Chapter Text
Dean blinks, trying desperately to speed his eyes’ adjustment to the gloom.
A body moves past him, knocking into his shoulder and toppling his chair. By some stroke of luck, he lands on his side instead of face first. He hears another thud, further away. It’s impossible to tell if it’s Garth or Cas.
Dean tries to call out, but the words come out garbled past the stupid, bulky fangs. Working his jaw furiously, he finally manages to spit them out on the third try.
“Garth?” he tries. “Cas? What the hell happened?”
The bulbs of the chandelier flare on, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut against the intrusion. Bracing himself, he opens them a few seconds later, ready as he’ll ever be to figure out what the hell kind of situation he finds himself in.
Cas is standing by the front door, one hand still on the light switch, his expression grim. Garth is sitting on the floor next to the shattered remains of Ketch’s former chair, looking just as stunned as Dean feels. There’s no trace of either Ketch or Mick.
“What… the fuck?” is what comes out of Dean’s mouth.
For someone whose brain is still struggling to pick up the pieces, it seems like a pretty accurate summation of their current situation.
“I think Mick cut the lights,” Cas says, then adds, drily, “Also, I think it’s safe to say I’m not crazy.”
Before Cas can spend any more time gloating about his victory — which Dean isn’t totally ready to concede yet, because doing so would be a pretty serious blow to his entire worldview — a blur separates from the shadows of the next room and rushes at Cas, knocking him to the floor.
As Dean scrambles to his feet, the blur resolves into Mick, who is looming over Cas, face drawn tight with rage, hands at Cas’ throat.
Garth crawls over to Dean, undoing the knots that still bind him to his chair. Once the ropes are loose enough for Dean to pull free, Garth heads for the writhing mass of limbs across the room and aims a strategic kick at Mick’s face.
The kick connects. Mick’s head whips to the side.
With a sickening crack, it snaps back into place, and Mick resumes throttling Cas.
Boiling with a sudden, welcome surge of rage, Dean takes off at a run and throws himself at Mick, wrapping his arms around the other man’s torso hard enough that there should be at least some mild discomfort. Mick doesn’t even acknowledge Dean’s grip on him, and Cas’ face is starting to take on a purple hue.
Garth rejoins the fray, and with a combined effort of tugging and shoving, they manage to dislodge Mick and hold him down.
Their advantage doesn’t last long. Mick snarls. He surges up, toppling Dean and Garth and rising off the floor in a single, graceful motion that somehow doesn’t involve his hands at all. Dean lands on his back hard enough to knock the wind out of him.
He looks around for Cas, who’s sitting up now, rubbing at the abused flesh of his throat. Their eyes meet, and Dean opens his mouth just to check in, but Mick is already coming at them again, his stare promising murder or, at the very least, severe mutilation.
Cas slants his eyes at the mangled remains of Ketch’s chair. Dean nods and scrambles for the sharpest-looking piece, which used to be approximately half of a chair leg, but now tapers into a wickedly sharp point.
Mick has settled on going for Garth, probably figuring that as the skinniest of them all, he makes the easiest target. What Mick apparently didn’t reckon on is Garth getting up, fussily adjusting his "Free Hugs" hat and pivoting elegantly to land a wicked roundhouse kick to Mick's midsection. (And where the fuck did Garth learn how to do that? It can’t be another boy scout thing, right?)
A pained grunt escapes Mick, and he staggers back, onto the staircase. Cas’ expression performs an interesting journey that ends somewhere in the neighborhood of fierce determination, and he rises off the floor, tugging his necklace out of his collar. He rips the chain off his throat with a swift, powerful yank (that Dean is going to replay endlessly in his future fantasies, assuming he’ll live to have any of those) and advances on Mick, a large, gleaming cross pendant dangling from his fist.
Deciding he might as well make himself useful, Dean tightens his grip on the impromptu stake and stalks toward Mick, who is eyeing both Garth and Cas warily as he backs slowly up the stairs.
