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Glass Houses

Summary:

During the summer of 1975, a string of young men keep turning up dead in the city of Lawrence, Kansas. All within walking distance from one another. All frequenters of the same local nightclub. All appearing peacefully asleep in their beds save for the brutal marks of strangulation encircling their throats. It seems to be the work of a man the local news stations are calling the ‘Sleepytime Strangler’ – a nickname Castiel loathes – but the body count is up to eight with no signs of being caught.

Castiel begins to feel like it’s all just a little too easy.

Out one night at his usual hunting ground, he finds the challenge he’s been searching for in a attractive stranger named Dean, but before he can make his move, Dean’s gone and someone else has to take his place. Over the coming weeks, he can’t stop thinking about him: about the one that got away. And as it happens, the man from across the bar is relatively easy to hunt down, but what he doesn’t account for are the feelings he begins to develop for him or the fact that Dean Winchester has secrets of his own.

Notes:

Hey, guys! I present to you my first bang fic! This was partially inspired by Mindhunter as well as Jeffrey Dahmer. It features way too much Vonnegut so if none of those are your jam, well... shrugs lol. Thanks to @AngelwithacapitalA for beta and alpha help and just generally listening to me talk incessantly. Thanks to @embluesparks for beta help and for being my cheerleader. Thanks to @3195 for making some art for this guy. (Title banner by me, in fic art by 3195). And thanks to everyone in the discord server for the moral support! It's been a pleasure being psycho on main with ya'll.

Chapter 1: February, 1976

Summary:

“All this happened, more or less.”
― Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five

Chapter Text

PRESENT

February 21, 1976

“Please state your name.”

“Castiel James Novak,” he stated plainly, if not a little annoyed. “Is recording this really necessary?”

The tall man seated across from him was dressed in a stiff suit jacket and he was poring over the contents of the manila folder laid out in front of him. Next to it, a lined pad of paper and a pen. He uncapped the pen, held it over the paper, and adjusted his reading glasses, scrutinizing Castiel in some undefinable way from the other side of the table. “Does the recorder bother you?” he asked, awaiting some kind of duplicitous reaction.

The red light on the device was blinking at him and Castiel avoided looking directly at it, instead pulling at a hangnail in his lap currently threatening to peel too far. His eyes flitted between his hands, to the red eye of the recorder, to settle finally on the investigator. He considered the question carefully. After a beat, he decided, “No, I suppose not. I've got nothing to hide.”

The man simply nodded.

“Excuse me, but shouldn’t I have a lawyer present for this?”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, Mr. Novak. You’re not under arrest and you haven’t been charged with a crime. We just want to ask you a few more questions.”

“I’ve already given my statement to one of the other officers and yet I’ve been left practically in the dark as to why I’m still here.” That was a lie. Castiel knew exactly why he was still there.

“I know. I’ve got your statement here,” he said, referring to the folder in front of him. “I’d like to talk about it with you, if you don’t mind. Just want to pick your brain a little.”

“Is everything alright?” Castiel analyzed the thoughtful creases in the man’s forehead while he read over the sheets. “You're not like the others.” After an empty moment, he knew what it was. “You’re... federal?”

Nodding sagely, the man rubbed a hand over his weary face and exhaled. Long hours, no doubt, chasing after the elusive shadow of a man he couldn’t catch. Slipping through his fingers. His red-rimmed eyes were straining under the harsh examination lights.

“So,” the agent mumbled into his palm, voice purposely devoid of interest and hand annoyingly tapping the end of the pen on the pad, “What can you tell me about Dean Winchester?”

Right to the point. Worry saturated Castiel’s features, voice twisting to match. “Is Dean alright?”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps? What does that mean?”

“If you would, Mr. Novak. It’s a simple question.”

“It’s not a simple answer,” he countered.

“Just answer it to the best of your ability then.”

“If you refer to my statement, I believe I’ve already answered,” Castiel smartly replied.

The man sat in silence. Waiting.

“Fine.” Castiel huffed and leaned back in his chair. “What would you like to know?”

“Whatever you want to tell me,” he said. “Were the two of you friendly?”

Castiel chuckled. “Yes, you could say that.”

Another nod. “In your own words, describe him to me.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin, honestly.”

“Anywhere. The beginning.”

Dean Michael Winchester was born on January 24th, 1949 at Lawrence Memorial Hospital at 6:35pm to John and Mary Winchester.

He was 6 foot 1 inch tall. Weighed 182lbs. Hair a questionable shade of honey brown highlighted with natural blonde, eyes a striking shade of gold flecked green, and a smattering of freckles that only stood out the more he worked in the sun.

He had a younger brother named Sam, who was four years younger than him and had recently graduated from Stanford University School of Law.

