Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

October 29, 2023 – Sunday, 12:20 a.m.

The stars hid behind heavy clouds, yet still shimmered, scattered like poorly healed wounds in the dark sky. The damp wind slithered between the tall trunks, shaking the dry leaves with invisible fingers. They fell, spun through the air, and gathered along the trail — a narrow path of packed earth that cut through the forest like an old scar.

Mist crawled between the exposed roots. Low, thick, silent. Almost alive.

Autumn in New Orleans had always been like this.

Too warm.

Too damp.

And covered by that mist that rose at dawn...

...and returned when the sun died.

Dean walked slowly, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket. His headphones muffled the world around him. Only the weight of the beat — heavy, dense — filled his ears.

Heaven and Hell.

Black Sabbath.

The guitar tore through the night’s silence.

The hands hidden in the fabric carried warm traces of another life. Dried blood on his knuckles, fresh blood still sticky beneath his nails. His black shirt was stained. But in the darkness of the forest, everything was black — it was impossible to tell dirt from shadow.

He nodded slightly, in time with the music.

Hummed. Almost a whisper.

As if nothing had happened.

As if it were just another ordinary Sunday.

The trail beneath his feet crackled with dead leaves.

The weight of the gun on his hip was irrelevant. It was a part of him. Like the blood on his hands. Like the music still vibrating in his ears.

Dean walked without hurry.

Without guilt.

Without care.

But then he stopped.

Abruptly.

Immediately.

Something cut through the mist ahead.

A blue glow.

Cold.

Too strange to be natural.

Too alive to be ignored.

He squinted, trying to pierce the fog with his gaze.

Nothing. Only shapes, shadows, silence.

He pulled out his headphones.

Took a deep breath — once.

The damp air burned in his nostrils.

Silence.

He listened.

Nothing.

He felt.

Something.

He analyzed.

Then, he took a step.

Slow.

Controlled.

There was hesitation. But also intention.

Then another.

And another.

Like someone entering a temple.

Or a trap.

Then Dean raised his hand.

His fingers pushed through the thick air, as if parting a living curtain.

The mist resisted — but gave way.

And that’s when he saw it.

Someone.

Or something.

Crouched over a body sprawled on the ground.

The blue glow came from it — or seeped out of it, like vapor from something that shouldn’t exist.

The hand held a knife.

But it didn’t shake.

It cut.

Slid with unnerving precision.

No rage. No haste.

The blade sank into flesh as if following an invisible map.

Steady hand. Unblinking eyes.

It was a task.

A ritual.

A meticulous dissection.

Blood flowed in silence.

Dean didn’t move.

Not yet.

Dean felt his breath catch for a second.

Not out of fear.

Not hesitation.

But because he needed to think.

Calculate.

Plan the next move without a sound. Without being seen.

Slowly, he moved his foot back.

Hand already at his hip, ready to draw the gun.

Crack.

A sharp snap.

He flinched.

Fuck.

He stepped on a twig.

Just a dry fucking twig.

Damn twig.

Everything stopped.

The world, the air — even the mist seemed to hold its breath with him.

And then—

The figure turned.

Fast. Precise.

Its neck twisted with a soft crack, like an owl snapping to attention.

Eyes locked.

Blue.

Cold.

Impossible.

Dean froze.

Not like prey.

But like a man who recognizes — even without understanding — that he’s staring at something that should not exist.

The person — no.

The creature — rose slowly.

First the back.

Then the shoulders.

And then it stood, fully upright, facing Dean directly.

The trench coat swayed in the wind, heavy, soaked in blood.

Red flecks stained the pale face.

In its hand, a broad-bladed knife, still dripping.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

But that wasn’t what froze Dean.

It was the thing’s chest.

There was a knife buried there.

Plunged deep into the center.

Blood ran from it — from its own body.

And yet… it remained standing. Steady.

What the hell is that? Dean thought.

What the fuck is this?

Because whatever it was — it was alive.

And its eyes…

They glowed.

A supernatural blue.

Not reflection. Not illusion.

Light.

Pure.

Wrong.

But the light dimmed, slowly, like a dying bulb.

The intense blue faded…

…and disappeared.

Dean narrowed his eyes.

Watched.

Recognized.

The silhouette.

The coat.

The presence.

“Professor Novak?” — the words left his lips, low and tense.

The creature — no, the man — tilted his head slightly.

“Hello, Dean,” he said, as if nothing had happened.

Chapter Text

One Week Earlier

October 23, 2023 — Monday, 5:35 a.m.

The pale morning light slipped through the windows, sliding through the cracks in the door like curious fingers. The aroma of fresh coffee drifted up from downstairs, invading the bedroom and mixing with the bitter scent of interrupted sleep.

Dean Winchester hated Mondays.

Truly hated them.

And he hated waking up early even more. He wasn’t a morning person — never had been. But there he was: up at five in the morning, silently making his way to the closet, grabbing his work clothes with half-shut eyes and a soul that still refused to wake up.

The FBI demanded sacrifices. Time, blood, sleep deprivation — sometimes all at once.

He opened the bedroom door and walked down the hall to the bathroom at the end. A hot shower was his only non-negotiable. Showering with cold water at that hour? Over his dead body.

After the usual morning routine — brushing his teeth, masking the dark circles under his eyes, and putting on the dark suit he wore like armor — Dean headed downstairs, drawn by the familiar smell of coffee.

In the kitchen, Sam was already seated at the table, reading the newspaper like some retired old man, a steaming mug between his hands.

Dean frowned.

“Why the hell are you already up, nerd?”

Sam didn’t look up.

“Because some people have discipline. And you snore like a damn tractor,” he replied, flipping the page.

Dean huffed, poured himself a cup of coffee, and dropped into the chair across from him.

No, he didn’t live with his brother. Not a chance. He had his own place back in Kansas — his life, his freedom. But the job — and the bodies — dragged him all over the country. When a case was too big for the local police, who did they call? The FBI.

And luckily — or maybe fatefully — Sam lived in New Orleans. Which meant a decent bed, real coffee, and free lodging. Better than any roadside motel with a mattress that looked like it had fought in a war.

Dean took a sip and breathed in deeply.

“You don’t have work?” Sam asked without looking up from the newspaper.

“Already trying to kick me out of your house? That’s sweet, Sammy.”

Sam sighed, lowered the paper, and looked at his brother with that half-tired, half-worried expression.

“That’s not it. It’s just... you’ve been here almost a week and you guys still haven’t closed this case.”

Dean shrugged, resting his elbow on the table.

“Cases like this don’t get solved overnight, you know.”

“I get that, Dean. But that’s not what I meant. I mean... this killer. Psychopath. Whatever it is. Isn’t it giving even you guys a bit too much trouble?”

Dean hesitated for a second, then let out a dry sigh.

“Yeah. But it’s always like this. In the end, we catch them.”

Or I catch them first, he thought.

Dean glanced at the clock on the wall and stood up, leaving his empty mug on the table with a soft thud.

“Gotta go,” he said, already walking away. “What’s for dinner?”

Sam raised an eyebrow.

“Japanese?”

“Japanese.”

Without another word, he walked down the hallway, grabbed the car keys from the bowl by the door, and stepped outside. The door clicked shut behind him, muting the sounds of the world inside.

Dean parked the Impala with precision in front of the building — a makeshift headquarters hastily set up for the FBI task force investigating the string of murders in New Orleans.

He shut off the engine and, out of habit, gave the matte black hood two affectionate taps before getting out. It was more than just a car. It was a reminder of who he’d been before all of this.

He closed the door with a metallic click and walked toward the building’s entrance, his steps steady, his expression shifting — from older brother to federal agent.

Inside, monsters waited for him — though only some were easy to recognize.

Dean walked into the building and gave a nod to a few colleagues scattered around the lobby. Not all of them were FBI — there were local cops, state detectives, people who still didn’t fully trust the federal government, but who respected results.

Dean wasn’t one for making friends, but he knew how to be polite when it mattered.

In just a few days there, he’d already earned most of their respect. Not just because of the way he looked — though that didn’t hurt — but because he’d proven himself. Smart. Fast. Direct. Hostile when needed. He knew exactly how to pull the truth out of someone’s throat — living or dead.

He pressed the elevator button and waited, hands in his pockets, the black suit molding to his shoulders like a second skin.

When the metal doors slid open, he stepped inside and gave a brief “morning” to those already there. Two agents from the forensic lab and a woman from the behavioral analysis team. They all responded with nods and tight smiles.

Dean was hard to ignore.

Maybe it was the eyes — the ones that always seemed to see more than they should.

Maybe it was the scent of gunpowder and judgment that clung to him wherever he went.

And honestly?

Who cared?

Dean had presence.

When he entered a room, the atmosphere shifted. He was the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard, or smile to be noticed. There was something in his eyes, in the way he walked, in how he looked at people… Like he already knew the worst parts of them.

The elevator doors opened with a muffled ding, and he stepped out without hurry. He walked down the cold, gray corridors to the investigation room set up on the second floor.

He was greeted by a raised eyebrow from Charlie Bradbury, his teammate — specialist in tech, intelligence, and sarcasm.

“Well, look who’s up early,” she said, eyes still on the monitor.

Dean dropped his jacket on the chair and leaned against her desk, the coffee still warming his stomach.

“There was coffee. And a promise of sushi for dinner.”

Charlie snorted, typing a few more lines on the keyboard.

“Living for the small luxuries, huh, Agent Winchester?”

He gave a crooked smirk.

“You should try it. Or you’ll end up like the bastards we investigate.”

She paused for a second. Looked at him.

“Speaking of which... things just got worse.”

Dean raised an eyebrow.

“Worse how?”

Charlie turned the monitor toward him. Photos from the new crime scene appeared — a body sliced open, cleaned with surgical precision, organs missing. Something had been written on the wall in blood.

Latin.

Dean tilted his head, eyes narrowing.

“What the fuck…”

And for the first time that morning, something inside him truly woke up.

“What the hell does that even mean?”

Dean was still staring at the screen when an unexpected voice cut through the air — firm, deep, with a tone that felt... displaced in time.

“Even silence glorifies the Most High.”

Both — Dean and Charlie — looked up at the same time.

And there, standing in the doorway like he’d stepped out of a poorly translated scripture, was a man who looked like anything but FBI.

An accountant? A missionary? What the hell…?

He wore a ridiculous beige trench coat — so ridiculous, in fact, that it somehow fit him perfectly. His hair was dark, slightly tousled, like he’d just walked out of a fight… or out of someone’s bed. But what stood out most were his eyes.

Blue. Intense. Almost ethereal.

And when they met Dean’s green ones, the world seemed to freeze.

Dean’s whole body shivered — an instinctive, uneasy reaction. It wasn’t just desire. It was... something more.

And then Bobby walked in beside the stranger, though Dean hadn’t even noticed him until that moment.

“Where the hell is everybody?” Bobby asked, already scowling.

“They’re not here yet,” Charlie replied, still staring at the newcomer.

But Dean barely heard her.

He was caught in that stare.

Blue locked on green. Green locked on blue.

As if time had stopped just so the two of them could look at each other.

And him — the man with celestial eyes — he stared back. Unblinking. Unashamed.

Like he already knew everything.

Finally, Dean broke eye contact — abruptly, like someone pulling their hand away after touching a flame. He turned to Bobby, masking the discomfort with a forced joke.

“So who’s this, Bobby? A missionary?”

He let out a low chuckle, but it sounded hollow. Charlie bit her lip, trying not to smile.

Bobby, however, wasn’t amused.

He planted his hands on his hips, already wearing the expression of a man whose patience was running thin — and the day had barely begun.

“Dean. Charlie,” he said, firmly. “This is Dr. Castiel Novak.”

He paused, as if the name alone should be enough. And maybe it was.

“Renowned professor of behavioral neuroscience and psychopathology. Former surgeon. He’s here to assist with the case.”

Dean turned his head slowly, like he was being forced to face something inevitable. And there he was again. Castiel. The name sounded strange coming from Bobby’s mouth, but it fit the man — fit those impossibly blue eyes — perfectly.

Dr. Novak gave a small, restrained nod.

“A pleasure, Agents.”

His voice was low and deep, with a tone that felt almost... intimate. But there was no warmth in it. Only something cold, refined, and dangerous behind the words.

“Just one question… didn’t we already have Adeline handling the suspect profiles?” Charlie asked, frowning.

“Agent Adeline had to return to Kansas,” Bobby replied, tone more serious now. “Family issues… and, well, those tend to take priority.”

Charlie gave a small nod, like she understood — but wasn’t entirely convinced.

“Dr. Novak won’t just be helping with suspect profiling,” Bobby continued. “He’ll also assist with psychological evaluations of witnesses and suspects, behavioral interpretation, microexpression reading… that sort of thing.”

Castiel simply observed, motionless — as if he were analyzing everyone rather than listening.

His lips curved into a small smile.

Controlled.

Precise.

Calculated.

“Well… welcome to the team, Dr. Novak,” Charlie said, forcing a polite smile.

“Please, call me Castiel. I’m no longer a surgeon… now, I’m just a professor.”

Dean said nothing.

But that “just” rang far too false to go unnoticed.

Time passed.

One by one, the agents began to arrive, filling out the investigation team.

Benny was the first to walk in.

Tall, imposing — the kind of man who looked more at home in a bar than in a room full of case files and crime scene photos. His Southern drawl was still strong, even after years in the FBI, and there was something comforting about his presence — steady, direct, loyal. He looked at Dean and gave him a nod.

“Coffee still terrible around here?” he asked, flashing a crooked smile.

Right behind him came Garth — wiry, a little awkward, but sharp as hell.

He might have looked like the kind of guy who’d lose a bar fight, but his mind was brilliant when it came to patterns, data, and connections no one else could see. He carried a huge binder and a thermal mug of tea.

“Good morning, functional humans,” he chirped as he dropped his things on the table.

Kevin came in shortly after, still looking like he hadn’t slept in days. Young, a prodigy, responsible for language analysis, cryptography, and suspect communications — the brain of the operation, as he liked to call himself. And despite his age, his competence spoke louder than any degree ever could.

“Still nothing on the dark forums... but someone’s been talking about the victims using disturbingly clinical vocabulary. That’s weird,” he muttered, already powering up his laptop.

Jody was the first to show up in uniform.

Local New Orleans PD, brought in to work closely with the FBI due to her experience with serial murder cases. Tough, no-nonsense, sharp-eyed. She had a natural authority, and even without saying much, everyone respected her.

“Morning.” She dropped a file onto the table.

“There’s a witness waiting. Neighbor of the latest victim. Says she saw ‘something impossible.’”

“I love when they say that,” Dean said, deadpan.

Finally, Donna arrived — a little late, as usual — her hair thrown up in a messy bun and a warm smile on her face. From the FBI’s behavioral psychology division, she specialized in interpersonal dynamics and soft interrogation techniques.

She had a disarming presence, the kind that made even the most closed-off suspects talk.

“Guys, traffic was a nightmare. Anybody want a donut? Brought some to make up for it.”

She held up the paper bag, radiating good vibes and sugary forgiveness across the room.

As everyone settled at their desks, still arranging folders, laptops, and coffee mugs, Bobby walked back in through the door — Castiel once again at his side.

The sound of their footsteps echoed softly, yet firmly, in the focused atmosphere of the room.

“Now that everyone’s here,” Bobby said, stopping in the center of the room, “let’s make a formal introduction.”

Castiel stood beside him, hands clasped behind his back, posture so straight it looked like relaxing wasn’t something he knew how to do. His blue eyes moved across each face in the room with clinical, cold precision — but not with hostility. Just… focus. Like someone studying a cross-section of anatomy.

Bobby began introducing him again, now with the full team present. He spoke of Castiel’s academic background, his specializations in behavioral neuroscience, forensic psychopathology, his experience as a surgeon, and his current role as a professor.

Castiel didn’t interrupt.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t offer any gesture of modesty.

He remained still — like none of it mattered, or like he’d heard it all a thousand times before.

Everyone listened in silence, with respect.

No jokes.

No questions.

There was something about his presence that demanded that.

Even Benny and Garth, usually more relaxed, kept their expressions serious.

When Bobby finished, he clapped his hands once. The sound echoed sharp against the walls.

“I want all of you to bring Dr. Novak up to speed on the case,” he said. “Everything we have so far. Don’t leave anything out.”

Castiel finally spoke — voice low, deep, precise.

Unhurried, but with a tone that carried weight.

“I prefer to hear the reports directly. The way each of you observes the facts might reveal more than the data itself.”

No one replied.

But everyone got the message.

Dean watched him closely, leaning against the edge of the table, arms crossed.

He didn’t like him.

He didn’t trust him.

But there was something about Castiel… something pulling at him, like an invisible thread hooked deep in his gut.

Charlie was the first to stand, already pulling up the files on the screen.

“All right, let’s start with the first victim, then.”

Castiel looked at her, just once, and gave a small nod.

And just like that —

The dissection began.

The projector cast a pale light across the wall, illuminating Charlie’s focused face as she flipped through the case slides. The atmosphere was heavy — not with fear, but with unease. These crimes weren’t normal. Not even by Dean’s standards.

In the center of the room, all agents were gathered, attentive. Castiel stood still, arms crossed behind his back, posture rigid, as if he were incapable of relaxing. His blue eyes moved over every image, every detail — emotionless, but full of judgment.

Charlie cleared her throat.

“Victim number one: Jacob Hartmann, forty-two years old, accountant. Simple routine, married, two kids. No criminal record.”

She clicked the remote, revealing the image of a body kneeling in an open field.

“He was found like this. Hands resting on his knees. No signs of struggle. Heart removed with surgical precision. Not a drop of blood at the scene. He was placed there after death.”

Silence settled over the room.

Castiel stepped forward.

“Removing the heart wasn’t just a method. It was a symbolic choice. The heart represents the center of faith, emotion, and divine obedience in many doctrines. The absence of blood indicates meticulous control. This isn’t rage. It’s worship.”

Charlie hesitated.

“You mean… a ritual?”

Castiel didn’t blink.

“A ritual. Or an offering.”

Charlie moved to the next slide.

“Victim two: Melissa Torres, twenty-eight. Substitute teacher, involved in charity. No known conflicts or police record.”

The image of the young woman appeared: lying in fetal position in a clearing, skull opened cleanly from the nape.

“Her pineal gland was removed. Skull sawed with precision. The body was cleaned. Barefoot, nails trimmed… almost like a funeral.”

Castiel leaned in, studying it.

“The pineal was once called the ‘seat of the soul’ by Descartes. Some esoteric beliefs consider it the gateway to the divine. The preparation of the body resembles Tibetan funeral rites. This was… respectful.”

Dean shifted in his chair, clearly unsettled.

“‘Respectful’ is a pretty generous word for what was done to her.”

Castiel glanced at him briefly.

“Respectful doesn’t imply kindness. Only intent.”

Charlie clicked again.

“Third victim: Ronald Miller, thirty-five. Night security guard. Bar fight history, but nothing major.”

The photo showed the body sitting upright, eyes covered with tape, throat sutured from the inside.

“His tongue was removed. Incision made under the jaw. Everything… clean. Precise.”

Castiel stepped closer to the screen.

“The removal of language. Absolute silence. The internal stitching preserves external appearance. It’s a denial of blasphemy. He was silenced… and veiled.”

Jody crossed her arms, brow furrowed.

“You’re saying this all has religious motivation?”

“Not religious,” Castiel said. “Dogmatic. Someone who believes they’re correcting the world. Someone who kills not for pleasure… but for doctrine.”

Charlie hesitated before moving on.

“Victim four: Elaine Marquez. Fifty years old. Retired nurse. Widow. Religious.”

She displayed the image. The body lay on its back in an abandoned chapel, eyes removed and stitched shut.

“No signs of struggle. Clean incisions. As if she’d been… prepared.”

Castiel spoke before anyone could ask:

“The eyes symbolize judgment. Vision. She was deprived of human sight to be given another. The cross-shaped stitching… it’s symbolic. A seal.”

Kevin swallowed hard.

Benny looked away.

Charlie continued.

“Fifth victim: Benjamin Lutz, nineteen. Philosophy student. Interested in occultism. Single. No criminal record.”

The image: Benji, seated in lotus position. A ring of salt surrounded him.

“Kidneys removed with precision. Body clean. No symbols in the salt. Just a circle.”

Castiel stepped closer to the projector, silent for a moment.

“Salt is purifying. The circle — containment. In Hebrew scripture, the kidneys are the seat of moral conscience. This was… theological dissection.”

Charlie stopped. Took a deep breath.

Switched to the final image.

“Last victim… not yet officially identified. We only know he was a militant atheist. Ran a channel where he posted videos attacking religion. Found in an abandoned warehouse, crucified with surgical hooks.”

The image appeared. Horrific.

Dried blood on the walls.

Eyes missing.

Tongue sewn shut.

And on the wall behind him, in dark red letters:

“Even silence glorifies the Most High.”

The room fell silent.

Castiel stared at

the image for several long seconds.

His voice came out low. Cold.

“This isn’t a common killer. This is someone building a liturgy. Each body is a chapter. Each death… a verse.”

Dean clenched his fists.

“So what’s this ‘prophet’ hoping to find at the end of all this?”

Castiel turned to him, finally meeting his gaze — and something in his stare felt as precise as a scalpel.

“Redemption. Or ascension.”

He paused.

“Or both.”

Dean rose from his chair. He crossed his arms over his chest, eyes locked on the images still flickering on the projector screen.

“Well,” he began, voice steady, “we’ve got the logical patterns. Missing organs: heart, eyes, tongue, pineal gland… always one or two per victim. Surgical cuts — clean, bloodless scenes. Bodies positioned symbolically. No signs of struggle. Isolated locations, all different. And no direct messages — just that last phrase in the warehouse. Nothing personal in the motive.”

He stepped forward, facing each person around the table.

“The victims aren’t connected. The pattern’s in the execution, not in their life stories.”

Donna frowned, uneasy.

“Okay, but… the big question still stands: what’s he doing with the organs?”

Bobby scratched his beard.

“Probably keeping them as trophies.”

“No,” Dean replied, firmly. “That doesn’t fit the ritual. It’s too… selective. Too specific.”

He turned back to the slides, clicking through the images of the bodies one by one.

“Besides the heart, eyes, tongue, pineal… were there any other organs missing?”

The room went quiet. Benny flipped through the files in front of him.

“The kidneys,” he said. “Some of the bodies were missing their kidneys too.”

“All of them?” Dean narrowed his eyes.

“All but the last one.” Benny paused, eyes scanning the autopsy report for the crucified atheist. “Kidneys were intact.”

Dean slowly turned to him.

“Why?”

No one answered. Castiel stood still, but watching.

“The meat was bad,” Dean muttered, more to himself than the others.

Benny raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

Dean grabbed the file. His green eyes scanned the medical examiner’s notes.

“He had cancer. Advanced tumor in the left kidney. The tissue was compromised. If someone’s… harvesting organs to… consume…”

He looked up.

“They wouldn’t take a diseased kidney.”

Silence dropped over the room like a shroud. Garth went pale. Jody took a deep breath. Kevin whispered a barely audible, “holy shit.”

Charlie frowned, processing.

“You’re saying… he’s eating the organs?”

“Not just that,” Dean replied. “He’s choosing what to eat.”

Castiel broke the silence. His voice was neutral. Cold. Like he was commenting on the weather.

“Ancient offering rituals often involved the consumption of specific parts. Organs considered ‘pure,’ full of symbolic meaning. Eating the heart meant taking in courage. The eyes — spiritual vision. The pineal gland… the soul.”

He looked around the room, his blue eyes as deep as an abyss.

“This isn’t cannibalism for pleasure. It’s sacrament.”

Dean stared at Castiel. And for a second, there was nothing else — just green meeting blue, like the air between them had become too heavy for words.

Then Bobby slapped his hand on the table, cutting the tension.

“We’ve got a fanatic. One who thinks he’s… purifying himself. The hardest kind to track.”

Donna nervously twisted her fingers.

“This isn’t just sickness. This is warped faith. This is… monstrous.”

“It’s doctrine,” Castiel corrected, without blinking. “A monster doesn’t arrange an altar. He doesn’t cleanse the victims. He doesn’t pray in silence.”

Charlie swallowed hard.

“So we’re dealing with… what?”

Dean answered, voice low:

“A priest.”

Castiel finished, without hesitation:

“A prophet.”

"Priest, prophet, whatever the hell he is — we need to catch him," Bobby said firmly, eyes tired but resolute. "We need to expand our suspect list."

"The problem, Bobby," Garth replied, shrugging slightly, "is that he moves. Each of these crimes was committed in a different town, different location. There’s no fixed geographic pattern."

Dean, who had been silent until then, stepped up to the large map pinned to the back wall.

He ran his finger over the red markings already in place, then grabbed a fresh marker from the table and began to draw a circle around New Orleans.

"But all the crimes happened around here..." he muttered, eyes locked on the paper. "Most of them within an 80-kilometer radius of New Orleans."

He pointed at the names as he spoke:

"Covington. Houma. Slidell. Baton Rouge. Mandeville. LaPlace. Hammond. Kenner... even Thibodaux." He circled each location on the map. "The pattern isn’t random. It’s orbital. He’s moving around the city — like he’s avoiding the center, but orbiting it."

Charlie stepped closer, studying the markings.

"It’s like he’s... circling something. Or waiting for something?"