Dean raises the stake over his shoulder, point forward, and pushes past Garth to get to Mick. Cas is next to one of the banister statues now, holding the cross right at Mick’s eye level.
Mick stares at the pendant, so hypnotized that he doesn’t even notice Dean’s approach. Dean brings his arm down in a long arc, plunging the stake straight into Mick’s chest.
As Mick lets out a bone-deep, guttural death rattle, neon-green, viscous liquid spills forth from the wound. Dean jerks his hand back just in time, and he, Cas and Garth each take an instinctive step back as a radioactive rivulet of what is presumably Mick’s blood runs down his immaculately tailored suit, then drips down the stairs to puddle on the espresso-stained hardwood floor.
Before Dean’s appalled eyes, Mick’s skin starts to disintegrate, dissolving under the thickening gush of green. It detaches from brittle, blackened bones until there’s nothing but a scorched-looking skeleton left standing, with unnaturally sharp canines and… holy shit, are those wings?
Then even those last remnants are gone, crumbling to dust on the third step.
“Fuck,” Dean mouths.
“Pretty much,” Cas agrees.
“What in the name of sweet Mary Sue just happened?” Garth squeaks, half appalled, half delighted.
“You know what?” Cas says, blue eyes blazing. “I don’t care anymore. About any of this. Your stupid fucking show, the nightmare that this entire experience is turning out to be, the paycheck. I’m getting out of here.”
Remembering their little moment outside just before the shoot, Dean can’t help but be a little hurt. But then his eyes fall on the green puddle on the floor, which has now started to smoke, and yeah. He can’t blame Cas for wanting out.
Cas stalks to the front door and pulls at the knob. Rattles it. Twists it. Pulls again. For a beat or two, he just stands there, shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths.
“Cas?” Dean tries, softly.
“Fucking fuck!” Cas starts kicking the door furiously — once, twice, three times — before he escalates to throwing his shoulder against it. Garth and Dean both make a move to stop him, but Dean gets there first. He puts a hand on Cas’ shoulder, slowly pulling him away from the door. To his surprise, Cas comes without a fight.
To his even greater surprise, his own hand comes up to Cas’ cheek, cupping it gently. “Hey. Look at me.”
Eventually, Cas does. His eyes are vivid with rage and, now that the adrenaline of the fight is presumably starting to dissipate, fear. “We’re trapped in here, Dean,” he croaks. “He’s never letting us go.”
Proving that point, Garth walks past them to try the knob, with no more success than Cas.
“No.” Dean shakes his head firmly, like he can improve their odds through sheer force of will. “We are getting out. We’ll find a window, a coal chute, a fucking cat door. Something.”
That gets him a weak chuckle, and Dean counts it as a win.
“And when we get out?” Fueled by the sheer nuttiness of the situation, Dean can’t seem to stop the words from spilling out. “We’re going on a date.”
Then, because Dean can never let a smooth pickup line stand without making it awkward, he adds, “I mean, if you wanted to do that. With me.”
Cas’ lips part slightly in surprise. And is it Dean’s imagination, or does he start to lean into Dean’s hand just a little?
“I’d like that,” Cas says. There’s a fond warmth in his eyes that seems a little at odds with the mortal peril they all find themselves in, but Dean’s not about to complain.
“I’m happy for you two and all,” Garth says, bursting Dean’s sappy little bubble with the toothpick of his cheerful competence, “but first things first. Let’s find a way out.”
***
They don’t find a way out.
At least, not on the first floor. They search every room, each of them now clutching an impromptu wooden stake fashioned from the splinters of Ketch’s chair, using a wickedly sharp pocketknife Garth always carries in his back pocket. (That one is a boy scout thing, apparently.)
But no matter how closely they look, there are no cat flaps, and all the windows prove just as stuck as the door. The only good news is that they don’t encounter Ketch, or any other of the monstrous creatures that are most likely lurking all over this creepy-ass mansion.
They find a door that probably leads to the basement, but it’s locked. So there’s really only one option left. The thing you never, ever do in these situations. The thing everyone who’s ever watched a horror movie knows is a horrible, awful, no-good idea.
