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Dean has never been a guy who particularly liked kids. Even when he was a kid, he didn’t like other kids. Children, at least to Dean, are loud, obnoxious, smell bad, and generally need to get a grip on life before he’ll ever be interested in holding any kinda conversation with them. Being asked “what’s that?” or “why?” on repeat is not his definition of an engaging conversation by any means.
However, when the local summer camp in town posted their generous hourly wage, he couldn’t resist it. Not only were they paying two dollars more than any other job in town for the summer, but there were also more hours available to work than if he just went the easy route and worked at the roller rink. Finding a way to make money the summer after high school is crucial, especially since he’s planning on attending the University of Kansas in the fall.
It ain’t like his daddy is gonna be supportin’ him while he completes his degree.
Plus the extended hours are nice while his boyfriend, Castiel, is so far away doing an early start program. It was something only open for certain Humanities majors, and Dean has always put the M. in S.T.E.M., so he begrudgingly stayed behind and listened to Cas talk about how great Lawrence is compared to their hometown during their weekly phone calls. In turn, Cas would listen to Dean’s incessant complaining like any decent boyfriend would do (sandwiched between the occasional phone sex, of course.)
Getting to listen to Cas’ voice is Dean’s lifeline while he’s in the last leg of his figurative 18-to-life prison sentence in this town. Turns out Milford Lake doesn’t provide as idyllic an existence as they advertise. Especially for young queer boys.
Dean estimates that at least 85% of the people he worked with at the camp made his life hell throughout his adolescence, and that isn’t being generous either. Those same people who have been preaching about anti-bullying the entire summer are all secretly assholes in disguise, hiding behind the guises of being “older” and “wiser.”
They still cast sideway glances at Dean. Whenever they have handed things to him they keep their limbs well away from his own, as though they’re afraid of touching his skin—like they can possibly catch his queerness. As though it’s some disease . Their disgust is palpable whenever he so much as walks into a cabin.
But then again, what else does he expect from rural Kansas in the mid-80s?
“Winchester,” a voice shouts from the lakeside, and Dean’s shoulders stiffen in response to it instantly.
Rather than replying, Dean continues to sort through the various pins and badges they would award kids for good behavior. The blues in one bin, pinks in the other, oranges in the container on the corner of the picnic table…
“Winchester.” The word comes from a hell of a lot closer this time, and Dean begrudgingly glances up at the person who spoke it.
Fuckin’ perfect Michael. A true lady’s man, and everything that Dean yearned for in his youth. Before realizing his queerness, Dean genuinely had trouble distinguishing whether he wanted to be Michael, or be with Michael.
Sometimes Dean still struggles with which one of those is the truth, and he’s far beyond giving a fuck over the man.
Although, perhaps the answer to that question is both. Dean wanted both.
His black hair is so shiny it’s catching the light on it, reflecting the sun’s rays into Dean’s eyes with such intensity that he has to squint at Michael’s stupidly symmetrical face as he continues talking.
“—bringing the liquor, right?”
“Huh?” Dean asks, probably looking like an idiot with his mouth hanging open, a bunch of multi-colored badges in one hand and an empty container in the other.
Michael rolls his eyes and lets out an unamused snort before repeating, “I said now that the kids are gone, are you still bringing some of the liquor for the party tonight?”
Dean sincerely regrets offering to be the libations guy when he overheard the rest of the counselors discussing their annual end-of-the-summer party, but he was afraid it was the only way he’d be invited.
It helps that his Uncle Bobby is kind enough to lend him some bottles of bottom-shelf vodka in the name of forming new friendships, but perhaps Dean should have considered whether these are friendships he wants to cultivate anyways. It’s whatever at this point. There’s no harm in attending this party for approximately 45 minutes then dipping to go home and call Cas for their weekly info dump. Besides, something interesting might happen tonight.
“Yeah, you got it, Mike,” Dean answers, a subtle smirk inching its way on his face when Michael’s eyes blink in response to the nickname.
“Okay, Winchester, thanks,” Michael says as he backtracks away from him, his fingers gliding along the side of the picnic table as he maintains intense eye contact with Dean. In a brief prayer, Dean asks that a splinter pierce Michael's hand. “It’s Michael, by the way. Not Mike. No one calls me Mike.”
“You got it, Mike—” Dean’s smirk grows as Michael’s eyes squint even harder. “—al. Vodka still okay?”
“Yeah, whatever, it’s fine.” With that, Michael turns his back on Dean and walks toward a small group of other counselors conversing near the boat dock.
Asshole.
After Dean sorts through the pins and badges, stores them properly, and collects all the dirty sheets from the beds that the kids used, he’s finally able to take Baby home. The best part is that his father’s off on a hunting trip, so he has the house to himself. It’s nice not to hide in the tiny pantry while he calls Cas at night, afraid that his father is gonna walk into the kitchen and hear him being gay on the phone.
That one would absolutely get his ass beat.
There’s a brown bag on his porch when he pulls up into the driveway, and glass clanks together when he picks it up on the way into the house. A note is attached to the front of the bag, and Dean smiles to himself when he reads it.
