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It's cold and it's late and Dean really doesn't want to be here. There are too many creepers about and Dean’s fended enough of them off to know that places like this one, Dead Mule Pass (seriously?) are creeper catnip. At least Sam’s safe and sound in the motel room.
It's a clearing of sorts, but the trees all lean inwards together, like they're sharing a secret. Only a few dusty shafts of weak sunlight slant downward and mottle the forest floor; not enough to dispel the gloom of the heavy shadows. It’s damp here too; the air heavy with the scent of rotting leaves and animals and well, yeah, human remains as well.
The last bit may or may not be Dean’s fault.
Burying bodies is a necessary evil (as opposed to all the other sins he's guilty of) but that doesn't make it fun. Or even tolerable.
He’s nearly done here, thankfully. A dozen or so more loads of loose soil into the shallow grave should do the trick.
Bundy used to revisit his victims. Dean's never understood that. They're dead for fuck’s sake. What could they possibly have to offer in death that they couldn't offer (or have forced upon them) in life?
He shovels another load of dirt on top of the body.
And that's before the worms and shit get at them.
Ugh. Necrophiles, man. They give him the heebie-jeebies.
He digs the shovel into the soft earth and lets it stand. It sways a little, falling to a 60-degree angle.
At least it’s quiet here.
Quiet enough that when there’s the cracking snap of a twig underfoot, he hears it in Dolby digital surround sound.
Shit.
This is not how he imagined getting caught.
Okay, so. He has three options:
1. Run and leave and just hope that finding the one body will be enough — that no one will think to look for others.
2. Find somewhere to hide and hope that the person/people don’t happen to see the great big fucking shallow grave.
3. Hide and then kill whoever it is and bury them too.
The third is both the most and least attractive. The former because at least he won’t be going to jail, the latter because goddammit, he’ll have to dig another grave and he's already missed too much of the Dr. Sexy marathon.
Shit.
No matter what option he picks, this is going to suck.
***
“Quit looking at me like that, Sam.”
“Li wuh?” Sam asks through a mouthful of bitesize cardboard pieces masquerading as cereal.
Dean sips his coffee. Deliberately ignores the headline in the paper about the third ballet dancer to go missing in as many weeks. “Like I’ve done you a disservice by not telling you about Cas.”
There’s nothing but the sound of Sam chewing for several long moments. Then his spoon hits the side of the bowl in a sudden clatter.
And here it comes.
“I mean, what the actual fuck, Dean?”
“It’s quite simple, really,” Dean says on a sigh. He folds the newspaper and slaps it across the back of his brother’s head as he goes to tip the dregs of his coffee down the drain. “It’s none of your fucking business.”
***
Dean hides. Ducks into the trees and pushes his way through springy saplings as quickly as he can. Finds a trunk thick enough to hide behind and squats down low on his haunches, on top of a mat of brown pine needles.
The sound of snapping and rustling comes closer, feet crushing foliage, and Dean holds his breath, watching, waiting, heart hammering against his ribcage. The bark is rough against his palms, and when he goes to move, to shuffle a little to the left so that he can see better, he notices the sap on the index finger of his left hand, sticky and gross.
Ugh.
However, this new vantage point does allow him to peer past the tree, and so he sees the interloper clearly stride into view. The man — and yeah, he’s definitely a man — is carrying a shovel of his own, and there’s something draped over his left shoulder that Dean can’t quite make out in the rapidly diminishing light, but it looks suspiciously like a body.
It appears as though he's accidentally stumbled upon the serial killer equivalent of a local knitting circle. Any second, he’s expecting the rest of the group to rock up with refreshments and some kind of life-affirming (or death-affirming, heh) motto.
The interloper drops the body onto the forest floor with a soft whump! not twenty feet from where Dean’s victim is partially buried.
Then, with the kind of strength that Dean wouldn’t have expected from such a leanly muscular body, the guy starts digging, shoveling fast and rhythmic, borne of repetition and muscle memory.
He makes it look easy even though Dean knows from experience that it’s far from it.
As he digs, the man begins to whistle a quiet melody to himself. And… is that… is he whistling Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5?
***
Castiel is a life ruiner.
Yeah, he’s a murderer, so objectively, well duh, but he’s also a life ruiner in that way that has women holding impromptu sleepovers where they consume gallons of ice cream and wine, while swearing off men for good.
For how much Dean loves cock — and he does, he really does — he’s never quite reached romcom-movie-gay-best-friend status, and so when Castiel fucked him (and then fucked him over), there was nobody waiting with a pint of B&J’s and a Colin Firth marathon.
That said, Dean’s pretty sure that Sam would have been there (with organic, gluten-free, vegan ice cream though, so what’s the fucking point?) if he’d been given the chance, and considering he’s supposed to be the straight one, Dean isn’t sure what that says about them.
The point is… the point is that maybe, just maybe, he can concede that he should have told his brother about his husband sooner.
Like fuck he’s gonna admit as much out loud, though.
“Sam.”
“—And Christ, how did you two even meet? Like, how does that happen? Some kind of serial killer convention—”
“Sam.”
