Chapter Text
[The scene: an abandoned house at the edge of town. Outside, darkness reigns and thunder rolls. A girl and boy sit on a dusty couch with torn upholstery, closer than is strictly polite, their mutual attraction obvious in the way they lean toward each other.]
“Nina, are you sure it was a good idea to come here tonight? I’m worried about you. I’ve never seen your skin look so pale.”
“I’m fine, Jeff. Kiss me.”
“OK.”
[Jeff drapes an arm around Nina’s shoulders, their eyes never leaving each other as he pulls her in. Their lips connect, sliding against each other in a fit of frenzied passion. Jeff pulls back.]
“Your hands are super cold, Nina.”
“Mm. You’ll have to warm them up for me, I guess.”
[Nina leans in again, lowering her lips to kiss Jeff’s throat, open-mouthed.]
“Nina!”
[Jeff pulls away again, shocked. Nina chases after him with an almost feral sound before she composes herself.]
“Yes, Jeff?”
“Your teeth. I thought… did you bite me?”
[Nina’s eyes darken with mischief. She inches closer, backing Jeff into the armrest of the couch.]
“Not yet… but I will now.”
[Nina’s hands grab hold of Jeff’s arms, sharp nails digging into his skin. Her lovely mouth is suddenly a gaping maw, her long, pointed fangs exposed as she goes in for the kill.
The door to the outside flies open. Revealed in the entryway is the tall, well-built figure of a handsome man with tousled dark hair and a five o’clock shadow dusting a sharp jawline. His trench coat billows in the wind. He’s holding a crucifix and staring down the creature of the night with icy blue eyes.]
Cas slumps minutely, the giant fan at his back blowing his shaggy hair into his eyes. He swipes at it with an irritated hand.
“Line?” he growls.
Dean flings his dog-eared copy of the script at the nearest wall. “'I’m here to put an end to your reign of terror, you undead abomination.’” He enunciates every word extra-slowly and clearly, because apparently, it’s a really hard fucking line to remember. “This is the fourth time, Cas, for fuck’s sake! We’ll never get this damn scene finished if you won’t take it seriously.”
He kind of wishes he’d thrown the script at Cas’ head, actually, but it’s not that heavy, and it might smudge Cas’ makeup, which Dean had to do himself because the lady they paid to do makeup quit yesterday. (They paid her mostly in Dean’s homemade cookies. So he’s a little offended on a personal level that she didn’t stick around.)
Cas doesn’t look even slightly apologetic. If anything, he looks like he’s the injured party here. “How can anyone take this seriously, Dean? It’s riddled with the worst kinds of writing clichés, it’s hopelessly derivative, and it’s the exact same fucking scene we did last week, and the week before that.”
Dean rolls his eyes. Cas has a master’s degree in creative writing, so he seems to consider anything less than Emmy-worthy dialogue an insult to his dignity. He also has a whole lot of rejection letters from major publishing houses for the draft of his one and only finished novel. Dean found out about that the one time he and Cas got drunk together.
That was also the time they almost kissed.
(They don’t talk about that.)
Dean grits his teeth. “Well, if they’re all the same fucking scene, you’d think you’d know your lines by now.”
Dean’s kind of proud of the furious, squinty-eyed glare that gets him. Ruffling Cas’ feathers is one of the few remaining perks of Dean’s job.
Growing up, he idolized Donatello Redfield, the elderly Mr. Rogers type who hosted a late-night variety show on one of the local channels. The show was called “Fright Night,” and it would always show these really cheesy, cheap horror movies that Dean inhaled like they were his mom’s apple pie. Before and after the movie, there’d be badly written and awkwardly acted scenes of Donatello hunting vampires in dusty crypts or abandoned mansions, crucifix in one hand, a stake or holy water in the other.
Dean loved every second of it.
It was what made him think he might want to work on a TV show someday, and more specifically, on “Fright Night.” He figured it was a pipe dream — until he graduated with a communications degree and saw an ad looking for a new production assistant on the show. It seemed like fate.
Soon enough, he found out his hire was just one part of a big overhaul behind the scenes. Ratings were dropping fast, and the network figured they needed to come up with a new, younger look to draw in more viewers.
So “Fright Night” became “Vampire Hunter!” and Donatello Redfield was replaced by Castiel Krushnic, author of the great, unpublished American novel, and occasional bit player in local stage productions. (Dean knows for a fact that Cas’ last name is actually Collins. But, apparently, that didn’t sound “exotic enough.” The network guys even tried to make Cas do a Russian accent at first, but it was so awful and offensive, the idea got dropped after the first episode.)
Pretty soon, all the other staffers quit one by one, with the exception of Marv, the weirdo shut-in who writes the scripts for the monster-hunting scenes, and Garth, the camera guy.