They have to go upstairs.
Carefully sidestepping the green goo, which has burned several impressively sized holes in the floor and staircase, they make their way up the stairs. Ever since Dean accidentally (and, to his lasting surprise, successfully) asked Cas out, he’s feeling extra protective, so he goes first, followed by Cas, and Garth brings up the rear. They each have their stakes raised in front of them, and Cas’ cross necklace is still clutched tightly in his left hand.
At the top, Dean stands momentarily in front of the giant stained-glass window, trying to decide on the best way forward. On a whim, he goes right, turning into a gloomy, narrow corridor lined with at least a dozen doorways.
With a deafening crash, the window at his back shatters.
Dean spins around just in time to watch a figure leap through the broken window and wind itself around Cas, who drops his stake. Garth staggers back instinctively, just managing to hold on to the banister three steps below where he started.
Ketch stands behind Cas, one arm wrapped in a death grip across his chest to keep him still. Cas struggles, grunting and pulling to get free, but he seems unable to move an inch.
“Fucking let him go,” Dean growls.
Ketch leers. He makes a very different picture now from the smooth, polished host who greeted them earlier. His mouth is crowded with foul, yellowed fangs, and when he raises a hand to Cas’ throat, Dean can see that his fingers taper into long, black, wickedly sharp nails. He scrapes one of those nails across the delicate skin just below Cas’ jawline, and a drop of blood wells up there.
Dean thinks of the flask of holy water in the pocket of his jacket, but he can’t go for it without drawing Ketch’s attention, and the risk is too great. One good swipe of that nail against Cas’ jugular, and… no. He’s not going to think about that.
Ketch licks his lips.
“Oh, I don’t think I will. I have some lovely plans for this one.” He turns his face into Cas’ neck, lips almost touching the spot where blood is still dripping sluggishly. “You’re exactly my type, darling. I’m weak for a pretty pair of blue eyes.”
His eyes drift lazily to the green puddle at the bottom of the stairs. “He did have those, poor Mick, but not much else to recommend him. No sophistication. In the end, I decided against making him fully vampiric. He just wasn’t what I’m looking for in a mate.”
At the mention of the word “mate,” Cas flinches and struggles harder. Dean takes an almost involuntary step forward. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Garth doing the same.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Garth says. “These two—“ Garth points at Cas and Dean in turn, “—have been dancing around each other like sulky, lovesick puppies for months. They’re finally getting somewhere, and you do not get to ruin this for me.
Dean should probably be outraged at Garth for gossiping about his pathetic love life (or lack thereof) in front of an undead creep, but he’ll have to get around to that when Cas isn’t being perved on by said creep.
Garth moves forward again, stake raised. Keeping a firm hold on Cas, Ketch spins them both and flicks a hand at Garth. Propelled by an invisible force, Garth plummets down the stairs. He lands in a heap at the bottom and doesn’t stir.
Cas takes advantage of Ketch’s momentary distraction to free one hand, silver pendant glinting between his fingers. His furious jab catches Ketch on the cheek, and Dean holds his breath, expecting smoke and maybe more green goo and the sweet taste of victory—
Nothing happens.
Ketch grabs hold of Cas’ hand and bends it behind Cas’ back with absurd ease. “Good try, darling, but you have to have faith for those trinkets to work on me.” He strokes a razor-clawed finger down Cas’ cheek, leaving another subtle cut behind. “And I have a feeling you lost that years ago.”
Ketch slants his eyes at Dean, their brown sparkling with delighted malice. “When this town is mine and I’ve finished turning it into a feeding ground for my nest, beautiful Castiel here is going to reign at my side.” His expression darkens. “And there’s not a thing you can do to stop me, Dean Winchester.”
Ketch raises his hand and flicks it at Dean. In a rush of motion, Dean is thrown backward, and his head hits the wall.
Darkness.