Their mother died in a fire when he was only four. His father died a little over a year ago, right before Sam decided to stay in California, leaving Dean alone most of the time. Aside from the seldom nights he’d gone out to the bar to find a warm body or the nights he spent staring down the neck of a bottle.

He restored classic cars at Singer Salvage and Restoration downtown.

He drove a 1967 Chevrolet Impala in the shade ‘Tuxedo Black’ that used to belong to his father; the kind car ethusiasts called a glass house, spacious and imposing. The trunk was big enough to fit a body and the backseat was big enough to fit two lying down. At least, that was what Dean had told him once.

He secretly liked to be manhandled during sex and, some nights after work, despite all of his machismo and posturing during the day, he would indulge himself in wearing women’s underwear when he was alone. Really revelling in the way the dainty material felt against the smooth skin of his cock.

And five out of seven days a week, he took his coffee black.

But Castiel knew more than anybody that to truly capture the essence of Dean Winchester in words was next to impossible. These were just facts. Snippets. Barely grazing the surface. Besides, how could one contain multitudes in only a few sentences? And quite frankly, the fact of the matter was that Dean Winchester was... ineffable.

So he didn't say it quite like that.

Afterall, he wasn't stupid.

“Dean...” Castiel started, searching the patterns in the laminate table for some way to even begin to describe him to this man. A small smile tugged on the corner of his mouth at the mere sound of the name on his lips. “Well, he’s-- One thing you have to know about Dean is that he’s beyond words,” he said with a slight snort, at a complete loss. “Truthfully, I think he had a bit of a crush on me when we first met.”

The man scribbled a note. “Is that so?”

Castiel met his bored gaze across the table. “Of course it is, I wouldn’t lie to you,” he assured him. “I had a bit of a crush on him too, if I’m being honest with you.” Honestly, Castiel might have even been in love with him if he allowed himself to entertain the notion.

“But you don’t anymore?”

“No. Not anymore.”

“Why not?”

“To everything there is a season, Agent…?”

“Ford.”

“Like the president?”

The agent hummed. “Like the president.”

Castiel acknowledged it with a sigh. “Dean has a… particular personality. He can be very charming. Caring, even, but he has an awful temper.” He watched as the man jotted that bit down. “He’s not for everyone. Sometimes the bad outweighs the good, and eventually, I decided he wasn’t for me either.” His gaze narrowed in on the pen still scratching against the pad of paper. “What are you writing?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, just taking notes,” he said, waving it off. “What was it about Winchester that made you feel that way?”

“How do you mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know… Did he do nice things for you? Favors, things like that?”

Castiel’s eyebrows pinched in the middle and his head began to tilt. “I’m not sure I understand the correlation. My relationship to Dean was not dependent on the things he could do for me.”

The man hummed and scribbled something else. “No, of course not. Let me rephrase… What were some of the things you admired about him?”

“You might need more paper,” Castiel joked, reaching for his cup of tepid water. He sipped on it for a moment, pondering the question before gently placing it down again. “Well, for starters, he’s loyal to a fault. He would do anything for the people he cares about, especially his younger brother, Sam. Sam decided to stay in California after graduation and that’d been really hard on him, even though he never wanted to talk about it.”

“What else?”

“He’s determined. Once he sets his mind to something he has to finish it. He practically rebuilt his car from the ground up after an accident. A ‘67 Chevy Impala. T-boned by an 18 wheeler and lived to tell the tale.” Castiel lifted his finger to chew on the hangnail. “Hmm… You know, his mother died when he was just a small boy and his father was what you might call an absent parent. He had an issue with drink. Abusive. You know the type. Dean practically raised Sam from infancy. I think that’s really something, you know?”

The man’s mouth quirked like he was impressed. “I’d say that’s quite something too.” His pen moved again. Undoubtedly stringing together a fantastical tale about Dean Winchester’s warped upbringing.

Castiel hummed his agreement and continued chewing the nail, absently tasting the tang of salted copper once the hangnail finally caught. “He’s also funny, but don’t tell him I said that, it would just go straight to his head. His jokes are kind of awful, but I don’t know, for whatever reason, he made me smile.” He smiled at just the idea. “Now that I think about it, Dean always did come on a little strong. That’s actually how we met.”

“Oh?” The man paused his notes and looked up at him. “Tell me more about that.”

“About what?”

“How you met.”

“Well,” Castiel shrugged. “It’s not a very interesting story, honestly. Just your run-of-the-mill meeting.”

“It’s special to you. You can tell me about it, if you want.”

Scratching at the back of his neck, Castiel huffed and rolled his eyes, the faint ghost of fondness settling in around the edges. “I guess you’re right.” He licked his chapped lips and sighed. “Well, it was actually at work-- Mine that time, not his.”