“—And why the fuck wasn’t I invited? Sure, I’ve not killed as many as you or the Reaper, but—”
“Sam. ”
“—quality over quantity, right? I would have thought that the Reaper of all people would understand that—”
“SAM!”
Sam stops, mid-tirade, board shorts teamed with crocs today. Dean’s already regretting tossing the flip-flops in the trash this morning. “What?”
Dean twists at the waist, looking down at himself and then up at his brother occupying the entire space of Dean’s bedroom doorway. “How’s my ass look in these jeans?”
***
The interloper makes light work of the digging and Dean’s getting a little hot under the collar, and not just from holding this position (‘cause he’s got goddamn stamina for days). There’s darkness forming a V pattern down the interloper’s back, and when he lifts his shirt to wipe his forehead free of sweat, Dean gets a tantalizing glimpse of sharp hip bones and a perfectly flat stomach that he’ll be trying not to dream about for years to come.
Holy fuck.
Why do the hot ones always come with (literal) baggage?
He shifts his weight, wanting to get a better view of this gorgeous man.
Mistake. Something makes a soft cracking sound (possibly Dean’s knees), and hot interloper dude’s head turns to look in Dean’s direction, whiplash quick.
It’s the first time that Dean curses his dick when it comes to Castiel, but it certainly won’t be the last.
“I heard you.” The guy says in a low voice, like whisky poured over literal rocks and Dean isn’t sure whether the blood rushing is due to fear, adrenaline or good old-fashioned horniness. “Come out where I can see you.”
Fuckfuckfuck.
“Now.”
What an asshole.
Just for that, Dean waits an extra beat before straightening up and coming out of his hiding place.
***
“Just tell me this,” Sam says, watching Dean in the bathroom mirror as Dean slaps on enough cologne to kill a bear. Cas fucking hates it when Dean wears cologne. “How did you guys meet?”
Dean runs a hand through his hair, the softness of it against his palm, wondering whether to put gel in or not. It’s not like he’s taking this date seriously or anything, but there’s no reason for him to not look good.
Show Castiel just what he’s been missing for the last five and a half years.
“Hmm?” He says, having tuned Sam out around the time he started talking about how he’d felt "finding out from a stranger that his own brother was married, and oh god—"
“Seriously?” Bitchface #34, a personal favorite of Dean’s. “You haven’t been listening to a damn word I’ve been saying? Because Dean, if you think that this is over, then you clearly don’t know me as well as you think you do, and the same could be said for me with you, because honestly—”
No gel. Apparently, natural beauty is all the rage these days anyway. And Dean has that shit in spades.
Dean turns to face his brother, and surprise surprise, his face is just as angry this way around as it was in the mirror. “What did you ask me, Sam?”
Sam blows out a breath, clearly frustrated and exhausted, and for a second, Dean almost feels bad. Almost. “How did you two meet?”
“Serial killer convention,” Dean replies breezily as he shoves past him.
***
“Look, man,” Dean says as he emerges from the undergrowth, hands held up in the universal sign for surrender. He hasn’t seen a gun, but that doesn’t mean the interloper doesn’t have one within reach. “I’m just here minding my own business, same as you.” He inclines his head towards the grave and shovel on the left. “I’m nearly done and then I’ll be out of your hair. No harm, no foul.”
“Hmm,” the guy considers, approaching Dean. “I was wondering whose that was.” And then suddenly, he’s all up in Dean’s personal space and he smells like soap, expensive and subtly fragrant just over the top of the heated scent of his skin and Dean can’t physically bring himself to back away.
Dean swallows hard, acutely aware of the evening closing in slowly around them. “Y-yeah. I killed her off the highway, brought her here, ‘cause I’ve buried a few others here.”
“Yeah?” The guy says, breath ghosting warm across Dean’s lips, impossibly blue eyes bright even as the shadows make it near impossible to see much beyond his own nose. “How many others?”
“I..err...Um..” Words, Winchester. Find your fucking words. “Five or six,” Dean replies, honestly not sure. Probably wouldn’t remember his own birthday right now if this dude asked.
Interloper does this weird squinty-eye thing, where he looks as if he’s trying to decide whether to believe Dean or not. It’s surprisingly hot. “That your total count, or—?”
Dean clears his throat, a small swell of pride in his chest. It’s not the number that potential love interests are usually interested in (for all Dean’s bravado and bullshit, that one is considerably lower). “Uh… Seventeen, so far.”
The guy lets out a low whistle, drawing Dean’s attention down to plush pink lips, “Nice.”
Definitely.
“Yeah. So what about you?”
The interloper finally steps away, and Dean can breathe again, his lungs on fire as he exhales slowly, trying to calm his speeding pulse. “Eh, I’m just passing through. First time I’ve been here. Not a bad little patch you’ve got yourself.”
“No, I mean. What’s your total count?”
Interloper resumes digging, grunts out, “Thirty-six. This one makes seven.”
Dean can’t help the reverence in his voice, “Holy shit. That’s like Suffolk County Reaper levels…” he trails off as realization dawns. “You’re the Suffolk County Reaper, aren’t you?”