So these days, Dean’s the director, the makeup artist, the lighting guy, the sound guy, the special effects guy and the guy who fetches everyone coffee. (That last part isn’t technically in the job description, but he started when he first got hired, and he never really stopped.)
All of which adds up to this: for the past six months, Cas has been the bane of Dean’s existence.
When Cas first got hired, Dean figured it was in his best interest to make nice. And it certainly didn’t hurt that Cas was easy on the eyes. But from the outset, Cas seemed kind of withdrawn; not interested in making friends.
As a last-ditch effort, Dean decided to invite Cas over to his place one night for drinks. But after the aborted kiss, things turned awkward fast, and they settled back into their respective corners. If anything, Cas dialed up the sarcasm and general mockery of the show's scripts and production values. Sniping at each other became their default setting.
Today, all Cas is supposed to do is say his one line and stake the vamp, after which the jury-rigged, pressurized blood bag under the actress’ shirt is going to spray fake blood right onto Cas’ costume. (The blood is made with a Karo syrup base to give it a thicker texture. Dean’ll have to wash that sticky shit off in his machine at home later, but it’ll be worth it.)
And yet, they've been on set for three hours already because Cas can’t. Remember. His. One. Fucking. Line.
Dean rubs at his own stubbled cheek, harder than probably necessary. “What the hell,” he sighs. Resigned to this being another one of those days, he raises his voice. “Everybody, take fifteen!”
He walks over to the craft table and pours himself his third cup of coffee, hunching his shoulders for the conversation he knows is about to happen.
Sure enough, with a dramatic huff, the erstwhile Nina stalks up to him, heels clicking. “You know, you guys only paid me fifty bucks to be here! I thought I’d be in and out in half an hour!”
Tension coiling in his muscles, Dean flexes his fingers around his Styrofoam cup, then winces when some of the boiling-hot liquid sloshes onto his hand. In spite of the smarting patch of skin between his thumb and index finger, he hitches on his most charming smile. “Sorry, sweetheart. That’s the biz. For every ten minutes on camera, you spend hours sitting on your ass.”
“Yeah, well, that idiot better get his damn line right next time, or my ass is outta here.”
And with that, she stalks off.
As soon as Dean dips his head to take a sip of the still-scalding brew, someone else sidles up to him. “What the fuck is it now?” Dean demands.
“Woah there, buddy. Having a bad day?” Garth asks.
Dean forces himself to compose his face into something a hell of a lot more pleasant. “Sorry, Garth. Thought you were one of the actors coming over to complain. Again.”
“Nah.” Smiling pleasantly, just like he always does, Garth pours himself his own cup of coffee and leans companionably against the craft table next to Dean. They both watch Cas, who’s pretzeled himself into one of the nearby folding chairs, earbuds in, nose buried in a book. “Maybe if you and Cas were better friends, he’d be more inclined to learn his lines?”
Dean scoffs. Wanting everybody to get along is very much Garth’s thing. “Look. I’ve tried to be friends with Cas, but he couldn’t have made it clearer that everything about this show is beneath him, including me.”
Okay, so, Cas hasn’t actually said he doesn’t like Dean, not in so many words. But on that night they don’t talk about, Dean was the one who moved in for the kiss, and Cas pulled away. And it’s not that Cas isn’t interested in guys, because just before he shot Dean down, they were having an argument about whether Harrison Ford was hotter as Han or as Indy. (Eventually, they agreed that the answer was “both.”) For some reason, it seemed like a kiss might be the right move that night. Maybe it was the way they’d been laughing their heads off a minute earlier. Or the way Cas suddenly got all quiet and started staring at Dean like a starving man who’s spotted a brunch buffet.
But Cas obviously didn’t want Dean to kiss him.
So, you know, message received.
Garth looks at Dean shrewdly over the rim of his cup. “Have you really, though? Tried?”
Dean bristles. “D’you see him over there? He’s a real approachable guy.”
“Being all prickly could be his defense mechanism,” Garth says, shrugging. With an exaggerated wink, he adds, “I know another guy like that.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Did you come over just to psychoanalyze me?”
Garth draws himself up to his full height, which makes him look a lot more impressive than it should, given how scrawny he is. “No, actually,” he says, with supreme dignity. “I came over because I have an idea for how we can save the show.”
***
They do eventually get the damn scene in the can, after two more takes and a promise from Dean to get the guest actors an extra thirty bucks each. Which isn’t in his budget, so he’ll have to take it out of the budget for next week’s show. Assuming they still have a show next week.
They’re sitting in Dean’s office, though ‘office’ is actually a generous word for it. It’s the size of a broom closet, and because their tiny space in the back corner of a warehouse doesn’t have an actual broom closet, there’s even some cleaning supplies in the corner. You know, just to make things extra professional.
Dean’s sitting in the rickety wooden chair behind his desk, being careful not to lean back too far so as to avoid contact with the mysterious wet spot on his wall that never seems to go away.