***

It had only been Castiel’s third shift at Buzzy Bee Coffee and he wasn’t used to the morning rush yet. His coworker Steve went to the restroom five minutes before the rush started and there was a line forming at the counter, so he grabbed the closest apron and got to work. The line impatiently waited while he accidentally spilled steamed milk down the front of his novelty apron and added an extra shot of espresso to the drink he was attempting to make.

“Good enough,” he muttered to himself. Low enough that he couldn’t be heard over the hiss and gurgle of the percolators while he secured the to-go lid on the cup. Turning to place it on the pick-up counter, he called out, “Americano with an extra shot of espresso!”

He waited a moment, but when no one came to retrieve the coffee, he got back to making more orders in the meantime.

He managed to get rid of a couple customers before he noticed the Americano still sat orphaned on the counter.

He called out the order again.

Still no takers.

Taking the still-warm paper cup in hand with a sigh, he turned it to find the name scribbled on it in permanent marker and decided to go with that.

Louder, he asked, “Is there a Dean here?”

In the far corner, the man with his head absorbed in his pay phone conversation perked up, mouth slack before realization smacked him upside the head. “Crap. I gotta go.” He mumbled quick apologies as he maneuvered his way through the line towards the pick-up counter.

“Sorry,” he repeated again with a slight blush once he reached the counter.

He was all sparkling green eyes, long lashes, plump lips, and a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Hair artfully disheveled. Black t-shirt hugging all the right places.

And he was looking at Castiel.

Like, really looking.

“Family drama,” he added almost flippantly. “Little brothers, ya know? Sometimes I could just kill him.”

Castiel offered a small, understanding smile and tried not to think about the fact he was covered in milk and donning a cartoon bee.

Family drama. He knew all about that.

“It’s still warm,” he assured as he held out the cup between them.

Dean smiled back. “Thanks.” His teeth were perfect too.

Reaching out a hand, Dean plucked the coffee from Castiel’s grasp, the tip of his finger brushing over his as he did. Castiel could feel the warmth growing in his face, he just prayed Dean didn’t notice.

“Of course,” he replied, with a perfunctory nod.

Once the line dwindled, Castiel noticed Dean still stood off to the side of the counter, staring at him. Assessing him really. Eyes roving over what visible half of Castiel he could see from the other side of the counter. It wasn’t a feeling he was accustomed to, being the object of scrutiny, but Dean looked at him differently even then. Like he was something worth looking at.

“Um…” Cas pretended to busy himself with half-heartedly cleaning up the counter. “Did you need something else?”

A smile twitched the corner of Dean’s lips as he took another sip of his coffee. “You’re new here.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.

“I am. “ Cas tilted his head a little out of confusion. “How could you tell? Is your coffee that bad?”

Dean shook his head, letting out a small chuckle. “Nah, man. Coffee’s coffee. Just never seen you here before.” His gaze lingered on Castiel’s lips while his own lips lingered on the mouth of his coffee. Their eyes met. “You got that kinda face that’d be hard for a guy to forget.”

Castiel just blinked. He didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything. He blushed profusely though, especially when Steve decided to grace the counter with his presence again. When he glanced over to him, he seemed thoroughly amused at Castiel’s expense and Castiel’s face felt like it was on fire.

“Um, thank you... Enjoy the coffee,” he murmured weakly to Dean before willing himself to turn away.

“See ya around, Steve,” Dean said in return. A teasing promise clear in his voice.

For a second, Castiel forgot he was wearing the wrong apron.

***

“That’s a nice story,” the agent said, leaning back in his chair. He heaved his leg up to hold by the ankle.

From across the table, Castiel absently noticed his socks didn’t match. “If I am going to spend eternity visiting this moment and that, I'm grateful that so many of those moments are nice,” he quoted, still distracted by the socks. How hard was it to put on matching socks?

“Right.” The agent didn’t understand the reference. And really, why would he? Getting back on track, he asked, “And that was the first time you two met?”

Castiel snapped out of it and rolled his eyes. “Yes,” he exasperated. “He came into the coffee shop many times after that, actually. He always ordered the same thing every time he came in.”

“Oh? You know it by heart?”

“Of course. An Americano with an extra shot of espresso.”

“Huh. Not really a hard order to remember, I guess.”

“No, not really,” Castiel snorted. “Dean Winchester is many things, but unpredictable is not one of them.” Well, not usually.

The man reached for the folder on the table and casually flipped through it, pausing a moment to adjust his glasses again, before resuming. His fingers absently carding through his cropped silver hair. After approximately thirty seconds, he laid it back down. “Now, you said that Winchester came into the coffee shop on various occasions after the fact, correct?”

Castiel nodded, refraining another eyeroll. He just answered that. “Monday to Friday, like clockwork,” he said. “In the beginning, he would come only once in the mornings before his shift started.”