***
When Dean blinks awake, he’s not sure how many hours have passed. The house is utterly silent around him, and the only source of illumination is the flicker of a dim light in the corridor at his back, reflecting off the shards of multi-colored glass on the floor.
He rubs at the bump on his head. It's tender and achy, but when he gets up, he doesn’t feel dizzy or sick. No concussion. He’ll take any piece of good news he can get tonight.
A groan alerts him that maybe he’s not as alone as he thought. He steps up to the staircase. The gloom is thick down on the first floor, but he can see the barest outline of a scrawny figure sitting up, shaking his head. “Garth?"
“Dean? Oh good.” Garth’s relief is palpable. “Where’s Cas? He okay?”
Dean swallows hard, remembering the sight of a thin trickle of blood running down Cas’ neck. “Ketch got him,” he says, his voice sounding a little unsteady to his own ears.
Garth says nothing to that, which is a small blessing. Slowly, holding on to the banister, Dean descends the stairs. When he gets to the bottom, Garth is busy flipping the light switch by the front door.
“Power’s out,” Garth says, on a sigh. He stills. “Wait a minute.” He reaches for the front door. It’s ajar. “Why would he let us go, just like that?”
“He wanted Cas,” Dean says miserably. “He wanted Cas, and he got him. Fuck.” Dean rubs at his face with his palm, almost hard enough to hurt. “I should’ve listened to him. We should’ve gotten the hell out of here while we still could.”
Garth frowns back and forth between Dean and the open door, puzzled. “But what about the recording? If he lets us go, we—”
Dean looks around the room, trying to remember where the camera ended up. He spots a glint in the far corner and walks toward it. It’s a crushed lens. The rest of the camera is scattered in jagged pieces across the floor. Like someone ripped it apart with their bare hands and then stepped on it for good measure. “Looks like Ketch took care of that,” he says, bitterly.
For a moment, Garth says nothing. Then, “How long do you think it’s been since Ketch took Cas?”
Dean looks around helplessly until he remembers his phone, in the back pocket of his pants. With any luck, it wasn’t damaged in the scuffle. When he pulls it out, the screen is a little cracked, but it shows the time just fine. Ten thirty.
“About two hours, I think,” Dean answers, trying hard not to picture what Ketch could have done to Cas in all that time.
“Okay.” Garth nods, squares his shoulders. “What we need is backup. Someone who knows about vampires, and how to fight them.”
“Oh, sure,” Dean snarls. “We’ll just Google ‘vampire hunters’ and call the guy with the best reviews.”
“Actually,” Garth says, coolly, “I was thinking we’d just go next door.”
***
“Back when Donatello used to host the show,” Garth explains as they stroll up the cracked, overgrown garden path of the neighboring house, “he would always tell me these stories while we were waiting for the next take. About all the times he fought vampires as a young guy. He’d include lots and lots of detail about all the ways he’d trick them, and the weapons he used.” Garth shrugs. “I thought they were just that — stories, you know? But now… I’m not so sure.”
Halfway between hope and trepidation, Dean looks up at the warm glow emanating from the windows of the rundown Victorian.
Sure, Donatello was someone he idolized growing up. Once he actually met the guy, though, he seemed nice enough, but not like the kind of person you’d trust to go toe-to-toe with a terrifying, superhumanly strong creature and live to tell the tale.
When they reach the front door, Garth turns to Dean. “Just… let me talk.”
Dean nods, and Garth knocks. And knocks, and knocks. In fact, the long-and-short pattern of the knock doesn’t seem like it’s ever going to end.
“What the fuck is this?” Dean snarls.
Garth looks back at him, clearly unimpressed with his attitude. “Our secret knock. Morse code for ‘friend.’”
“Don’t tell me,” Dean says, on a heavy exhale. “It’s another boy scout thing.”
Garth inclines his head in acknowledgment. “Can’t be too careful.”
From the other side of the door, another series of knocks starts up. As far as Dean can tell, it’s the same pattern. In any case, Garth nods, satisfied. “We need your help, Donatello,” Garth tells the closed door.