Dean nodded, arms crossed.

"Now look at the last three murders." He drew a line connecting the points. "The crucified victim was found in a warehouse here — Kenner. The pineal gland victim was near LaPlace. And the guy with the sewn-up mouth was in Slidell."

Garth bit his lower lip.

"So... he hasn’t moved much in the last two months. He’s sticking to the spiral."

"He feels safe," Jody murmured, watching closely. "Or comfortable."

"Or..." Castiel finally spoke, voice low and steady, making everyone turn to look at him. "...he’s preparing for something. Repetitive rituals, escalating symbolism, bolder signatures… He’s ascending."

At the back of the room, Kevin typed furiously.

"If he keeps following this pattern, the next crime will be even more theatrical."

Dean turned back to the map, his gaze fixed.

"The real question is: why New Orleans?"

Castiel answered without hesitation:

"Because it was once a city of saints... and of demons." His piercing blue eyes locked onto Dean’s. "And because faith… stinks."

A heavy silence settled after Castiel’s words.

Dean stared at him, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. Bobby cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable, but no one said a thing. Castiel remained upright, hands folded behind his back, his expression unreadable — not arrogant, but clinically detached. Like his statement wasn’t offensive. Just factual.

Charlie broke the silence.

"He’s right. If he’s escalating, now might be when he slips. We just need to be in the right place."

"Or maybe he already has." Dean said, turning back toward the projector screen. "And we haven’t noticed yet."

Bobby nodded.

"Garth, Jody, Kevin — go through the incident reports from the past few weeks in Kenner, LaPlace, and Gretna. Look for anything unusual — strange hospital visits, black-market clinics, suspicious medical purchases, disappearances. Donna, take the local press. See if anyone’s reported something the police overlooked."

"And us?" Charlie asked, glancing at Dean.

Dean looked at Castiel. The air shifted — subtle, but charged. He didn’t like the way that man looked at him. Eyes blue as ice, but burning with something beneath. Something old.

Dean cleared his throat.

"We’re visiting the last crime scene. The warehouse in Kenner. I want to see it for myself." He crossed his arms. "If Professor Novak is comfortable leaving his ivory tower, of course."

Castiel didn’t flinch.

"Surgeries aren’t performed in comfort, Agent Winchester." His tone was glacial — but the way he said Winchester… like he was tasting the name on his tongue.

Dean spun his car keys around his finger.

"Perfect. Come on, Doc. I’ll show you how the real world reeks worse than faith."

Bobby raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

"Save the pissing contest for later. Go. And stay sharp. If he’s still around, we don’t have time to waste."

Dean left first, boots hitting the floor with frustration in every step.

Castiel followed — flawless, composed, untouchable.

As the door swung shut behind them, Charlie leaned toward Benny and whispered:

"Five bucks says Dean tries to punch him by Friday."

"Ten if they kiss before that," Benny replied, dead serious.

Chapter Text

October 24th, 2023 — Tuesday, 7:18 a.m.

The sun rose lazily over the city’s old buildings, dragging light along with it, pushing back the shadows and the cold of the early morning. The streets were still damp, as if the night had wept in silence.

New Orleans was waking up to its usual sounds: impatient honks, worn-out engines, seagulls. The scent of bitter coffee mixed with the smell of wet earth.

Dean walked beside Castiel, his boots hitting the pavement with a steady rhythm as they approached the makeshift FBI headquarters for what promised to be another hellish week.

The day before, they had spent hours inside a deactivated warehouse. The stench of dried blood still seemed stuck in Dean’s nose. The chair at the center of the room, the ring of salt on the ground, the nearly invisible remnants of a perverse liturgy. And the vial.

Castiel had picked it up without hesitation, rolling the glass between his fingers like he was examining a sacred chalice. He sniffed the contents. Then said, with a dry, controlled voice:

“It’s anointing oil.”

Dean had frowned immediately, eyes filled with skepticism.

“What the hell do you mean, ‘anointing oil’? This is a murder scene, not an exorcism, professor.”

Castiel didn’t answer right away. He simply stored the vial carefully, as if it were part of a mass that hadn’t yet ended.

Now, walking to work, the two of them were together again. But the silence between them was dense, almost sharp.

Castiel walked with his hands in the pockets of his beige trench coat, his expression unreadable. His gaze always seemed fixed on something distant — a thought or memory Dean couldn’t reach.

Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye, briefly. Never for long, never directly. The professor was strange. Too intense. Too quiet. Alarmingly calm. As if nothing in the world could truly shake him.

And Dean… well, Dean had seen a lot. But something about Castiel kept him on edge. That quiet serenity, that almost clinical way he looked at death… it wasn’t natural.

Dean cleared his throat, trying to shake off his own thoughts.

“Are you always like this?” he asked suddenly, his voice rough from the morning.

Castiel turned his head slowly, meeting his gaze.

“Like what?”

“Silent. Mysterious. Creepy.”

Castiel raised one eyebrow, just barely.

“The words you chose say more about you than about me.”

Dean huffed, almost laughing.

“Great. You’re a philosopher too.”

They reached the building. Dean pulled open the glass door and let Castiel walk in first. It wasn’t exactly chivalry. He just preferred to keep people like him where he could see them.

They took the stairs to the second floor. The room was nearly empty, but the smell of coffee was strong.

Charlie was already there, working on her computer, face lit by the screen and a paper cup in her hand.

“Good morning, agents of the dawn,” she said without looking up. “Sleep well in the temple of terror?”

Dean tossed his jacket onto the chair and dropped into his seat.

“It was great. Nothing relaxes me like the scent of corpse and dead rat.”

Castiel remained standing in front of the board, motionless, like a statue deep in contemplation. The victims’ data were pinned with red tacks, tracing a silent map of death. He stared at the faces in the photos with the intensity of someone analyzing a sacred painting — eyes fixed, posture straight, hands clasped behind his back. The silence around him was almost reverent.

Dean, seated at the table, glanced toward him for a brief second, brow slightly furrowed, as if trying to decipher a riddle that didn’t want to be solved. Then he turned to Charlie.

“So, about what we found in the warehouse... what did you dig up?”

Before Charlie could answer, the door creaked open and Bobby walked in with firm steps, tired eyes, and a direct stare.

“That’s what I want to know too,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the room like a silent command.

Charlie straightened in her chair and turned her eyes to the computer screen. Her fingers began dancing across the keys with precision.

“Professor Novak was right,” she said after a few seconds. “It’s anointing oil. Not something you find at the grocery store, especially not with that composition. It was bought from a shop that specializes in old liturgical goods.”

“Name of the shop?” Dean asked, already leaning forward.

Charlie nodded without taking her eyes off the screen.

“Reliquiae Sanctae. It’s tucked away in an alley in the French Quarter, by-appointment only. Discreet place, borderline cult in vibe. Sells everything from ancient sacred oil, exorcised salt, black wax candles, bone fragments... even pieces of mourning veils from Sicilian widows. It’s a ritual fanatic’s paradise.”

Dean exchanged a quick glance with Bobby.

"And who made the purchase?"

Charlie clenched her jaw, her expression tight.

"I'm sorry. I don’t know. No concrete data. The transaction was made with cryptocurrency, no traceable IP, no identity records. Everything was masked with layers of digital anonymity."

Dean huffed, running a hand down his face.

"Of course... couldn’t be easy, could it?"

Bobby crossed his arms and nodded slowly.

"Still, it’s a lead. Dean. Doctor Novak—"

"Just Castiel. Or Professor," Castiel interrupted, his voice low but firm.

Bobby shot him a look, then sighed — too tired to argue over titles.

"Fine. Castiel. You two are going to this Reliquiae Sanctae. Find out who made the purchase, when, why, and if possible, where else this person is dumping holy oil. I want everything."

Dean stood, grabbing his jacket from the table.

"Touché," he said, flashing a crooked half-smile as he glanced over his shoulder at Castiel. "Come on, Professor. Let’s take a stroll through the weird side of New Orleans."

Castiel followed silently, adjusting the collar of his trench coat. No protest. No hurry. Just that fixed gaze of his — the kind that always seemed to see a little more than it should.

                                                              —★—

Reliquiae Sanctae, October 24, Tuesday, 11:42 a.m.

The alley was narrow and damp, reeking of aged incense, wet stone, and something too sweet to be comforting. The sun barely touched the ground there, as if even the light avoided that place.

In the middle of the alley, between a faded antique shop and a house with boarded-up windows, stood a dark wooden door carved with symbols — Latin inscriptions, Orthodox crosses, and a small copper bell hanging above the lintel. There was no display window. Just an engraved sign: Reliquiae Sanctae.

Dean glanced at Castiel, then at the door.

"House of horrors, chapter one. After you, Professor. Just in case the floor’s consecrated."

Castiel didn’t reply. He simply pushed the door open with calm precision. The bell above the frame gave a sharp jingle, like it was protesting.

Inside, the dimness was thick. Ancient shelves lined the walls, packed with glass vials, wooden crucifixes, dusty reliquaries, twisted candles in strange shapes, and jars labeled in Latin. The air smelled of burnt incense and melted wax. At the back of the store, a middle-aged woman wearing a dark veil and a silver crucifix around her neck watched them closely.

"Can I help you?" she asked in a low voice — almost too respectful.

Castiel stepped forward and pulled the small vial from his coat pocket — the one they’d found at the warehouse.

"This oil was purchased here. We need to know who acquired it."

The woman pressed her lips together.

"Our clients value discretion, sir..."

"Agent Winchester," Dean interrupted, flashing his badge. "FBI. This is... Professor Novak. We’re investigating a series of murders connected to materials bought here."

She looked at the vial, then at both of them. Her gaze turned more serious.

"I recognize that batch. It was part of a consecration to Saint Bartholomew. Rare. Only sold upon formal request."

"And who did you sell it to?" Dean asked, curt.

She hesitated.

"The order was placed by a man. Used an old name — Lucien Moreau. Southern accent. Calm voice. Spoke like a preacher. Seemed... educated."

Castiel stepped a little closer.

"Did he come here in person?"

"Yes. Just over a week ago. Said he needed the oil for ‘anointing those who had yet to see the light.’ He bought exorcised salt too. And black candles."

Dean exchanged a tense glance with Castiel.

"Got a camera?"

"Of course not," she replied, offended. "This is a sacred space, not a supermarket."

Dean huffed.

"Any delivery info? A note, anything?"

She hesitated again. Then, reluctantly, she reached under the counter and pulled out a small leather notebook.

"He left an address for a supplemental shipment. An old convent — been abandoned for years. Saint-Antoine-de-la-Miséricorde, just outside Vacherie."

Castiel took the note with the name of the place handwritten on it. His eyes scanned the letters slowly, as if each syllable carried a symbolic weight only he could understand.

“Saint-Antoine-de-la-Miséricorde,” he repeated quietly, almost to himself. There was something strange about that name. Something ceremonial.

“Thanks,” Dean said bluntly, taking the paper from Castiel’s hand and slipping it into his pocket.

He turned and walked out of the store with firm steps, and Castiel followed him in silence.

Outside, the midday light seemed brighter after the charged atmosphere of Reliquiae Sanctae. Dean exhaled through his mouth, as if trying to clear the lingering scent of incense and wax from his throat.

“We’ve got a name, an address, and a stronger lead than anything we’ve had in the last seven damn days,” Dean said, heading toward the Impala. “We got more in half an hour than the whole damn week.”

“Yes,” Castiel replied, with that same unwavering calm that never seemed to shift — not in front of corpses, not in the face of rituals.

Dean unlocked the car and tossed the keys to his right hand.

“We’re going back to HQ. Bobby’ll want to mobilize the team today.”

Castiel simply nodded and got into the car without another word.

As Dean rounded the Impala to get behind the wheel, he shot a quick glance at the man beside him. The silence Castiel carried wasn’t empty. It was heavy — like a room closed off for far too long. And Dean… was starting to wonder what exactly was locked inside.

The Impala’s engine growled to life, and the two of them pulled back onto the winding streets of New Orleans — heading straight toward the next piece of the puzzle.

                                                              —★—

The headquarters was buzzing when Dean and Castiel walked in. Everyone was already gathered in the operations room, circled around the central table and the walls lined with victim photos. The air smelled of caffeine, paper, and frustration.

Dean didn’t waste time. With quick steps, he explained what he and Castiel had found at the shop — the anointing oil, the name, the address linked to the abandoned convent on the outskirts of Vacherie.

As soon as the name was mentioned, Kevin spun his chair around, already powering up his laptop with swift fingers.

“I got this,” he muttered. “I’ll find everything there is on this Lucien Moreau guy.”

As he typed, the monitor’s glow flickered in his eyes. Kevin was locked in, like his life depended on it. The rhythmic clicking of keys filled the silence in the room.

Dean crossed his arms, thoughtful, eyes fixed on the map on the wall — red pins marking the murders. His head was buzzing. But something felt... off.

That’s when he noticed.

Castiel was gone.

He frowned, glancing around like he expected to find him in some corner. Nothing.

“He must’ve slipped out during the briefing,” Dean told himself, trying to pretend it didn’t matter. But a few seconds later, he was leaving the room — casually, or at least trying to look like it.

He walked down the narrow, cold corridors of the temporary HQ. His footsteps were muffled by the worn rugs. Past the file room, past the bathroom, until he stopped in front of the break room.

The door was half-open.

He pushed it gently with his fingers — and there he was.

Castiel sat on one of the battered couches, coat folded beside him, a cup of coffee in his hands. His eyes were downcast, fixed on something invisible in the far corner of the room. Calm breathing. Disturbingly serene.

Dean leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.

“Been looking for you.”

Castiel lifted his gaze slowly, not surprised — like he’d already known Dean would come.

“Didn’t think I’d be missed,” he said, simply.

Dean let out a dry chuckle and walked to the corner table to grab the thermos.

“You’re way too weird to go unnoticed, Novak.”

Castiel didn’t respond. He just watched as Dean poured himself some coffee.

The silence between them was heavy — but not uncomfortable. It was tight. Full of things unsaid.

Dean leaned back against the wall, taking a sip.

“So? Why’d you bail?”

Castiel answered without hesitation.

“It was getting... loud.” He paused, then added, “And I don’t like when people look at me like I’m supposed to have all the answers.”

Dean raised an eyebrow.

“But you act like you do.”

Castiel gave the faintest smile — a small gesture, but on his face, it felt seismic.

“It’s easier than looking lost.”

Dean stared at him for a few seconds, the coffee warming his hands. Then he looked away.

“Come on, professor. Bobby’s gonna want to start the plan for the convent today.”

Castiel nodded, rising slowly. He picked up his coat and put it on with the care of someone donning armor.

And then they left the room together. In silence.

But the silence between them wasn’t the same anymore.

As soon as Dean and Castiel walked back into the room, all eyes turned to them. Kevin shot them a quick glance — somewhere between “finally” and “pay attention now.”

Without taking his eyes off the screen, he began speaking:

“I found suspicious activity linked to the name Lucien Moreau. Specific medical purchases — surgical scalpels, chemical preservatives, even controlled anesthetics. All made with fake documentation.”

“Fake?” Dean asked, stepping closer.

Kevin nodded, typing a few more lines.

“Flawlessly forged, but still off. Nonexistent company numbers, cross-referenced addresses, medical licenses without registration. All under different names, but every trail loops back to the same one: Moreau.”

“Or whoever he really is,” Castiel murmured, voice low and distant.

Donna stood up from her seat on the far side of the room, holding a printed sheet.

“I found something too. Pretty weird, honestly,” she said, handing over the paper. “An old newspaper article from 2001. Talks about an ‘exorcist priest’ who disappeared after some serious allegations — ritual abuse, bizarre purification rites. Stuff like sensory deprivation, cutting... even the symbolic consumption of ‘embodied sin.’”

Charlie squinted.

“What the hell is ‘symbolic consumption’ supposed to mean?”

Donna shrugged.

“Whoever wrote it probably didn’t want to be literal. But after what we’ve seen with these bodies… I don’t know what’s symbolic anymore.”

Dean took the paper from her and skimmed through it quickly.

“Name of the priest?”

“L. M.,” she replied. “Initials match. But the name’s redacted in the official files. Church buried the whole thing.”

Castiel stepped forward, eyes fixed on the article.

“His doctrine was built around silence. Punishment through mutilation of the senses. Sin wasn’t to be forgiven — it was to be extracted. The body was considered a filthy vessel that needed to be ‘purified’ surgically.”

A heavy silence settled over the room. They all knew what that meant.

Dean dropped the sheet on the table, jaw clenched.

“So we’ve got a fanatic with surgical training, deep theological knowledge, access to medical supplies, and a conveniently erased past.”

Bobby, leaning in the corner, adjusted his cap.

“And now we’ve also got a possible hideout: the convent.”

Dean nodded.

“Time to build the op.”

Castiel turned once more to the wall of victims. His expression was almost… pitying.

“If he’s there, he’s going to kill again. And soon.”

Chapter Text

October 25, 2023 — Wednesday, 10:30 AM

The convent had been a disappointment.

The team had spent the previous night combing through every inch of the abandoned structure. Room by room, hallway by hallway. All empty. No sign of recent human presence, no trace of the killer, not even a hint that the place had been used in recent years.

Just another ghost. Another false lead in a trail made of smoke and frustration.

Now, in the morning, Dean was sunk into one of the worn-out couches in the break room, impatiently biting into an apple. His jaw was clenched, eyes lost in nothing. His teeth tore into the fruit like it had something to do with the case.

The door opened, and Benny walked in, rubbing his hands like he was coming in from the cold.

“Well, well,” he said, with a lazy smile. “Dean Winchester, devouring the forbidden fruit. You applying to get kicked out of Eden, or is this just good old-fashioned frustration?”

Dean rolled his eyes and bit into the apple again.

“Screw you, Benny.”

“I’m just saying,” Benny went on, dropping into the armchair next to him, “you, alone, grumpy, chewing on an apple... all you’re missing is a snake whispering in your ear.”

Before Dean could answer, a soft, neutral voice cut through the air:

“Pomegranate.”

They both turned their heads at the same time.

Castiel was standing at the entrance of the room, with his usual calm expression, as if nothing in the world — not even Dean’s visible frustration — could reach him.

“What?” Dean asked, still holding the apple.

Castiel stepped in calmly, heading to the coffee maker in the corner of the room. He filled a mug with slow, precise movements and added, “The forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. It was a pomegranate. Not an apple.”

He said it like he was commenting on the weather, then sat down in a chair nearby, sipping the still-steaming coffee.

Benny stared at him like he’d just started speaking in Latin.

“Where the hell do you get this stuff?”

“Reading,” Castiel replied, not lifting his gaze. “The association with apples came later, through European art. But in the original texts, especially in ancient Hebrew and Persian myths, the pomegranate represents forbidden knowledge, fertility, multiplication, and... downfall.”

Dean went quiet for a few seconds, then raised an eyebrow and looked at the apple in his hand.

“Great. Even my fruit’s a misinterpreted sin now.”

“Like almost everything in sacred texts,” Castiel murmured, taking another sip.

Benny let out a short laugh.

Dean stared at him for a few seconds, eyes narrowed. Then he bit into the apple again — slow, defiant.

“Interesting. But I’m no Adam.”

“Fortunately. He was... predictable,” Castiel replied without missing a beat.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That he didn’t stand out. You, on the other hand...” Castiel tilted his head slightly, those blue eyes fixed on Dean’s.

The chill down Dean’s spine was instant, like something cold had scraped down his back. He looked away with a frustrated huff, trying to hide the discomfort.

Benny laughed again, clearly enjoying the show.

“You two should have a podcast. ‘The Cop and the Professor Talk About Hell Before Lunch.’”

Silence settled again for a moment.

Dean leaned back, tossing the apple core into the trash with annoyed precision.

“The convent was a sham. The name’s fake. The history, fake. The address, fake. The only real thing is someone keeps killing people... and we’re still two steps behind.”

Castiel kept his eyes on nothing, slowly rotating the coffee mug between his hands.

“Maybe we’re looking for truths inside structures built to deceive.”

Dean glanced at him.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Castiel finally looked at him, that same unreadable expression on his face.

“That maybe we shouldn’t search for the prophet in sacred places. But in forgotten ones.”

The door creaked softly as it opened.

Jody appeared in the doorway, her stance firm and her expression tenser than usual. She looked at the three of them, but her eyes landed on Dean.

“Come on. Kevin found something.”

Dean straightened immediately, fatigue giving way to focus.

Castiel set his mug down with a quiet toc, rising without a word.

Benny cracked his fingers before heaving himself out of the armchair.

“Time for the tech sermon.”

Their boots echoed down the hallway as they walked toward the investigation room. A dry, rhythmic sound that filled the strange stillness of the morning.

Inside, Kevin was standing beside the table, eyes wide, body slightly leaned forward like he could barely contain his excitement.

“You guys are not gonna believe what I found.”

Dean crossed his arms, deadpan.

“Try me.”

Kevin took a deep breath, like he was about to pull off a magic trick.

“I spent the whole night digging into everything I could find on the name Lucien Moreau. Searched medical databases, pharmaceutical purchase records, liturgical networks, everything. And just like we suspected... the name’s fake. Complete alias. Doesn’t exist anywhere with a legitimate trail.”

Dean nodded once, unsurprised.

“And?”

“So I dug deeper. Remember that exorcist priest Donna found yesterday? The one who disappeared in the early 2000s after those ritual abuse accusations? I started pulling everything I could on him — parishes, old interviews, where he was born, where he studied... looking for any kind of connection. And I found one.”

Kevin turned to the computer, typing quickly, and an old scanned document popped up on the screen. A faded, handwritten form with a black-and-white photo attached.

“His real name before ordination was Ezra Michael Delacroix.”

Silence fell across the room.

Dean frowned, staring at the image on the screen — younger, maybe more naïve — but the features were there: the intense gaze, the rigid posture, the kind of man who believes with his whole body.

Castiel stepped forward, expression still neutral, but slightly hardened.

Kevin went on:

“He vanished from the church after the accusations. The press buried it, but I found an internal diocesan report mentioning a ‘voluntary exile for spiritual penance.’ The guy dropped off the map. Until now.”

Dean finally spoke, his voice low:

“Ezra Michael Delacroix. Our prophet.”

Castiel kept his eyes on the screen, cold as stone.

“And now we know his true name.”

Benny let out a low sigh.

“Great. Now we just need to figure out where that bastard’s gonna show up next.”

Then Bobby, who had been standing silently near the door, crossed his arms and finally spoke, his voice deep and steady:

“And what else do we know about him?”

Kevin turned back to the screen, fingers scrolling through the report.

“Former psychiatric patient with a history of religious delusions... spent some time in seminary. Listed as missing since 1999. Nothing else concrete.”

“That’s it?” Bobby frowned.

“That’s it,” Kevin repeated. “Deceased relatives, no record of marriage, kids, or any recent social ties. He basically erased his own existence.”

Dean tilted his head, thoughtful.

“We know he’s a virgin.”

Everyone in the room turned to look at him.

“What?” Jody asked, one brow raised.

Dean shrugged, dead serious.

“A deranged ex-priest, no wife, no kids, no social life. You really think he was out there screwing around before he started sewing people’s eyes shut? The guy’s a virgin. And he probably takes pride in it.”

Jody rolled her eyes, muttering:

“Psychological diagnosis via incel-meter.”

Benny chuckled under his breath. Castiel remained silent, expression unreadable, as if listening to a distant prayer.

Jody sighed.

“Okay, but... anything actually useful?”

Garth’s chair creaked as he stood slowly, holding a notebook in hand. He looked more serious than usual.

“I’ve been analyzing the locations of the murders. The cities where the bodies were found... if you mark them on the map and trace the routes, they form a circle.” He turned the notebook and showed a diagram. “A pattern that resembles a liturgical circle. A symbol of sealing or consecration.”

Silence fell over the room.

Castiel spoke, voice low and firm:

“There’s a pattern. We’ve discussed it before, but now we can see it clearly. It’s not just symbolic — it’s ritualistic. He’s ‘purifying’ the areas around the city.”

“What do you mean, ‘purifying’?” Donna asked, confused, looking around the room.

Castiel stepped closer to the wall map, eyes fixed on Garth’s drawing.

“It means if the pattern continues, the center will be the next target. And the center, in this case...” He touched the map gently, right in the middle of the circle. “...is New Orleans.”

The mood in the room grew heavier. The city had stopped being the site of an investigation — it had become the next altar.

Dean stepped closer to the board, eyes locked on the victims' photos.

“He’s going to kill here.”

“All right,” Bobby said, running a hand through his beard. “I’ll have silent surveillance reinforced around the city. Undercover agents, strategic patrols. Nothing flashy.”

“So?” Charlie asked, standing from her chair, tone already expectant.

Bobby shrugged.

“Wrap up whatever you need to... and go have lunch. You’re dismissed early.”

“Hell yeah!” Charlie cheered, grabbing her jacket and phone. “Lunch with freedom hits different!”

Dean smirked slightly while Benny and Jody exchanged a knowing look. The tension in the room started to melt, like the air was finally circulating again.

Castiel, silent until then, gave a slight nod. He turned to leave, his footsteps soft, almost imperceptible. He was nearly at the door when Garth’s voice stopped him.

“Professor Castiel?”

Castiel paused in the doorway and turned slowly, face as calm as it was unreadable.