“Around what time would you say that was?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Seven thirty give or take,” Castiel estimated. “It really depended on how long he took getting out of bed. Dean’s not really a morning person. Not without his coffee.”

“That explains the extra shot,” the man quipped.

“Right,” he said with a nod. “After a couple weeks though, he kept finding reasons to come in a second time. He probably wouldn’t tell you this, but I think he’d make up reasons to visit just as an excuse to try to talk with me behind the counter.”

“And that’s where he asked you on the date?”

“...Yes, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves. I went to his work before he asked me on a date.”

“And you knew where he worked beforehand?”

“...Yes and no. I knew he worked close by. I presumed he was a mechanic because of his fingernails.” At the man’s look of confusion: “They’re always dirty,” he explained. “Eventually, he told me he worked at Singer’s just up a couple blocks and around the corner.”

“Oh, is that the chop shop on East Main?”

“Partially. They do body work too.”

“Huh, no kidding? Might have to keep them in mind.”

“You should. They do excellent work,” he said. “We’d talk about that sometimes when he’d come in, the shop I mean, or rather Dean would talk. Car things,” Castiel rolled his eyes, “Truthfully, I don’t really know much about it.”

The man hummed. “So where did you meet up? Aside from the coffee shop, I mean.”

Castiel angled his head, confusion twisting his face. “At Singer’s,” he said dumbly.

“And that was for the date?”

“No, no. Of course not. The date came later,” he said rubbing the stubble on his chin. “I had gone to Singer’s because I was having car trouble and I figured, if anyone could help me, Dean could.”

“What was wrong with your car?”

Castiel grimaced. “Honestly? No fucking clue. As I said, I’m not well-versed in that area of expertise. Dean would be able to tell you better than I could.”

***

“Dean, you got a visitor,” Bobby Singer announced, banging a hand against the side of the jalopy Dean was working on.

The cacophony of the garage was overwhelming as soon as Castiel followed the gruff, older man behind the front counter.

Dean was sprawled out on his back, headfirst under some hulking piece of scrap metal, when Castiel cautiously approached. Rolling the creeper out from under the frame, Dean’s beamed as soon as he laid eyes on him. “Well, would you look who it is,” he said in way of greeting. “Hey, Stranger! This a new delivery service, or what? Where’s my coffee?”

“Hello, Dean,” he said, blush blooming in his cheeks without his permission. “No coffee, my apologies.” He uselessly held out his empty hands and Dean chuckled. Castiel smiled back, oddly unable to control his face, as he nervously fidgeted with the keys in his hand.

“I’m kidding, man,” Dean assured, “But hey, this is a nice surprise!” Getting to his feet, he wiped his oily fingers off on the chest of his navy jumpsuit and walked past Castiel towards the rickety shop sink. He squirted a handful of orange pumice cleaner onto his soiled hands and vigorously scrubbed them together. Over his shoulder, he asked, “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

It took a minute to register. Castiel was preoccupied with noticing the way Dean filled out his jumpsuit. The way it curved with the bend in his legs, stretched across his broad shoulders. The way they undulated like waves while he thoroughly washed his hands.

“Car trouble,” he managed to say.

“Car trouble,” Dean teasingly mocked. “Figures. Care to elaborate?”

Castiel tried to the best of his ability. Mostly just using common terms and phrases he’d heard in passing to make up for his lack of inherent car knowledge every man his age seemed to possess.

Dean dried his hands and tossed the paper towel, face mulling it over as he nodded slowly, before he looked back at Castiel. “I think I know what the problem is.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t know shit about cars, dude.” He laughed. A sound like sunlight breaking through clouds.

“And what makes you say that?”

“Oh, I dunno. Probably cuz it sounds like you just pulled car lingo out of your ass. You tryin’ to impress me? If so, you don’t have to try that hard.”

Castiel huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes, shy smile appearing on his face. “And why would I do a silly thing like that?”

“Who knows?” Casually, Dean shrugged a shoulder, a smirk spreading across his face. “Maybe you got a big ol’ crush on me or somethin’.”

“Or something,” Castiel murmured without even thinking about it. It was the biggest understatement he’d ever heard himself say aloud. He ignored the warmth in his face and the unsettled feeling in the bottom of his stomach and remembered why he was there at all. “Anyway,” he said, deliberately glossing over the implication, “Do you think you could take a look under my hood or not?”

A genuine smile appeared on Dean’s face then and his eyes grew wider only for a brief second, until they changed to something else entirely. Something curious. “Course I can,” he said, “Lead the way.”

***

“Dean didn’t charge me for the car. He looked under the hood and took care of it on the spot. Turned out to be a real easy fix too. Told me ‘not to be such a stranger’ and then I left.”

“Where’d you go after?”

“Does that matter?”

The man just shrugged. “It might.”