The door is yanked open, and Donatello is silhouetted in the doorframe, wavy white hair a mess, wire-rimmed glasses crooked on his nose, an atrociously patterned sweater vest competing for attention with a pair of fuzzy pink slippers.
“Tell me,” he says darkly, looking back and forth between them, “you haven’t been tangling with that vampire."
Dean steps forward, ignoring Garth’s shushing hand motion. “He took Cas. We need to get him back. Garth thinks you know how to do that.”
Donatello’s eyebrows try valiantly to rise all the way to his receding hairline. “And why, young man, would I help the grumpy, arrogant bastard who took my job?”
Garth shoots Dean a look that very clearly says, “This is why you were supposed to let me talk.”
Dean ignores him. “Please. I know he’s a grumpy, arrogant bastard, but I was kinda hoping he could be my grumpy, arrogant bastard.” He pauses, realizing what he’s said, but decides to let it stand.
Donatello inclines his head back and forth, considering.
“Also,” Dean says, “Ketch said something about buying up the town to turn it into a feeding ground for other vampires.” He probably should have led with that.
Donatello’s eyebrows, recently returned to their accustomed perches, rise again, but he says nothing.
“You’re also,” Garth says, with the supreme confidence of someone who’s found the winning argument, “on camera.”
Donatello’s and Dean’s heads whip around to face Garth as one. “I’m what?” Donatello demands.
“On camera,” Garth says, serenely, and taps the top of his “Free Hugs” hat. “Brought a hidden backup.”
Dean gapes at him, slack-jawed.
“What?” Garth frowns. “You thought I’d go on a shoot with just one camera?”
Donatello grumbles unintelligibly. As he turns away from the door, he says, “Well, come on in, already. I don’t have all night.”
***
“The thing you have to understand about vampires,” Donatello says, wagging a pedantic finger as he leads Dean and Garth down a dusty hallway and into the center of the house, “is when they feel threatened, they retreat to the safety of their coffin. Now,” he says, as he turns left into what appears to be a study, “The most likely place for a coffin is always the basement. Closer to the soil, you know. Very comforting thing for the undead.”
Dean looks around. The desk, desk chair and every other piece of furniture in the small, overheated room is covered in dusty tomes. The smell of decaying paper is normally something Dean considers pleasant, but it’s so overwhelming combined with the heat and closeness of the study that it’s verging on unpleasant.
Donatello runs a finger across one of the bookshelves, searching. “Now, where do we have… ah yes. Here.” He taps a particularly large tome bound in blood-red leather, and a panel opens in the wall next to the bookcase.
Behind the panel is another, smaller room, covered top to bottom in weapons and trinkets. Knives, from pocket size to a wickedly sharp-looking machete. Crosses, from small pendants to six-footers. Wooden stakes of every conceivable size, all looking freshly sharpened. And shelf after shelf of small glass bottles, filled with what Dean can only assume is holy water. His jaw drops.
“What?” Donatello sounds vaguely put out. “You thought I was always a washed-up actor? I’ve lived a life, you know.”
“Clearly,” Garth says, awed.
Dean runs a hand over a particularly fearsome-looking silver blade, but Donatello knocks it away. “Hands to yourself, if you please. There are dangerous objects in this room, and only I am equipped to identify them. Now,” he continues, giving Dean and Garth an assessing look. “Do either of you carry anything that could be useful in a fight?”
“A pocket knife,” Garth says, hopefully.
“Ehh.” Donatello wags his head dubiously. “Too small to be truly useful.” He turns to Dean. “And you?”
“Some holy water,” Dean says, pulling out the flask in his jacket pocket to demonstrate. “But it looks like you’ve got that covered. So, I guess, no, unless you count this.”
He undoes one of the buttons on his shirtfront and reaches inside to produce his blood bag.
Donatello’s eyes narrow, considering. “You know,” he says slowly, “I think we may be able to use that.”
***
Once again, Dean is regretting his life choices.
Not the choice to come back and rescue Cas. Never that. But definitely the choice to tell Donatello about his blood bag.