“You’re not coming to lunch with us?”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, he offered a faint smile. Almost automatic — polite, restrained, and yet… kind. Just forced enough to seem sincere.

“No, thank you. I have a lecture to give.”

And with that, he turned and left. The hallway lights swallowed his silhouette.

Dean followed his departure with his eyes, quiet, as if trying to understand something no one else could see.

Benny gave Dean a light smack on the shoulder.

“C’mon, tough guy. Before Charlie eats all the fries.”

Dean glanced away from the door and let out a sigh.

“I’m coming.”

                                                              —★—

Coop's Place, New Orleans, Louisiana — 12:24 PM

The restaurant was packed, as usual during peak hour. The smell of Cajun food hung in the air, mingling with the sound of lively conversation, silverware clinking against plates, and the soft background hum of old jazz.

Dean, Benny, and Charlie sat at a corner table near the window overlooking Decatur Street. Each had a plate in front of them—Benny was devouring a jambalaya, Charlie was enjoying a shrimp étouffée, and Dean was cutting into a piece of fried chicken with red beans and rice, though without much enthusiasm.

"This place is one of the few that still gets the rice right," Benny said with his mouth half full, pointing with his fork. "Seriously, if Hell has good food, it’s gonna taste like this."

"Okay, please don’t mention Hell while I’m eating shrimp," Charlie said, rolling her eyes with a smile.

Dean was quiet, chewing slowly. His face was as serious as ever, but his gaze seemed distant.

Charlie noticed.

"Okay, what now? Don’t tell me you’re thinking about Professor Novak again."

Dean didn’t answer right away. He just raised an eyebrow and took a sip of soda.

Benny chuckled softly.

"You totally are. You were staring at him earlier like you were trying to solve a thousand-piece puzzle. Wanna know what I think?"

"No," Dean said flatly, not even looking up.

"I’m gonna say it anyway," Benny shrugged. "There’s something about him that gets under your skin. And you hate when you can’t figure something out."

Dean nudged his plate away, no longer interested in the food.

"He’s weird, that’s what it is. Doesn’t talk much, shows up out of nowhere, and he’s got that stare like he’s dissecting you from the inside."

"So you found someone who does exactly what you do, but in a trench coat and a tie," Charlie said, laughing. "Difference is, he uses big words instead of sarcasm."

"And his tie’s always crooked," Benny added. "Always. Must be on purpose."

Dean looked out the window, thoughtful, eyes following the movement on the street.

"I just think there’s something... off about him. But not the dangerous kind. The... too-contained kind. Like he’s always holding something back."

Charlie frowned a little.

"He’s a brilliant ex-surgeon and a university professor. He’s dealt with more broken minds than any of us. Maybe he’s just... disciplined."

"Or just used to hiding too much shit," Dean muttered.

Benny finished his plate, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"Or maybe he just doesn’t like people. Which, honestly, I respect."

Charlie leaned on the table, a teasing smile on her face.

"But you like him."

Dean scoffed.

"I don’t like anybody."

Charlie and Benny exchanged a knowing look.

"Sure you don’t, Dean. Sure you don’t."

Charlie took a sip of her iced tea and pulled out her phone to check a notification, but quickly set it aside, turning her attention back to the two men in front of her.

"Okay, but seriously now..." she said, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin. "What do you guys think about that whole liturgical circle thing? You really think he’s trying to ‘seal’ something? Or is it just religious symbolism gone nuts?"

Dean leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, gaze sharpening.

"I think it’s more than just symbolism. This guy’s too methodical. Surgical. Nothing he does is just for show."

"Agreed," Benny said. "And what Castiel said stuck with me... ‘local purification ritual.’ That sounds more like purpose than pattern."

Charlie frowned, thinking.

"So he thinks he’s cleansing something... like... the city’s sins?"

"Or prepping the ground for something," Dean added, grimly. "A cult. A ‘rebirth.’ Whatever. The kind of messianic insanity that usually ends with a pile of corpses."

Benny took a sip of beer and looked at Dean.

"What if the circle is just the beginning?"

Charlie raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

"What if he’s ‘consecrating’ the territory before doing something bigger? A central event. A massacre. A final ritual right in the heart of the city. New Orleans is full of old churches, cemeteries, abandoned houses named after saints..."

"And people go missing all the time," Charlie added, thoughtful. "Drunk tourists, unhoused folks... perfect victims."

Dean clenched his jaw.

"He’s getting ready. This is the prologue."

Charlie looked at him for a few seconds.

"But we’ve got names now. We have Ezra. And we know he’s moving."

Benny leaned forward over the table.

"The question is: do we find him before... or do we just show up in time to see it happen?"

Silence. Each of them was lost in thought for a moment.

Dean grabbed the apple he’d taken from HQ and turned it in his hand before biting into it.

"I’m gonna find that son of a bitch."

Charlie smirked.

"How dramatic. Almost poetic."

"It’s the fried chicken," Dean replied. "Inspires me."

Benny laughed, shaking his head.

"Just don’t start writing scripture on the bathroom mirror, Winchester."

Dean raised the apple like a toast.

"If I start speaking in other tongues, lock me up."

                                                              —★—

FBI Task Force Investigation HQ — New Orleans, Louisiana, 3:05 PM

Everyone was deep in their work, the steady sound of typing and rustling papers filling the room, when the door creaked open quietly.

Castiel entered with his usual posture — silent, impeccable, and strangely detached from the world around him. He walked calmly toward one of the central desks — Dean’s — and, without ceremony, pulled out a chair, spinning it lightly before sitting sideways, his back partially turned to the room. On the desk surface, he set down a black thermal lunch bag and unzipped it with the same methodical precision as always.

The movement drew a few glances — Kevin looked up from his monitor, Donna narrowed her eyes curiously, Benny let out a low tsk without turning his head.

That’s when Dean walked in, holding a few folders under his arm. His eyes scanned the room until they landed exactly where they shouldn’t.

“What the hell are you doing at my desk?” he asked, already using that tone that meant I don’t want to deal with this right now.

Castiel didn’t answer immediately. He opened the thermal bag and calmly took out a transparent Tupperware container, still warm, followed by a set of metal utensils wrapped neatly in a folded cloth.

“Eating,” he replied simply, without even looking at him.

Dean clenched his jaw, made his way over, and sat down across from him, staring directly at the intruder.

“My desk? Seriously?”

Castiel finally looked up, face unreadable.

“If it helps... I brought some for you too.”

Without waiting for a reaction, he pulled out a second Tupperware container — this one green — and set it down in front of Dean with a soft clack. The gesture was as neutral as it was unexpected. Almost too cold to be kind. Almost too kind to be casual.

Dean frowned, staring at the container like it might explode.

"Is this poisoned?"

Castiel didn’t answer right away. He simply opened his own Tupperware with slow precision, revealing a warm, moist dish that released a sophisticated, intense aroma — something between wine, rosemary, and dark spices. The scent spread through the quiet room like a heavy fog.

Without haste, he opened the green container and gently slid it toward Dean, as if offering a carefully chosen gift.

"Veal pithivier in red wine, with wild mushrooms and handmade puff pastry," he said at last.

Dean looked down at the food. The golden crust hid something still steaming beneath. The filling was dark, juicy, richly seasoned. French cuisine. Fancy. Clearly out of place in an FBI field office.

"This is... a pie?" Dean asked, suspicious.

"A classic from the Loire Valley," Castiel replied, his voice cool and steady. "Ground veal, slow-cooked. Mushrooms, caramelized onion, black truffle, aged red wine. A traditional recipe... with my own touch."

Dean picked up the fork.

"You’ve got time to cook all this?" he muttered, poking at a piece.

"I have priorities."

Dean took a bite. The pastry melted on his tongue. The filling was dense, moist, layered with flavor. Bold, distinct… absurdly good.

"...This is fucking amazing," he admitted, still chewing.

"I know."

Castiel took another bite, silent.

The texture of the meat fell apart on the tongue — tender, perfectly seasoned.

Castiel lifted his gaze to Dean, watching him savor the dish like a man who’d just discovered clean water after days lost in the desert.

He didn’t smile. But there was a quiet satisfaction behind his eyes. Almost ritualistic.

"The cut... is special," Castiel said, looking down at his fork.

Dean glanced up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"What’d you say?"

"Special cut. Prime portion. Highly... valued, in certain cultures."

Dean raised an eyebrow, wary.

Castiel met his eyes for a second, then looked away and resumed eating.

And Dean — despite the chill that ran up his spine — took another bite.

Because it really was that good.

And sometimes, taste wins over suspicion.

"Okay, okay..." Charlie said, appearing in the doorway with a soda in hand. "Why did he get the gourmet treatment? He literally just had lunch with us."

Castiel didn’t look up from his plate.

"Because Dean hates me."

Dean choked on his last bite, coughing violently. He thumped his chest and immediately turned to Castiel, incredulous.

"W-What?! Who said that?"

Castiel finally looked up with absolute calm.

"I don’t need anyone to tell me. I can see it."

Dean blinked, caught off guard.

"You’ve been analyzing me, Professor Novak?"

"I analyze everyone. It’s my job, remember?"

Dean scoffed and stared down into the Tupperware like it was the most fascinating thing in the room.

"Then you analyzed wrong. I don’t hate you."

Castiel was quiet. He took another bite, chewed slowly, then looked directly at him — head tilted slightly to the side, like he was observing a rare specimen in a lab.

"No?" he asked, one eyebrow arching just slightly.

"No... it’s different."

Castiel parted his lips, intrigued.

"Different how?"

Dean hesitated. His eyes flicked toward the hallway, then back to Castiel, like he already regretted saying anything at all.

"You’re a mystery. That doesn’t mean I hate you... I just... don’t know what to do with you yet."

Silence settled between them.

Castiel leaned back just a fraction, and let out a low sound — somewhere between a hum and a soft scoff. A rough, amused note that carried a strange satisfaction.

"Fascinating," he murmured, before returning to his food.

Charlie, still standing in the doorway, was watching them with narrowed eyes.

"Okay... someone really needs to write a book about you two. Seriously."

Dean pointed his fork at her without looking.

"Out of the room, Charlie."

"I'm gone."

She turned on her heel and disappeared down the hallway.

Castiel remained, serene as ever. The quiet clink of his fork against the plastic container filled the room. Dean, across the table, said nothing.

But he kept eating.

Silence.

Tense.

Intimate.

Explosive — in potential.

“Since you don’t hate me,” Castiel began, with his usual calm, “we can socialize like two normal adult human men.”

Dean raised an eyebrow.

“Like ‘two normal adult human men’?”

“Yes.”

Dean rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward.

“Speak my language, professor.”

“Castiel,” he corrected firmly. “We can become friends.”

Dean stopped chewing. He looked into his eyes. Those blue eyes that always seemed to dig deeper than they should. And, of course, were already watching him with unsettling focus.

“Seriously?”

Castiel hummed in response. A light, almost teasing sound.

Dean let out a nasal laugh and shook his head.

“I don’t find you interesting enough.”

Castiel tilted his head slightly to the side, like a curious bird.

“I find you ‘interesting enough,’” he said, making air quotes with his fingers — a gesture too unusual for his usual coldness. “Halfway there.”

Dean just stared at him for a second before rolling his eyes.

“You’re weird.”

He took the last bite and finished his food in silence. Castiel did the same, with slow, methodical movements.

As Dean began pushing the empty Tupperware away, Castiel spoke again. His voice was lower now. Almost intimate.

“But I promise you, Dean... you’ll find me interesting.”

Dean stayed still for a moment, his eyes fixed on the table. The silence stretched like a thread about to snap.

He didn’t answer.

Jody entered the room, cutting through the strange tension hanging between Dean and Castiel.

The attentive eyes and ears of Kevin, Donna, and Benny — who moments before had been silently watching the conversation — immediately turned to the agent.

Right behind her came Bobby and Charlie. Jody went straight to the central table, placed some folders down, and pulled out a handful of papers, already speaking:

“I found something.”

She walked over to the evidence board, grabbing some post-its and an image from a security camera. She pinned everything next to the photos of the victims and the map with the murder locations.

“I was investigating stolen vehicle records — anything: cars, motorcycles, vans... anything that could be linked to our prophet. And then I found this: a van was registered as stolen years ago. Later, it was legalized again with fake documents.”

“In Thibodaux,” Dean said, eyes narrowed. “Where Ezra worked as a ‘priest’ back in the 2000s.”

“Exactly,” Jody confirmed, pointing with her pen at the photo of the van captured by a gas station camera.

Dean crossed his arms, frowning.

“So why only now is he starting to act? What was he doing all those years missing?”

Castiel, quiet until then, spoke with his usual firm and controlled voice:

“This kind of thing takes time. Territory analysis. Victim selection. Meticulous planning. It’s not just killing —” he paused, looking at the photos on the board as if seeing something beyond them — “it’s purification.”

An uncomfortable silence spread for a few seconds.

“He’s been doing this longer than we think,” Bobby said thoughtfully. “He was just off the radar until now.”

“And if that van is still with him, it might be the best lead we have,” Donna added.

“Kevin,” Dean called out, “can you track where that van has been seen in the last few months?”

“I’m on it,” Kevin replied, eyes back on the monitor. “But if he was careful with the paperwork, he’s probably using routes without cameras... This will take a while.”

“Then start with gas stations in small towns,” Charlie advised. “They’re the only places still using old surveillance systems. If it passed through any of those, there might be a trail.”

Benny whistled softly.

“Looks like our lunatic priest decided to speed up the final mass.”

Dean looked back at the board. His eyes went straight to the blurry photo of the van.

Something told him time was running out.

Very fast.

Chapter Text

October 26, 2023 — Thursday, 6:17 AM

Bobby had urgently requested everyone's presence that morning, and the team showed up with the kind of punctuality that said one thing: something had happened.

The room was silent when Jody walked in. The cold fluorescent light reflected off the whiteboards and the still-incomplete evidence walls. She set her coffee on the table and crossed her arms, waiting.

Benny showed up next, yawning loudly, followed by Garth with his fast, clumsy steps. Charlie came in shortly after, already typing something frantically on her phone. Castiel entered just behind her — impeccable, silent as always, carrying a thin black book under his arm. Donna followed, holding two cups of coffee and handing one to Jody with a quiet “morning.”

Dean was the last to arrive.

With his coat half open and the look of someone who definitely didn’t enjoy early meetings, he walked in with sluggish steps, his eyes still a little puffy from sleep — but alert.

"What the hell is so urgent before eight?" he muttered, voice still rough.

Bobby looked up from a report and said, straight to the point:

"A woman has been reported missing."

Silence fell like a dense fog. All eyes turned to him, alert. A current of instinctive tension passed between the agents like static.

"She was last seen in the Algiers Point neighborhood" Bobby continued, unfolding a map and pointing to the west side of the river, across from downtown New Orleans.

Dean frowned, jaw tightening.

"Damn it" he muttered.

Bobby nodded, pulling out a folder with a witness statement.

"Yesterday, around 8 PM. Two witnesses saw her getting into a black van, apparently alone. One said she looked disoriented, like she was sleepwalking. The other reported the van had been parked 'strangely,' backed into a dead-end alley. Covered plates. No hits on the public cameras in the area. And so far, no sign of her."

Castiel tilted his head, eyes locked on the map. His gaze moved slowly, analyzing routes, distances, patterns.

"He’s speeding up the pattern" he said, more to himself than to the others.

"What?" Charlie asked, stepping closer.

"He’s no longer waiting days between victims. He’s in a hurry. Rushing to complete something. A cycle, maybe."

Dean ran a hand down his face, like he was trying to rub the frustration out of his skin.

"So we have until the end of the day to find this woman."

"If she’s still alive" Benny added grimly.

Bobby gave a slow nod.

"I want two teams. Dean, Castiel, and Donna — you cover Algiers Point and any areas Ezra might’ve used before. Garth, Jody, and Charlie — go back through crime records and cross-check them with unsolved missing persons cases from the past six months. Anyone who vanished and could’ve been an early victim."

Castiel was already moving toward the evidence board, blue eyes scanning the lines connecting the map points.

"If he followed the pattern, then the body… or the ritual… has already begun."

Dean clenched his fists.

"Then let’s end this today."

                                                              —★—

October 26, 2023 — Thursday, 11:47 AM

Algiers Point — New Orleans, LA

The narrow streets twisted beneath the agents’ feet. The old houses, painted in faded and uneven tones, seemed to stare at them with windows that looked more like tired eyes. The trees swayed in the warm midday breeze, as if whispering secrets no one would ever understand.

Dean walked with his hands in his pockets, jaw clenched, eyes scanning every corner. Donna was checking street signs, alleys, facades, lampposts — everything. Castiel followed behind them in complete silence, like a sentient shadow. His expression was the same as always: too calm.

But nothing. No clues. No movement. No mistake from the killer.

They seemed to be walking in circles, stepping in their own footprints, trapped in a maze that led nowhere.

The clock’s hand kept turning.

The woman had been missing for over twelve hours.

Time wasn’t just cruel — it was the killer’s accomplice.

They were racing against the clock.

But they felt like three dogs chasing their own tails.

Frustrated and exhausted, the three of them returned to the car in silence. There was nothing more to do there — not without a new thread to pull.

                                                              —★—

FBI Task Force Investigative Headquarters — New Orleans, 1:04 PM

The sound of wet boots on the waxed floor echoed through the hallway.

When they entered, all eyes turned toward them — hopeful for answers. But the faces of Dean, Donna, and Castiel said it all.

"Nothing?" Benny asked, already knowing the answer.

Dean threw his jacket over the chair and slumped back, exhausted.

"The place looked like a ghost town" he muttered. "No cameras, no witnesses, not a single damn clue. It's like he vanished into thin air with her."

Castiel remained standing beside the investigation board, eyes fixed on the photo of the missing woman.

"We're wasting time" he murmured, almost to himself.

Charlie frowned and kept typing. Garth rubbed his face with both hands. Kevin had yet to return with the data analysis.

And Bobby… walked into the room at that exact moment, hat in hand, eyes serious.

"So that's it? Algiers Point gave us nothing?"

Dean looked up.

"It's not that it gave us nothing. It's that he was smarter. Again."

A heavy silence fell over the room.

And within it, a growing tension.

The next victim was still alive. For now.

And time, as always, was against them.

Silence reigned in the room. Frustration hung over every desk like a thick fog.

That’s when Castiel stepped away from the evidence board and spoke — calm, almost solemn:

"He’s changed."

All eyes turned to him.

"The killer" he continued. "He broke the pattern. Before, the bodies were positioned, treated, prepared. They were… messages. Now, he’s taken a living victim. That’s a deviation."

Benny frowned.

"Could’ve just been a chance. An easy target."

Castiel shook his head slightly.

"No. Nothing about him is random. Everything so far has been methodical: organs removed with precision, religious symbolism, ritualistic purification of the bodies. This shift... it’s emotional. Instinctive. Disorganized."

Dean narrowed his eyes, focused.

"You’re saying he’s losing control?"

Castiel nodded slowly.

"He’s giving in to his own compulsion. This isn’t just about faith or sacrifice anymore. He’s... hungry. And impatient."

Donna’s eyes widened.

"So the woman’s still alive?"

"Yes" Castiel answered. "But not for long. He’s with her. Watching. Preparing. Deciding what she represents in his ritual cycle."

Charlie, who had been silent until then, whispered:

"That means we still have a chance."

Castiel turned slowly to the team.

"It means he made a mistake. An emotional one. And emotion... leaves traces."

He turned his intense blue gaze to Dean.

"We need to focus on the cracks. Not the bodies. He’s revealing something now. Not as a prophet… but as a man."

Dean stared at Castiel in silence, and for a moment, something passed between them. It wasn’t understanding. It wasn’t respect. It was something more primal. Like two predators recognizing the scent of the other.

"Then let’s hunt" Dean said, at last.

The door creaked open and Kevin rushed in, his eyes sunken — the look of someone who hadn’t blinked in hours.

"I found what you asked for, Dean. And more."

Everyone turned toward him. Castiel, still standing, crossed his arms. Dean lifted his chin in anticipation.

"I managed to trace movements of the black van — cross-referencing private and public security cameras. Gas stations, parking lots, traffic lights with sensors. It was spotted in at least four different locations over the past two months" Kevin turned the monitor toward the group. "Always at night. Always in peripheral areas. But yesterday… it entered the urban center."

The mood in the room shifted. Castiel stepped forward.

"And then?"

Kevin clicked on another file.

"It vanished. But I went further. I cross-checked the murder sites with abandoned properties listed as inactive in the city’s database."

"And?" Charlie asked, already leaning over the table.

"And I found this" Kevin pulled up another map, an older one, digitized, with notes about condemned buildings since 2005. "A church. Shut down since Hurricane Katrina. The Church of Redemptive Intercession."

The silence was cut by a collective, subtle breath. Hope was a sharp blade in that room — and everyone knew it.

"Is it isolated?" Dean asked.

"Yeah. Old construction, still has a basement and sublevels. The property was condemned, but never demolished. Officially, no one’s entered it in nearly twenty years."

"But someone’s using it" Castiel murmured. His eyes locked on the map. " 'Redemptive Intercession'… a fitting name. For someone trying to purify the city."

Bobby took a deep breath and clapped his hands once.

"Team, you know the drill. I want that church surrounded. Full caution. If the woman’s still alive, that’s where she is. And if that bastard’s inside... he doesn’t leave without cuffs."

Dean grabbed his badge and gun. Castiel was already walking beside him in silence — like he was following the scent of blood. There was no more time for mistakes.

Dean was the first to step out of the car, slamming the door with restrained force. The afternoon sun filtered through thick clouds, painting the sky a mournful gold. Castiel followed close behind, silent, his trench coat swaying lightly in the wind. His eyes were fixed on Dean.

Watching.

Analyzing.

Admiring? No.

Absorbing.

Dean walked slowly, eyes scanning the facade of the old church. The crumbling towers stretched toward the sky like broken fingers, and the main door’s wood was worn but stubbornly intact.

On the gravel road, fresh tire tracks curved through the dust. That said something.

Dean stopped at the main entrance and turned the dark iron handle.

"Locked" he murmured, mostly to himself.

"I expected you to be smarter than that" said Castiel from behind.

Dean turned his head slowly, frowning.

"What?"

"Of course it’s locked" Castiel continued, voice neutral. "It’s an abandoned church. Probably a murder site. He wouldn’t leave the front door open."

Dean rolled his eyes and sighed, slipping his gun back into its holster for a moment.

"Right, of course. The psycho wants us to go around, come in through the back, trip over some grotesque ritual and lose a kidney in the process."

Castiel simply raised an eyebrow and gave a slight shrug. A silent answer: "Possibly."

"Let’s go." Dean turned around.

They walked along the side of the church, tall grass scratching at their ankles. The dirty, broken stained glass windows looked like blind eyes staring out. The wind whispered through wooden gaps like a forgotten prayer.

And then they saw it.

A side door, ajar.

On the ground, a broken chain. Left there like a dead snake.

Dean instinctively drew his gun. He stopped in front of the door, breathing in. Then cast a quick glance over his shoulder.

"Where’s your gun?"

"I don’t have one" Castiel answered, plainly.

"What do you mean you don’t have one? You’ve been walking around without it this whole time?"

"Yes."

"Are you serious?"

"My hands are enough" he said, as if it were obvious.

Dean huffed under his breath, eyes back on the door.

"Of course they are" he muttered.

And then he stepped inside.

Castiel followed silently behind.

The prophet’s sanctuary awaited them.

The church’s interior swallowed them like a cave forgotten by God.

The air was heavy. Dense. A buildup of moisture, thick dust, and mold dripping from cracked walls... but there was another scent, sharper, more intimate.

Blood.

Metallic. Present. Unmistakable.

The late morning light filtered through shattered stained glass, scattering warped and faded colors across the mildewed pews. Red, green, blue... as if sin itself had taken shape and hue.

The floor was a desecrated altar — remnants of sacred cloths once used for anointing lay scattered like dead skin, soaked in neglect. Dark stains on the altar, twisted marks across the ground. A corrupted sanctuary.

Castiel said nothing. His eyes scanned the walls, where symbols had been drawn in blood — old Latin, archaic, nearly angelic.

Nearly.

But not quite.

It was something... distorted.

Like a blind man trying to write in the language of Heaven.

Dean searched the far end of the church, focused, gun still in hand. He studied footprints, shards of glass, and marks on the floor like a seasoned predator.

Castiel moved closer to the altar.

Slowly.

As if stepping into a forgotten shrine.

As if recognizing the place.

He knelt down. His gaze landed on a gap in the worn wood, where something had been hidden.

A notebook.

Old. Bound in darkened leather.

He pulled it out carefully, blowing the thick dust off the cover.

He flipped through it slowly.

Pages filled with frantic notes, diagrams, distorted biblical citations.

And then he stopped.

Three words, written in nearly faded ink — or maybe dried blood.

“Son of two worlds.”

Castiel froze.

Not because of the phrase.

But because of what it meant.

He lifted his eyes to Dean, still scanning tracks across the nave.

The prophet was talking about him.

About Dean.

Castiel pressed his lips together. Felt a tightness in his chest. It was uncomfortable.

Castiel had questions.

He hated questions.

But now, they came like voices in his mind.

Why Dean?

How did he know?

What did he know?

Castiel silently tore the page from the journal. Folded with precision, it disappeared into the inner pocket of his coat.