Across his desk, Garth and Cas are facing him: Garth wearing his usual beatific smile and Cas scowling like he’s got better places to be. (To be fair, almost everywhere is a better place to be than Dean’s sorry excuse for an office.)
“So, Garth.” Dean leans forward, because if anything hatches from that wet spot, he should at least be out of claw-swiping distance. “Whatcha got?”
“Well.” Garth steeples his hands over his nonexistent belly. “Y’all know about the Brewster House, right?”
It’s very much a rhetorical question. Everybody who grew up in the area knows about the Brewster House — the giant, creepy mansion that kids have been sneaking into for decades and that has at least five different ghost stories attached to it.
Dean nods and motions for Garth to continue. Cas blows out a heavy, long-suffering breath through his nose, which Dean chooses to ignore.
Garth leans forward, eyes darting between them. In a conspiratorial whisper, he says, “Somebody moved into it a couple of weeks ago.”
“Holy shit, really? That place has been empty forever.” Dean leans into his chair, almost forgetting about the stain, but pulling back just in time.
Even Cas looks interested for once. “How do you know?”
“Donatello lives right next door. He told me.”
Right. Dean should probably know about that. Donatello got his pink slip just a few weeks after Dean started on the show, but for those few weeks, he’d seemed like a decent guy, if a bit grouchy. Dean really should have made more of an effort to stop by and see how the guy was doing.
“Anyway, not the point,” Garth continues. “The new owner is this real handsome guy called Arthur Ketch. Kinda keeps to himself, but I met him a couple times after I stopped by Donatello’s house. He’s very polite.” Garth lowers his voice again. “British.”
“Not to be a stick-in-the-mud,” Cas says, completely ignoring Dean’s immediate snort, “but what does that have to do with the show?”
“Well, I’m getting to that.” Garth pauses, apparently for dramatic effect. “Donatello thinks this Ketch guy is a vampire.”
The silence in the room is so absolute, Dean thinks he can hear the sound of a lonely cricket five miles away.
Wow. He really should’ve been checking on Donatello, apparently.
“What, uh,” Cas says, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. Dean does not wish it was his tongue instead. “What makes him think so?”
Which, okay, is not the reaction Dean expected from Cas. Something like an immediate and dramatic exit from the room, trench coat flapping and annoyingly chiseled jaw clenching, would have been more like it.
Garth shrugs. “Well, Donatello’s been handing out these fliers around the neighborhood with a picture of a woman walking into the house. I guess she was reported missing a couple days after he saw her going in?”
“That’s a little thin,” Cas says, frowning, and again, what the hell?
“Cas, you don’t believe this shit, do you? I mean, vampires? With the… the fangs?” Dean waves a hand at his mouth, then makes a vague flapping motion with his arms. “And the bats?”
Cas suddenly looks nervous. His fingers fidget at the collar of his shirt, and he pulls something out of it. It’s a silver necklace of some kind. There seems to be a pendant, but Dean can’t see it well because Cas has his fingers wrapped around it. “Ah… no. No, of course not.” Cas shakes his head and adopts a more neutral expression. “Obviously.”
Garth squints back and forth between them impatiently. “Anyway, what I was coming to was this: nobody took Donatello too seriously at first. They figured he was just upset about getting kicked off the show. But he’s been making a lot of noise. He even started a blog the other day. And this guy Ketch, he’s about to make some big investments, buying up a bunch of properties. Some of those old factories at the west end of town,” Garth gestures vaguely to the left, “and the old mall up Route 70. Gonna redevelop them, I guess. He doesn’t want any of Donatello’s rumor-mongering interfering with that.”
“I still fail to see how this involves the show,” Cas says, and is it just Dean, or does his voice sound a little shaky?
“I hate to agree with Cas on anything,” Dean says, barely sparing a glance at the glare that’s being sent his way, “but he makes a decent point. How does all that help us?”
Garth leans forward, forearms on his thighs, grinning like he’s about to present Dean and Cas with some kind of major treat. “We do a special edition of the show, at Ketch’s house. We make him touch a crucifix, drink holy water, wear a garlic necklace, the whole nine yards. To prove,” Garth adds, with a triumphant gleam in his eye, “that he’s not a vampire.”
“A special edition,” Dean muses. It doesn’t sound like a terrible idea, blurring the boundaries between reality and fiction like that. It’s different. Creative. Except…
Cas clears his throat. “It doesn’t make for very good television, does it? Proving that someone’s not a vampire?”
Dean curses him silently for making the same excellent point Dean was about to make. Creepy, grouchy, mindreading dude.
Garth dispels that objection with a swipe of his hand. “Obviously, we’d hire another actor to participate in the test, and he’d turn out to be an actual vampire.”
