the breath of the giant black cat down the back of his neck.
"My name is Castiel. I'm here to see Dean." Sam freezes at the name, wide-eyed gaze suddenly fixed on Dean. He spreads his hands out to his sides, unsure of what to do, and Dean quickly takes a deep breath, and goes to the door.
It might not be him, Dean thinks to himself, praying with all his strength that that was true, as he clenches his fingers tight around the doorknob and opens the door, forcing a small smile onto his face.
"Cas," he says, hopeful that his voice is convincing where his expression isn't. "Hey. Wasn't expecting you so late."
"My mother did teach me manners," Castiel replies with a toothy grin – one that looks so much more predatory than it did before, how had Dean not noticed? "I brought you one of those baked potatoes you recommended," he adds, holding up a brown takeaway bag bulging at either sides with the Styrofoam corners of a box. "They were very good – you have good taste."
"At least in food," Dean mutters, smiling despite himself. He can't see anything off about Castiel, and he's doing his best to look through the tainted lens of crime and grit that is still clinging to the backs of his eyes. He feels like he should be smelling blood in the air, but he doesn't. The cat has retreated. "Come on in."
Dean is glad to see that Sam had the good sense to flee so that Castiel won't see him – he might be in his office, he might be upstairs, the less Dean knows the better. He sets the baked potato down and turns to face Castiel, finds the man perusing his house with a calm curiosity. "I'm sorry again for earlier – I really don't know what happened."
"Perhaps I wore you out," Castiel replies with a slight smile, and Dean blinks, because Castiel is fucking toying with him. "I promise to go easier on you in future."
"In future?" Dean repeats, unable to stop himself. It can't be Castiel – because murder is a stain. Dean has seen it enough times to know what it looks like on a man. Too many lines around his mouth and across his forehead, too much darkness within his iris, too many calluses on his hands. A certain, unmistakable hostility that is evident in the set of a man's shoulders or the way he tilts his head when he talks. Castiel is not a murderer – he can't be. He can't be. "You were planning on -?"
"I was rather looking forward to it," Castiel says with a shrug of his shoulder and a tilt of his head, and even freaked out as he is Dean cannot help but lick his lips at the thought of it. Maybe if he can get close again, tear back this man's skin; he can get a better read. As it is, Castiel is a blank wall to him, without fault or flaw.
Castiel is looking at him, eyes cool and dark, and Dean licks his lips again, eyes lowering from the scrutiny. The air between them feels electric, a constant shiver breaking out along Dean's skin where Castiel is a burning furnace in front of him. Blindly Dean reaches out, grabbing onto Castiel's shoulder, and pulls him in for a rough kiss, small of his back colliding harshly against the kitchen counter as Castiel slots in front of him, hands on either side of his body to cage him in, and kisses back.
He is a fire, hungry and merciless, salt and iron in Dean's mouth. He smells like outside air, like food and warmth, like the sweat of sex and the faint trace of someone's perfume. A hand is fisted in his hair, pulling him forward until the two of them stumble away from the kitchen, into the living room where there is one large, well-worn couch facing a modest television, a coffee table separating them and then Sam and Dean's dad's old leather recliner facing the couch.
With a soft snarl, Castiel shoves at Dean's shoulders until he falls back against the couch, circling like a prowling predator to come around and slide easily into Dean's lap. Dean sucks in a harsh breath, feeling the warmth and hard muscle of Castiel's thighs digging into him from either side, trapping him in the most delicious way. Then Castiel's mouth is back against his, biting his lower lip, tongue coaxing him to part and let Castiel in.
The shivery sensation feels like it's crawling deeper into Dean's bones, freezing and burning him from the inside out. His hips buck upwards of their own accord, one hand flattening along Castiel's thigh, the other wrapped tight around his shoulders to keep him close as they grind together, all sinuous muscle and harsh gasps against each other's lips. "Cas," Dean gasps, because he can't help himself, because he feels like he's shaking apart but here Castiel is, steady and unwavering and cool as an undisturbed lake surface. It can't be Castiel – it can't be.