His face returned to its usual state: neutral, calm, impassive. As if nothing had happened.

Then his voice filled the space — low, serene, a lone note echoing in an empty temple:

"I found something."

Dean stepped closer, his slow footsteps echoing between the rotting, empty pews.

He stopped beside Castiel, eyes still scanning the space around them, cautious.

"What?" he asked, voice low and tense.

Castiel didn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowly rose to his full height — still as an ancient statue before a desecrated altar. In silence, he extended the journal toward Dean.

"This" he said, emotionless.

Dean raised an eyebrow and took the worn leather notebook. He felt the rough texture under his fingers. It was old, frayed — like it had been handled with obsession. He opened it and flipped through the pages carefully, eyes scanning the symbols, the disjointed phrases, the scribbles of twisted faith.

"Holy shit" he murmured to himself, voice gravelly.

The pages pulsed with sick fanaticism. References to purification, flesh, redemption through sacrifice. Codes tangled with religious doctrines, delirious interpretations of scripture. This was more than belief — it was conviction. Conviction that killed.

Dean kept flipping until he stopped at a passage marked with a streak of dried blood. The words were scrawled hastily:

"Purity is uncorrupted flesh.

The eyes must not see,

The tongue must not blaspheme,

The heart must be offered.

The kidneys must be washed in faith."

He shut the journal with a snap, fingers pressing the cover tight. Finally, he looked up and met Castiel’s gaze.

Blue. Cold. Unfathomable.

For a moment, there was no sarcasm.

No provocation.

No mockery.

Only silence. Dense. Heavy.

Dean’s face hardened. Whatever lightness he wore like armor was gone.

"I think we’re getting close to the prey" Castiel said, like he was stating a prophecy.

Dean nodded slowly. The hunter inside him could smell the nearness. And the man… the man was starting to realize how personal this had become. Even if he didn’t yet know why.

They were tracking something ancient.

Something that no longer ran from them.

Something that waited.

Chapter Text

October 27, 2023 — Friday, 9:10 a.m.

The tension hung thick like smoke. Half-filled coffee mugs forgotten on desks, papers scribbled in a rush, tired eyes. No one had slept properly in days.

Bobby walked into the room, Castiel at his side, his trench coat still damp from the morning fog.

"What did you find in that journal?" Bobby asked, skipping any formalities.

Kevin spun around in his chair, standing up with a handful of papers. The deep shadows under his eyes betrayed his sleepless night.

"A lot, Bobby. References to purification, to flesh, to redemption through sacrifice. Religious codes tangled with delirium. He writes like he’s transcribing divine revelations."

Kevin opened one of the pages marked with yellow post-its.

"Each victim is treated like a verse. The organs removed follow a specific order. He calls it a ‘liturgy of flesh.’ A poem, in his words, dedicated to the Almighty."

Donna crossed her arms, jaw tense.

"That’s sick..."

Castiel kept his gaze fixed on the board of photos and data behind Kevin. The light from the window lit up his motionless features.

"To him, it’s divine," he said coldly. "Madness and faith are close cousins, Agent Hanscum."

Benny stepped forward, holding up a clear plastic evidence bag.

"The diary was in the laboratory. We got a clean fingerprint: Ezra Michael Belacroix. Which we already knew..." — He flipped the bag to show the lower corner of the journal — "...but look here. One page was torn out."

Charlie furrowed her brow, stepping closer to see.

"Just one?"

"Yeah. Torn out in a hurry, like he was trying to hide something really specific. The rest is untouched—he didn’t try to erase or burn anything. Just that one."

Jody walked over too.

"I bet it was personal."

Castiel remained still, but his eyes drifted briefly to the board of victims’ photos. To Dean’s, among them. It wasn’t there — but the image, in his mind, was clear.

"Perhaps it was," he said calmly.

Bobby took a deep breath.

"We need to figure out what was on that page. Kevin, keep cross-referencing the data. If this lunatic thinks he can still offer a ‘final sacrifice,’ we’re not going to let him finish the poem."

Kevin nodded, already turning back to the computer.

Silence settled again, broken only by the sound of Kevin’s fingers tapping on the keyboard. Every second counted.

Every keystroke was a race against death.

"Where's Dean?" Bobby asked, already impatient.

"Right here," came the agent’s voice as he walked into the room with lazy steps. "Traffic was hell."

"Is that an excuse?" Charlie asked without even looking up from her screen.

"The traffic from my bed to the bathroom was slow. But I'm here, aren't I? That’s what counts."

Benny snorted quietly. Donna shook her head with a barely contained smile. Bobby just sighed, long used to Winchester’s lack of ceremony.

"Sit down, Dean," Bobby ordered, losing patience.

Dean huffed and dropped into his chair. Castiel, who had been standing beside the evidence board, moved calmly across the room. He went to a side table, picked up a small insulated bag, and returned. With the same unhurried grace, he placed the bag on Dean’s desk.

Dean frowned.

"What now?" he asked, glancing up at Castiel.

They locked eyes.

Castiel’s gaze was serene, calm, nearly unreadable. He didn’t smile. He simply answered, his voice steady:

"You’re not a morning person, Dean. And judging by your mood, you're running on an empty stomach."

Dean raised an eyebrow, studying the professor’s face like he was trying to find a hidden joke. They stared at each other a second longer than necessary.

Dean looked away first.

He pulled the insulated bag toward him and slowly unzipped it.

"What did you make this time?"

"Coffee," Castiel replied, as if that explained everything.

Inside, a brushed steel container, its contents meticulously arranged: thin slices of grilled meat with a spiced crust, accompanied by poached eggs on a bed of smoked root purée. Beside it, a small thermos filled with strong, dark coffee.

The smell was good. Unexpectedly good. Rich—almost seductive.

Dean grabbed a fork and poked the meat like he was testing a live bomb.

"This tastes like... something fancy I don’t know the name of," he muttered, putting a piece in his mouth. "You sure this isn’t poisoned?"

Castiel watched him for a moment, his expression unchanged.

"I’m sure."

Dean chewed in silence, glancing sideways at Castiel.

"You cook way too well for someone who doesn’t smile."

Castiel looked away, returning his gaze to the evidence board. And with the same usual neutrality, he said:

"There’s a lot you can do with patience... and fresh meat."

"Is everyone here?" Bobby asked, looking at the group gathered in the room.

Eyes turned to him. Dean was still chewing, his mouth messy with whatever Castiel had packed in his lunchbox.

"The professor and I have an idea. A plan. We need to find that girl alive. And, if possible, bring that bastard along as a bonus."

"We're all ears," Dean said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"The abandoned church is being monitored. Hidden cameras, snipers in position since early morning. So far, nothing on our prophet. And I doubt he's going back there," Bobby said, already walking to the tactical map on the wall. "That's why we're expanding. Splitting the urban perimeter into four quadrants. I want discreet patrols in each sector, focusing on abandoned religious areas or isolated structures."

He pointed to the center of the map.

"Kevin, give me a list of those locations within an eight-kilometer radius from the church."

"Already on it," Kevin said without lifting his eyes from the computer.

"Jody, organize the mobile units. I want them on the streets in twenty minutes. Garth, take over the city's surveillance cameras. Monitor any movement of black vans, especially near the places Kevin maps out. Donna, prepare a report with Ezra's timelines and movements from the last attacks. I want everything on my desk within an hour."

Everyone nodded and started moving.

Dean got up from his chair and spoke directly:

"I'm going to wait for the bastard at that church. Inside."

Bobby slowly turned his head.

"Dean, no."

"Bobby, it's necessary."

"No, it's not. And you're not going in alone."

"The snipers are too far. By the time they’re properly positioned, Ezra will have fled. If he comes back, it's now or never."

"They were positioned to take him out from a distance, Dean. Not to watch you become a martyr."

"Aren’t you even a little curious about him?"

The room fell silent for a second. Castiel, who had been silently watching Dean eat, spoke calmly:

"He's right," he said, eyes still fixed on Dean. "I would love to understand his mind."

Bobby frowned and sighed, already tired.

"You're not going in alone, Dean."

"If that’s the issue..." Castiel stepped forward. "I'll go with him."

Another silence fell. All eyes turned to Bobby.

He hesitated, eyes going from Dean to Castiel.

Bobby took a deep breath, defeated.

"You two go in. No one else. You only report to me. No heroics. No improvising. Understood?"

Dean gave a sideways grin.

"Understood."

Castiel only nodded.

Bobby grunted, mumbling something about "two suicidal lunatics," and turned to the board.

The operation had begun.

                                                              —★—

Task Force Headquarters — 1:42 PM

The air in the room felt heavier. Everyone moved with purpose, but there was a silent weight hanging over the space — an unspoken warning that something was about to happen.

Dean was finishing a check on his gun. The tactical vest rested over his black shirt, jaw clenched, eyes sharp. Castiel, on the other hand, remained calm, dressed in the same dark overcoat — a subtle contrast between the two. He carried no weapon. Just his mind — and his hands.

"You sure you're not taking anything?" Dean asked without looking at him, sliding the magazine into the pistol.

"My hands are enough," Castiel replied, as if reciting an ancient prayer.

Dean huffed but didn’t argue. Deep down, he knew the professor wasn’t an ordinary man — and that annoyed him almost as much as it intrigued him.

Charlie approached with an earpiece.

"Here," she said, handing it to Dean. "Direct line to base. Exclusive frequency. If anything goes off-script, we move in."

"Thanks, Charlie," Dean said, fitting the earpiece into his ear.

Castiel took his, examining the small device like it was unnecessary. Still, he put it on.

Donna was watching from the other side of the room. Garth was biting his thumbnail. Kevin was typing frantically.

Bobby approached the two men.

"You go in at 3 PM. Until then, the outer perimeter stays under surveillance. If Ezra shows up, you do not make direct eye contact. I want him confident, distracted, and most of all: alive. Got it?"

"Got it," Dean said, zipping up his tactical jacket.

"Yes," Castiel murmured, like the word had a taste to it.

"And if he attacks?" Jody asked, arms crossed.

Dean looked at her, his gaze steady.

"We respond. Fast."

Castiel just turned his head to face the exit, as if he could see the church from miles away.

                                                              —★—

Church of Redemptive Intercession — 2:59 PM

The car stopped a few meters away from the church's side entrance. Dean turned off the engine but remained still for a moment. He looked down at his hands, then at the watch. The hands pointed to 2:59 PM.

Castiel sat beside him, unmoving, like a living statue. His eyes were locked on the abandoned building ahead.

"Part of me thinks this is insane," Dean said.

"And the other part?" Castiel asked without looking at him.

Dean smiled, humorless.

"Is excited."

Castiel finally turned to face him.

"Then that makes two of us."

They stepped out of the car. The silence of the street wrapped around them. The wind pushed dry leaves along the sidewalk, and the gray sky threatened rain.

They walked side by side. And as they neared the church, echoes of the past seemed to awaken from the cracks in the walls.

They were entering the sanctuary of the killer.

And nothing would be the same after that.

6:42 PM

Time passed, and the afternoon light slowly faded, swallowed by the night’s darkness. The only illumination now came from the pale beams of moonlight filtering through the broken stained glass, casting distorted shadows across the dusty floor.

The silence felt almost solid. Oppressive.

Dean sat on one of the front pews, his body leaning forward, elbows resting on his thighs, gun still in hand. His green eyes, now half-lidded with fatigue, drifted occasionally to the man slowly pacing across the altar.

Castiel.

He moved in slow circles, the hem of his coat brushing quietly against the ground. His gaze fixed on the bloodstained scriptures along the walls. He murmured to himself in a language Dean didn’t recognize — maybe Latin, maybe Aramaic, maybe something… older. But it wasn’t just the language. It was the tone.

Low, almost tender. As if he were whispering a prayer to the dead.

Dean watched him closely. There was something disturbingly calm about Castiel when he slipped into this kind of focus. As if the scene — the smeared words, the dried blood on stone — didn’t disturb him.

On the contrary.

Castiel looked... at home.

Dean frowned.

“This some kind of ritual I should be worried about?” he asked, voice low but enough to echo through the empty nave of the church.

Castiel stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

“It’s not a ritual,” he said, still in that serene, almost ethereal tone. “It’s a fragmented invocation. Part of an ancient sealing chant. Mixed with blasphemy.”

“Lovely,” Dean muttered, sarcastic. “And you just understand all of that at a glance?”

Castiel shrugged, turning back to the bloodstains.

“Not all of it. But enough to know Ezra isn’t killing for pleasure alone. He believes he’s preparing something... greater. A final sacrifice, perhaps. An offering.”

Dean sighed and leaned back in the pew.

“Great. So I’m hunting a fanatic with a messiah complex. Just what we needed.”

Castiel turned his head toward him again.

“Does faith bother you, Dean?”

Dean stared into those blue eyes now fixed on him, eyes that seemed to see straight through him.

“What bothers me is people who think God gave them permission to kill.”

Castiel didn’t reply immediately. He simply stood there, moonlight slicing across his silhouette in a way that made him look almost sacred. Or profane.

“Sometimes,” he said at last, “God doesn’t need to give permission. People just take it. And call it purpose.”

Dean held his gaze for a moment, then looked away and cleared his throat.

“And you? What’s your purpose, Professor?”

Castiel didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.

“At the moment?” he replied. “To make sure you don’t die in here.”

Dean swallowed hard, but forced a short laugh.

“How romantic.”

Castiel resumed his pacing.

And the silence returned, thick as a curtain.

But something... something in the air was shifting. The atmosphere felt heavier. The wood in the structure creaked like it was breathing. The moon disappeared behind thick clouds.

10:32 PM

Nothing.

No sign of the bastard.

Dean was done. His body ached, his eyelids were heavy, and he felt the weight of time pounding inside his skull. He’d already walked through that entire church, searched every inch like he was going to find a secret door. He’d checked everything more times than he could remember. All for nothing.

Now he was there again. Sitting in the front pew, gun resting on his leg, fingers lightly tapping on his knee. Beside him, silence. Or almost.

Castiel.

The professor sat with perfect posture, as if exhaustion didn’t touch him. But Dean could tell. He could feel it. The weight of Castiel’s gaze on him, now and then. Pure analysis. Or something worse.

"I can tell you're staring at me, you know," Dean muttered without looking, as if speaking to the void.

A faint sound — almost a laugh — slipped from Castiel’s throat. A subtle hum, laced with something unreadable.

"You're interesting," he said softly, like he was just thinking out loud.

Dean raised an eyebrow but didn’t turn his head.

"Was that a compliment, professor?"

"Castiel," he corrected, calm. "And... I suppose you can take it as a compliment, yes."

Dean finally turned to face him. Green eyes met blue — cold and steady, but there was something there, a spark alive and hungry for understanding… or something more.

"You’ve got a weird way of complimenting people," Dean said, half teasing, half suspicious.

Castiel tilted his head slightly, his eyes never leaving Dean’s.

"And you’ve got a weird way of taking compliments."

Dean sighed and looked away.

"I’m too tired for riddles right now."

Castiel didn’t reply. He just stayed there, still, hands folded in his lap like a statue watching a sacrifice about to unfold.

And the silence returned. Heavy. Almost holy.

The silence between them wasn’t comfortable. It was thick, stifling—like the air trapped inside a confessional after a secret too heavy to bear.In that godforsaken church, everything seemed to breathe with difficulty—including Dean.

Castiel sat beside him, unmoving, but his presence was almost physical in the air. Like static before a storm. He didn’t do anything. Didn’t say anything. And yet, it was as if he took up too much space. As if he was under Dean’s skin, pushing at the edges, demanding room he wasn’t willing to give.

Dean stared at the altar ahead, the cold glow of the moon dripping through cracked windows. But he could feel those eyes—blue, steady—fixed on the side of his face. It gnawed at him more than any spoken word.

"Why do you do that?" The words came out low, rough.

Castiel turned his head slightly, the stained-glass shadows slicing his face into reds and purples.

"Do what?"

"Bring me food. Say those things. Look at me like..."

He didn’t finish. It was asking too much of himself.

Castiel took a slow, deep breath.

"I already told you," he said. "I find you fascinating."

Dean let out a short, humorless breath of laughter and rolled his eyes.

"You’ve got a really weird way of showing interest, professor."

"Castiel," he corrected again, gently. "And it’s not interest. It’s observation."

"That doesn’t make it any better."

Castiel stared at him with more intensity, tilting his head slightly, as if analyzing the way Dean’s words slid off his tongue. As if every response was part of a larger experiment.

The silence between them wasn’t comfortable. It was thick, suffocating—like the air trapped inside a confessional after a secret too heavy to carry.

In that church forgotten by God, everything seemed to breathe with difficulty—including Dean.

Castiel stood beside him, unmoving, but his presence was almost physical in the air. Like static electricity before a storm. He did nothing. Said nothing. And yet, it was as if he took up too much space. As if he was inside Dean’s skin, pushing against the edges, demanding space Dean didn’t want to give.

Dean stared at the altar ahead, the cold shine of the moon dripping through the cracked windows. But he could feel his gaze—blue, steady—fixed on his profile. That corroded him more than any spoken word.

“Why do you do this?” the question came out low and rough.

Castiel turned his face slightly, the stained-glass shadows cutting his expression in red and purple lines.

“Do what?”

“Bring me food. Say those things. Look at me like you…”

He didn’t finish. It was too much to ask of himself.

Castiel took a slow breath.

“I already told you,” he answered. “I find you fascinating.”

Dean let out a short, humorless laugh and rolled his eyes.

“You have a really weird way of showing interest, professor.”

“Castiel,” he corrected again, gently. “And it’s not interest. It’s observation.”

“That doesn’t make it any better.”

Castiel stared at him more intensely, tilting his head slightly, as if analyzing the way Dean’s words slid off his tongue. As if every answer was part of a larger experiment.

“Most people would return the gesture with gratitude,” he said, his voice low and steady, without a trace of offense. “You act like you're trying to escape something I never even offered.”

Dean turned his face away, ran a hand along his jaw, and let out a tired sigh. The wooden pew creaked under his weight as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs.

“I don’t like people looking at me like they know me,” he muttered. “Like they read every shitty thing I’ve done, every thought I try to forget. You do that. You look at me like… like you see through.”

Castiel watched Dean’s profile in silence for a moment.

“And if I do?” he asked. “What changes?”

Dean pressed his lips together, jaw tight.

“It changes that I don’t want to be read. Or figured out. Or understood.”

Castiel stepped a little closer. Just enough for Dean to feel the faint warmth of his body nearby, without touching.

“You don’t want to… or you’re afraid of what you might find?”

Dean turned his face slowly to look at him. Green eyes sparking with challenge—but there was something behind them. Fear, yes. And something deeper, more intimate. Shame? Desire?

“You talk like I’m some interesting puzzle. But maybe I’m just a mess.”

Castiel stared at him, calm.

“Puzzles are, by definition, messes waiting for someone patient enough to piece them together.”

Dean went still for a second. Then he let out a humorless laugh and rubbed a hand over his face.

“You’ve got a sick way of making things sound poetic, you know that?”

“And you have a desperate way of hiding behind sarcasm,” Castiel replied, calmly.

Dean was about to respond—something sharp, probably. But the way Castiel was looking at him disarmed him. It was different from any look he’d ever received. It wasn’t pure desire, nor judgment. It was… devotion? Deep curiosity? Hunger?

His stomach turned—and it wasn’t the food’s fault.

Castiel tilted his head slightly.

“I didn’t bring you food to please you, Dean. I brought it because… I like watching you react to things you don’t understand.”

“That’s disturbing,” Dean said, voice hoarse.

Castiel smiled, subtly. A faint trace, almost imperceptible, on his lips.

“I am disturbing.”

Silence fell again—but this time, it was different. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was like the air was too charged to be broken by useless words.

Dean looked away first, swallowing hard.

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“And yet, you keep looking at me,” Castiel answered, without irony. Just a fact.

They stayed there, motionless, like two bodies orbiting one another. The tension between them wasn’t just sexual. It was psychic. A slow-motion collision waiting to happen.

2:21 AM

A creak. A low groan.

Dean looked up immediately, his body reacting before his mind could finish processing.

He stood in a rush, hand reaching for his holster and drawing his gun.

Castiel moved as well, but in absolute silence — like an ancient shadow stirred awake.

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps.

And then, the figure emerged from the darkness of the church’s side nave.

Ezra Delacroix.

The prophet.

The fanatic.

He wore a tattered black robe that dragged lightly on the floor. His bare feet were caked with dirt.

In his left hand, a surgical blade — small but glinting under the pale moonlight.

In his right, a torn Bible, its loose pages dangling like flayed flesh.

He murmured low, in a melodic, dragging tone. As if reciting an old prayer, but one that had been corrupted. Distorted words, twisted fragments of verses turned into something... blasphemous.

“...and the flesh shall be washed in blood, and the blood shall bring redemption... and the torn-out he art shall purify the house...”

His voice sounded almost gentle.

Almost calm.

As if he believed, with unwavering faith, in every word that left his mouth.

Dean narrowed his eyes, the gun steady in his hands, aimed straight at the bastard’s chest. Castiel stood beside him, a step behind, observing with precise attention. His eyes gleamed with something hard to name — it wasn’t fear, nor anger. It was... fascination.

Ezra stopped in the middle of the nave. Right in front of the altar.

The moonlight fell on him, revealing his face: pale, dirty, his eyes sunken and full of fervor.

He was smiling.

A calm smile. Almost merciful.

“The night welcomes the repentant...” he murmured. “...have you come seeking forgiveness?”

Dean didn’t answer. His finger itched on the trigger.

Ezra looked directly at him. Then at Castiel.

And his smile widened.

“The son of doubt and the fallen angel...” he whispered, as if reciting a forbidden psalm.

Castiel furrowed his brow, eyes narrowing.

Dean felt a chill crawl up his spine.

Ezra raised the blade.

“Do you want to be saved?” he asked — and it didn’t sound like an offer.

It sounded like a threat.

Dean whispered, without taking his eyes off him:

“It’s him.”

Castiel answered, his voice low and cold as snow:

“Don’t shoot yet.”

Ezra then took a step forward.

Then another.

Dean’s finger tensed on the trigger.

But Ezra...

Ezra began to laugh. Low at first. Then louder. A hoarse, feverish, broken laugh  — like a man who had seen God... and gone mad.

"How good it is to see you, Dean." Ezra's voice came soft, almost affectionate.

Dean raised his eyebrows, caught off guard for a moment. But he quickly recovered, his expression hardening again, like it had been carved from the marble of duty.

"How do you know my name?"

Ezra smiled. A serene smile, heavy with disturbed faith.

"I know everything about you, Dean. I know you."

There was a pause. Small, almost imperceptible.

Dean shuddered—subtly. Something internal. Something involuntary.

Almost no one would notice.

But Castiel did.

His eyes shifted toward Dean, quick, clinical.

Analyzing.

Storing it away.

Then he turned back to Ezra, eyes narrowed, alert.

"I knew you would come," Ezra said, still looking straight at Dean.

"So you broke the pattern just to draw attention," Dean replied, trying to keep control of the conversation.

"Your attention," Ezra corrected, and his smile widened. "And it worked, didn’t it? But... I didn’t expect you to bring company."

His gaze moved slowly to Castiel. He studied him like someone reading a sacred text written in blood.

"Who is he?"

"It doesn’t matter," Dean answered, sharp.

Ezra ignored him.

"Oh, but I know," he said, his tone nearly ecstatic. "I can see his aura... so ancient... so tortured. A shattered glow, like glass trampled for centuries. You fell from somewhere very high, didn’t you?"

Castiel didn’t respond. But his jaw clenched.

Dean let out a loud breath and rolled his eyes.

"Just say what you want before I get tired of your crazy-ass sermon."

Ezra closed the torn Bible slowly, like he was ending some profane liturgy.

"Straight to the point. Of course. I want you, Dean Winchester."

Dean laughed—dry, mocking.

"Sorry, man, but I’m not gay. And definitely not crazy."

Ezra tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting with fanatical devotion.

"Really?" he said, his voice dancing between mockery and disbelief.

Which part was he questioning? The first? The second? Both?

"You’re pure, Dean," he went on, voice low, almost reverent. "You remove impurity from others. You judge. You cleanse. You understand me... You reflect me. You are my final sacrifice."

The silence that followed wasn’t just tense—it felt prophetic.

Dean stared at him with disgust.

Castiel stared at him with something darker.

And Ezra only smiled.

Ezra took a step forward.

Dean immediately raised his gun.

"One more step and you’ll be limping for the rest of your life."

Ezra stopped, but not out of fear. His gaze was... resigned. As if it had already been foreseen. As if everything was happening exactly as it was supposed to.

"I didn’t come to run," he said, opening his arms, still holding the surgical blade and the worn Bible. "I came to finish it."

"Drop the knife," Dean ordered.

Ezra looked at the blade as if it were an extension of his own body.

"It’s God’s instrument..."

BANG.

The shot echoed through the empty nave of the church.

Ezra screamed, staggering to the side and collapsing onto the broken pews, blood pouring from his leg.

"God’s instrument, my ass," Dean growled, moving forward with his weapon still raised.

Castiel stepped closer, his eyes locked on Ezra, now gasping on the floor. One arm still tried to shield his wounded leg, but he was smiling. Smiling even as the blood spilled across the floor like profane wine.

"I told you you were pure..." Ezra murmured, his eyes half-closed from the pain, but his expression still full of twisted faith. "That was a righteous response."