“I went to that new hippie-dippy yoga studio in the center of town, if you really want to know.”

The agent seemed surprised. “Wouldn’t take you for the yoga type if I’m being honest, Mr. Novak.”

“Yes, well, war changes people, Agent Ford. You don’t come back the same. Next thing you know, you start taking up yoga and making macrame to pass the time.” Normal people didn’t want to talk about that sort of thing. The glory of war had faded long before now.

The agent nodded slowly, making another asinine note. “And then, it says here,” he said referring to the folder, “That Dean Winchester asked you on a date the following weekend? Is that correct?”

Castiel pretended to give the question some thought, despite already knowing the answer. “Yes, I believe it was a Saturday. He never really came in on the weekends so I found that in itself odd. Like I said, Dean’s what you might call a creature of habit, so the random appearance was a bit of a surprise to me at the time.”

“And he’d specifically come to ask you on a date,” the man clarified.

“Yes.”

“And I presume you accepted Mr. Winchester’s invitation?”

“Naturally,” Castiel said with a shy smile. “Have you seen him?”

“I’ve seen photos,” he answered with a chuckle. “Good-lookin’ guy.”

“Understatement,” Castiel muttered, reaching for his water again. His stomach gave a rumble interrupting the quiet settled in around them. “My apologies, but is there any chance we could get some food in here? I’m feeling a bit peckish after having sat here most of the afternoon.”

The man gave a reluctant nod. “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, why don’t you tell me about Winchester approaching you and the subsequent date?”

“That’s not very interesting either.”

“Humor me.”

Castiel gave a curt nod in return. “Very well.”

***

It was a Saturday when Dean came through the door looking addled with nerves. He didn’t order anything that day, instead pulling out a chair belonging to one of the small tables by the shop window. He retrieved a copy of an old tattered book from the back pocket of his jeans while he waited for the line to die down.

“I think Romeo’s waiting to talk to you,” Steve said, leaning against the counter and tossing his head in Dean’s general direction.

The last customer of the morning rush had retreated and the coffee shop was practically dead till the lunchtime rush. Castiel was wiping down the counter with a wet rag when he paused, glancing over his shoulder. He hadn’t even noticed Dean had come into the coffee shop. He blushed at the insinuation. “What makes you say that?”

Steve just laughed. “Well, if the fact he keeps staring directly at the back of your head is any indication…”

Sure enough, when Castiel looked back again Dean was looking back at him, his hand holding the spot in his book. He nodded to Steve and abandoned the counter, making his way towards the table under the window, glowing with the aura of early morning sunlight and Dean’s radiant presence. When Dean realized he was coming over, he averted his eyes to the table, scratching at the nape of his neck and fidgeting with the fragile pages under his hand.

“It’s Saturday,” Castiel said in lieu of any real greeting. Confusion taking hold of him more than anything in the moment.

 

Hesitantly, Dean gave a questioning smile at the statement. “Yeah…?”

“You don’t come in on Saturdays.”

“Well, I’m here now,” he supplied with a laugh.

Castiel gave a small smile. “I can see that.” He took a moment to absorb the torn paperback cover sheathing Dean’s hand from view. Slaughterhouse Five. A Vonnegut classic. “All this happened, more or less,” he said with a smirk, flitting his eyes back to meet Dean’s.

Blankly staring, a slow, knowing smile spread across Dean’s face. “So it goes...” he quipped with a wide grin. “You know Vonnegut?”

“Of course I know Vonnegut. Who doesn’t?”

“No one I wanna know.” Dean chuckled at that. “What’s your favorite?”

“Cat’s Cradle,” he replied on autopilot, but the more he stood idly by the table with Dean’s roving eyes on him, he desperately wished he could change his answer to the book laying uselessly between them.

Dean smiled again. “That one’s good too.”

Awkwardly, Castiel nodded and rapped a knuckle on the table. “I’m sorry, did you-- did you want to order something?”

Dean huffed a laugh before shaking his head in the negative. “Actually, about that. I was, uh, I didn’t come here for coffee today.”

“Oh?”

He paused to clear his throat and swallow. His tongue slipped out to wet his lips and Castiel transfixed on the action so long he almost missed the next part.

“I was wonderin’ if you wanted to maybe go… on a date… with me,” he stammered out eventually.

When the words caught up with him, Castiel’s blue eyes grew wide and unblinking. Dry, even. He didn’t think he’d heard that right. “You want to go on a date… with me?”

Confidence growing, Dean shook off his nerves and nodded, beaming at him. “Course I do. Face like that, who wouldn’t? Not to mention, you’ve clearly got good taste in books, and you could make me coffee in the morning,” he added with a wink.

“Um.” That damnable blush returned to his cheeks and he wished he could scrub it away. He never knew people actually blushed this much outside of cheesy dimestore paperbacks. All things considered, a date was probably a terrible idea with someone like Dean and that had everything to do with him and nothing to do with Dean.