"Been thinking about this all day," Castiel growls, one hand flattened across Dean's head to stroke through his hair, nails a grounding scratch and twinge of pain. "How easy to opened up to me, how tight you were. And your mouth -." Dean kisses him again, because Castiel needs to stop talking – those words are throaty and rough, like the snarl of an animal and already the room feels like it's too dark. There's no light in Castiel's eyes anymore.
But he wants it – he wants this man, dark and dangerous and completely unreadable. Dean wants him more than his lungs can handle – he can't find the air to make them work, to make himself speak. He should be pushing Castiel away, calling Pike, demanding answers, but he can't and he won't and Castiel must know something about it because he's kissing Dean like he wishes to consume him totally.
"Cas, please," he whispers, because it's all he can bring himself to say, nails digging into Castiel's thigh and shoulder tight enough to bruise, hips arching up. He feels like his mind has been ripped away from him, leaving him in pure animal instinct, and he wants.
Castiel pulls back suddenly, jerking Dean up by the hand, and forces him into another harsh kiss that leaves Dean's mouth feeling bruised and tender. Fingers still tightly interlaced in Dean's hand, he pulls the younger man back out of the living room and towards the bathroom under the stairs. It's barely big enough for Dean to stand in, only a toilet and a sink and mirror within it, but it's big enough for Castiel to turn Dean around so he's braced against the sink basin and can see both of their faces clearly in the mirror.
"Look at you," Castiel breathes, plastered to Dean's back, mouth opening hot and wet along his neck, and Dean shivers and flinches at the scrape of teeth across his nape. He can feel one of Castiel's hands working at the belt of his jeans, harsh pull when the belt is pulled too tight only for the sudden relief when it hangs free and loose. Castiel's other hand traces Dean's chest, pulling him backwards, and Dean can only watch in stunned silence as Castiel's hand flattens over his heart, fingers splayed out like a brand. "Do you feel strong right now, Dean? Sure?"
He knows, he knows. Dean swallows, meeting Castiel's dark eyes in the mirror, and shakes his head, hanging it down to look at his shoes.
"But you are," Castiel continues, both hands moving down now to unbutton and unzip Dean's jeans, shoving them down around his thighs along with his underwear so that his cock is freed and he shivers again because the air feels frigid right now even though the rest of him is flushing hot. Castiel's hand wraps around his cock, damp and hot, and Dean bites his lip to stop himself making a sound. "No matter what you see. No matter what dirt and slime and filth scrapes itself from the city walls to your feet, you step over it with your eyes raised."
Dean lifts his head again, shocked and speechless, to meet Castiel's eyes. The man's gaze is steady and trapped, blue amber caged tight around an insect. "I wish I could say the same, but an animal has to bite back when bitten, doesn't it?"
Dean hisses, shoulders drawing in tight and tense when he feels two of Castiel's fingers press against him – it's too dry, way too fucking dry, and it'll hurt like a bitch if Castiel keeps going, but just when Dean thinks he just might, that something has snapped in Castiel too hard for him to keep up the cool façade, the man withdraws, and Dean relaxes when his touch momentarily stops long enough for him to reach into his pocket and pull out a sachet of lube.
Still, Dean is frozen. He should run – get Sam to call for backup, throw his elbow back and catch Castiel in the jaw or nose or chest or somewhere that will make him hesitate enough to get away. But Dean is frozen. He can hear the snarling of a wolf outside of the bathroom door, see the dark shadows moving with the steps of the pacing animal – the wolf is there and if he leaves it will rip him apart. He has to stay.
He wants to stay.
"This wasn't how it was supposed to go," Castiel whispers, flattening his slick hand across Dean's hip again, making Dean suck in a breath when he feels the hard, wet line of Castiel's cock rubbing up against him, just barely batching on his rim. "But I suppose half of your charm is your deadliness."
Any reply Dean would have made is lost when Castiel abruptly begins to push into him – he's too tight, not stretched enough, and the lube stings where it touches him enough to make him hiss and shy away, but Castiel's grip is strong and unyielding, forcing Dean to stay put as he slowly – agonizingly slowly – pushes all the way inside.