Dean ignored him.

He pulled the radio from his pocket and pressed the button.

"Agent Winchester here. Target is down. I repeat, target is down. Send backup to the Church of the Redemptive Intercession immediately."

On the other end, static. Then, Jody’s voice.

"Backup on the way. Ambulance too. Hang in there, Dean."

Dean dropped the radio with a heavy sigh and turned to Castiel, who was still standing beside Ezra, silently studying him.

"What did he mean by final sacrifice?" Dean muttered, still out of breath.

Castiel took a while to respond. His blue eyes never left Ezra’s face.

"I don’t know," he said at last, lowering his gaze to the bloody floor.

Ezra laughed, even with his face soaked in sweat from the pain.

"You’ll understand... sooner or later..."

Dean raised the gun to the lunatic’s head again, but Castiel lifted a calm hand.

"He’s already defeated."

"Doesn’t look like it," Dean muttered, but lowered the weapon.

In the distance, the sirens began to sing.

And with them, the night was far from over.

3:00 AM

The sirens cut through the silence of the night like sacred blades. Red and blue lights danced over the walls of the old church, painting the shadows with a false celestial warning.

Ezra Delacroix—the fanatic, the “prophet”—was being loaded into the ambulance, leg bleeding, handcuffed, and still smiling. His eyes were fixed on Dean, as if expecting him to return that look filled with madness with some kind of understanding.

Dean, however, just watched him with his arms crossed, leaning against the squad car. His jaw was clenched, gaze lost somewhere much farther than the dark street ahead.

Castiel approached, his quiet footsteps making him appear almost out of nowhere at Dean’s side.

"How are you, Dean?"

Dean scoffed, not even glancing at him.

"I just shot a lunatic who wants me as a divine offering. I'm fucking great."

The exhaustion bled through every syllable, every tense muscle in his body. He was drained—not just from the past few hours, but from the past few weeks. Maybe even the past few years.

Castiel nodded once, calm.

"What are you going to do now?"

Dean took a deep breath before replying, his tone bitter and familiar:

"Go home. Listening to my little brother complain about the time I arrived, wake up late tomorrow, hit the road to Kansas. Sleep the rest of the weekend if the world allows it."

Castiel raised his eyebrows, slightly surprised.

"You don’t live here?"

"No. Just working here… temporarily."

Castiel made a quiet sound in his throat, something between an “ah” and an “I see,” and nodded again. For a moment, neither of them said anything.

But this time, the silence wasn’t heavy like it had been in the church.

It was… comfortable.

As if the air between them breathed on its own.

Dean was the first to break it.

"Religion never killed anyone," he said, almost in a whisper, like he was talking to himself.

Castiel slowly turned his face, his blue eyes settling on Dean with surgical calm.

"God doesn't need followers with scalpels," he replied. His voice didn’t carry judgment, only certainty. As if reading a truth only he understood.

Dean let out a soft, tired laugh. A hollow sound.

"Nice line, professor. Write it in your next paper."

"Castiel," he corrected again.

Dean nodded, eyes following the ambulance disappearing at the end of the street.

"Castiel..." he repeated. The name sounding softer in his mouth, like he was finally acknowledging its weight.

Once again, silence returned.

And this time, it said everything.

Chapter Text

October 28th, 2023 — Saturday, 12:30 PM

A dull knock echoed against the bedroom door, muffled by the lazy silence of early afternoon. Dean didn’t move. He was lost in a deep sleep, sprawled face down, drooling on the pillow — his hair so messy it looked like he’d just stumbled out of a nightmare.

Another knock. Louder this time. And then, the voice:

“Dean, wake up!”

Sam’s voice cut through the wood like a punch. Dean jolted awake, groaning and curling deeper into the sheets. His hand fumbled for the phone on the nightstand without opening his eyes.

“What the hell, Sam…?” he mumbled, his voice rough and dragged down by sleep.

“It’s past noon. You said you’d make lunch. And by the way, you promised. Remember? Yesterday? Before bed?” Sam sounded annoyingly wide awake.

Dean groaned, shoving his face back into the pillow.

“That sounds like something a sober, responsible version of me would say… Clearly, I was under the influence of… exhaustion and heroism.”

“Dean.”

“Alright, alright, I’m coming… Jeez.” He threw the blankets aside like they were enemies and sat on the edge of the bed, eyes half-closed, hair sticking up in uneven spikes.

Saturday had only just begun, and he already wanted to crawl back into bed.

Dean dragged himself out of bed, his bare feet touching the cold floor with an involuntary shiver. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still tasting the dry remnants of the night — sleep, stale coffee, and half-digested sarcasm.

He shuffled to the bathroom like a zombie on autopilot, eyes half-closed, his body running purely on instinct. He opened the door, switched on the light, and stared at his reflection in the mirror with pure disdain.

“Mercy…” he muttered, running a hand over his sleep-swollen face and disastrously messy hair. “Looks like I fought a demon and lost.”

He turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face. The chill woke him up more than anything Sam could have said. Taking a deep breath, he braced his hands against the sink and stayed there for a moment, staring at his own reflection as if he needed to negotiate with it.

Dean stripped off his clothes, his bare chest exposed and legs uncovered, then stepped into the shower and turned the water to hot.

He let the water run over his hair, his body, his face, letting it wash away all the week’s exhaustion. The tension in his shoulders eased under the steam, and for a few minutes, he just stood there — silent, still, trying to forget the smell of blood and sulfur.

After finishing his morning routine, he returned to the bedroom with the towel still wrapped around his waist. He rifled through the closet without much enthusiasm until he pulled out his almost automatic choice.

He slipped on a fitted black cotton T-shirt, the fabric thick and the collar slightly worn. Over it, he threw on a dark green flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His jeans were old, faded, and slightly ripped at the knee, perfectly molded to his body from years of wear. On his feet, his brown leather boots — scuffed but well cared for.

It was pure Dean. Practical, low-key, with that rebellious, masculine edge that never felt forced.

He went down the stairs with lazy steps, scratching the back of his neck, and found his brother in the kitchen.

Sam was sitting at the table, laptop open, a glass in hand.

“Finally awake,” he commented without looking up from the screen.

Dean rolled his eyes and muttered as he dragged a chair over to sit down.

“It’s Saturday, Sammy. Some people still try to live.”

Dean walked into the kitchen with slow, lazy steps. The kitchen in his brother’s house was filled with the smell of food — a dense aroma of fried garlic, warm spices, and something just slightly toasted.

He moved around like he owned the place, rummaging through the fridge and cabinets, grabbing whatever he saw to put together a good lunch for him and his brother.

He stirred a pot on the stove while a skillet beside it sizzled with homemade burgers — juicy, greasy, with melted cheese oozing over the top. On another burner, almost reluctantly, he was steaming vegetables and grilling a lean, skinless chicken breast, keeping it far away from what he considered “real food.”

“You got in pretty late last night,” Sam said from the table, watching Dean with a mix of concern and resignation.

“Today, actually. Technically speaking. Left around three-something in the morning and got back when the sun was just starting to come up,” Dean replied, flipping one of the burgers with his fork.

Sam shrugged and sighed. “You were so worn out… tell me what happened.”

Dean grabbed two plates. For Sam, he carefully set down the dry chicken breast, the vegetables, and a small serving of brown rice. For himself, he piled on a burger dripping with cheese, fries, and two slices of bread toasted in butter.

They sat across from each other.

“The basics,” Dean began between bites, “we caught the lunatic.”

“After weeks,” Sam murmured.

“Exactly. He went into the church. Was… out of his mind. Obsessed. Kept rambling crap about sacrifice, redemption, you know the type. Called me by name. Said I was his final sacrifice.”

Sam frowned, setting his utensils down for a moment. “He knew you?”

Dean nodded, chewing angrily before swallowing.

“Yeah. Castiel was there too. He seemed… very calm.”

“Is that good or bad?”

Dean thought for a moment, running a hand through his still-damp hair before answering.

“I don’t know. Maybe bad. Maybe good. Maybe both.” He shrugged and went back to eating, as if he didn’t want to dig any deeper into it.

Sam watched him for a few seconds before returning to his own light meal without another word.

Silence fell — not uncomfortable, but the kind of silence only brothers who have been through far too much together can share.

Time passed comfortably, carried along by the clinking of silverware against plates and the low murmurs between the brothers. The silence, when it came, was warm — like a blanket on a cold afternoon. They talked about silly things, nothing important. Things that didn’t involve blood, crime, or death. Just two brothers, sitting at the table, trying to remember what it felt like to be normal.

Dean even laughed at something Sam said. A real laugh, not one of those cynical ones he usually wore like armor. It was rare. Almost forgotten.

But peace never lasted long.

Dean’s phone buzzed on the table, the screen lighting up with a new notification.

He reached out lazily, still chewing, and glanced at the screen.

Message from Bobby.

Dean’s expression changed instantly. His jaw tightened, his gaze hardened. He set his fork down with more force than necessary and stayed quiet for a second, staring at the message.

Sam noticed immediately.

“What is it?”

Dean was already on his feet, pushing his chair back and grabbing the car keys from the counter.

“Dean?” Sam pressed.

But Dean didn’t answer.

He just grabbed the jacket draped over the chair, shoved the phone into his pocket, and walked out the door with purposeful strides — as if the whole world was waiting for him outside.

Peace, as always, had an expiration date.

And it had just run out.

—★—

October 28th, 2023 — Saturday, 2:20 PM

FBI Temporary Headquarters — New Orleans, Louisiana

The Impala screeched to a halt in front of the building. Dean stepped out, his stride long, jaw clenched, eyes hard. He crossed the lobby without greeting anyone, ignoring the curious glances from the agents. He jabbed the elevator button harder than necessary, as if that would make it arrive faster.

The doors slid open with a metallic chime, and he stepped inside. The seconds in the elevator felt like minutes.

As soon as he reached the task force floor, he shot out like a storm. His heavy footsteps echoed through the quiet hallway until he shoved open the investigation room door.

Every head turned.

“How did this happen, Bobby?” Dean growled, going straight to the point without even glancing at the others.

Bobby, standing in front of the evidence board, looked over his shoulder. His eyes were heavy with frustration.

“He was under surveillance. Two guards at the door, plus the cameras. Ezra had just come out of surgery on his leg. It didn’t make sense…”

“Then how the hell did he get out?!” Dean exploded, green eyes blazing, his voice far too loud for the enclosed space.

“He didn’t get out on his own,” Charlie said firmly.

Kevin, seated at the computer, spun his chair around and turned the monitor toward Dean.

“We checked the cameras. At 5:42 a.m., someone walked into his room. Lab coat, mask, ID badge. Looked like part of the medical staff.”

Dean stepped closer, eyes locked on the screen.

The black-and-white footage showed the figure opening the door with a code. Seconds later, they were pushing a wheelchair with Ezra slumped forward, head down, covered with a blanket.

“Can you see the face?” Dean asked, already knowing the answer.

“No. The camera was at a bad angle, and with the hood and mask, everything’s covered. We can’t even confirm the person’s gender.”

“Tracking?” Dean kept his gaze fixed on the image.

“They disappeared from the back parking lot cameras. The van they used had cloned plates. We’re tracing it, but so far… nothing,” Jody said, walking into the room with a folder of reports.

A heavy silence settled over the room.

Dean stepped away from the table and ran a hand over his face. His chest rose and fell slowly, as if he were trying to hold something back. Anger. Exhaustion. Guilt.

Bobby sighed.

The silence that settled wasn’t like the others—it wasn’t born of frustration or exhaustion. It was different. Something... stuck. As if no one wanted to be the first to state the obvious.

Dean frowned.

His eyes swept the room. Jody next to Garth. Kevin still at the computer. Charlie flipping through reports. Donna standing near the whiteboard. Benny leaning against the table.

Everyone was there.

Except him.

"Where’s Professor Novak?" Dean asked, his voice lower now, but sharp as a blade. His gaze scanned the room as if they had forgotten something important—or someone.

Jody hesitated, then answered, "He said he was giving a seminar this morning. At the university."

"A seminar?" Dean repeated, eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Seriously? Today? After all this?"

Charlie shrugged uncomfortably.

"He scheduled it months ago. Something about symbolic patterns in rituals. Said it would be quick."

Dean scoffed, ironic.

"Of course it’s about rituals." He crossed his arms. "Last night we were hunting a fanatical lunatic who almost cut someone open on a church altar... and today he decides to go lecture?"

No one replied.

Dean looked at Bobby.

"You knew?"

"I knew he was teaching. He told me. Said he needed to keep some academic commitments... nothing more."

"Commitments?" Dean snorted. "We work until three in the morning, the killer escapes from the hospital right under our noses, and our ‘behavioral specialist’ decides now’s the perfect time to talk to students?"

The air grew tense again.

Donna cleared her throat, trying to ease it.

"Maybe he just needs a break. We’re all at our limit."

Dean didn’t answer right away. But his eyes—intense, suspicious—were still fixed on the void left by Castiel’s absence.

As if something didn’t add up. As if a gear was turning... backwards.

And he felt it in his gut.

Something was wrong.

Dean stayed silent for a moment.

His fingers tapped impatiently against his folded arm, jaw locked. Castiel’s name spun in his mind like a dissonant note in the middle of a score he knew far too well.

"Did he say where this seminar would be?" His voice came out colder than he’d intended.

Kevin answered without taking his eyes off the monitor.

"Loyola University. Department of Psychology and Comparative Theology."

"And no one thought it was strange for him to go alone? No security, no contact?"

"Castiel always works alone," Bobby said, with a touch of restrained irritation. "You know that, Dean. Since he got here, he’s come and gone at his own pace. He’s never given us a reason to doubt him."

Dean took a step forward.

"Maybe now he has."

A heavy silence filled the room. No one answered. The words hung in the air, weighty. The kind of accusation you don’t make without consequences. But Dean didn’t back down.

"Look, I’m not saying it was him. But he knew about the church before anyone else. He knew the killer’s pattern. He said out loud, days ago, that he wanted to understand the guy’s mind. And now the lunatic vanishes... and so does he?"

Jody raised her hands in a placating gesture.

"Hey. Let’s slow down. Castiel’s weird, yes. Mysterious, closed-off. But he helped find that place. He saved lives, Dean."

"And now he might be helping Ezra get away," Dean shot back, his voice low but steady. "I’m not saying he’s an accomplice. But if he’s doing something on his own, we need to know what it is. Before someone else dies."

Bobby’s frown deepened as he rubbed at his temples.

"I’ll call him. Now. See where he is."

Kevin was already typing furiously, tracking possible locations. The tension in the room was palpable.

Dean finally stepped away and looked out the building’s window. The city went on, indifferent, unaware of the doubt burning inside him like acid.

Castiel Novak.

Who the hell are you, really?

"Don’t worry, Agent Winchester. I have nothing to hide."

The voice cut through the air like a sharp blade—smooth, precise.

The door opened slowly, and Castiel Novak appeared in the doorway, imposing as an ancient shadow. He wore his usual dark trench coat, his tie hanging crooked from the collar with indifference. His hair was tousled by the wind, but his eyes—blue and unblinking—were calm. Whether it was true calmness... or something much closer to provocation was anyone’s guess.

Everyone turned at once, the silence tightening like a lung about to burst. Dean turned slowly, eyes narrowing as if trying to solve an equation that refused to make sense.

"Too convenient, don’t you think, Professor?"

Castiel crossed the room with steady, unhurried steps. He shut the door behind him with a dry click and walked to the conference table as if nothing were out of place. As if his presence weren’t heating the blood in Dean’s veins.

"I got your message, Bobby. I came as soon as I could."

Dean scoffed, disbelieving.

"And still decided to vanish for hours. Right when the damn fanatic escapes from the hospital."

"I didn’t realize my absence would cause such commotion," Castiel replied, voice still calm. "The work doesn’t stop because a killer escaped. His mind is in motion. And if I want to catch up to him... I have to keep pace."

Dean crossed his arms, tense, shoulders rigid.

"You were in the middle of an investigation. A kidnapped girl, a psychopath on the loose, and you’re out giving a lecture on ritual psychology?"

Castiel stared at him. It wasn’t anger, and it wasn’t guilt—it was study. As if he were looking through Dean, past skin and sarcasm, into something deeper.

"Maybe I underestimated your... sensitivity to my whereabouts." He tilted his head slightly. "Or I thought we were allies, Dean."

Dean didn’t answer immediately. Hearing his name like that, without a title, caught him off guard.

Castiel stepped closer. Their eyes locked, neither looking away. A heavy, intimate silence fell between them. The entire room seemed to watch without breathing.

"I thought we were friends, Agent Winchester."

Dean closed the distance until only a step remained between them, tension sparking like an electric current.

"We’re not friends." His voice was low, flat. "And next time you decide to disappear... take your damn phone with you."

Castiel nodded, not backing away.

"Noted."

And there they stood, face to face, green eyes locked on blue, and it was hard to tell what was closer to breaking loose—anger... or something else neither of them wanted to name.

Charlie cleared her throat loudly, crossing her arms and shooting the two of them a pointed look.

"You’re not alone here, just for the record." Her voice cut through the thick silence. "And, Dean… this whole suspicion you’ve got toward Professor Novak is starting to sound a little… unnecessary."

Dean looked away for a second, his jaw tightening.

Bobby nodded, arms crossed, his expression serious.

"Charlie’s right. Castiel’s helped us more than you seem to remember. Thanks to his analysis, we were able to predict the patterns and catch that lunatic at the church."

From the back, Kevin added quietly,

"Not to mention he also saved your skin, Dean."

Dean shot Kevin a quick look but didn’t snap back. He just took a deep breath, his gaze returning to Castiel—who remained still, his calmness both provoking and disarming at the same time.

"You think I’m overreacting... but someone helped Ezra get out. And if I don’t know who I can trust, this is gonna turn into a guessing game until the next body shows up." His voice was firm but less sharp now. There was fatigue in it. Distrust, yes—but also exhaustion.

Castiel only tilted his head slightly.

"Then let’s find out who it was. Together." he said, without breaking eye contact.

The silence fell again, but this time it was different. Colder. More calculated. Like a silent pact made between two forces that still didn’t know if they were on the same side… or opposite ends of the same war.

—★—

7:54 PM – Magazine Street, Lower Garden District, New Orleans

The rest of the day passed quickly. Dean and his team had been trying to track the prophet, but by that hour—nothing. No leads. No trail. No sign.

Dean walked along Magazine Street, an area known for its old bars and restaurants, mingled with historic buildings. The amber glow of the streetlights cast long shadows as the sky slowly darkened.

His jaw was tight, his body tense. Exhaustion, frustration… and anger. A lot of anger.

His fists clenched so hard his nails nearly cut into his palms. The green eyes that were once sharp now seemed lost—drowning under the weight of days without rest.

He needed to calm down.

Fast.

Now.

Without a second thought, he stepped into Bar Tonique, one of the most discreet and oldest in the area. The scent of wood, alcohol, and jazz playing softly in the background welcomed him like an old acquaintance.

He went straight to the counter.

"Whiskey. Double," he told the bartender, without even lifting his eyes from the empty glass in front of him.

The drink came. Dean downed it in one go.

And only then did he breathe.

Dean rested his elbows on the bar, feeling the warm liquid slide down his throat, burning the invisible wounds left by exhaustion. Outside, the busy street seemed distant, as if he were in a world apart, where only that moment of silence mattered.

The soft jazz filled the bar, blending with the low murmur of the few patrons and the clink of glasses. But none of it could fully calm the storm raging inside him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to sort out the thoughts spinning wildly. The image of Ezra Delacroix, that insane fanatic, came forcefully to mind — the crazed look, the twisted words about sacrifice and redemption, and, above all, the veiled threat.

Dean knew he couldn’t let that anger consume him. He needed to think, plan the next move, find a way to end this once and for all. But at that moment, all he wanted was to forget for a few minutes, to let the weight of the world fall away — at least until the next round.

A few hours passed. Dean drank slowly—not drunk, but feeling the effects, slightly altered—not enough to lose control, but enough to soften the hardness of the anger he carried.

Then a noise caught his attention from across the bar.

A man was arguing with a woman.

Dean couldn’t hear what they said, but from the woman’s expression, it seemed she had just shut him down. Dean rolled his eyes and let out a rough sigh. He hated guys like that—those who thought they were the center of the universe, the “golden boy” of the story.

But at the same time, he couldn’t deny there was something fascinating about them—because men like that, deep down, deserved to be put in their place. They deserved to pay.

At first, Dean didn’t move. He just watched from a distance.

The guy got kicked out of the bar. Dean waited about fifteen minutes, took one last sip, then slowly stood up.

Dean dropped the bills on the bar with a brief clink, straightened his jacket calmly, and walked out of the bar without hurry, as if carrying the weight of a heavy secret.

Outside, the man was still grumbling, smoking while leaning against the wall, his mind visibly tense. The anger on his face was a thin mask, barely hiding what bubbled underneath—fear, doubt, frustration.

Dean approached slowly, without rush, stopping beside him without looking directly.

"You look burdened," he said softly, calm, almost indifferent, as if speaking to the air itself. "Too burdened to be here, in a bar full of faces that don’t care about you."

The man didn’t answer, just took a long drag from his cigarette, trying to find some calm.

"It’s not easy, is it?" Dean continued, still looking down the street. "Living on the edge, always waiting for the next explosion. The world wants you to break, to give in, to disappear."

He turned his face and met the man’s eyes for the first time—half challenging, half compassionate.

"But maybe you don’t have to stay here, stuck in this failure. Maybe there’s a different path," Dean whispered, pausing slowly, letting the silence grow between them.

The man took a hesitant step back, wary—but something about Dean stirred him. That calm voice, that presence that seemed to know too much.

"Sometimes the right place isn’t where you are now. And I can show you where to go," Dean murmured, with a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

The man hesitated, swallowed hard, his eyes flickering between doubt and curiosity.

Without hurry, Dean turned and started walking.

"Either you stay here, drowning everything in drink, or come with me and see if there’s a way to change the game."

The silence grew heavy. For a moment, the man stood frozen, staring at Dean’s retreating figure.

Then, like an invisible pull, he followed.

Dean walked a few steps ahead, calm, hands in his jacket pockets. The sound of his footsteps echoed softly on the wet cobblestones, muffled by the silence of that forgotten street.

"Hey, where are we going, man?" The man’s voice was full of curiosity, but with a hint of caution.

Dean turned his head slightly, the smile on his lips not reaching his eyes. It was a practiced smile. Empty. As fake as a blessing sold on late-night TV.

"A place where the girls never say no."

The man laughed heartily, excited, quickening his pace to walk alongside Dean.

"You talking about a club? A strip joint? Close by? Damn, and I had no idea!"

Dean just shrugged.

"Something like that."

They walked down an even narrower street. The windows were shut, the streetlights flickered, and everything seemed suffocated by a damp fog clinging to the skin.

The city was sleeping. Or pretending to sleep.

Not a soul around. No sound but the dragging of their shoes.

Perfect.

Dean stopped at the entrance of a dimly lit alley. He turned to face the man, green eyes shining in the dark with a calm that bordered on unsettling.

"It’s this way."

The man hesitated for a second, looked down the alley, then back at Dean. But that smile... that damn smile was still there. And it was hypnotic enough.

"Huh… alright. Let’s do it."

And then the two disappeared into the darkness between the buildings.

Where the lights couldn’t reach.

Where no one would hear a thing.

Chapter Text

October 29th, 2023. Forty minutes to midnight.

The alley was drenched in shadows and damp. Moss and soot clung to the walls, exhaling the rancid scent of a forgotten city. The man walked a few steps ahead, his footsteps echoing softly between the concrete walls.

He hesitated for a moment, glancing around with suspicion.

"Here?" he asked, half-laughing, half-frowning. "Doesn’t look very... luxurious."

Dean stopped under the trembling light spilling from a shattered window. The lamp inside flickered like a tired eye. The pale glow traced the edges of his face — green eyes steady, intense, impenetrable.

"What did you expect? Champagne and velvet?" he replied, his voice drawn-out, almost gentle, but with a thread of venom. "The most interesting places in the world... don’t have signs on the door."

The man let out a muffled laugh, his shoulders easing.

"You’re weird, man. But I like that."

Dean gave him a smile. Not a real one — more a rehearsed curl of the lips. His eyes, however, were locked on something beyond — something behind that body, beneath that skin, beyond that night.

"You deserve more, don’t you think?"

Unaware of the sudden shift in Dean’s tone, the man nodded with a wicked laugh.

"We men do. These women nowadays..." he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "They think they can just say no. Like they have that right."

Dean didn’t answer. He only hummed something old, a forgotten melody, maybe from an old radio or a cursed memory.

His hand slid into his jacket pocket. From it, he pulled out a neatly folded cloth — the kind of precision only a surgeon or a killer would have.

In one swift, silent move, he grabbed the man from behind. The cloth pressed hard over his face, sealing nose and mouth. The man’s body jerked, arms flailing, but Dean held him with steady force. The man’s breath faltered against the soaked fabric.

The alley didn’t protest. It only watched.

And Dean... Dean kept his eyes fixed, cold. As if he were doing something inevitable. Something necessary.

Dean held the man’s body firmly, feeling his muscles weaken little by little beneath the damp cloth. The muffled sound of his breathing grew more uneven until it became nothing more than a faint, faltering sigh.