Dean was perfect.

A god among men.

He smelled like warm leather and cologne and he could light up any room he walked into.

Castiel was nothing like Dean. But having Dean look at him like he was just then… intrigued, hopeful, enraptured... It wasn’t something he was willing to lose quite yet. For a moment that had been far more brief than it felt, Castiel weighed his options. Ultimately, a meager “okay” left his lips. He didn’t want to seem overeager.

Dean exaggeratedly inclined his head and cupped his ear “Sorry, what was that?”

“Okay,” Castiel repeated, firmer without being anymore sure. “I’ll go on a date with you.”

Dean threw his head back and laughed. Coming back, he grinned. A proverbial sunbeam straight into Castiel’s chest. “Awesome. Definitely know how to take a guy down a couple pegs too.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, but a reluctant smile grew on his face anyway. “What did you have in mind?”

***

The restaurant was quaint. A little Italian place in the center of town. Dean picked him up from his apartment in his elegant beast of a car and drove them with the radio turned down. Loud enough to fill the quiet spaces, low enough to encourage conversation.

They both ordered the spaghetti like some cheesy impression of Lady and the Tramp and they both had more red wine than they should have. Dean held his wine glass like a pauper clutching a string of pearls, uncomfortable, but desperate, and eventually the dinner dissolved into inebriated flirting and fits of laughter, and yet still more drinking.

They both decided to pass on dessert in favor of heading back to Dean’s apartment. It was just up the street, or so he’d said as they left the restaurant. Closer so they wouldn’t have to drive.

Castiel was never really one to ‘put out’ on the first date, but there was just something about Dean that made him question that decision entirely. Their shoulders bumped together as they swayed down the sidewalk, arms brushing in a teasing dance, but they didn’t hold hands. That wasn’t part of the game. Dean’s green eyes were sparkling gold under the glow of the streetlamps and the hand that found its way to the small of Castiel’s back was strong and warm as it led him soundly around the corner.

They were standing on the stoop of Dean’s apartment building less than ten minutes later, Castiel waiting off to the side, as Dean searched for his key.

“Quit checkin’ out my ass,” he ribbed, voice slightly slurred, as he pushed the key in the lock.

Castiel gave a lazy, drunken smile when Dean grinned back at him. Admittedly, Dean was more of a lightweight than he let on. “I would never.” He proceeded to check out his ass the entire way up the flight of stairs. He couldn’t really complain about the view.

Dean’s apartment was on the second floor. He struggled with that lock too and giggled at Castiel’s obviously growing impatience.

Though almost as soon as the door closed, Dean was pulling at him and kissing him. Mouths pressed together like he was still hungry, lips falling into a hot slide as Castiel opened for him. Castiel slid his tongue over Dean’s, as he backed him further into the room towards the couch while simultaneously trying to slip him out of his buttoned up shirt. Dean hit the couch on his back with a laugh and a groan at being separated and Castiel followed, laying his weight on him and straddling his hips. Lips meeting his urgently again. His fumbling fingers were desperate to explore under the foggy haze of the sweet wine and they went straight for Dean’s belt buckle, the loose leather strap tapping against his own bulge insistently, bringing his attention to it. He moaned softly into Dean’s mouth at the sensation and then Dean broke the kiss to come up for air.

“Cas, wait up,” he said just as Castiel was rucking his shirt up above his nipples and leaning his head in again.

Castiel pulled back, half-lidded eyes struggling to open fully. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s,” he started, licking his lips. In the moment, it’s all Castiel could think about. “Well, I just don’t want you t’be surprised s’all.”

“Surprised?” He asked in a haze. Dean, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“I, uh, I like to wear… women’s panties… sometimes,” he mumbled, face visibly turning red. The blush was somehow beautiful and adorable given the context. “It’s no big thing…” he said trailing off, attempting to explain. “Just was hopin’--”

“Shh, sh,” Castiel shushed him with an insistent kiss to Dean’s lips. He kissed him long and simmering, sparking the heat growing between them again. His hands found their way to Dean’s jeans again, unzipping his fly in one sure movement, as his mouth moved lower to enclose around Dean’s nipple.

Dean moaned at the insistent circling of his tongue, inching his jeans lower under his ass, and Castiel pulled off again to appraise him. The panties he had on were sheer, thin black lace with a tiny pink satin bow right above his full, flushed cock, leaking a darkened stain against the front onto his stomach. Castiel spent what must have been too long staring, mouth salivating, because Dean started to shy away and reach for his pants.