Dean gasps when he bottoms out, body shuddering around the intrusion because it hurts, it hurts like a bitch, and not in the pleasant-stinging way it had last night, but in the harsh, violent way of not-enough-stretch and too-fast-too-soon, and sweat has broken out along his hairline again. When he finally raises his head, his eyes catch sleek fur and blackness in the mirror and he startles, driving himself further backwards against Castiel in an attempt to recoil from the vision.
Castiel grunts, taking it as permission as he draws out and fucks in again, and Dean sucks in a shaky breath, his heart hammering because he can see the wolf, its eyes glowing a dark red as it stares at him with the mangled remains of the giant black cat in its mouth. He can almost hear it howling in victory inside of his head, and he tries to blink and shake it away and concentrate because Castiel is right behind him and he's hurting Dean and potentially a serial killer and Dean should really be trying to get himself out of this.
He opens his mouth, about to tell Castiel to stop, but all that comes out is a 'Please, Cas, more', in a soft, plaintive whine.
Castiel is an animal, low growls and red lines painted down Dean's sides by his nails, as he leans forward and mouths along Dean's shoulder through the thin protection of his shirt. The threat of teeth makes Dean go tense, the rest of his body clenching tight and earning a low, stifled groan from the other man. He's losing it – Dean can tell, in the way Castiel's breathing goes very slow and shaky, in the way his thrusts aren't even designed to please anymore, have dissolved into nothing more than a selfish chase towards his own gratification.
A particularly vicious thrust has Dean crying out, hand slamming up against the mirror to shatter the image of the wolf and cat that he is seeing, shards splitting apart from the blow under his hand, and the bite of pain from fractured glass centers and grounds him. When he looks up again, he sees his own face staring back at him, eyes blackened and lips bruised and red. Castiel is behind him, a shape twisted by lust and ire and Dean hangs his head again, unable to watch, unable to do more than simply reach back and knot his fingers into Castiel's, harsh enough to feel the dull friction of bones under his skin.
Castiel growls low at the bite of pain, nails finding their way into Dean's flesh as he thrusts into him several more quick, dragging times, before he's coming with a low, sated sound that Dean has already equated to Castiel's pleasure. There are several thin lines of blood crawling down Dean's palm and his forearm from the way his skin is shredding against the broken mirror, and his ass hurts from the rough fuck and little prep, but that sound makes Dean feel satisfied, powerful because for a moment Castiel is incapacitated, and it's by his hand. This man is frozen solid because of him.
"I'll give you one chance, Dean," Castiel finally whispers, pulling out and tucking himself back in, looking completely unflustered now and Dean's heartbeat stutters – he knows, he knows, he -. "Leave town. Go to Europe like you said; fall in love with a runaway. But leave. Or I'll have to hunt you down."
Dean feels his blood run cold at the thinly veiled threat. He shivers, turning around in the limited space, pulling his clothes back up around his body because the paltry barriers are all he has right now. "I'm not fucking leaving," he hisses, because there's no point in denying it now, is there? That hostility that is so damn telling in a killer is rolling off of Castiel now, eyes black and lips pressed into a thin line. Dean reaches for the door, shoving it open and relieved in the back of his mind when he sees neither man nor beast outside. "No one is running me out of my own city."
Castiel's mouth twists, eyes flat. "Suit yourself," he says, advancing on Dean. Dean intentionally sharpens his gaze, widens his vision – looks for a weapon to use or a sign that Castiel might have one on him, sure that the other man would make a rush for him. Castiel pauses, suddenly, lips quirking up in a wry smile. "I'm not going to attack you, Dean." The idea almost seems absurd to him.
"Why wouldn't you?" Dean asks, eager to buy himself time. "I figured you out. You only have the option to run or surrender yourself."
His words seem to lure a laugh out of the other man, eyes glinting brightly like metal in moonlight. "You see so much, Dean," he says, shaking his head ruefully. "I could have made such a brilliant masterpiece out of you, if only I had more time."
"What -?" Dean stops, then, because someone is at his door – someone with their fists balled up and banging against the wood like he intends to beat it down if he gets no answer.
"Winchester!" Pike. It's Pike. Sam called detective Pike. What fantastic timing. "Open the door!"