"You’re worse than I thought," Dean whispered in his ear, his voice low like a curse.

When the body finally went limp and unconscious, Dean exhaled with a small click of impatience. He looked around—the alley remained silent, indifferent, dark.

He dragged the man a few more feet inward, his shoes scraping against the filthy ground, and laid him there on the cold concrete. The light from the broken window no longer reached that spot. Only darkness and the distant sound of the city breathing somewhere far away. Crouching down, he began rifling through the man’s pockets with quick, efficient hands. He found a cheap pocketknife and a worn wallet. He scoffed.

"Shit."

His hand moved to his waistband, where the familiar weight of his gun rested. But he didn’t draw it. He didn’t want noise.

Dean studied the unconscious face before him. Even knocked out, the man’s expression still carried arrogance. As if his very unconsciousness refused to admit any guilt.

"This bastard deserves more," he muttered to himself. "Deserves everything."

He deserved Dean’s anger. He deserved every second of what was coming. And in that moment, beneath the living darkness of New Orleans, with the smell of rot and stale rain in the air, Dean let himself sink into that silent, calculated state—where justice and vengeance stopped being separate things.

The silence inside was thick, almost liquid. Dean knelt beside the body for long seconds, listening only to the man’s shallow breathing and the distant drip of some clogged gutter.

He opened the pocketknife.

The blade was short, simple, but sharp enough. It would do.

Dean took a deep breath. Not to calm himself — to focus.

He gripped the man’s head with a firm hand, fingers tangled in the short hair, and pressed the blade to his face with the other. First, the lower lip. A precise cut, side to side. Shallow, just enough to mark. Blood welled up slowly.

“You talk too much,” Dean murmured, his voice empty, as if speaking to a dead animal.

The next slice went deeper. He aimed just below the left eye and pushed hard. A muffled scream tore from the man’s throat — he was awake now, finally. Too late.

Dean straddled him, one knee crushing his stomach, all his weight anchored in rage. The man tried to thrash, but he was groggy. Foolish. Vulnerable.The blade traced his neck, shoulder, ribs. Long, crisscrossing cuts, drawn like insults. Dean wasn’t in a hurry. His rage was methodical, cultivated, cold as iron. A kind of ritual.

“You’re just another one,” he whispered, his face smeared with hot splashes of blood. “A worm who thinks he’s a predator.”

The man was crying now, panting, mumbling something between pleas for help and desperate bargains. Dean only tilted his head, green eyes reflecting nothing.

“You don’t understand. But you don’t need to.”

He drove the blade into the man’s abdomen, twisting. Felt the skin’s resistance, then the warm, viscous give of flesh opening. Blood poured out, staining his jacket, his hands, the ground.

“This is justice.”

Dean shoved his hand into the wound. Felt around until he found what he wanted. Pulled hard. A wet, tearing sound filled the alley. The man screamed until his voice broke.

Dean ripped out a section of intestine as if yanking a parasite from a body. He tossed it aside like garbage.

The man’s eyes rolled back, his body shuddering in spasms.

Dean watched, breathless. But not satisfied.

He took the blade again. Etched some meaningless symbol into the bloody chest — not because he believed in anything, but because he wanted that body to carry a scar no one would understand. A message.

And then, finally, he pushed the blade into the man’s throat. Deep, until he felt bone.

The final sound was like a suffocated sob.

And the alley fell silent again.

Dean stood slowly, breathing hard, blood covering him to the elbows. He lingered there for a moment, staring at the mutilated body. The face already pale, unrecognizable.

The pocketknife dripped blood down his fingers, but Dean didn’t notice.

He just walked away, vanishing into the darkness of the alley like a shadow returned to the night.

—★—

October 29th, 2023 — Sunday, 12:20 AM

Dean walked without hurry. His steps were firm, almost lazy, echoing against the wet asphalt. No urgency. No fear.

The streets were as silent as an unheard confession.

No one had seen anything.

No one had heard anything.

And that was exactly why he loved the early hours — they swallowed everything. Voices. Screams. Guilt.

The stars, hidden behind heavy clouds, still shone faintly, like half-healed wounds in the black sky. Damp wind slithered between the tall tree trunks lining the dirt path. Dry leaves whispered as they fell, spinning in the air like memories that refused to settle.

Dean stepped onto the narrow trail cutting through the forest. Each step sank the sole of his boot into the soft, damp earth. It was an old scar on the city’s map, forgotten by those who preferred concrete. But not him. He knew this place as if it were part of his own body — maybe a broken rib.

The fog crept along the exposed roots.

Low.

Dense.

Silent.

Almost alive.

Dean drew a deep breath, the cold air burning his lungs. There was still blood on his hands, dry along the edges of his nails. But he didn’t mind. The smell calmed him.

He walked as if returning from a service, not from a crime.

Serene. Almost purified.

The silence of the forest answered him better than any man ever had.

The headphones filled the silence. Nothing but the beat—heavy, dense, dragging like a mechanical heart.

Heaven and Hell.

Black Sabbath.

The guitar cut through the cold air like a blade.

Dean walked the trail as if coming back from a morning run. The dried blood on his hands was just a detail. The smell of wet earth and iron blended with the sound, creating a kind of trance. A refuge.

He hummed along.

Almost smiling.

As if everything that had happened that night, everything he had done—every cut, every scream, every drop of blood—was nothing more than just another Sunday.

One among many.

Dio’s voice echoed in his thoughts, powerful, prophetic:

"The world is full of kings and queens / Who blind your eyes and steal your dreams..."

Dean looked up at the cloud-covered sky, the stars still wounded, still hidden.

But he kept walking.

As if the music washed his soul.

Or at least, drowned out the screams.

Then he focused back on the path ahead. He was already thinking about turning back, breaking into his own brother’s house, taking a shower, and washing away all that dried blood still clinging to his skin like guilt.

But then—

He stopped.

Abruptly.

Immediately.

Something cut through the fog ahead.

A blue glow.

Cold.

Static and pulsing at the same time.

Too strange to be natural.

Too alive to be ignored.

Dean narrowed his eyes, trying to pierce the dense mist with his gaze.

Nothing. Only shapes. Shadows. The kind of silence that presses against your eardrums.

With a slow movement, he pulled off his headphones.

The world came back.

Or almost.

He took a deep breath—just once.

The damp air burned his nostrils as if something in it was wrong.

Silence.

He heard.

Nothing.

But he felt.

Something.

And then he analyzed—like an agent, like a predator, like a man at constant war with his own instincts.

He took a step.

Slow.

Controlled.

There was hesitation. But also intent.

As if every muscle in his body knew this moment was not ordinary.

Another step.

And another.

Like someone entering a temple.

Then Dean raised his hand.

His fingers parted the dense air as if pushing aside a living, heavy, breathing curtain.

The fog resisted—thick, damp, alive.

But it gave way.

And that’s when he saw it.

Someone.

Or something.

Crouched over a body stretched out on the ground.

The blue glow didn’t just surround it.

It bled from it.

Like vapor. Like a specter bleeding light.

A steady hand gripped a knife—long, thin, precise.

It didn’t tremble.

It cut.

The blade sank into flesh without hesitation, gliding through layers of muscle as if following a sacred map, a script written by divine, forgotten hands.

There was no anger.

No rush.

Only focus.

A steady grip.

An unblinking gaze.

It was a job.

Or a ritual.

A meticulous dissection, carried out with respect. With reverence.

Blood trickled in silence, carving dark roots into the soil.

Dean didn’t move.

Not yet.

Or a trap.

Dean felt his breath catch for a second.

Not out of fear.

Not out of hesitation.

But because he needed to think.

To calculate.

To plan his next move without making a sound.

Without being seen.

Slowly, he moved his foot back.

His hand was already at his waist, ready to reach for his gun.

Crack.

A dry snap.

So small.

So loud.

Dean flinched.

“Shit.”

A twig, he thought.

Just a dry twig.

Damn twig.

And then, everything stopped.

The world.

The air.

Even the fog seemed to hold its breath with him.

And then—

The figure turned.

Fast.

Precise.

The neck twisted with a soft, sharp crack.

Like an owl snapping to attention.

Eyes locked on him.

Blue.

Cold.

Impossible.

Dean froze.

Not like prey.

But like a man who knows—without understanding—that he’s standing before something that shouldn’t exist.

The person—

No.

The creature—rose slowly.

First the back.

Then the shoulders.

And then, it stood upright.

Facing Dean directly.

The trench coat swayed in the wind.

Heavy.

Soaked in blood.

Crimson specks stained the pale face like scars carved into raw flesh.

In its hand, a broad-bladed knife.

Still dripping.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

But that wasn’t what froze Dean.

It was the thing’s chest.

A knife.

Embedded.

Right in the center.

Blood slid down—

From its own body.

And still…

It remained standing.

Unshaken.

Dean thought: "What the hell is that?" "What the fuck is this?"

Because whatever it was—it was alive.

And its eyes…

They glowed.

An unnatural blue.

Not a reflection.

Not a trick.

Light.

Pure.

Wrong.

But the light began to fade.

Like an old bulb flickering out.

The blue drained away…

…until it was gone.

Dean narrowed his eyes.

Watched.

Recognized.

The silhouette.

The coat.

The presence.

“Professor Novak?” — the words came low, tense. Almost a plea, almost a threat.

The creature—

No.

The man tilted his head slightly.

“Hello, Dean,” he said,

As if nothing had happened.

Dean didn’t move.

His muscles were taut, ready to react.

Instinct screamed to draw his gun.

But there was something stronger than instinct—

Something more primal.

Something that recognized danger.

Castiel Novak was watching him.

Or rather:

Something inside Castiel was watching him.

There was too much blood on that man.

On his face.

On his hands.

Running down his chest, where the blade still embedded throbbed with a breath that shouldn’t exist.

And yet, his eyes were calm.

Serene.

Surgical.

As if he had just stepped out of an operating room.

Not a slaughterhouse.

Dean swallowed hard.

His fingers brushed the gun handle in its holster.

But they didn’t pull it out.

Not yet.

“What the hell is this?” — the words slipped out low, deep. Almost a growl.

Castiel didn’t hesitate.

“I was hunting a rabbit.”

Simple.

Dry.

No humor.

Dean blinked. He stared at the open body on the ground. The exposed flesh.

The ribs sawed with absurd precision.

And yet, even unrecognizable, there was something familiar in that structure.

He furrowed his brow.

“Wait. Is it… Ezra?”

Castiel lowered his gaze for a moment, like someone inspecting a dish about to be served.

Then he looked back at Dean.

And shrugged.

That gesture—that damn gesture—made Dean’s blood boil.

Indifference.

Or worse: contempt.

The killer they had been hunting for weeks.

The man who escaped a hospital like a ghost.

Now lay there, open like a book, and Castiel… just shrugged.

“So it was you who took him out of there?” Dean asked, his voice tense, finger still hovering near the trigger. “I knew it…”

Castiel looked at him with the same expression one might have when arguing with the weather.

“Yes. Had to kill some of his colleagues in the process. Sorry?”

The tone of that last word made Dean raise an eyebrow, confused — then furrow it, irritated.

“Why?”

Castiel didn’t avert his gaze.

“Because I had questions. And he… had the answers.”

“What questions?” Dean narrowed his eyes. “And why kill him?”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, as if silently amused.

“Oh, Dean…” — he brought his hand to the hilt of the knife embedded in his own chest — “…you have so many questions.”

And, without hesitation, he pulled the dagger out.

Fast. Firm.

The sound was wet. Almost obscene.

The blade came out clean.

But the blood… the blood didn’t stop.

Dean stepped back instinctively.

His eyes dropped to Castiel’s chest, now open — a dark gash across the center of his shirt.

But Castiel remained standing. Steady. Breathing.

Alive.

“What are you?” Dean asked, his gaze flicking between the impossible wound and Castiel’s unfathomable eyes.

Castiel merely smiled faintly.

“As I said… too many questions. And this is not the place for answers.”

He extended a hand, smeared with blood.

“Come with me.”

Dean took another step back, now holding his gun firmly.

“No. I’m arresting you for murder. And for taking a criminal out of police custody.”

Then Castiel did something unexpected. He laughed. Not a guffaw. Not a joyful chuckle. It was low, deep.

An ancient sound, not belonging to a normal man.

The first time Dean had ever heard him laugh.

And there was something in that sound that sent a chill down Dean’s spine.

“Look at you, Dean,” Castiel said, his voice smooth as a sheathed blade. “Are you sure about that?”

He tilted his head, his blue eyes darker now, almost empty.

“They’ll find out, you know. That you’re the Kansas vigilante.”

The world stopped.

Dean’s eyes widened.

His chest tightened.

As if someone had ripped the ground from under him.

Castiel stared.

Steady.

Serene.

And behind that serenity… there was knowledge.

Too much.

Without another word, Castiel turned.

And simply walked away.

Through the trees.

Disappearing into the mist as if he had always belonged there.

Dean stood frozen.

The sound of his own heartbeat filled the space the silence had left behind.

He hesitated.

For a full minute.

Thought of the gun. Thought of Sam. The police. Ezra. Everything.

And then, without a sound, he took a step.

Then another.

And entered the forest.

He followed Castiel.

Like someone crossing a threshold.

Like someone accepting the inevitable.

The night was still thick, heavy with humidity and silence.

Almost one in the morning.

The city slept. The world forgot. But there, among the trees, two men walked side by side. Two bodies left behind — one killed by Dean, the other by Castiel.

And no one would ever know which of them had been the true monster that night.

Chapter Text

It had been years… no. It had been decades, centuries since Castiel had felt like this—interested, curious, almost restless. From the moment he stepped into that room, from the very first time he saw Dean, he knew: there was something different about that man.

Dean’s soul burned in a way Castiel hadn’t witnessed in so long he had almost forgotten what it was like. So intense, so radiant… but not pure. It wasn’t celestial light. It was something more earthly, more flawed, more real. And perhaps because of that, more beautiful.

For the first time in centuries, Castiel didn’t feel hunger. Not for flesh, not for soul, not for grace. He felt something else. Something he couldn’t name. Not desire. Not faith. Not compassion. It was… silence. A silence that filled him. That held him still and made him want to look closer.

He watched Dean speak, move, breathe. Things so ordinary, so human—yet in him, they seemed different. As if every gesture carried a heavier weight, a hidden intention, a spark ready to set the world aflame.

Castiel couldn’t name what it was. But he knew he felt it. And he knew it wasn’t something he could ignore.

Over the years, he had learned that to earn the friendship—and the trust—of humans, only two things were required: money and appetite. Humans were greedy, ravenous creatures. They fed with their mouths, with their eyes, with their egos.

So, Castiel decided to start with the basics:

fill his favorite agent’s stomach.

In the kitchen, everything was meticulously clean. Light filtered through the windows with a soft intensity, carving sharp shadows across the room. The air was dense with the scent of wine, mushrooms, and melted butter.

Veal Pithivier in red wine.

A French classic from the Loire Valley.

Or, at least, that’s what he would say.

Young, clean, carefully chosen.

An involuntary donor, now transformed into an offering.

The meat had been ground by hand—slowly, into small, delicate pieces, the perfect texture to absorb the flavor of the ingredients. Castiel stirred with a heavy wooden spoon, letting the flesh cook slowly in a copper pan, where aged red wine bubbled—a Bordeaux from 1982. The heat released its deep notes of dark fruit and ancient metal, creating a base that was both rich and intoxicating.

Alongside the meat, he added wild mushrooms, gathered before dawn. Small, damp, with a faint earthy bitterness that balanced the sweetness of the caramelized onions, already melting at the bottom of the pan like golden silk. Finally, almost transparent slices of black truffle—pungent, decadent—were folded into the filling, completing the dizzying perfume that filled the air.

While the fire did its work, Castiel turned to the puff pastry. Prepared since early morning, folded and chilled again and again. Each layer a crisp promise, made with cold butter, patience, and flawless technique.

He assembled the Pithivier with surgical precision. Placed the filling at the center of the pastry, enclosed it as one might guard an ancient secret, and sealed the edges with a touch of cold water. Over the top, he brushed beaten egg yolk and traced delicate spirals with the tip of a knife—symbols reminiscent of ritual markings, though he would never admit it aloud.

The oven accepted the offering with a hot crackle.

And Castiel waited. Silent.

Hands clean. Apron spotless.

It looked like just a meal.

But it was more than that.

It was a gesture of closeness.

A perfumed trap.

A communion.

Dean didn’t need to know what was inside.

Not yet.

That same afternoon, without hurry or guilt, Castiel left his house and went straight to headquarters. He was well past his lunch break—far beyond the limit, really. But he didn’t care. For him, time was a malleable construct. And he had done something far more important.

He had cooked for Dean.

In the conference room, Dean frowned at the container placed in front of him—elegant, still green with heat rising in gentle waves.

“Is this poisoned?” he asked, suspicious, staring at the food as if it were a trap about to explode.

Castiel didn’t answer right away. He simply watched him in silence. There was something deliciously human in that mistrust.

Almost… endearing.

Dean sighed and grabbed the fork, muttering:

“You got time to cook all this?”

Castiel tilted his head with the serenity of someone who had just committed a perfectly calculated crime.

“I have priorities.”

Dean didn’t reply. He just stabbed a piece of the pie and brought it to his mouth.

The pastry crumbled with ease—delicate, buttery, crisp. The filling was hot, moist, rich in layers that slowly unfolded on the palate. A deep, earthy flavor, with the sharp perfume of wine and something else… something Dean couldn’t quite identify.

He chewed more slowly.

Then let out a low sound of approval, almost unintentionally.

“This is… fucking good,” he admitted, mouth still full.

Castiel lifted his eyes, locking them on him.

Watching Dean eat his food was a spectacle in itself.

Every movement, every bite, every flicker of pleasure was absorbed with an almost religious fascination.

There was something invigorating about that moment. Something intimate.

Something thrilling.

His body reacted.

Was it desire? Castiel wasn’t entirely sure, but watching Dean eat made his body grow warm.

And for an instant, Castiel simply watched.

Silent. Present.

As if that moment, in that cold and forgotten room, was worth more than eternity itself.

Later, while investigating the Church of the Redeemer’s Intercession, Castiel found the object buried beneath dust and centuries: a notebook.

Old. Its leather cover darkened, scarred by time and dampness. The pages yellowed, fragile to the touch.

He opened it carefully.

The handwriting was uneven, rushed, as if the author had more faith than sanity. Scribbles of religious symbols, formulas, fragments of psalms rewritten backwards.

But it was on a single page that he stopped.

Three words.

Written in the center, like a sentence—or a curse.

“Son of two worlds.”

Castiel went still.

The words pulsed on the page, as if still alive. The leather of the notebook seemed warmer in his hand. He absorbed the meaning, like someone tasting something long forgotten.

He looked at Dean.

Then back at the words.

It wasn’t a metaphor.

It was about him.

The prophet—the killer they were hunting—had written it. And that could only mean one thing: he knew.

But what?

What did he know about Dean?

How did he know?

When had he found out?

Castiel gripped the notebook tighter. His knuckles whitened. He hated having questions. Because questions led to doubt. And doubt… was a territory far too dangerous. He knew that path well. He had walked it once. And he fell.

No.

Not now.

He needed to understand who Dean was.

Why did that soul fascinate him so deeply?

Why did it seem so luminous and so corrupted at the same time?

Why… was it so deliciously unique?

Castiel held his breath, his gaze lingering on Dean a second longer than it should have.

He had questions.

But no answers.

Not yet.

But someone did.

And that someone was the prophet.

When they finally confronted Ezra, Castiel had the chance to see him—Dean Winchester—in action.

And it was… beautiful.

The sharp crack of the gunshot still echoed in his memory.

The first bullet—straight into Ezra’s leg—came without warning. It came with fury.

And Castiel, though well acquainted with the weight of human suffering, did not look away.

Dean seemed consumed. There was something in him at that moment—something raw, instinctive, uncontrollable—that Castiel recognized. And admired.

Ezra’s scream tore through the night like a distorted hymn.

But what Castiel truly heard was Dean’s breathing.

Heavy. Heated. Indignant.

The second shot almost came.

His finger was already tightening on the trigger, the aim fixed on Ezra’s face.

And for a moment, Castiel considered letting it happen.

But he needed answers.

Ezra knew. About Dean.

About what Castiel himself was still struggling to understand.

Castiel needed to find out how much he knew.

And more than that…

He needed to understand Dean.

That same night, when everything finally seemed calm, Castiel watched the hospital from afar.

The city slept.

The emergency ward lights flickered in the distance, reflecting against the low, heavy clouds.

Between the shadow of night and the first hint of dawn, he moved.

Silent, unannounced, he spread his black wings—vast, dense as darkness itself—and flew.

The sky was his domain.

And no one would see him.

He landed behind the building, in a blind spot beyond the cameras’ reach. The beat of his wings dissolved into the air like fading mist.

Castiel adjusted the stolen lab coat, slipped the surgical mask over his face with almost surgical precision, and clipped the forged ID badge to his chest.

Just another doctor on the night shift.

On the surface, invisible.

Within, lethal.

But of course, it wouldn’t be easy.

Humans.

Always so bound to their fragile protocols.

Two armed guards blocked the door to Ezra’s room. Castiel didn’t sigh, but his eyes rolled faintly with distaste. They were obstacles—nothing more.

The first never even had time to react—Castiel seized his arm, wrenched it back, and threw him to the ground with inhuman ease. The pop of a shoulder tearing from its socket echoed down the quiet corridor.

The second came quickly, aggressive, trained.

But Castiel was not slow.

And he was never human.

In a single movement, he caught the guard’s head in both hands—and twisted.

A sharp crack.

Death came swiftly.

The first still writhed on the floor, groaning, trying to crawl with his shattered arm.

Castiel regarded him with absolute apathy.

Pressed his heel against the man’s neck.

The fragile spine gave way with a wet snap.

Silence.

Two lives extinguished.

No hesitation.

No guilt.

He straightened the coat, wiped his gloves against the fabric, and moved on down the corridor, pale lights guiding his way.

At last, Castiel did exactly what he had set out to do.

He prepared everything with the same coldness with which he would dissect a body.

Ezra was sedated — enough not to moan, not to wake, not to resist. A medical error, they would say later. Or a breach of protocol. It didn’t matter.

Castiel placed the unconscious prophet in a wheelchair, his feet dangling, his head slumped to the side like a discarded doll.

He pushed him through the hallways like any other nurse going about their routine.

Humans.

So slow.

So foolish.

So easy.

No one noticed.

No suspicious glance.

No camera recording anything unusual.

No living soul suspecting that one monster was carrying another away.

Reaching the parking lot, Castiel maneuvered the chair with efficiency. In the distance, there was a van — old, faded, the kind no one would look at twice.

He didn’t even need to open the door.

It was enough to grab Ezra by the shoulder.

And then, in a single fluid motion, as if diving into his own shadow, Castiel unfurled his black wings.

And flew.

He vanished between the buildings and the dead lights of the night.

No one saw.

No one understood.

No one would ever know.

Ezra was taken straight to his home.

Or what he called home.

That sacred place.

Cold.

Dead.

And now, at last, he would have his answers.

The smell in the air wasn’t that of a hospital, nor of disinfectant.

It was something else.

Denser, richer. A warm aroma of meat, wine, and spices, as if a banquet had been prepared only minutes ago.

Ezra swallowed hard.

His body felt too heavy, his muscles sluggish, his mind clouded. Perhaps he was still under the effect of some sedative.

Then he heard it.

Slow footsteps. Measured.

The sound of a shoe’s heel against the polished wooden floor, approaching with calm, as if every step had been calculated.

Castiel appeared at the edge of the table.

There was no rush in his gaze. Only that fixed, almost cutting blue that seemed to examine Ezra the way one studies a rare piece — not to admire, but to decide how and when it will be destroyed.

"You woke early," Castiel said with a faint smile. "Good. We can talk."

Ezra tried to move his hands, but something held his wrists to the chair’s arms. Thin, polished chains, almost too elegant to serve such a brutal function.

"What is this...? Where am I...?" he tried to speak, but his voice faltered.

"In my house," Castiel answered simply, sliding his fingers along one of the wine glasses on the table, as if he were a host receiving an unwelcome guest. "And you’re going to tell me everything you know about him."

Ezra didn’t need to ask who he meant.

The name was implicit.

Dean.

"You see him, don’t you?" Ezra’s voice was low, almost reverent, yet heavy with fear.

Castiel leaned forward, his eyes fixed on him with the calm of a predator that does not need to run to catch its prey.

"I see far more than you, prophet." His voice was deep, yet soft — like the whisper of a priest before pronouncing absolution. "And I know when a man carries the mark of two kingdoms in his soul."

Ezra drew in a sharp breath, his heart racing.

"Child of two worlds…" he murmured, as if reciting a forbidden verse.

Castiel smiled faintly, but there was no warmth in the gesture.

"Do not speak his name in vain," he warned, each word delivered like a commandment. "There are things neither Heaven nor Hell dare touch. And yet you… you write of them as if they were poetry."

The prophet swallowed hard, trying to avert his gaze, but he felt the weight of Castiel’s presence pressing down on him. Castiel didn’t need to raise his voice; the threat lived in the air, in the silence, in the way his shadow seemed to stretch and loom over Ezra.

"Speak," he said at last, his tone so low it sounded like an inverted prayer, "or I will make you confess the old way."