It’s the reason Garth is carrying an intimidating-looking machete as he strides across the lawn to the Brewster House, while Dean is clutching a pair of dollar-store water guns, colored pink and purple, respectively. One is filled with holy water, the other with fake blood.
“A vampire’s eyes,” Donatello had explained, back in his study, “are his most potent weapon. It’s how he puts victims under his thrall, sapping their will to fight. Now, there are few substances in this world as sticky as movie blood made with a Karo syrup base. If we can manage to hit our adversary squarely in the eyes with it, we gain a significant advantage.”
So, sure, Dean’s weapons are a strategic asset, but they’re not exactly dignified.
“I still don’t see why you get to carry the deadly weapon and I get the toys,” he hisses, looking over his shoulder to make sure no undead Brits are about to jump them.
“Again,” Garth hisses back, “boy scout. I know how to handle a knife.”
“So do I,” Dean grumbles.
“I’m not the one who cut himself trying to pick one up.”
“My hand slipped,” Dean shoots back. When he realizes that’s not exactly an argument in his favor, he adds, “Shut up.”
Garth does, and so does Dean, because they’ve reached the porch steps. The front door is wide open, just as they left it.
Garth clicks on the flashlight they took from Donatello’s house as, quietly, slowly, the two of them creep up the stairs and back into the gloomy interior of the Brewster House.
As soon as they’ve both crossed the threshold, all the lights in the house come on, blinding them.
Dean blinks hard to dislodge the spots in his vision, spinning around, but finding no one except Garth, who’s looking as wrong-footed as Dean feels.
“Well, there goes our element of surprise,” Dean says, around his heart, which has managed to get stuck halfway up his throat.
Garth nods grimly and turns, making for the kitchen where they found the door that most likely leads down to the basement.
It’s wide open.
“Well, that’s not suspicious at all,” Dean whispers, clutching his water guns tighter. They feel even more flimsy than before.
With one last look around, they start to descend the basement stairs, Dean taking the lead, because the idea is to weaken Ketch with a combination of fake blood and holy water, then have Garth move in with the machete.
Dean tries to move quietly, but it’s no good. The treads of each stair are crooked, and every last one emits an ominous creak as Dean steps on it. He curses the bare light bulb overhead, whose constant flickering makes it, if anything, even harder to navigate.
He reaches the bottom of the steps and looks around. Unfinished, moisture-dark walls surround him on all sides, except for the dark, narrow opening of a corridor to Dean’s left. At the far end of the corridor, a warm, steady glow proclaims the presence of another room.
“Fuck,” Dean mutters, his pulse beating frantically in his ears, but he forces his feet to keep moving through the basement and down the corridor, Garth at his heels.
He steps across the threshold of the second room. It’s high-ceilinged and windowless, with another rickety staircase that leads to the kind of steel door generally used for outdoor basement access. Dusty, half-broken furniture lines the walls, leaving the center free for a large, gleaming coffin.
The lid is closed.
Garth nudges Dean from behind. “Fuck,” Dean says again, but he moves forward, pointing both guns at the coffin as Garth comes to stand next to him, machete poised. Slowly, Garth reaches out with his free hand, and cracks the lid.
Blue eyes and messy dark hair greet them from a nest of pink satin lining.
Cas’ hands are tied in front of him with ropes, and he looks a little dazed, but otherwise okay. Confused, he blinks first at Garth, then at Dean.
“Dean?” he croaks.
“Hi,” Dean says, grinning despite the fact that they’re still in the basement of an undead menace who wants to drink their blood. The sheer relief of seeing Cas alive and apparently unharmed makes him want to be reckless, to lean in and kiss Cas until they’re both dizzy. Before he can put that excellent plan into action, Cas blinks again, and his earlier confusion is replaced by alarm. “Dean, it’s a trap. Ketch is—”
Something slams into Dean’s side, knocking him to the dirt floor. The impact loosens his hold on the water guns and they clatter away, out of reach. Ignoring the ache in his side, Dean twists around, just in time to see Ketch clutching Garth by the front of his shirt.