For a moment, both Dean and Castiel are still, watching each other, their eyes darting between the door and the other man. Castiel's weight shifts, towards the kitchen island where the knives are, and Dean knows he has about two seconds before Castiel makes a move. When the older man's eyes flash away from him, gauging the distance, he bolts for the door, just to hear Castiel curse and heavy footsteps following him.
He makes it to the door in time, throwing it open and never so Goddamn glad to see Pike and Henricksen than he is right now. "Hey guys," he says, breathlessly, able to feel the cold glower of Castiel's eyes against his shoulders. "What can I do ya for?"
"Let us in, Winchester," Henricksen says before Pike can speak, and the other man looks haggard and worried, wringing his hands with each other, and Dean's reply is lost when Henricksen simply shoulders his way in, towards the kitchen. Dean sucks in a breath, expecting to hear a scuffle, expecting maybe Henricksen's body to come flying back towards them from a blow, or for the soft, telltale whistle of a knife. Nothing comes. "Ah, Special Agent Novak. Looks like you beat us here."
For a long moment, Dean feels like he cannot move. What? He dashes into the kitchen to see Castiel smiling, shaking Henricksen's hand, flashing teeth in a calm and friendly way. "You were right to send me here," Castiel says, rolling his shoulders as he lets go of Henricksen's hand, eyes flashing to Dean that are cool and calculating all over again. Dean can feel a giant pit opening in the bottom of his stomach.
Something's happening. Something's wrong.
He turns to Pike. "What the fuck is going on?" he murmurs to the other man, surprised when Pike flinches from him.
"You're under arrest, Dean Winchester," Henricksen says in answer, gesturing for two nameless officers to come forward, handcuffs at the ready. Dean is almost too stunned to resist them. Almost. "For the murders of Lisa Braeden and Special Agent Megan Williams."
"Wait, what?" Dean gasps, shrugging off the hands of the officers trying to arrest him, staring at Pike and Henricksen, only to receive worried helplessness and a calm, flat expression. His eyes turn to Castiel. "What the fuck did you do to them, you son of a bitch?"
Castiel presses his lips together, this look of sympathy on his face like he can't understand Dean's behavior. Like he only wants to help. Dean wants to run at him, punch him right in his lying face and rip him apart until everyone can see the dirty, scarred soul underneath – just like he can. He can smell the blood on Castiel now – it's his blood, and those women, and James Novak's. God, he reeks of it.
"He's bleeding," one of the men notices, a huff to his voice as he tries to fight Dean's arms behind his back, handcuffs snapping around his wrists with dreadful finality.
"He smashed a mirror," Castiel supplies, turning back towards Henricksen, voice flat like rattling off a report. "Came at me with a shard of glass before I was able to knock the weapon away. It's a good thing you came when you did, detective."
"You son of a bitch," Dean hisses, baring his teeth and spitting the words at the other man as they begin to drag him out. "I will prove this was you. I'll do it!"
"Dean, come on." That's Pike, stepping in front of him and trying to subdue him, and Dean feels like there's an animal crawling beneath his skin, ready to tear its way free. His fingers curl and dig into his own palms to stop himself lashing out.
Castiel sighs, turning back to Henricksen, and Dean can feel the poison seeping into his superior's ears from Castiel's tongue, knows that Henricksen will believe him because he wants to believe him; wants to listen to the preacher-boy 'Special Agent', the avenging Angel, more than he wants to acknowledge that Dean was right, that this whole thing is way more complicated than any of them thought.
He doesn't call out for Sam, although he's damn-well tempted to do so; he doesn't need anyone knowing Sam is here, to get rid of the only advantage his baby brother has of slipping under this psychopath's radar. Although, if Castiel found out about Lisa, there's not much else Dean could do to protect Sam. He's failed – God, he should have been more aware, more observant. He should have known.
"I'll kill you," Dean whispers to himself when they duck his head down to get into the police car, glaring back through the open blinds where Castiel and Henricksen are standing, observing the scene from within. Dean doesn't know if Castiel can see him from the difference in light, but he hopes he can. He thinks Castiel can, because when he says the words again, he can see Castiel smile.