“Obviously,” Dean says drily. “Just one little problem with that: I had to blow most of next week’s actor budget on this week’s actors to get them to stick around long enough for someone to nail his one freaking line.”
Predictably, Cas flares up. “If the scripts weren’t so stupid—”
“Fellas,” Garth says cheerfully, making shushing motions with both hands. “Fellas. No need to fight. We’ll just work with in-house talent.”
“In-house—” Dean says, confused, until Cas’ smirk drives home the point. “Oh, hell no. I’m not getting on camera. Least of all with fake fangs and a bunch of freaking blood bags. Nope. No way. Not gonna happen.”
***
Dean looks down at the minor assortment of fake vampire teeth in various sizes, all laid out on the craft-slash-makeup-slash-prop table so he can choose the set that fits him best.
At least, that’s what he’s supposed to be doing, but he’s mostly busy regretting his life choices when Garth strolls up. “So I called Mick Davies. I told you about him, right? Ketch’s live-in assistant?”
Dean waves for Garth to continue, still fixing the display of fangs with a baleful stare.
“Well, he says Ketch just loves the idea. Thinks it’s the perfect, fun little event to dispel all those rumors and get public buy-in for his plans for the town.”
“Great,” Dean says, tonelessly. Should he go for the pair with a bit of blood already painted on? He’d say it’s too cheesy, but “too cheesy” has never really been a deterrent on this show.
Garth keeps talking like Dean’s giving him his full attention. “He does say that Ketch is very religious, so he doesn’t want any crucifixes involved. And he’s got a sensitive stomach, so no garlic. The holy water test he’s okay with, as long as we don’t use real holy water. Again, the religious thing.”
“Sure, whatever. Give him tap water. Gotcha,” Dean says, most of his attention still on the strange, troubling turn his life has taken. Maybe it’s not too late to apply for that job at the local news station?
“Good.” Garth has already started to walk away when something seems to occur to him and he doubles back. “Oh, and one more thing. Mick said Ketch works all day, so he can only shoot after dark.”
Dean flashes Garth an unseeing thumbs-up, still staring down his dental doom.
***
The show airs on Thursdays, so they make the appointment for the shoot at Mr. Ketch’s house for Sunday night. That way, the staff (read: Dean) will have plenty of time to edit the footage into something that’s actually fit to broadcast.
The vampire test will be split into two parts: first, the initial introduction of Ketch, and of Dean, whose character will be “local businessman and possible vampire Dean Smith.” As always, that first segment will be followed by the vampire movie of the week (“I Bought a Vampire Motorcycle,” a ‘90s gem). The second segment, after the movie, will be the actual test. Ketch is going to down his tap water, be totally fine, and then it’ll be Dean’s turn. He’ll flash his fangs, grapple with Cas a bit (which he is not looking forward to, no matter what Garth has been insinuating), and then pretend to let himself be staked.
Dean’s got his literal bloody fangs in the jacket pocket of his costume (aka, the suit he stole from his roommate Benny) and a generously filled blood bag under his shirt. The suit’s already got weird, rusty-looking stains on it, so Dean figures it’s no great loss. And it’s not like Benny gets a lot of use out of his suit anyway, working the night shift at the hospital.
As if the fangs and the monkey suit and the idea of being on camera weren’t all sufficiently humiliating, Dean got stuck giving Cas a ride to Ketch’s house. Apparently, Cas’ old Continental finally crapped out on him, and Garth can’t take him because he’s schlepping all the camera equipment. (They’re really just taking the one handheld camera though, and Garth drives a minivan, so Dean is extremely suspicious of that particular excuse.)
Anyway, point being, Dean is in his Baby, which is good, and she’s idling outside Cas’ apartment building, which is bad.
Dean’s unhelpful brain chooses that moment to remind him that he’s always been embarrassingly attracted to Cas in his costume. It’s a little on-the-nose Constantine, what with the dark suit, messy tie and trench coat, but it just works, paired with the stubble, the sex hair, the hypnotic eyes, the… Dean needs to stop right the fuck now, because there Cas is, all dressed up in his “Vampire Hunter!” outfit, striding towards Dean’s car with purpose and squared shoulders. He’s also carrying the worn little duffle that contains his vampire-hunting paraphernalia (stake, holy water, etc.). Cas keeps it at his place, because it’s not like they have a prop department.
Annoyingly graceful as always, Cas slides into the front seat, acknowledging Dean’s presence with the barest dip of his chin.
Dean was really, really going to avoid messing with Cas today, but it’s just too damn tempting.
“So… you got all those new lines Marv wrote last night, right?”
Abandoning his attempt to get the Impala’s ancient seatbelt to behave, Cas spins around to face Dean, looking appalled. “New lines?”
“Sure,” says Dean, nodding earnestly. “He wrote you a whole speech about how the vampire is really a tragic figure who craves nothing more than… what was it?” Dean taps his chin in mock thoughtfulness. “Oh, right. ‘The poignant, ephemeral connection of the flesh.’”