Ezra’s body was no longer under the effects of anesthesia. With slow effort, he rose from the chair, palms pressed against the polished table. The pain in his leg seemed distant in the face of the invisible pressure surrounding him.

The brown of his eyes met the deep blue of the man before him. There was no hesitation.

"He is just…" he said, his voice firm, almost in a trance. "I know him. I’ve seen him deliver justice with his own hands. You know the 'Vigilante of Kansas'? He’s quite famous — Dean Winchester himself. Not only do I know… but they do too."

Castiel tilted his head to the side, like an inquisitor confronting a heretic.

"Who?"

Ezra drew in a deep breath, and when he spoke, it felt as if every syllable carried millennia of weight.

"Heaven."

For a moment, the silence seemed to take shape. The air in the room grew dense, and the chandeliers’ light reflected in Castiel’s eyes like frozen sparks.

Castiel raised his eyebrows, but the gesture was brief. Soon, the cold, impenetrable expression reclaimed his face, like ice reforming after a fracture.

"You have been used… you have been used as a vessel," he declared, his voice low and weighted, as he began to walk slowly through the dining room. His steps were nearly inaudible on the wooden floor, yet his presence seemed to fill every corner, as if the walls themselves had moved closer.

Ezra followed his movements with his eyes, alert, like a cornered animal unwilling to lose sight of its predator.

"By whom?" Castiel asked, without looking directly at him.

"Samandriel," Ezra replied, almost as a confession.

Castiel let out a brief sound, a puff weighted with something that resembled a laugh, though devoid of any joy.

"Of course… so naïve, so pure… it had to be Samandriel."

Ezra held his gaze, unblinking.

"I let him in."

Castiel stopped behind the chair where Ezra had been seated, leaning slightly, his shadow stretching across the table.

"You let… and he left. But, beyond not erasing your memory, he left traces of grace within you."

He stepped back a few paces, his tone now slower, almost as if savoring the words.

"And do you know what that means, Ezra? That you are no longer just a 'prophet.' You are a living mark, a beacon that others can see… and not all who see the light are sent from Heaven."

The silence that followed was not merely the absence of sound, but an invisible pressure, as if the air had thickened and weighed down, making every breath Ezra took a conscious effort.

Castiel broke the silence with his deep voice, which seemed to vibrate in the very air around them, so low and precise it felt more like a verdict than a question.

"So that’s why you see people’s auras…" he paused briefly, studying every tiny reaction on Ezra’s face, as if deciphering a code. "That’s why you see me."

He began walking in slow circles, the sound of his soles echoing on the floor like a countdown.

"It’s not vision, not a gift… it’s a residue. A piece of something that doesn’t belong to you, burning inside and illuminating things humans should never see."

Castiel stopped in front of him, leaning so that the blue of his eyes met Ezra’s brown, so close it seemed impossible to escape that gaze.

"And the most ironic part…" he murmured, almost to himself, "is that it doesn’t make you special. It only makes you marked."

Ezra drew a deep breath, his jaw tense.

"Marked… by whom?"

Castiel gave a faint smile—cold, but not devoid of a certain pleasure in the revelation.

"By Heaven… and by me."

The air between them seemed heavier, and Ezra realized he wasn’t sure he even wanted to have asked that question.

"Now, what does Heaven want from him?" Castiel asked, his voice firm, carrying a dark curiosity.

Ezra hesitated, the silence filling the room like a heavy shadow. His eyes searched for an escape, but the piercing blue of Castiel’s gaze burned his skin and prodded his soul with cruel precision.

"He’s the perfect 'shell,' the vessel for the Archangel Michael," Ezra finally murmured, breaking the silence.

In that instant, for the first time in centuries since his fall, Castiel truly stopped. Not out of routine, not out of protocol—but because he was surprised. Truly surprised.

Dean. The vessel of Michael.

So… fascinating.

Castiel remained still, his eyes fixed on the void before him, as if trying to decipher a riddle that eluded celestial logic.

The idea was as disturbing as it was fascinating.

For centuries, he had known only pure and fallen angels, demons, and humans—but never someone who carried such duality within.

The weight of that truth reverberated in his chest like a silent prayer.

Was it a blessing?

Or a curse?

Castiel felt something rare: a pang of doubt.

If Dean was the vessel of Michael, then what did that mean for him? For the fate they both carried?

An invisible thread, tense and dangerous, seemed to bind their destinies—intertwining light and darkness, redemption and damnation.

And in the silence of that room, Castiel realized that this night would only be the beginning of something much greater.

Not a blessing to be shared, but a prize to be claimed.

Castiel felt the air grow heavy around him, the silence of the room like an altar upon which a silent promise was being etched: Dean would not be handed over to anyone.

Not to Heaven.

Not to any angel, nor to the prophet, nor to the darkness that lingered.

He wanted Dean for himself.

With all the fierce intensity of a fallen being who, after centuries of solitude and hunger, had finally glimpsed something capable of filling his void.

To possess Dean—not just his body, but his soul, his power. To master that divine fire that shone behind human eyes.

Castiel would not share this destiny.

He would be the guardian and master of that sacred fragment.

And if anyone dared to come close, he would burn everything until only ashes remained.

A cruel smile slipped across his lips—cold, dark, relentless.

Dean was his.

And his alone.

Castiel turned his head slightly toward Ezra, and his smile widened, becoming a dark invitation.

Ezra shuddered, feeling the weight of a presence that didn’t seem human.

"Angels aren’t supposed to feel hunger," Castiel murmured, his voice low and laden with a bitter truth. "No, angels weren’t made for these human things, did you know that, Ezra?"

He took a step—a single, slow, precise step—toward Ezra, who recoiled but kept his eyes fixed on the angel.

"But I do," Castiel continued, his voice now huskier, almost a whisper of torture. "I feel a deep, voracious hunger. I was made to feel hunger. That’s why I fell."

He drew a deep breath, the scent of fear and adrenaline flooding his nostrils, intoxicatingly sharp.

"And you, Ezra?" Castiel asked, his voice heavy with challenge. "Aren’t you hungry?"

Ezra tried to step back, but he was trapped within that oppressive presence, as if it were draining all his courage.

"Ah... " Castiel moaned, almost delighted, inhaling sharply through his nose #I love the smell of fresh flesh, the scent of the grace inside you."

Then, with a fluid, supernatural gesture, a long, slender, entirely silver dagger appeared in Castiel’s hand. It hadn’t been drawn from any ordinary sheath; the blade had materialized from nothing, as if obeying a silent command.

The dagger gleamed in the dim light, promising pain and judgment.

Ezra’s eyes locked onto the silver blade gleaming in the angel’s hand. In a desperate impulse, he ran and leapt over the counter that separated the dining room from the kitchen.

Castiel followed with calm, almost lazy steps. There was no hurry—he didn’t need to run. He knew that, sooner or later, he would catch Ezra.

In the kitchen, Ezra grabbed a barbecue knife, raising it with hands that trembled but were resolute. His eyes met Castiel’s, a mix of fear and defiance.

"It won’t be that easy," he murmured, bracing himself for whatever came next.

But Castiel only smiled, the cold, cruel smile of someone who already knows the game is won.

Castiel advanced slowly across the kitchen, each step echoing in the tense silence of the room. His eyes fixed on Ezra with a disturbing calm, a predator watching its prey attempt a final defense.

Ezra, hands trembling, held the barbecue knife tightly. In a desperate act, he stepped forward and drove the blade into Castiel’s chest.

The sound of the knife piercing flesh seemed deafening in the quiet of the room.

But, to Ezra’s shock, Castiel did not flinch or even shudder.

The blade did not harm him. Blood spurted.

Castiel kept his icy gaze, the tip of the knife passing through his chest as if it were a harmless shadow.

"You don’t know who you’re playing with," Castiel murmured, his voice a threatening whisper that seemed to vibrate in the air.

Ezra swallowed hard, his courage faltering in the face of the fallen angel’s invulnerability.

Ezra bolted out the door, his heart racing wildly, adrenaline coursing through every muscle.

Castiel let out a long, exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes as if dealing with a childish problem.

"Humans…" he murmured, his voice heavy with impatience. "Always complicating what is already simple."

With the silent beat of black wings, Castiel vanished from the kitchen.

And then, in an instant that seemed to defy the laws of time, he reappeared beside Ezra, as unexpected as a shadow in the night.

"Running won’t help, Ezra."

The prophet didn’t even dare glance back. He just sped up, desperately trying to escape the relentless presence that hunted him.

Castiel raised his hand slowly, as if waving to the inevitable. An invisible, relentless force seized Ezra, tossing him through the air like a ragdoll.

The prophet’s body landed heavily on the floor, dust rising around him.

"Do you know how long it’s been since I tasted something truly angelic, Ezra?" Castiel spoke with terrifying calm, approaching with slow, measured steps.

Ezra groaned, the pain from the bullet wound in his leg throbbing fiercely, his exhausted body barely holding against the supernatural force still restraining him.

Castiel stopped just inches away, his eyes beginning to glow with that intense, divine blue — a pure light that seemed to tear through the darkness.

"You are rare flesh. Consider yourself honored."

With surgical precision, Castiel drove the dagger into Ezra’s heart. The motion was deliberate, like an ancient ritual, an act both of punishment and possession.

The blood flowed silently, and in the angel’s gaze there was a mixture of hunger and reverence.

Castiel smelled the blood, dense and warm, mingled with the residual grace left by his brother Samandriel in that possessed worm. It was a strange combination, almost sacred and profane at the same time, stirring something ancient and hungry inside him.

His mouth went dry, saliva beginning to pool involuntarily, as if he could already taste the flesh mixed with angelic essence, promising an explosion of flavors that nourished not just the body, but fallen grace itself.

But then, in the midst of that anticipation, an unexpected sensation struck him — a sudden, firm tug, like an invisible leash he wore being yanked with force.

He was the one wearing this leash, the one walking bound by it.

But who held the other end? Who had the power to pull it?

Dean.

Chapter Text

The winding path of gray stones cut through the damp lawn like a scar. The silence of the night was almost absolute, broken only by the rustle of the trees that surrounded the property like ancient sentinels. Dean walked beside Castiel, each step measured, as if the ground hid invisible traps.

The wooden porch, lit by a warm yellow light, seemed too inviting to be real—a false invitation, like the mouth of a predator disguised as shelter.

Castiel stopped in front of the door. For a moment, he simply stared at Dean, as if waiting for something from him.

"Welcome," he said, his voice low, almost intimate.

He opened the door calmly, inviting him in. Dean hesitated. His body reacted before his mind: muscles tense, eyes wary.

"You go first," he snapped, harshly.

Castiel’s lips curved into a small, enigmatic smile. Then he stepped inside without hurry, leaving the way clear. Dean followed, his heart beating faster than he would admit.

The interior of the house did not match the rustic exterior. The hallway led them to the dining room, where the contrast was striking: luxurious, organized with almost surgical precision. The long table was set as if waiting for guests who would never arrive. The warm gleam of the crystal chandeliers made every glass and utensil shine, arranged with the accuracy of a scalpel on a surgical tray.

And yet, something was off. On the floor, subtle traces of blood led like loose threads into the shadows. The air was heavy with an ancient perfume, mingled with the iron scent of blood and the polish of waxed wood.

Castiel pulled out a chair and gestured with his hand.

"Sit."

Dean remained standing, his green eyes fixed on the man across the table.

Castiel didn’t mind. He simply crossed his legs, leaned back in the chair, and watched him in silence, as if examining a rare specimen.

"You are… fascinating, Agent Winchester," he murmured, letting the weight of the word settle between them. "And I like to understand what fascinates me."

Dean did not look away. His expression was almost neutral, but there was something lethal in the stillness of his green eyes.

"Fascination," he repeated, as if testing the word on his tongue. "A strange thing to say from someone who just opened a corpse as if it were a laboratory experiment."

Castiel raised a faint eyebrow.

"You look at corpses too. Every day. The difference is that you call them evidence."

Dean leaned slightly forward, hands resting on the back of the chair in front of him.

"The difference is that I know what I’m hunting."

Castiel’s blue eyes flickered with an enigmatic spark.

"And what exactly do you think you’re hunting, Dean?"

The silence that followed was not empty. Dean let it stretch, like one measuring the pressure of a scalpel on the skin before the cut.

"You." he finally answered, almost in a whisper.

"Me?" Castiel raised an eyebrow, his voice low, almost amused.

Dean did not blink. His gaze cut through the other man like a blade.

"I hunt monsters like you," he said slowly, as if each word were a clinical diagnosis. "Creatures that humiliate, destroy, and kill human beings."

Castiel tilted his head slightly, like a curious raven. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.

"Funny. Because, in front of you, Dean… I don’t feel like I’m being hunted."

Dean clenched his jaw.

"You’ve killed. And that’s enough."

"No," Castiel countered softly, interlacing his fingers in his lap. "I corrected something that was out of balance. Ezra was a disease, and I made the necessary incision."

He leaned forward, the blue of his eyes reflecting an intensity almost feverish.

"And you know what it means to excise a disease, don’t you, Agent Winchester?"

Dean held the gaze, cold. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

"I know what it means to hide behind excuses to justify what you really are."

Castiel let the silence stretch between them like a taut rope before replying, in a quiet whisper:

"And what am I, Dean?"

Dean stepped a fraction closer, the shadow of an ironic smile appearing.

"A predator. One who thinks he’s smarter than he really is."

Castiel did not flinch. On the contrary, he seemed to savor every word.

"Fascinating…" he murmured, as if it were a compliment. "Because I’d say the exact same thing about you."

The air between them felt heavier, as if the room were too small for two animals unsure whether they should devour each other or recognize one another.

"So, how was your hunt?" Castiel asked, his voice low, almost silky. His eyes slowly roamed Dean’s body, pausing on the dark stains on his sleeves, on hands marked by dried blood. It wasn’t a look of disgust, but clinical interest, like a surgeon examining his own work.

Dean raised an eyebrow, impassive.

"You seem to know more than you should."

Castiel offered a faint smile, unhurried.

"I observe. It’s a habit hard to break." He leaned in the chair, resting his chin on his hand. "And the blood, Dean… it’s not Ezra’s."

Dean held his gaze, cold, nearly motionless.

"Want to know whose it is?" The question came laced with venom, but without raising his voice.

Castiel blinked slowly, as if savoring the tension.

"No," he finally replied, and there was something disturbingly sincere in his voice. "I prefer to imagine."

Dean stepped forward, closing the distance. His shadow fell across part of Castiel’s face.

"Keep playing these little games, and you’ll find out far too quickly that I don’t only hunt monsters."

The blue in Castiel’s eyes flared like contained fire. He didn’t retreat. On the contrary, he leaned closer, his voice almost a whisper.

"I don’t doubt it, Dean. But tell me… when you look in the mirror, do you really see the hunter? Or just another predator, like me?"

Dean remained silent for a full minute. He simply breathed, observing every subtle gesture of Castiel, as if dissecting a living body in search of flaws.

Then, finally, he spoke:

"I’m not here to play games with you, Professor. Tell me what I want to know."

Castiel didn’t answer immediately. He rose slowly, his coat sliding around his legs. His steps echoed on the wooden floor as he crossed the counter separating the dining room from the kitchen. There, he turned on the tap and washed his hands in the sink. The water ran red before clearing, as if he were erasing traces of something that shouldn’t exist.

"What do you want to know?" he asked, without looking back.

"What you wanted with Ezra," Dean said, his voice low and hard. "Why kill him. And most importantly…" He stepped forward, letting each word slice the air like a blade. "W. hat. are. you."

The sound of the water stopped. Castiel turned off the tap and remained still for a moment, hands resting on the sink as if contemplating the question. Then he slowly lifted his head, meeting Dean’s reflection in the window glass before him.

"Ezra believed he was a prophet," he murmured, his voice calm, almost weary. "But prophets… are just fragile vessels, meant to break sooner or later. I merely accelerated the process."

He turned, drying his hands on a linen cloth, his blue eyes locked on Dean’s without blinking.

"As for what I am…" Castiel tilted his head slightly to the side, like a predator curious about prey that hasn’t yet decided whether to fight or flee. "Perhaps the correct question isn’t what, but why."

Dean clenched his jaw, but did not look away.

"Then give me a reason."

Castiel smiled faintly, without humor.

"Reasons are a human luxury, Dean. I exist. I act. I consume. That is all you need to know… for now."

"That was vague," Dean snapped, his voice dry, almost a growl. "That’s not what I asked."

Castiel merely tilted his head, as if inspecting an irrelevant detail in a painting.

"It wasn’t the answer you wanted to hear… but it’s the one you’re going to get."

Dean drew a slow, deep breath, flaring his nostrils. He stepped closer, until his green eyes were mere inches from Castiel’s piercing blue.

"I’m not a patient man, Professor. If you think you can hide behind riddles, you’re making a mistake."

Castiel didn’t flinch. On the contrary, he held his posture firm, almost challenging.

"And what if I told you I do not fear your methods, Dean? That no matter how many times you try to hunt me… I’ll still be here, watching you."

The silence between them weighed like concrete. Dean, rigid, fists clenched. Castiel, relaxed, as if the tension were merely a game invented to entertain him.

Dean let slip a half-bitter smile.

"You like this, don’t you? Playing with me."

"No," Castiel replied, his voice low, almost intimate. "I like understanding you. And so far… you haven’t disappointed me."

Dean stepped back slightly, uncrossing his arms and adjusting his coat, but without averting his gaze from Castiel.

"I won’t disappoint you when I hunt you."

A small smile curved on Castiel’s lips, cold and insinuating.

"Oh… is that a promise?"

Dean tilted his head, and for a brief moment his green eyes gleamed with something more than threat — it was interest.

"It’s a fact."

Castiel watched him like one studies a wounded predator, even more dangerous for it.

"Then should I feel honored for taking up so much space in your mind?"

"It’s not taking up space," Dean shot back, his voice hard but not quite enough to sound convincing. "I just finish what I start."

Castiel took a slow, almost feline step, closing the distance between them. His voice was low, a whisper that seemed to brush the skin.

"Perhaps, Agent Winchester, you are not hunting a monster… perhaps you are hunting yourself."

Dean clenched his jaw, the muscle shifting beneath the skin. He didn’t respond immediately, but the silence he left hanging in the air weighed heavier than any word.

"Are you hungry?" Castiel asked, his voice low, almost soft, yet heavy with intent.

Dean rolled his eyes and turned his back, the tension in his shoulders only partially betraying his attention.

"We’re not colleagues, nor accomplices, and certainly not friends just because we ate the same food."

"You still don’t realize it, Dean. But we are already on the same side of the table." Castiel took a slow step, each sound of his shoe against the floor marking the space like a claim of territory.

"You’re mistaken, professor," Dean replied, his voice laced with restrained disdain. "I will never be on your side."

Castiel leaned slightly, crossing his arms, his blue eyes locked onto Dean’s green ones.

"You don’t need to be… you already are."

Dean finally turned, his gaze piercing, cold, calculated, but with a spark of something Castiel couldn’t ignore. A secret, almost visceral scent, dangerously drawing his attention.

"What do you think you know about me…" Dean began, but the words died in his throat, stifled by the weight of silence and the angel’s gaze.

"Enough," Castiel replied, with a disquieting calm, letting the phrase hang between them. "The Kansas vigilante."

Dean stared over his shoulder, eyes piercing, trying to probe every intention, every shadow hidden behind Castiel’s serene composure.

"Let’s make a deal, Dean," Castiel said, his voice low but firm, laden with authority and a strange fascination.

Dean finally turned to face him, green eyes locked on Castiel’s deep blue ones, studying every micro-expression.

"I won’t tell what I know about today," Castiel continued, his gaze slowly tracing the dried blood on Dean’s hands and clothes, the precise cuts of the wounds he himself had inflicted, as if savoring the story behind each act. "I won’t speak of your… dark work, eliminating criminals in Kansas…"

He paused, letting the silence hang heavy between them.

"...and you won’t tell a soul about me."

Dean remained still, his chest rising and falling slowly, his mind analyzing every word, every intention behind Castiel’s calm demeanor. There was something predatory in the way the angel looked at him, and for the first time in a long while, Dean felt that perhaps he couldn’t escape the magnetism of that gaze.

"Interesting…" Dean murmured, a short, almost inaudible laugh escaping his lips. "But don’t underestimate me. I never make blind deals."

Castiel tilted his head slightly, almost as if accepting the challenge.

"I’m not asking you to trust me, Dean. I’m simply acknowledging that, for now, we’re playing on the same board."

The silence returned, heavy, almost tangible, as the two studied each other—predators and prey at the same time, bound by a thin thread of tension and fascination.

Dean turned without a word, but there was no need. Castiel already knew he would accept, one way or another.

The agent left, and the silence of the house settled heavily over the place. Castiel remained there, in the middle of the hall, the cold of the walls contrasting with the metallic stench of Ezra’s blood still lingering in the air.

Something strange ran through his body—a sensation that burned, a fire he couldn’t fully identify. But there was certainty: it had to do with Dean. The mere thought of him, the presence that still hovered in the room, was enough to ignite that feeling. It was good. Very good.

Then Castiel remembered the body he had left behind. The thought irritated him. He exhaled, and with a snap of his fingers, the blood scattered across the floor vanished, as if it had never existed.

Another snap, and Ezra’s body appeared, carefully laid upon the dining table. Every detail was intact, as if Castiel wanted to study it again, to review each wound, each mark, every trace of life that still lingered in that body.

The air grew heavier, thick with the smell of iron and restrained power, as Castiel observed the scene. There was control there. Absolute control. And, at the same time, a burning memory of Dean, which made everything more intense, more… desirable.

Castiel walked toward the table, each step measured, silent, as if the air around him obeyed his will. The dagger materialized in his hand once more, gleaming in the dim light, slender and deadly.

With a precise gesture, he lifted his hand and slit Ezra’s throat. The movement was swift, clinical, almost artistic.

An ethereal glow erupted from the wound along with the blood—a mixture of crimson and translucent blue that seemed to pulse with a life of its own: the angelic grace left by Samandriel still lingered, residing in the prophet’s body.

Castiel inhaled deeply, the mixed scent of iron and divinity filling his nostrils. His lips parted slightly, and he licked the corner of his mouth. Not out of lust, not out of pleasure—but hunger. An ancient, deep, almost primal desire that had nothing to do with the flesh and everything to do with the power now flowing before him. His mouth salivated involuntarily.

The room seemed to shrink around him, time becoming dense, heavy. Every sound, every shadow, every reflection of the lights on the blood reverberated in Castiel’s mind like a summons.

Castiel carefully picked up a small empty vial, as if holding a precious relic. His fingers wrapped around the cold glass as he gazed at Ezra’s motionless body on the table. The dried blood still stained his pale skin, a reminder of the recent violence, but the essence that truly interested him was about to be extracted.

He brought the vial to the prophet’s throat, and the angelic grace began to flow slowly from the body, filling the empty container with a pulsating silver-blue glow, almost alive. Each drop seemed to carry Ezra’s own power, an essence that shimmered and vibrated with its own energy.

When the vial was finally full, Castiel placed the cork stopper with precision, sealing the liquid that now radiated a faint, supernatural light. He lifted his eyes, first to the vial and then to the prophet’s inert body.

"Let’s eat," Castiel said, his voice low, firm, laden with a hunger that transcended the physical, filling the room with the weight of blood, grace, and something too ancient to name.

Chapter Text

It was already Monday.

Dean was heading back to the FBI headquarters — a building that, until recently, had felt so familiar, almost like a second home. Now, every step toward it carried a suffocating strangeness. It was as if the world had shifted in that forest, and returning to routine was nothing more than a mask.

He had spent the entire Sunday adrift, trapped in thoughts he couldn’t shake. The memory of blood on his hands. The insignificant body of the man he had taken out in the alley. Ezra’s disturbing death, with his body now lying in no cell, in no morgue.

And above all, Castiel.

Dean couldn’t get him out of his head. The words, the steady gaze, the way he always seemed to speak in riddles. He hadn’t answered a single one of Dean’s questions directly, and that burned in him like an offense. Dean hated guessing games. He hated mysteries that lingered.

But he was also an agent. A hunter, by nature.

And sooner or later, he would find out what Castiel truly was.

No matter the cost.

Dean made his way all the way to the investigation room. Along the corridor, he greeted a few colleagues, throwing quick nods and automatic smiles — gestures so rehearsed that no one would suspect the storm raging inside him.

His steps slowed as he reached the door. He drew in a deep breath, trying to hold his composure. Then he walked in.

And there he was.

Castiel.

As if the whole world had frozen for a second, Dean’s green eyes locked onto the fallen angel’s deep blue ones. A cold, inquisitive gaze — but one that seemed to pierce straight through his soul without effort. Dean held the contact, but he felt the physical impact of it, like a punch to the chest.

The murmurs in the room, the clatter of keyboards, the rustle of papers being shuffled… all of it faded into nothing. There was only that invisible, taut line stretched between them.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel broke the silence first, his gaze unwavering. “Are you hungry?”

“No.” Dean’s reply was curt, firm, slicing through the air between them.

He broke eye contact, forcing his feet to carry him toward his desk. But the discomfort lingered, clinging to him.

“I made you breakfast.” Castiel’s voice was calm, almost casual.

Dean stopped. His eyes followed the line of Castiel’s gaze toward his desk.

