A/N: Wow. Ok, so I haven't updated in a while. Sorry about that. I just wasn't feeling very motivated - I feel like there is a story to tell here but there doesn't seem to be much enthusiasm. If y'all actually would like for this story to continue, shoot me a review, okay? And I promise frequent and regular updates. Note 2 - the rating on this has been changed from Mature to Teen, do to the comment of a reviewer who pointed out that it was quite as gory or creepy as promised. Point taken and thanks! Alright, onward!
Disclaimer: Have you seen season 9 yet? No, that is definitely not my doing, ergo, I do not own Supernatural.
The Righteous Man
Chapter Three: The Joker
"What's for dinner?" Sam asked his wife, popping his head into the kitchen.
Jess rolled her eyes. "You know the rules – I'm not telling!"
"Oh, come on, Jess!" Sam came further into the kitchen and slipped his arms around Jess' waist, lowering his chin down to her shoulder. "Please tell me?"
"It's a surprise! You can use your nose and guess, or you can be patient and wait, but I'm not going to tell you!"
"But-"
Jess swiftly turned in Sam's arms and put one finger on his mouth, silencing him. "You know you like the surprise. Now shut up and get out of here!" She kissed him quickly to take away the sting of disappointment.
Sam turned off the puppy dog eyes, as they clearly weren't working, but left the kitchen with a smile anyway. As he did, he almost collided with Dean.
"Whoa, don't run me over there, Sasquatch! Hey, Jess, I've gotta go out. Want me to grab anything for the st- uh, for the dinner you're making?"
"HA!" the sasquatch exclaimed. "It begins with 'st'! What is it- uh … st- st- steak! We're having steak! Right? Right?"
Jess rolled her eyes again. "Nah, Dean. I'll call you if I do. Get outta here before you give the whole dinner away!"
Dean got in one more twist, and was rewarded with another crack, before he finally answered his ringing phone. "Hello?"
"Dean! Ok, so, there was something … can you grab some more wine while you're out? Sam neglected to restock the cupboard."
"Hey! That was not my fault! You didn't tell-"
"Honey, shhh."
The eldest Winchester laughed. "Sure. Anything in particular or do you want a surprise?"
"Oh, surprise us."
"10/4. Sammy, behave yourself!" With that last pithy comment, he hung up.
Now, where was I? Oh, yeah – the head.
"I'll get it!" Dean said several hours later when the three Winchesters heard a knock at the door. Rushing to the door, Dean opened it. And behind door number one … "You must be Castiel. Come on in."
Castiel followed Dean inside, making polite conversation, as he saw it. "You can call me Cas … it- it's a shortened version of my name."
"You don't say?"
Castiel conceded this point. "Well, no-" he began with a tilt of his head, "I don't generally say my own name, but I can assure you that is what people call me."
Dean laughed to himself. This was the agent on his ass? No wonder law enforcement wasn't getting anywhere with his work.
They headed into the kitchen and Castiel gave Jess the flowers he brought with him, blushing furiously. Sam jokingly accused him of being out to steal Jess away but Cas took him seriously. It took them 10 minutes to convince the agent that no one actually believed he had designs on Mrs. Winchester.
The dinner that night turned out to be a success. Jessica's cooking was actually amazing and Dean charmed the entire table with his anecdotes, jokes (however raunchy they might have been at times), and smile. Castiel was a delight as well, his innocence and inability to understand sarcasm surprisingly enjoyable, especially when they made his dry wit even more of a surprise. A pleasant evening all around, the only truly significant moment of the night occurring when the talk turned to work and Castiel's current case.
Dean, of course, was the one who started the conversation. Always the daredevil, he couldn't stand not poking the bear with a stick. Also, he didn't exactly get much recognition in his line of work, so the least he felt he deserved was to hear what the supposed expert said about him.
"So, Sam said that you might have a job for me, Cas," Dean probed over his beer, his smile lighthearted but his eyes dead serious.
Castiel did not reply but instead looked over at Sam, wondering why Sam had mentioned the case to his brother; they'd talked about it but Cas hadn't thought that Sam would actually share the details ...
Sam had the sense to blush a bit – he'd been serious about getting Dean's help if need be, but he realized that Cas wasn't the most sharing of fellows when it came to case information. That made sense, of course – Cas honestly couldn't trust very many people, so he preferred to share with no one (Sam excluded, of course). And in turn, he preferred that Sam share his information with no one. But Sam didn't have the same worries about his brother that Cas would have. It was ridiculous – he knew Dean far too well to be at all worried. Still, that hadn't been the most tactful way of broaching the subject. Then again, Dean wasn't the most tactful of fellows in the first place. Well, the only way to make it less awkward was to brush over it … "I, uh, may have mentioned it to him, Cas … he's good with these kinds of cases, and … it's okay." He gave Cas a sheepish grin, earnestness radiating from him. "You can trust Dean."
"Was I not supposed to know?" Dean eyes were wide and his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Whoops- put my foot properly in it. No, but really," he leaned in, shaking off the innocent facade, "if there's anyway I can help you nail this son of a bitch, let me know. He sounds like a fucking sadist."
Castiel did not cuss, but he had to agree with Dean's assessment, although in a far more specialized way. "He is – to the extreme, in fact. He does not just take pleasure in causing pain. He has turned it into an art form – perfected it. He does not cause pain carelessly; each act is deliberate and in its most perfect form. It is only then that he enjoys it and when he does – when he creates the perfect wound – he lives off of it. It is more important to him than breathing. And he intends to create ripples, the staging of his victims having two purposes that satisfy him longer: he feels the pain of the victims and then the pain of those who find them in their horrifying surroundings, the horror of the shared story. He's like an artist that wishes for his work to touch the world and then have a little fun watching it burn. Intimate. Powerful. Meaningful. With enjoyment. That is his kill." He finally looked up, having stared at the table during his monologue, and was pricked by remorse. Jessica's face was pained, her eyes glistening slightly, and her kind heart touched by the plight of the monster's victims.