Never mind Dean wanting to get on his knees for the guy, Sam’d beat him to it.
“Yeah, that’s me.” There’s no hint of pride undercutting his tone, just a sort of bored indifference, as if he gets recognized in the street all the time and is sick of the paparazzi hounding his family, goddammit. “Have you got your name yet?”
“Er, no not yet,” Dean admits awkwardly, picking up his own shovel. “I kinda kill all over the place, so they haven't been able to tie a lot of mine together.”
The Reaper makes an approving noise in the back of his throat. Dean shovels a load of loose dirt into the grave — only his victim’s bloodied forehead is visible now. “Clever.”
“Yeah? I mean... Yeah, I guess.” Dean says, aiming for nonchalance, but falling somewhere south of casual and plunging headfirst into overly invested.
Smooth.
They work side-by-side in silence for some time, no noise other than the occasional grunt and the sounds of moving earth, until Dean cautiously starts whistling, picking up where the Reaper had dropped the tune, right at the ‘It’s all takin’ and no givin’ line. After a beat or two, the Reaper joins in and they’re whistling together, just two maniacs burying bodies in the woods, one step and yet a million miles away from two bros cracking open a cold one and catching up with the game.
***
“Fine!” Sam glowers at him from behind his bangs, though it’s hard for anyone to look menacing with that hair and those shoes. He’s got a fridge dedicated to yogurt for fuck’s sake. “Be a dick, see if I care.”
Dean twirls the ring of his car keys around his middle finger, says over his shoulder. “Wasn’t aware I needed your permission, but thanks.”
He gives himself a final pat down once he reaches the front door: wallet, keys...
“Dean.”
Shit.
Dean hates it when Sam pulls this crappy-ass card, because he knows that Dean can’t ignore the carefully crafted display of vulnerability any better than Sam’s victims can. It’s cheap as hell and Sam knows it, but in fairness, Dean hasn’t really allowed any other moves to work, so it’s not surprising he wants to play the ace up his sleeve.
Dean doesn’t dare turn around. Can’t bear to see the earnest look on Sam’s face, the kind he gets when he’s talking about dolphins getting snagged in trawler nets or some shit. Kid’s always had a heart too big for his chest, which is why Dean’s forever surprised that he took to murder so damn well.
“Do you love him?”
Dean’s breath hitches on a sigh. Goddamn Cas and his coming back before Dean was ready to deal with this mountain of crap.
“From the first moment I saw him, Sammy.”
***
They’re standing by the trunk of the Reaper’s Firebird, having finished their dig together, Dean waiting around a little (read: a lot) longer than necessary. His Impala is somewhere around here, and he’s not looking forward to hunting for her now that the night has well and truly descended on this little corner of the earth.
The Reaper jingles his car keys in his hand, tossing them in the air, catching them easily. If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say that the dude was nervous, but this is the same guy that broke into a DA’s office and slit the throat of the ADA just ‘cause he could, so what does Dean know? “So what do I call you then?”
“Uh…” he fleetingly deliberates the pros and cons of this guy knowing his name, and comes firmly down on the side of wanting this legend to know as much about him as possible, lest he suddenly decide that he desperately wants to fuck a kid barely out of his teens. “Dean.”
The Reaper turns to face him fully then, striking eyes full of dark promises that Dean wants to spend the rest of his life holding him to.
There’s a desperate moment where Dean thinks that he’s gonna get some kind of invitation, some kind of hot-as-fuck lust-fuelled kiss pressed up against the midnight blue of this sexy-ass car, owned by this sexy-ass man, but the moment stretches on and on until it finally snaps.
“...Goodbye, Dean.”
***
For someone who doesn’t give a fuck, Dean’s palms are sweating an awful lot. He rubs them off on his jeans before taking a deep breath (and maybe then a couple more for good measure) and stepping inside the restaurant. The restaurant they’d arranged to meet at, instead of Castiel coming to pick him up, because like fuck was Dean getting into a car with Cas.
The restaurant, which conveniently, is located on the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica.
Asshole.
Cas is sitting at a table near the window, the delicate candlelight casting a satiny, ethereal glow over his handsome face, highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones, the perfect bow of his top lip and for a second, just a split second, Dean considers running the fuck away from this, from them, but then Cas catches sight of him and rises out of his seat to greet him, and yeah he's a life ruiner because he never needed a weapon to kill Dean.
(The one in his pants certainly helps though.)
“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, faux-casual, determined to power through the flush high on his cheeks, the way his traitorous fucking heart flutters against his ribcage.
He’s married to this fucker, this gorgeous bastard with the plush pink lips, straight nose, and a head full of dark tousled hair. This absolute asshole with hip bones to die for and a mouth to kill for.
There’s nothing there behind Castiel’s open expression, nothing but heart-breaking, soul-aching, bone-crushing intensity, as he gazes at Dean through half-lidded eyes as though he’s the only thing worth looking at, all smoldering heat and possessive violence.
“Hello, Dean.”