Cas’ face goes very still, nothing but his lips moving as he mouths the words tonelessly.
Dean tries to keep a straight face, he really does, but it’s a lost cause. He cackles. “Dude, I’m messing with you. It’s still just your intro speech, and then the test and the fight with me, and then your little closer.” Imitating Cas’ gravelly growl, Dean recites, “‘These undead abominations will never be allowed to roam free. Not while I’m around. I’m Castiel Krushnic, vampire hunter.’”
Cas narrows his eyes, completely ignoring Dean’s excellent acting skills. “It wasn’t funny."
“C’mon.” Dean nudges a gentle elbow into Cas’ side. “It was a little funny.”
Cas mutters something unintelligible and turns away as Dean starts the car, staring out the passenger-side window like the view of his apartment building’s parking lot is the most thrilling thing he’s ever seen.
“You gotta admit you had it coming after the last show,” Dean says as he pulls onto the road. He should just let Cas stew, but he never seems to be able to stop himself from poking at him, trying to find some kind of even footing for their relationship.
Cas half-shrugs. For a minute or two, they’re both silent, and then Dean nearly crashes the car when Cas says, “I do regret that. Not learning the line. I was being unprofessional.”
Dean surprises himself when he asks, so quietly he’s almost sure Cas won’t hear over the rumble of his Baby’s engine, “Why were you?”
Cas rolls his shoulders, shifting a little in his seat. “I… was having a bad time that day.” Something about the lines of his face, as seen from the corner of Dean’s vision, has softened a little, and Dean feels like maybe he should be asking a follow-up question. But before he can, Cas' expression shutters again and he mumbles, “I’d rather not talk about it."
Dean nods, and silence falls again. The next time he finishes making a turn, Dean says, “I’m not a ‘feelings talk’ guy anyway.”
Cas snorts. “I’ll say. You’re as subtle as a bull in a china shop.”
Dean fixes him with a glare that probably lasts a lot longer than it should, considering he’s currently piloting a giant hunk of metal. “You know what’s not subtle? That metaphor.”
Cas crosses his arms, smirking obnoxiously. “It’s not a metaphor. It’s a simile.”
Dean thinks he should really be commended for not punching the guy then and there, road safety be damned.
“Oh, it’s on,” he says instead, pointing a threatening finger in Cas’ general direction. “Who’re you to talk to me about subtlety, Mr. Everything-Is-A-Sarcastic-Punchline?”
“Sarcasm is a time-honored coping mechanism,” Cas says, with supreme dignity, though Dean could swear his lips are starting to twitch, “used by many great minds.”
“Right,” Dean shoots back, trying and failing to keep his own lips from curving up. “Can’t spell sarcastic without Cas, right?”
For a beat, Cas stares at him, slack-jawed. Then, his mouth shuts with an audible click of his teeth. One corner of his mouth ticks in an unmistakably upward direction, and his fingers start to twitch.
(It’s a good thing they’re stopped at a red light, because Dean really needs to watch whatever the hell is happening here.)
Both of Cas’ shoulders are trembling now, and then… something escapes from between Cas’ lips, which are almost painfully thin with the effort of trying to keep a straight face.
Something that can only be called a giggle.
And that’s it. That’s all Dean can take.
An extremely undignified snort bursts out of him, and before he knows it, he’s laughing so hard, he barely even notices the cacophony of honks starting up behind him. The light probably changed some time ago.
They don’t say anything else for the rest of the drive, but twice over, they catch each other’s eye and start howling all over again.
By the time they pull up in front of the Brewster House, Dean’s not entirely sure how they even got there, let alone so quickly. All he knows is, maybe doing that fight scene with Cas later isn’t going to be such a chore after all.
***
For as long as Dean can remember, the Brewster House had your classic haunted mansion look: overgrown yard, dangling shutters, peeling paint, missing roof tiles.
Even in the gathering darkness of late evening, Dean can tell that the house facing him now is a very different customer.
Every blade of grass has been cut to exactly the same length as all its neighbors. The walls and trim are painted in soothing pastels, the roof tiles of the whimsical corner turret repaired, shutters firmly attached and gleaming with wholesomeness. There’s even a porch swing, creaking gently in the light breeze.
The sole discordant note is Garth’s banged-up, rusted minivan, already pulled into the top of the driveway.
At the top of the steps, on the homey porch, stands a tall, well-groomed man with dark hair and blue eyes, hands clasped solemnly, waiting for them. His suit has the impeccable fit of something tailor-made, and the overall impression is of a more put-together (read: less attractive) version of Cas.
As Dean makes his way to the porch, his eyes fall on the significantly smaller and more dingy Victorian next door. He could swear he sees one of the curtains twitch, and a flash of wavy white hair. But it’s there and gone before he can be sure.