Garth may be scrawny, but he’s not a short guy by any means. Ketch lifts him like he’s nothing, until his toes are dangling a good two feet off the floor. Garth stills as Ketch fixes him with a penetrating stare, darkness and hellfire and menace.
“Kill Dean,” Ketch says, slowly and clearly, and he sets Garth down.
His expression curiously blank, Garth tightens his grip on his machete and stalks toward where Dean is still curled on the floor.
This is it. Dean has no weapon to defend himself, and he’s going to die in this damp, depressing basement. At least Garth is still wearing his hidden camera hat, so Dean’s gory death is going to be preserved for posterity.
Garth has reached Dean now. He raises the machete, ready to strike, and—
With a mighty clatter, the steel doors fall open, and a sharp breeze whips through the room. From his position on the floor, Dean can just see a short, squat silhouette, holding a stake in one hand and a cross in the other, a fierce expression only slightly undermined by the riotous pattern of Donatello’s sweater.
At least he changed out of the fuzzy slippers.
When they were leaving Donatello’s house, he promised he’d be right behind them and find another way into the basement. Dean was about seventy-five percent sure it was a line to get rid of them.
All his life, Dean’s never been happier to be wrong.
Donatello strides down the stairs with supreme dignity, cross held high in front of him. “In nomine patri, et fili, et spiritu sancti,” he intones, the power of the words making the air crackle around him.
Ketch stills. Then he takes a step back and hisses, exposing yellowed fangs.
“Faith, my good man,” Donatello says, smiling. “It’s a beautiful thing.”
Distracted by the commotion, Garth has turned away, eyes fixed on Donatello, who’s still advancing on Ketch.
The guns. Frantic, Dean sits up and scans the floor, looking for a flash of pink or purple. His eyes light on purple first. Fake blood.
Dean lunges. As soon as he’s got a grip on the gun, he rises to his feet, knocking into Garth, who is still facing Donatello and Ketch, and apparently waiting for further instructions.
Ketch finally seems to gather sufficient resolve to look away from the cross. He fixes Garth with another stare. “Kill Donatello,” he says, voice echoing with irresistible command.
Garth starts walking, but Dean gets there first. He raises his arm and pulls the trigger.
A stream of sticky, wine-dark liquid hits Ketch squarely across the eyes. With a snarl, Ketch claws at them, tries to blink them open against the glue-like substance coating his eyelashes.
Dean pivots to look at Garth, who’s stopped in his tracks, lowering his machete and shaking his head like he’s trying to dislodge something. When his eyes finally meet Dean’s, they look clear.
From the coffin, Cas’ voice sounds, distinctly grumpy even in their current, life-threatening situation. “Anyone wanna untie me so I can help?”
Dean looks back at Donatello, who’s taking advantage of Ketch’s weakened state to press his cross to the vampire’s forehead. The smell of sulphur and burning flesh fills the room, and Ketch lets out an agonized, guttural cry.
Donatello has, apparently, got this covered.
Dean grabs the machete out of Garth’s limp hand and heads over to Cas. With a swift drag of blade over rope, Cas’ hands are free, and he climbs out of the coffin.
“Give me that,” Cas demands, holding out his hand for the machete. There’s steel in his eyes, and Dean wouldn’t dream of doing anything other than exactly what Cas wants. He hands over the weapon.
Cas grips it tight and strides over. Donatello has lowered the cross now and is raising the stake above his head. The sharpened point plunges straight into Ketch’s chest, blood gushing in a towering fountain onto Donatello’s sweater. Ketch’s hands scrabble at the wood, uselessly, and he sinks to his knees.
“Excuse me,” Cas says, exquisitely polite. Surprise plain on his face, Donatello turns around. Whatever he sees in Cas’ expression, it must inspire trust, because he steps further back and gestures for Cas to take his place in front of Ketch.
Cas takes the machete in both hands, then swings the blade in a lightning-fast, graceful arc.