“Don’t.” With one hand, Castiel gathered Dean’s wrists over his head. The other groping over his hot bulge in rapt wonder. He scooted himself down to sit above Dean’s knees, and lowered his lips to mouth against the outline of Dean’s cock, releasing hot breaths that made the thing twitch under his tongue. “You’re the hottest... fucking... thing I’ve ever seen,” Castiel uttered roughly between claiming kisses.

Dean was barely containing his arousal, teeth sinking into the plush of his lower lip. “Cas-- Jesus, fuck,” he whined, uselessly pulling at his wrists against the pillow, “I want you to fuck me.”

Before he knew it, they were both fully divested of their clothing and his cock was buried deep inside Dean’s tight ass. They were both too drunk to have the foresight to use a condom, but the wet heat sliding between them made it that much better. And Castiel couldn’t get enough of it, of Dean, sucking on his lips and nipples and making him quiver and shake. His cock twitching in his hand. He’d dissolved into a moaning mess beneath him.

“Ah, right there,” Dean pleaded, clenching around Castiel’s cock. “Right there. Harder.”

Castiel didn’t slow until Dean’s fingers were bruising his back and he was coming hot ropes across his chest. He fucked him through it agonizingly slow, Dean shuddering each time the head of his cock brushed over his over-sensitive prostate, until eventually he came into him too. Dean gasped at the feeling of his hot come painting him from the inside when Castiel cut off the sound with another sloppy, languid kiss.

***

The man’s pen stopped moving, hovering precariously over the clipboard. “I’m sorry, we’re getting a bit off topic,” he said, flushed embarrassment coloring his cheeks.

“My apologies. I’m easily distracted,” admitted Castiel, forcibly unphased despite the usual nausea. “Perhaps you’ve picked the wrong profession if you can’t handle the gory details, Agent.”

The agent gave a reluctant laugh. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“I only mention it because of Dean’s... proclivity for women’s underwear. I think - No, I know - Dean felt shame regarding that particular preference and it might have caused him to act rash on other occasions to compensate.”

He waited for the agent to finish writing whatever it was he was writing. Something about perversions and questionable morals. “And also...” Castiel said, clearing his throat.

“...Also?”

“It didn’t seem relevant at the time, but Dean, he… He asked me to hurt him. During the sex.”

“Hurt him?”

Motioning towards his throat, Castiel cleared his again. “He asked me to choke him before he... finished.” Something about that information made the agent’s eyes light up. In a different setting, Castiel might have laughed. “Naturally, I’d never tried that kind of sexual play before and I was hesitant to try it then as well, but he was insistent and I wanted to please him. But I digress... Dean and I were not exclusive by any means and as it turned out we just wanted different things. His father’s death and Sam’s permanent move affected him deeply and he ended up not being the person I believed him to be. He was very angry, very often. He started to drink more and he was clinging to the closet door like his life depended on it.”

Just then, there was a knock on the interrogation room door. Agent Ford stood to open it and was delivered a plate with a simple, albeit slightly squashed, PB&J sandwich. He set it down on the table between them and Castiel grabbed it almost as quick, devouring the first bite like a hungry lion.

“Thank you,” he mumbled between bites.

“Yeah, no trouble,” the man replied watching him eat with a weird fascination. He cleared his throat and scooted his metal chair back in with a terrible screech against the floor. He reached for Castiel’s statement in the folder and gave it a once over. “Let’s shift gears for a minute.” The man flipped through his folder and settled on something Castiel couldn’t see. “Does the name Cassie Robinson ring any bells? We spoke to your coworker Steve, he said she was a regular at the coffee shop. Worked for the Lawrence Gazette.”

“Cassie Robinson.”

The name triggered another flash of nausea. He could feel the warmth of her throat under his hands, her pulse slowing, more than he could remember her face. The lights were on, all he remembered was the heat of her skin and the whites of her eyes as they bulged out of their sockets and the prickling feeling of vomit surging at the back of his throat.

“Um, yes, I -- I remember her coming in,” he said, as evenly as possible. “She… She used to come in frequently during the rushes. Her and Dean were friends, I believe. ...Is she alright?”

“They were more than friends, weren’t they? That’s what your coworker said. Said he saw them together often enough.”

Instantly, the taste of his sandwich turned to ash in his mouth and he suddenly wasn’t hungry, but he tried not to let it show, instead chewing with the hopes to will away the saliva coating the sides of his mouth. That same prickling feeling. “Yes, maybe. That was after Dean and myself so I’m not sure of the details of their meetings.” Swallowing was a challenge. “Maybe she would be able to fill you in on the particulars,” he added around another forced bite.

“Well, there’s a small problem with that, Mr. Novak.”

“Oh?”

The man pulled out a sheet of paper -- a photograph -- and slid it across the laminate table. “Cassie Robinson was found dead 48 hours ago.”

“The news reports. The body they found--” Castiel gulped and reached for the photograph on the table, legitimate fear widened his eyes at the prospect of what they’d managed to capture on film.