“Welcome,” Not-Cas says when Dean and Cas have made it up the porch steps. He’s all polite smiles and benign nods. “You must be Castiel and Dean?”
Huh. Based on the many times he’s watched "Cockneys vs. Zombies," Dean’s pretty sure that’s a Cockney accent. You don’t hear a lot of those in the Midwest.
They both return his nod, and the guy favors them each with a quick, business-like handshake. “Mick Davies. Mr. Ketch’s live-in assistant.”
Mick’s hand is cool in Dean’s palm, and Dean bites his tongue to keep from commenting on the weirdness of the “live-in” part. He was pretty sure the idea of “live-in” employees died with the 19th century. Then again, rich people are weird.
“This way, please.” Mick extends one arm in the direction of the entrance, motioning for Cas and Dean to precede him into the dark, cool interior of the mansion.
It’s… something else. There’s a giant chandelier suspended from the ceiling, casting a warm glow onto rich Persian rugs and antique side tables. Garth, his camera in his lap, is sunk quicksand-deep into an ostentatiously patterned armchair. For some unfathomable reason, he’s wearing a white ball cap that proclaims “Free Hugs” in a rainbow riot of neon colors.
“Hey, fellas,” he says, and waves, just as cheerful and unaffected as though they’re having another day at the warehouse.
Dean acknowledges him with a grin before his eyes are drawn to the soaring staircase right in the center of the foyer. The bottom of each banister is topped by a gleaming black-marble statue of a woman draped in a toga and carrying a torch. At the top of the staircase, casting a kaleidoscopic glow on the proceedings, is a giant stained-glass window. It’s circular, with an abstract pattern of colors and flowers, reminiscent of the sort of thing more commonly found in cathedrals.
Dean feels Cas stop dead next to him in the doorframe, obviously just as frozen by the sheer… muchness of the place.
A shadow cuts across the stained-glass window, and a man descends the stairs.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with a well-cut jaw and a generous head of dark hair. (What is it with every single person in this house pushing all of Dean’s “yes, please” buttons? How is he supposed to work under these conditions?) Like Mick’s, his grey suit is exquisitely tailored, its color offset nicely by a salmon-colored tie and matching pocket square. A roguish smile lights his sculpted features — like he’s thinking of an excellent joke known only to him, and Dean suddenly finds that he really, really wants to be in on that joke.
He shakes his head, trying to clear it. Cool it, Winchester. You’re here to work.
The man has reached the bottom of the stairs now, and Dean flinches a little when the deep baritone of Mick’s voice sounds from next to his ear. He’d forgotten the guy was still there. “Dean, Castiel, Garth — may I present my employer, Mr. Arthur Ketch."
Garth gets up, and he and Dean both step forward to shake hands. “A pleasure,” Ketch says, warmly. He seems to be British as well, and even Dean knows enough to recognize his accent as a much more sophisticated one than Mick’s.
Then Ketch turns to Cas, who is still hovering by the door.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Castiel.” Ketch holds out his hand, and Cas looks down at it like he’s being offered a basket of venomous snakes. His throat bobs with a heavy swallow, and for a moment or two, Dean’s sure Cas is going to refuse to shake hands. But then he reaches out, and Ketch folds both his palms around Cas’ hand.
Ketch locks eyes with Cas, and they stand there, unmoving. From where Dean is standing, he can’t see Ketch’s face, but he can see Cas’ eyes. They’re glazing over, sliding slowly out of focus.
Garth’s cheerful voice sounds from his left. “That’s an awfully interesting painting there, Mr. Ketch.”
Cas blinks and withdraws his hand.
Shaking off his unease, Dean turns to see the painting Garth is pointing at, recessed in a small alcove to the left of the staircase. It’s a painting of Ketch, or a man who looks an awful lot like him. Except he’s wearing the kind of ruffled collar that went out of fashion with the Renaissance.
“Ah yes,” Ketch says smoothly. “An ancestor of mine. Pronounced family resemblance.”
Garth ambles over to study the plaque at the bottom of the frame. “Sir Arthur Ketch,” he reads.
“A family name,” Ketch agrees.
Dean catches sight of Cas’ expression out of the corner of his eye. There’s something there… fear?
Dean doesn’t have time to dwell on that discovery, though. They’re on a tight schedule, so everyone gets busy setting the scene for the “vampire test.” Ketch and Dean will each be tied to a chair in the middle of the mansion’s living room, the idea being that Cas captured them before the broadcast began.
Would it have been more exciting to show the capture on-screen? Sure. But the acted segments on either side of the movie of the week are no more than eight minutes long, and Dean somehow doubts Ketch would have agreed to participate in a scuffle that might rumple his immaculately pressed suit.