Before Dean is entirely sure what’s happened, Ketch’s head parts company with the rest of his body and thuds to the floor. Ketch’s torso sways for a moment, blood flowing sluggishly from the stump of his neck, but then it slumps forward and succumbs to gravity.
“I’m not your fucking mate, you creep,” Cas growls down at the mangled remains. “And I’m not crazy.”
Dean isn’t entirely sure when he let go of the gun, only that he hears it hit the floor. The only thing that seems to matter anymore is Cas, looking radiant in his righteous fury.
Dean covers the distance between them in three strides and grabs the back of Cas’ head, pulling him in for a bruising kiss.
On a soft moan, Cas’ mouth opens to him, and Dean is so caught up in the warm, solid feel, the intoxicating taste of Cas, he barely hears Garth’s cheerful exclamation of “Aaaaaand… cut."
***
[The scene: an abandoned house at the edge of town. Two men creep around its edges, each holding a machete. One has dark hair, a sharp jaw and penetrating blue eyes. The other is dark blond, with a handsome, boyish face made more attractive by a smattering of freckles. Just shy of the front door, they stop, their mutual attraction obvious in the way they lean toward each other. The blond man puts a hand on his partner’s shoulder, addressing him.]
“Seems awfully quiet. Are you sure the nest is here? Maybe you got the location wrong.”
[The dark-haired man rolls his eyes.]
“I don’t get things wrong.”
“Except for that one time when—”
[The dark-haired man steps forward and pulls his partner in for a passionate kiss that soon turns tender. Blushing, the other man pulls back.]
“Just be careful in there, alright? I love you.”
[The dark-haired man smiles, equal parts fond and teasing.]
“I know.”
[They turn as one and walk up the front steps that will lead them into certain danger.]
“Aaaaaaaand… cut.” Garth’s voice echoes across the studio, carrying effortlessly even in the cavernous space. “Good work. Everybody take fifteen before we set up for the next scene.”
“Man,” Dean says, stretching happily in his folding chair next to the craft table. “Aren’t you glad they didn’t want us to play ourselves? With decent actors, this show might actually work.”
In the chair next to Dean’s, Cas ignores him completely, frowning back and forth between his copy of the script and the backs of the two actors, who are making their way to their dressing rooms. “You know, I don’t think Adam got his line right? It’s supposed to be, ‘I’m never wrong.’”
Dean rolls his eyes fondly at his boyfriend.
Their special episode of “Vampire Hunter!” — filmed mostly with Garth’s “Free Hugs” camera — had the highest ratings in the show’s history. Someone (most likely Garth) uploaded the footage to YouTube, where it went viral and attracted the attention of a national streaming service.
Apparently, between the gritty, handheld look, the vampire theme and the, quote-unquote, “sizzling chemistry” between the two male leads, “Vampire Hunter!” was exactly what the streaming execs were looking for.
After writing a test script for the first episode of a show about two openly gay vampire hunters defeating the undead together, Dean and Cas were offered what the execs termed a “modest budget” to turn it into a real pilot. That modest budget had a whole lot more zeroes attached to it than Dean was used to seeing in one place.
Thrilled with the pilot, the streaming service offered a contract to produce a full season. It took a little negotiating, but Dean and Cas’ new superiors eventually agreed to bring on Garth as director of photography and Donatello as a “creative consultant.” (A job that, as far as Dean can tell, mostly entails watching the shoots with a gimlet eye and grumbling under his breath at “all the inaccuracies.”)
Dean nudges Cas with his foot. “So now that you don’t have to learn the lines, you do? Just to spite me.”
Cas smirks and leans in close, brushing his lips against Dean’s ear. “I’m here to put an end to your reign of terror, you undead abomination,” he whispers.
Dean leans back and cocks an eyebrow, grinning. “Oh baby, talk dirty to me.”
When everyone returns to set fifteen minutes later, it’s to find two empty chairs and a dog-eared copy of the script, its pages ruffled gently by the breeze from a wind machine.