His eyes settled on the photograph in his unsteady hand. It was the parking lot off the shoulder of I-70. The trunk of the car had been opened for the investigators to photograph, and there was Cassie Robinson under a spotlight huddled in the trunk of the car. Her eyes were milky with decay and her face was bloated. Viscera pooling in the fibers of the car lining from where they’d leaked out of the garbage bags. Limbs he had to contort at odd angles just to make her fit. In all his time in active service, in all his other extracurricular activities, he’d never had to move a body before. Just the memory threatened to overturn the contents of his stomach.

Castiel breathed out a hefty sigh of relief that there weren’t any obvious red flags in the photograph, but he caught it with the palm of his hand. “This is-- This is horrifying.” He laid the photograph down between them, and swallowed again. “She was a nice girl. Usually agreeable. Do you have any idea who did it?”

The agent considered him. His reactions. He sucked on a tooth, scrutinizing really. And then he asked, “You heard of the Sleepytime Strangler?”

“Yes, of course.” Castiel wanted to roll his eyes at the asinine moniker. “It’s been all over the press.”

“Earlier you suggested that Dean Winchester is predictable.”

“Yes… To my knowledge. From what little I’d known of him.”

“Well, here’s the thing. Nothing you’ve told me has made me think he’s some cold-blooded killer. Comes on a little strong maybe, has some weird preferences, but he’s not out there skinning any neighborhood cats. It’s not enough to go on. So, what am I missing? Could you have predicted this?”

Castiel took another bite, but slower. “You think... Dean did this?” The question was born from shock, part feigned, part appalled at the sheer stupidity. And here he’d been thinking he was about to fall into a self-imposed bear trap.

The universe had never treated him so kindly.

“It’s the only lead we’ve got. We did a sweep of the vehicle and of the apartment. No forced entry found in either. There were bruises and contusions found on Ms. Robinson’s body that must have occurred while she was still alive. She put up a struggle to somebody that’s for sure.”

The agent shuffled around more papers in the folder and provided another photograph. An older one from seven months back. His sixth kill. Something he remembered all too vividly and often just because of the timing. He placed it next to the photo of Cassie Robinson and let Castiel absorb the pair of images together and instantly he identified his own mistake: Her bruises didn’t match the others. The other’s didn’t struggle. The others weren’t women.

“Do you remember seeing this one in the news?”

Absently, Castiel nodded, head genuinely unsteady on his neck. “His name… Something strange, wasn’t it?” Castiel had never learned his name before that broadcast. He’d simply called him Alfie.

“It was proven that Mr. Samandriel was a regular at the popular nightclub La Cage Aux Folles, and upon searching Mr. Winchester’s apartment we found evidence to suggest he was a regular there as well. There was a receipt found from the same night in his apartment,” he explained, “As well as various other incriminating information.”

“I see… Why, um... why are you telling me all of this? Where’s Dean?”

“Now, see, that’s the problem. Nobody’s seen Mr. Winchester in about…” He checked his wristwatch like it meant anything, “Oh, I’d say... at least 48 hours if not longer based on the state of Ms. Robinson. Just up and vanished into thin air like a ghost. So, I guess what I’m asking is, have you seen Dean Winchester?”

“Um. No, not since last Thursday morning.” Thursday was an unassuming day. It was also one of the days Dean came in twice. “He ordered the usual and then he left. He seemed… normal, but I had called out sick Friday with a stomach bug and he doesn’t usually come on weekends, so nothing seemed off.”

“Not your fault, Mr. Novak. Not your job to keep tabs on him.”

“Right. Of course not.”

“Only thing we can’t figure out is why.”

“Why? What do you mean ‘why’?”

“There’s no motive. If he were trying to remain in the closet, at least the others make some sort of twisted sense. But why would Dean Winchester kill Cassie Robinson? She doesn’t fit the pattern.”

Castiel almost wanted to laugh, but he shook his head and frowned. “I’m not sure. Maybe, um... maybe she simply got in the way.”

The man hummed in consideration, closing his folders and putting his pen down. “Anyway, you’re free to leave, Mr. Novak. No further questions at this time, but if you hear anything from Dean Winchester, don’t hesitate. You call us right away. Otherwise, you’re looking at a charge for accessory.”

“Dean wouldn’t call me,” he said, standing from the table. “We’re not that close.”

“Just a precaution.”

With a nod, he collected his trench coat from the back of his chair and shrugged it on, making his way over to the door with his usual limping gait. “Thank you for the sandwich.”

“Oh, and Mr. Novak?” Castiel turned to look at him, hand wrapped around the knob. “Don’t go anywhere. Y’know, out of town. We might have more questions.”

With his best pinched smile plastered on, he asked, “Where would I go?”