As Garth winds a length of rope around Dean’s torso with surprisingly practiced-looking motions — “Boy scout training,” Garth chirps, in response to Dean’s questioning eyebrow — Dean focuses on Cas, who is looking unusually pale, rummaging through his bag of supplies. He’s crouched next to the bag with his back to Ketch and Mick, who are conferring in hushed voices next to one of the windows. Eventually, Cas pulls out a small, flat box and flips the lid.
As Dean watches, an expression of shock and dismay ripples across Cas’ features. It’s so unlike Cas’ usual grouchy, distant expression that Dean feels a shiver run down his spine. Cas looks back and forth between Ketch and Mick, then down at the small object in his hand. Dean can see Cas’ chest rising and falling with his quickened breaths.
His movements jerky, Cas gets up and hurries over to Dean’s chair. He bends over to whisper in Dean’s ear, the small puff of warm air causing a second, but much more pleasant, shiver. “We need to talk, Dean. In private.”
Dean tries to jerk back to a safer distance, only to be foiled by the ample amount of cotton rope looping around most of his upper body. He contorts his neck awkwardly to look up at Cas, who is still leaning way too damn close. “Now, Cas? You really think this is the time for a chat?”
“Please, Dean?” There’s a note of urgency, pleading even, in Cas’ voice that Dean has never heard there before. His eyes are wide open, all ocean-blue earnestness.
Dean sighs. “Garth? Undo my knots, will ya?”
***
As soon as Dean has disentangled himself, Cas takes hold of his arm and drags him outside, onto the porch. The only illumination out there is the indistinct, dull glow of streetlights, and the light emanating from the window, where the silhouettes of Mick and Ketch are still in conference.
Cas’ eyes fall on the shadowy outlines of the two men where they darken the pristine wood of the porch. He tenses and pulls Dean down the steps, into the shadow of a tree that adjoins the driveway.
“Dean, what I’m about to tell you is going to sound very strange.” Cas licks his lips nervously and looks back at the house. Dean tries very hard to focus on what Cas is saying, as opposed to how nice it would feel to cup his face and kiss away the frown line between his eyebrows.
Despite his best efforts, Dean almost misses what Cas tells him next. “I keep a small pocket mirror in my prop bag. I… I pulled it out to make sure my makeup wasn’t smudged, and…” Cas swallows hard. “I caught sight of Ketch in the mirror. Or rather, I didn’t.”
Dean blinks. “You… what?”
Cas worries at his bottom lip with his teeth. “He didn’t cast a reflection in my mirror.”
Dean opens and closes his mouth three times. By the third time, he still has no idea what to say, so he chuckles weakly. “Cas, I gotta admit, I didn’t think you had it in you to pull pranks, but this is a hell of a time to start. We’re trying to get our scenes shot and we’ve only got access to Ketch for a couple of hours and—”
“When I was twelve,” Cas says, his voice a little shaky, “I saw something. I was walking home by myself after dark, even though my parents had told me not to.” He exhales something that sounds vaguely like a laugh, but Dean can’t be sure. “I was so stupid. Anyway, I got scared and I figured I’d take a shortcut to get home faster. But there was…”
Cas breaks off and looks at his shoes. Dean’s fingers itch to reach out and put a steadying hand on his shoulder, but he’s not sure it would be welcome, so he stays where he is.
“There was someone in an alley. A man and… and a woman. There was so much blood, and I thought… I thought I saw the man… feeding on her.” Cas looks off down the street, blinking hard. “I told my parents, but they didn’t believe me, obviously. So I started reading everything I could about vampires. What they’re like. How to fight them. When my parents figured out what I was doing, they were worried I was developing ‘dangerous delusions.’” For once, Dean doesn’t feel like smirking at Cas’ pretentious air-quote habit. “They sent me to therapy. Years and years of therapy. I thought I was over it. That’s why I took the job on this damn show. To prove to myself that I was over it.” Cas’ chuckle is utterly mirthless. “Look how that worked out.”
Dean stands frozen, watching each crack in Cas’ composure as it develops and widens. Jaw working and hands bunching into fists, Cas croaks, “If there’s one thing I learned from all those damn books, it’s that vampires don’t cast a reflection in mirrors.” He looks at Dean, blue eyes wide and pleading. “Dean, I really think we need to get out of here.”
Unease prickles down Dean’s spine. He remembers plenty of movies where vampires also had the power to put their intended victims into a trance. The way Cas’ eyes became all glazed and distant when Ketch looked at him…
He shoves that thought away. It’s too crazy.
“Cas, you can’t seriously be saying what I think you’re saying,” he says, careful to keep his tone gentle.
Cas shakes his head wearily. “You think I’m crazy.” He half-turns away, looking back at the house and the shadowy figures moving around inside it. “God, I can’t even blame you.”