Dean leaned back in his chair, giving a long whistle of amazement. "Damn. You sound like you know him." He shook his head. "That son of a bitch."
Cas nodded at Dean, acknowledging his point. But he sensed that it was time to change the subject – Sam's face was hard with a quiet fury, Jessica looked like she wanted to cry, and Dean looked ready to start hunting down the killer already. He turned awkwardly to the lady of the house. "I apologize for bringing such a gruesome man into your house, albeit only through my description."
"Oh, no, I'm just sorry that is world you all deal with every day," she said to them all. And deftly, she turned the topic and there was not another hiccup the rest of the night.
At least, there wasn't another hiccup at the dinner party. But as Castiel was driving home that night, he passed a house bathed in a harsh light despite the darkness of the sky: a light of blue and red and flashlight yellow. Bidden by a kind of instinct he had long ago learned to trust, he pulled up beside this unknown crime scene and approached the police officer guarding the perimeter. A quick flash of his FBI badge was enough to gain him access to scene and he strode into the house, unnoticed by the higher ups who were too busy running around ineffectually. Something inside must have really riled them up.
Castiel followed the police traffic up the dingy stairs to an equally dingy hallway; the entire house seemed to be covered in a thick coat of grime that painted the world in shades of brown and grey, the only relief coming from the blue uniforms of the officers and finally, the red found in the bedroom.
In the bedroom, a woman sat in a chair. The chair faced the door. Behind the chair, directly across from the door, there was a window. Castiel had no idea what lay outside the window – a pathetic backyard of sorts, perhaps – because the window functioned now as more a mirror than a window, as windows are apt to do at night. And it was only in the mirror that Castiel could see the face of the woman.
The woman sat in the chair facing the door, her wrists and ankles bound to it in a quite theatrical fashion. Her body appeared to be unharmed. The shock came when one looked at her head and saw only the back of it, her long hair cascading down her front. In the window, Castiel could see her grinning face, cackling, it seemed, at his horror. Walking around to her back, Cas was finally able to get a good look at her face. Her eyes had been held open with little bits of tape, eyelids pulled back to reveal the whole eyeball, as was done in certain torture techniques, in order to give her viewers a piercing glare and sense of wildness. Her mouth was even more monstrous having been slashed wide open. It looked as though someone had inserted a knife into her mouth, moved it to the corner, and then pulled deep into her cheek, repeating on the other side, giving her an undying smile that bespoke madness. Someone had mutilated her face and then, as if that was not enough, had somehow twisted her head all the way around, snapping the neck.
Blood pooled on her lap and on the floor all around her and Castiel noticed an an offhanded way that it was the only color in the room. Two things stirred in his mind as he looked at it – one, that he had seen a face like this before, and two, this was his case. The staging and theatricality of it all, the strength used in the kill, the wanton cruelty of the method, and the clear intent to shock whoever discovered this woman – it all felt like the Hunter. A cold fury possessed him and he went to find the head detective to ask to be kept in the loop on the case. If the police could not find any viable suspects on their own, and Castiel knew they wouldn't – no relative or vindictive lover had done this, he was quite sure he had stumbled upon the Hunter's latest victim.
As Dean Winchester lay in bed, he marveled at Agent Novak's description of him – a sadist of the highest order. He was a bit disturbed by how close to home Castiel's words were and at the same time, gratified. Here was someone who saw past the victim, who saw past the death, and realized that he made it all into something more. Art was the word given to masterpieces, yet Dean was reluctant to claim the the description. It seemed suddenly too plebeian for what he did.
Powerful. Perfect. Intimate. Cas's words echoed in his head. It was true – it was amazing how screams could awaken the heart in such away, fear in the eyes stir the blood, absolute power humble one so. To him it was given the ability to unmake and remake – to tear into a person's very soul and like God, create their last moments out of his own mind.
With enjoyment. Dean stopped in the middle of his train of thought and laughed at how melodramatic he sounded. How- highbrow. Dean felt something greater- something powerful and perfect and intimate in his kills. But Castiel hadn't missed that he also killed because it was fun. Come on, he was self aware. He didn't deceive himself. It was something thrilling and ecstatic to kill. To feel the crack of bones beneath his hands, to hear the pleas for help and mercy, to see the flight of fear. It was electrifying and downright enjoyable. The very thought of it made Dean want to throw back his head and laugh with joy. Love what you do, eh?
Somehow, Castiel had glimpsed that – both parts. He had caught a glimpse of the man behind the curtain at these murders.
(He wasn't entirely accurate and Dean tucked away that little piece that Agent Novak had missed, hidden, a little mystery and privacy still left for himself.)
Perhaps it was time to catch a glimpse of what was behind Castiel's innocent exterior besides perception. Castiel had done Dean the favor of understanding him – it was only fair and polite that he return that favor. These next ones … they would be for him.
And that night, like the officers from the scene, the detectives, Agent Novak, the kids who caught a glimpse through the window, and the poor sister who found her, Dean's dreams were haunted by the grinning woman.
"Do you wanna know how I got these scars?" she asked them all.
Only Dean knew and only Dean cared and only Dean slept on, comforted by that secret they shared that no one else ever would.
A/N: Review, please and thank you!