There it was — a thermal bag, discreet, yet impossible to ignore.

Dean let out a low huff and pulled the chair, sitting at the desk.

“How was your weekend, Professor?” Garth asked, his tone as light as always.

Dean dragged the thermal bag closer, taking his time.

“Quite… interesting, I’d say,” Castiel replied, barely looking at him.

His fingers worked at the zipper with deliberate calm, each movement muffling the background noise of the room. The voices around them began to feel distant, as though coming from behind glass.

“We didn’t find the woman. Or Ezra,” Charlie’s voice rang out somewhere in the room, but Dean barely registered it.

The zipper reached the end. He opened the bag.

Inside, there was a clear plastic container. Its contents lay visible beneath the lid — simple, almost mundane. And yet, Castiel’s gesture made it unbearably heavy with meaning.

Dean removed the lid from the container, and the scent subtly spread through the room. A few heads turned.

“Wow, what has the professor cooked up for Dean this time?” Garth joked.

“Just toast. I made it myself, artisanal. Simple fare,” Castiel replied, his voice calm, but carrying a note almost teasing.

Simple? Dean thought, meeting his gaze. The professor — or whatever he really was — gave him a half-smile, quick and calculated.

Dean lowered his eyes to the food. The bread looked perfectly toasted, golden at the edges. Thin slices of ham lay neatly aligned, as if Castiel had cared to give the plate an elegant appearance.

It was, indeed, simple. Almost domestic.

Except for one detail.

Between the slices, dark, delicate leaves added the finishing touch to the refined dish. But Dean recognized immediately what they were. Not parsley. Not lettuce.

Belladonna.

They looked harmless, almost beautiful in their vibrant color. Yet each leaf carried enough poison to stop a heart.

Dean took a deep breath, jaw clenched. No one else in the room seemed to notice. It was just food. Only he understood the true meaning.

Castiel continued to watch him, as if waiting for his decision.

This wasn’t just a meal.

Was he trying to kill him?

No.

Castiel wanted something more… entertaining. To turn every gesture into a provocation, every dish into a trap. A twisted game of cat and mouse, with blood as the prize. Whoever fell first would lose.

Dean smiled, cold, lifting his head. He met the blue eyes that were already watching him.

“Thanks for the meal, professor,” he said, his tone light enough for the others to hear as a joke. “I think, after seeing this, I’m suddenly a bit hungry.”

“Ah, damn. If you don’t want it, I was going to eat it,” Donna commented, laughing.

Castiel didn’t respond. He simply nodded slightly, holding Dean’s gaze, the faint curve of his lips forming a discreet smile—teeth unseen.

Dean swallowed hard, but did not look away.

Let the games begin.

Daylight streamed through the tall windows, bathing the room in a lazy gold. The ticking of the clock and the clatter of keyboards were the only sounds filling the space, as if time had slowed without anyone noticing. Dean’s gaze remained fixed on the reports before him, but Castiel’s presence, a few meters away, burned like a constant weight on his skin.

Almost noon. The air carried an invisible tension, like the moments before a storm.

The door swung open suddenly, banging against the wall with force.

“We found her!” Bobby entered, his deep voice slicing through the silence. His eyes scanned the room before locking onto Dean. “Dean, Castiel, Benny. Come with me, now!”

Chairs scraped across the floor in a hurried chorus. Dean stood immediately, grabbing his holster with a swift, almost automatic motion. Castiel rose without haste, adjusting his coat over his shoulders as if preparing for a ceremony. Benny threw his leather jacket over his shoulders, his face set, ready for action.

The room, once heavy with contained tension, erupted into motion. Charlie closed her laptop instantly, Jody and Donna exchanged worried glances. Garth cleared the way so the three could pass, while Bobby strode down the corridor with long, firm steps.

Dean, Castiel, and Benny followed him, their urgency echoing in the rhythm of their footsteps over the polished floor. Dean’s heart pounded.

—★—

October 30th, 2023 — Monday, 11:57 a.m.

The car pulled up just a few meters from the crowd. The site loomed like a shameful ruin in the middle of the city: an abandoned church, suffocated by the modern skyscrapers surrounding it. The contrast was brutal. Where the buildings reflected glass and steel, the church displayed peeling walls, broken windows, and a heavy wooden door, adorned with rusted crosses nailed in almost grotesque fashion. There was nothing sacred there—it looked more like a forgotten stage, disguised under religious symbols.

Bobby walked ahead, shoulders tense, voice low as he issued quick orders to hurry. Benny stayed close beside him, hand on his belt, ready to react. Dean and Castiel brought up the rear, side by side, yet separated by an uncomfortable silence.

Dean stole glances at Castiel. Something about the way the man walked—unhurried, almost serene, even amidst a scene that promised blood—made him uneasy. His presence stirred sensations Dean couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t merely distrust. It was something… deeper. Something that burned from the inside out.

“You seem… too calm,” Dean murmured, not looking directly at him.

Castiel turned his head slowly, his blue eyes piercing.

“Calmness is merely a misreading, Agent Winchester,” his voice was low, firm. “You only see what you are willing to admit.”

Dean chuckled faintly but didn’t respond. There was a truth hidden there, and he felt it like a knife against his skin.

When they reached the heart of the commotion, Bobby stepped forward, breaking through the barrier of police officers surrounding the entrance. The sound of crackling radios, boots on asphalt, and overlapping voices mingled, yet everything seemed to fall silent when Bobby raised his voice:

“Where is the woman?”

One of the FBI agents on site approached. Young, his black vest still dusty, he looked to Bobby and corrected cautiously, without disrespect:

“Girl.”

Bobby frowned.

“What did you say?”

“She’s not a woman. She’s a girl,” the agent took a deep breath before continuing. “Her age hasn’t been fully confirmed yet, but… she’s between eighteen and twenty.”

A weight fell over everyone.

“Young…” Bobby muttered, almost to himself. “What’s her name?”

The agent checked a clipboard, then lifted his gaze.

“Claire Novak.”

It was as if time had stopped.

The murmurs of the officers ceased. Benny froze, eyes narrowing. Dean felt his stomach churn but didn’t look away. And then, all of them—as if guided by the same silent force—turned their gaze toward Castiel.

Professor Novak.

He remained still, face serene. He merely lifted his chin slightly, as if he had known the revelation before it was even spoken. His eyes never left Dean’s. A thread of something that could have been a smile threatened the edge of his lips.

Dean couldn’t decide what was more unsettling: the brutal coincidence, or the complete lack of surprise on Castiel’s face.

Bobby cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence that had settled.

“Is she from your family? A relative of yours?”

Castiel kept his gaze fixed on the void, voice contained and firm:

“I don’t know anyone in my family besides my father and my brothers. And none of them is a woman, much less someone named Claire.”

Dean shrugged.

“Then she must be some distant relative you don’t know.”

Castiel turned his gaze toward him, cold, calculated.

“You are correct. Or perhaps not. In the United States, just over 0.001% of the population carries the Novak surname. And, statistically, more than 85% of those people do not share close family ties.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, impatient, rolling his eyes.

“So… where are you going with this, nerd?”

Castiel tilted his head, as if examining a microscopic detail.

“Just that sharing a surname doesn’t mean sharing blood.”

He stepped close enough that only Dean could hear the continuation, his tone low and rough like a blade brushing skin:

“Or considering someone family.”

The small smile that touched Castiel’s lips was almost imperceptible, yet enough to stir something in Dean—discomfort and attraction mingling in the same spark.

With that last sentence, something inside Dean’s silence broke. It was almost imperceptible—but the effect was devastating.

The sensation was like having his skin peeled away in invisible layers.

Castiel didn’t need to shout, didn’t need to accuse. Just speaking that way… as if he had already seen everything… was enough.

Dean swallowed hard, a shiver running down his spine like a thread of ice. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt something like this—fear wasn’t the right word. It was worse. It was exposure.

For a moment, and only for a second, he hesitated.

Dean Winchester never hesitated.

Never blinked in front of blood.

Never backed down from a stare.

Never forgave anyone who dared interfere too much.

But now… here, in front of Castiel, he hesitated.

And that tiny lapse, that fraction of vulnerability, burned hotter than any wound.

Castiel’s gaze stayed on him—steady, almost analytical, as if he were waiting to see the exact effect of the blade he had just driven in.

Dean looked away first.

Bobby and Benny, oblivious to the tension rising like an invisible wall between the two, advanced toward the church entrance. The voices of the police officers echoed down the block, the crackle of radios and curt orders cutting through the air.

Dean, still frozen for half a second, took a deep breath and fell in step right behind them—but the feeling didn’t pass. The weight of Castiel’s gaze remained on him, even when he looked away.

Castiel, in turn, walked in silence, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat, as if nothing had happened. Yet there was something in his posture, an almost imperceptible stiffness in the shoulders, betraying a contained pleasure. As if he had achieved exactly what he wanted: to crack Dean.

The corridor formed by the officers opened before them, revealing the church’s façade. The building seemed out of time—peeling walls, shattered stained glass, graffiti obscuring fragments of saints who no longer offered any protection. The contrast between ruined sacredness and the modern city around it was unsettling.

Dean stopped for a moment, his jaw tense, and murmured low, just to the man at his side:

"You love this little game, don’t you?"

Castiel didn’t answer immediately. He simply tilted his head, an almost feline gesture, and whispered:

"Perhaps. But the curious thing is that you keep playing with me."

Before Dean could react, Benny raised his voice from across the courtyard:

"Hey! Are we going in, or should I book a hotel room for you two?"

Dean gritted his teeth and quickened his pace, but the shiver didn’t fade.

Chapter Text

The church door groaned as it was pushed open, the metallic sound echoing through the hollow space. The air that escaped felt colder, heavy with moisture and a nearly sweet scent of rotting wood mixed with rusty iron. It wasn’t a common odor: there was something organic in it, as if the place had held breaths, sweat, perhaps blood.

Shadows dominated the interior, broken only by beams of light piercing through the shattered stained glass. Dust danced in those rays, slow, suspended, as if time had stopped to watch anyone daring enough to enter.

Dean stepped over the threshold first, his green eyes adjusting to the dimness with the precision of someone trained to sniff out violence. Jaw tight, body rigid, yet his gaze was alert, calculating distances, exits, blind spots.

Behind him, Castiel walked slowly, the echo of his shoes against the cold stone almost indecent in the solemnity of the place. He wasn’t just observing the environment — he was observing Dean within it, as if the scene had been shaped for both of them.

Bobby and Benny moved ahead, practical, focused, unaware of the electricity vibrating in the air between the two of them.

"What do you feel here?" Castiel murmured, voice low and husky, as if afraid to disturb the silence.

Dean didn’t answer immediately. He studied the church nave, where broken pews cast twisted shadows. A shiver ran down his spine, but not of fear. It felt like he was inside someone else’s mind.

This isn’t a church, he finally replied, dry. It’s a mausoleum.

Castiel let out a subtle, almost imperceptible smile. He stepped closer, but not too close, his blue eyes glinting in the dark.

"A mausoleum can be more honest than a temple. Here, at least, nothing tries to hide its true nature."

Dean looked away, but the phrase clung to him like rust.

The group advanced down the makeshift corridor that the police and paramedics had opened in front of the church. The stretcher was there, surrounded by the intermittent glow of sirens reflecting off the worn brick walls.

Lying there, a blonde girl seemed too small beneath the emergency blanket. The silver aluminum trembled with each short, almost trembling breath.

Claire Novak.

Her face bore the fragile breakage of someone who had seen too much, too early. Her blonde hair was tangled, strands matted with dust and dried blood, as if she had been dragged. Her pale skin contrasted violently with the purple marks scattered across her neck and arms, reminders of fingers that had gripped her with cruel force.

Her eyes — a pale, almost translucent blue — were open but distant. They didn’t focus on anyone in particular, as if her mind was still trapped somewhere dark inside the church. She seemed to hear voices that no one else could.

When the streetlight fell across her face, for a brief moment, it revealed a paradoxical mixture: fragility and contained fury. A broken survivor, but not defeated.

Claire turned her gaze and, by chance or design, met Castiel’s eyes. The air seemed to freeze in everyone’s lungs for a second.

Castiel didn’t look away. His blue eyes — colder, heavier — met hers as if recognizing something familiar.

Dean, standing beside him, noticed the strange silence that settled and felt immediately that something was there, something that defied a simple explanation.

Bobby’s voice cut through the air like a blade, breaking the dense silence that had settled.

“Claire Novak, I’m Special Agent Supervisor Bobby Singer, head of this FBI unit.” His voice was deep, naturally authoritative, but not aggressive. He stepped forward deliberately, letting the weight of his title fill the space. “These are Agents Benny Lafitte and Dean Winchester.” He paused briefly before turning his head slightly. “And this is Professor Castiel Novak, our consultant in behavioral neuroscience.”

The name snapped through the moment. Claire blinked slowly, as if being pulled back to the surface of her own mind. Her gaze flickered from Castiel to Bobby, lingering slightly longer on Benny.

Castiel didn’t look away from her. His posture remained still, almost sculptural, but there was a peculiar intensity in his blue eyes. He observed the girl as if studying a distorted reflection.

Dean noticed. He felt the weight of the silence spread between them, the air thinning. A shiver ran down his spine, because in that instant, he sensed that Castiel was either recognizing something in her… or being recognized by her.

Benny, oblivious to the subtext, was the first to break the tension:

“You’re safe now, Claire.” His voice was deep, yet surprisingly gentle for someone of his stature.

Claire didn’t respond. She only stared, keeping her eyes fixed on Castiel, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths, as if she were about to say something—but didn’t.

Dean cleared his throat, irritated by the lingering silence.

“How old are you, Claire?” he asked, in a neutral tone, but with the meticulous coldness of an interrogation.

“Eighteen.” The answer came low, almost a whisper, yet clear enough.

Castiel tilted his head slightly, as if that piece of information carried more weight for him than for anyone else.

Dean noticed and narrowed his eyes.

Castiel stepped forward, his posture straight, hands relaxed at his sides. His voice was soft, velvety, yet carried a surgical precision.

“You don’t need to worry, Claire,” he said, each syllable measured, his gaze steady but not intrusive. “What happened to you tonight does not define you. You will be taken to the hospital for physical and psychological evaluations—this will ensure your body and mind are understood, not just treated. After that, you’ll go to the station and share, in your own time, everything you’ve experienced. Then, you’ll return home.”

He paused briefly, tilting his head slightly, as if assessing her every reaction.

“This process is not a punishment, but a ritual of restoration,” he continued, almost as if speaking in a private consultation. “Allow yourself to go through it. Your silence now is only the space between trauma and the word.”

Claire swallowed hard, her eyes glistening. It was impossible to tell whether she felt comforted or even more exposed.

Dean, a few steps away, felt the weight of those words—not just on the girl, but on himself. He recognized that tone—the way Castiel shaped the sentences to seem like solace, when in truth, it was a dissection. He wasn’t just calming Claire… he was reading her.

Dean narrowed his eyes, uneasy. Bobby, on the other hand, only nodded briefly, oblivious to the subtext, and said,

“All right, let’s get her out of here.”

The paramedics wheeled Claire out of the church, the stretcher gliding through the sea of uniforms. The muffled wail of sirens outside blended with the voices of officers organizing the perimeter. For a brief moment, the interior seemed to sink into silence.

Bobby took a deep breath, watching the girl’s form being carried away.

“At least she’s alive,” he said, his voice deep but tinged with fatigue. “After what we’ve seen these past weeks… months, I wasn’t this optimistic.”

Benny crossed his arms, expression heavy.

“Alive, yes. But marked,” he said bluntly, glancing at Dean as if expecting confirmation. “Whatever Ezra did, it wasn’t only physical.”

Dean took a moment before responding. He stood near one of the entrance columns, hands in his pockets, green eyes fixed on the dusty church floor. When he spoke, his voice was low, drawn-out.

“He left scars that don’t show up in medical exams,” he said, then lifted his gaze, sharp. “And those are the hardest to erase.”

Castiel watched him with near-surgical attention. The way Dean described someone else’s pain was… too intimate. He wasn’t talking only about the girl. He was describing himself—and he didn’t even realize it.

“Fascinating,” Castiel murmured, folding his hands behind his back. “Your empathy works like a scalpel. It must cut deep to understand the wound.”

Dean slowly turned his face toward him, eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and discomfort.

“Empathy doesn’t heal anyone, professor,” he retorted coldly. “It only reveals the size of the scar.”

Bobby, ignoring the undercurrent of tension between them, cleared his throat and refocused.

“The girl might give us more clues later. For now, we need to understand what Ezra was doing here.”

Benny nodded, looking at the church’s shattered stained glass.

“This place reeks of ritual.”

Castiel, still watching Dean, let a faint, discreet smile slip before turning to Bobby.

“I agree,” he said calmly. “This space isn’t a shelter. It’s an altar.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant crackle of a police radio on the frequency.

The group dispersed like pieces on a chessboard.
Bobby exchanged firm words with uniformed agents, collecting quick information, making short notes, trying to organize the chaos. Benny followed Castiel through the dark corridors of the old building, the two of them examining every corner like hunters on the prowl.

And Dean?
Dean, however, stayed behind.

He climbed the worn steps of the altar, his boots producing a dry sound that echoed through the empty space. At the top, he stopped. His gaze fixed on the only thing that hadn’t surrendered to time or violence: the statue of a saint, raised against the stained wall.

The rest of the church was ruin.
Shattered pews, colored glass smashed on the floor like bird bones, walls swallowed by cracks and mold. The smell was a sharp mixture of rotting wood, old wax, and dried blood. Yet the image remained.

The saint’s stone face was covered in dust, marked by fine cracks, but its sculpted eyes still lifted to the sky. Untouched.

Dean stood there, motionless, breathing slowly.
Everything alive had been destroyed, but the stone endured. Not as a miracle—but as an affront. He narrowed his eyes. Death had invaded that sacred space, yet the saint continued watching. Impassive. A silent witness to every drop of blood.

Dean felt a chill run down his spine.
This wasn’t faith. It was complicity.

Dean remained standing before the statue. The silence of the church was heavy, broken only by the distant echo of Bobby and Benny’s footsteps in another wing. Up at the altar, it seemed there was only him and that stone figure.

The light filtering through the broken windows cut across the saint’s face, casting shadows that crawled along the cracked wall. The solemn aura contrasted sharply with the metallic scent of blood lingering in the air.

Dean tightened his jaw, eyes fixed on the image.

“Maybe all I see is a farce.”

A subtle movement behind him. The sound of measured steps. Castiel emerged from the shadows, as if he had always been there, watching. His voice, when it came, was low, almost intimate.

A minimal smile curved his lips, so brief it could have been just a shadow.

“Exactly,” he murmured. “And yet, even in your disbelief, you remain before it. Fascinated by the endurance of the lie.”

Dean shifted his gaze from the statue to Castiel, if only for a second. There was something unsettling about the way he dissected his mind with simple words, as if he had already mapped every corner of his thoughts.

Silence returned, dense. Castiel, however, seemed unbothered. He remained serene, studying Dean as one would a work of art in motion.

Bobby and Benny approached, breaking the heavy silence that hung between Dean and Castiel.

“What are you two standing around for? Didn’t you find anything?” Bobby’s voice was firm, impatient.

Dean didn’t take his eyes off the statue.

“No. Because there’s nothing to find here.”

Bobby frowned.

“What?”

Dean took a deep breath, as if the words were difficult to force out.

“He wasn’t going to do anything to her. Nothing as brutal as what he did to the others.”

A brief silence settled. The sound of hurried police footsteps outside echoed off the cracked walls of the church. Dean finally turned partially, eyes heavy, jaw locked.

“He wanted her as a witness. An observer of the true heavens. Something like that.”

Bobby narrowed his eyes.

“Why? Explain that better.”

Dean let out a short, frustrated breath, finally shifting his gaze from the statue to the floor, as if being pulled from a trance.

“He was a man of religion, a man of faith. He wanted someone to see what he saw. To believe what he believed.” His voice grew deeper, almost bitter. “He needed someone to witness the ritual, his ascension.”

Castiel, who had remained silent until then, stepped forward. His low, controlled voice cut through the space between them.

“So… a witness.”

Dean raised his eyes and met Castiel’s gaze for a moment.

“Exactly. He hurt her, yes, physically. But not as much as mentally. She wasn’t just a witness; she was a deviation. A detail added at the last moment.” Dean paused, reflecting, as if reconstructing the scene before them. “He didn’t usually act on impulse. And she was exactly that: a last-minute decision to draw attention.”

Benny crossed his arms, confused.

“Draw attention from whom? A saint?”

Dean shook his head.

“No. From someone.” The word hung in the air, loaded with an almost suffocating weight. “This ‘someone’ was the final piece for his ritual.”

Silence fell again, heavy. Castiel tilted his head slightly, eyes fixed on Dean, as if analyzing every word, seeing more than the others could. Simply fascinating.

Bobby sighed, tired. The weight of years and the cursed investigation seemed to hang on his shoulders.

“Let’s get out of here. There’s nothing more.” He said it flatly before turning away. Benny followed in silence, casting only one last wary glance at Dean and Castiel, as if sensing there was more beneath the spoken words.

The sound of their boots echoed across the cracked floor until it faded at the main door. The church sank into a silent gloom, broken only by distant street noises and the faint snap of plaster falling from the ceiling.

Castiel remained still for a few seconds, as if waiting for the silence to take shape. Then, without looking directly at Dean, he asked in a calm tone, almost too light for what it carried:

“Do you know who this someone is?”

Dean let out a short, humorless laugh and turned his face toward him.

“Naivety doesn’t suit you, professor.”

Castiel snorted, a brief sound, accompanied by a subtle smile.

“So you know.”

Dean tilted his head, eyes narrowed, studying him. Then he took a deep breath, as if releasing a bitter truth.

“That someone… was me.”

The air seemed heavier the moment the words settled between them. Castiel, still the same calm as ever, simply held his gaze. There was something dangerous in his stillness.

Dean took a step closer, facing him head-on.

“I just want to understand why.” His voice was low, firm. He narrowed his eyes, jaw tense, as if each word was trying to force out a confession. “And you, professor…”

A pause. One second too long.

“You know very well.”

Castiel let an almost imperceptible smile curve his lips. Small, but sharp enough for Dean to understand the silent provocation hidden within it.

Dean narrowed his eyes, his hand clenching into a fist unconsciously.

“Tell me.”

Castiel lifted his chin slightly, as if savoring the opportunity to explain something he knew deeply.

“Well…” he began calmly, “he believed you were the perfect vessel to host an angel.”

Dean let out a humorless laugh, the sound rough as it echoed off the ruined church walls.

“Vessel? An angel?”

“Yes.” Castiel kept his voice low, almost clinical. “But not just any angel. The Archangel Michael.”

Dean exhaled heavily, running a hand down the back of his neck, disbelief mingled with irritation.

“What the hell does that even mean?”

Castiel tilted his head, studying Dean’s reaction.

“Vessel?”

“Yes,” Dean growled impatiently.

Castiel inhaled deeply, his blue eyes fixed on him, and then explained as if giving a lecture, each word measured and deliberate:

“Angels come and go from Earth. They carry out missions. Bring blessings. Perform sacrifices.”

The last word hung heavy in the air.

Dean raised an eyebrow, his voice dropping slightly.

“Sacrifices?”

Castiel allowed a brief pause before answering, almost as if choosing the cruelest way to phrase it.

“Yes. Angels aren’t always benevolent, Dean. Keep that in mind.”

Dean frowned, uncomfortable with the casualness of that “warning.” Castiel continued, his eyes still fixed on him, like he was observing a caged animal’s reaction:

“To come to Earth, they cannot appear in their original form.” His voice dropped to a deeper tone. “It could annihilate an entire city. Even the sound of their angelic voice… would make human eardrums explode.”

Dean swallowed hard, the image forming vividly in his mind.

“So… they need bodies.”

“They need homes,” Castiel corrected softly. “Vessels. Men and women shaped to contain them. Receptacles.”

He took a small step forward, closing the distance between them. The church’s shadows seemed to envelop them, as if only the two of them existed.

“And you, Dean…” he paused, letting the name linger. “Were deemed perfect.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, his shoulders tense, as if every muscle in his body demanded a fight.

“This is insane,” he spat, jaw clenched. “And why are you telling me this?”

Castiel didn’t look away. His tone was calm, almost clinical, but carried a weight that pressed against the air around them.

“You asked what he told me. And I told you.” He paused briefly, savoring the next phrase. “I don’t lie to you.”

The statement landed between them like a blade.

“And I, professor, just asked for a truth, but from what I’ve seen, it’s not just Ezra who’s crazy about religion. What you said was a bunch of nonsense.”

Dean let out a dry, humorless laugh, turning his face away for a moment.

“And you don’t lie?” he repeated, his voice lower, incredulous. “That seems to be the only thing you do, professor… wrap every word in riddles until I can’t tell if you’re helping me or just enjoying yourself at my expense.”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes fixed, assessing.

“If I were enjoying myself, Dean… you would already know,” he said softly, almost like a veiled threat.

Dean turned back, staring at him. For a second, something burned deep in his green eyes — not just anger, but something more intimate, more dangerous.

Castiel noticed. He always noticed.

“I don’t lie to you,” he repeated firmly. “But perhaps I don’t tell everything at once.”

The silence that followed was not empty. It was dense, as if the church itself were holding its breath.