“No, hey.” Dean does grab hold of Cas’ shoulder then, turning him so they’re facing each other fully. One hand on each shoulder, Dean dips his head to catch Cas’ eye. “Maybe I don’t believe that Ketch is a freaking vampire, but I do believe that you’re scared. God knows you’re a terrible actor, so I don’t think you could fake it that well.”
Impossibly, that coaxes a small smile from Cas. Encouraged, Dean goes on. “So here’s what we’ll do. I’ve still got some real holy water in my trunk, because back in the day, Donatello always said we needed to use the real stuff. For ‘verisimilitude’ or some shit like that.” He dismisses that detail with an impatient wave. “Anyway. Point being, we get Ketch nice and tied up, and we feed him the real holy water. And then, when he doesn’t start smoking, or grow fangs, will that make you feel better?”
For a moment, Cas stands there, meeting Dean’s eyes. There’s a whole world of thoughts swirling behind the blue of Cas' irises, and Dean suddenly wishes he had the time to parse them all. “I think so,” Cas whispers.
They’re standing way too close to each other. Somehow, without Dean’s permission, one of his hands has wandered up from Cas’ shoulder to cup the side of his neck.
“Can I…” Dean starts, swallows. “Can I kiss you this time?”
Cas nods. “I didn’t mean to pull away that night. I just… I was surprised and—” Cas breaks off.
With a small, involuntary exhale, Dean leans forward.
“Hey, fellas!” Garth calls from the porch. “You coming back here to shoot this thing or what?”
Cas jerks back, and Dean almost falls over his own feet in his haste to put more space between them.
“I’ll just…” Dean points at the trunk of the Impala. “You go ahead.”
Cas looks after him, a little forlorn. “Right,” he says.
Before Dean has taken two steps in the direction of his car, Cas’ voice calls him back.
“What if he does grow fangs?”
Dean digs his fake vampire teeth out of his jacket pocket and pops them in his mouth, doing his best impression of an evil sneer. "He shows me his, I'll show him mine."
Cas snorts, shaking his head in amused disbelief as he starts walking back to the house. Dean opens the trunk and pulls out a flask. Without knowing exactly why, he picks up another and puts it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
***
It takes about twenty minutes to get the whole scene set up again, but eventually, Dean and Ketch are each tied to their chairs, with Mick hovering in the shadows just out of view.
They put the first segment in the can, Cas welcoming the viewers and introducing Ketch and Dean as local businessmen and likely vampires. Ketch then does his whole spiel about how he’s not a vampire at all and just wants to use his “considerable resources” to turn the fortunes of the town around.
They get it on the second take. Then, Garth unties Ketch and Dean so they can work the tension out of their muscles, and so Dean can insert his fangs for his upcoming vampire “transformation.”
When everyone’s all tied up again, Garth hoists his camera onto his shoulder while Cas takes a deep breath, getting into the spirit of the scene. He looks outwardly calm now; the slight tightness around his eyes is noticeable only because Dean is looking for it. He privately wonders how much of Cas’ behavior on set these past few months has been due to being in a setting that makes him uncomfortable and reminds him of memories he’d rather put behind him.
He doesn’t get too deep into that line of thought, though, before Garth shouts, “Action!”
“Welcome back, horror fans,” Cas tells the camera, eyebrows furrowed grimly. “Did you know there are some people who don’t believe in vampires?” His voice is equal parts incredulity and disapproval. “Well, we’re about to prove them wrong. You’ve already met these two local businessmen—” he points an admonishing finger at Dean and Ketch in turn “—Dean Smith and Arthur Ketch, who are suspected of being the undead. Blood suckers. Monsters preying on the young and beautiful of our town. Tonight, we’ll discover the truth of the matter… together.”
From the pocket of his trench coat, Cas produces the small flask Dean slipped him earlier. “I have here,” Cas near-whispers, “genuine holy water. I’m going to make these two drink it. If they’re human, it won’t harm them. But if they’re not…”
Cas trails off, his grim, pinched look suggesting awful consequences, or possibly chronic constipation. Still squinting meaningfully at the camera, he uncorks the flask and steps closer to Ketch. Out of the corner of his eyes, Dean can tell Cas’ hands are shaking. He suddenly, irrationally wishes he could take this task off Cas’ shoulders, but he’s not about to sabotage what could be their last shot at saving the show because of some stupid, irrational curl of apprehension in his gut.
Ketch says his line — “Do what you want with me; I’m human and I can prove it!” — and Cas steps closer. Careful to keep facing the camera, Cas guides the flask to Ketch’s lips.
Ketch tips his head back.
Several things happen at once.
An unearthly, inhuman cry rips from Ketch’s throat, shaking the windows and vibrating Dean’s eardrums. His lips start to smoke and blister, as though the water touching them is scalding hot. Their flesh peels back to reveal a terrifying glimpse of long, pointed canines.
There’s a yell and a thud. Then, the room is plunged into complete darkness.