Dean,
Be safe, and don’t ever tell your father I bought you liquor.
-Bobby
Deciding to make a quick call to Cas before he showers, it rings a total of three times before Cas picks up.
“Hello, Dean,” his boyfriend’s deep timber says from the opposite line.
“Heya, Cas.”
“How was your day today? Is John gone?”
“Yeah, John’s gone. My day was…definitely a day. I’m glad summer is almost over and I’ll be done with all these dicks forever,” Dean says as his fist reflexively clenches at his side. “Honestly, I just called to hear your voice. I gotta go soon. Gotta get ready to have a terrible time tonight.”
“Do you want me to tell you what I always tell you?”
“Yeah, please,” Dean replies, rubbing his hand down his face as he closes his eyes tight until he can see all those geometric shapes form behind his eyelids.
“I’m sorry. Everything will be over soon. Then you’ll come here to Lawrence and we can start the rest of our lives together away from Milford Lake and everyone who lives around it. I love you, Dean.”
“I love you, too, Cas. See you soon.”
“See you.”
The line disconnects after that, and Dean is left clutching the phone to his chest before working up the mental fortitude to prepare for tonight. One steamy shower later, a fresh set of clothes that aren’t his camp counselor gear, and a spritz of his favorite cologne, and he’s more than ready to go. To be honest, he probably shouldn’t have even put so much effort into his appearance in the first place. It isn’t like he’s got anyone else invited to the party to impress.
Dean can already feel the bass of the music a quarter of a mile down the street from the camp as he gradually drives Baby down the gravel road. It’s a bunch of bullshit music he’d sooner want to hang himself than listen to, but he’s already wasted an obscene amount of gas to get here, and he’s extra cognizant of the large bottles of vodka clinking together in the backseat. It’d be a shame if Bobby figures out that he was too chicken-shit to attend a superficial party.
Dean can be normal. He’s gonna fuckin’ prove it tonight.
An enormous bonfire is burning hot in the middle of the forest, and Dean follows the light and the smell of smoke to find the rest of his fellow camp counselors. Some of them are sitting near the fire, drinking and talking, while others are up and dancing to the soft rock blaring outta the speakers, their bodies swaying against each other.
The first person who spots him and acknowledges him is Meg, who comes bounding over with a tiny smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth, her black-brown hair cascading down her back in waves.
Meg’s a bitch, but at least she’s real .
“Hi, Winchester,” Meg greets him as she eyes the bag he is holding hungrily, already reaching out toward it before even sparing a glance at his face. “I see you got some of the goods. I was afraid we were gonna run out.”
Dean clears his throat and scuffs his boot against the dirt, kicking up a cloud of it before responding, “Not on my watch.”
“So, are you gonna just stand there like a dumbass or are you gonna join us?”
“Do you—” Dean stops abruptly, his jaw slamming shut because he’d sooner strip his clothes off and run butt-ass-naked into the lake in front of all his coworkers before asking Meg to just take the vodka so that he could leave.
He glances down at his watch.
8:30 p.m.
If he isn’t having a good time by 9:15 p.m. he’ll leave.
“Do you?” Meg prompts, one of her brows raised in a question.
“Do you wanna open one of these?” Dean asks as he bends over and pulls one of the bottles out of the bag, handing it carefully over to Meg, who takes it gratefully.
“Uh, yeah. Who do you even take me for? Don’t mind if I do,” Meg replies as she unscrews the top and drinks directly from the bottle, her red lipstick leaving stains around the neck of it. “You couldn’t have come at a better time. Almost everyone else brought a bunch of beer, but that shit just doesn’t do it for me like this.”
Dean places the other two bottles atop the stool next to the bonfire and squats next to it, the fire raising his body temperature to uncomfortable levels during this sultry night. It isn’t even a few seconds later that Meg is thrusting the lipstick-stained bottle toward him, practically commanding him to take a drink.
“You know, I always wished we talked more in high school,” Meg says seemingly outta nowhere as they sit side-by-side and stare off deeper into the dark forest.
The branches are swaying back and forth in the breeze, casting shadows upon the illuminated areas of the camp area and Meg’s face as she looks at Dean with a strange combination of earnestness and cruelty.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have been part of the demon crew and we would have gotten along just fine,” Dean replies with a shrug. “I never saw you sayin’ nothin’ when Adler and Mike were calling me a faggot.”
Meg rolls her eyes and giggles.
“Isn’t that what you are? A faggot?”
Dean flashes her a lighthearted glare and says, “At least I’m not a dyke, Meg.”
A pause follows.
“Or an invasive, offensive bitch,” he adds as an afterthought before taking a swig of the vodka and grimacing as it travels down his throat. “You ever think about the fact that this is the perfect setting for a horror film? One of those good, ‘ol camp slashers with the hottie, homicidal maniacs.”
As he hands the vodka bottle back to Meg, she bursts into laughter, her hand coming up to cover her mouth as crinkles form on the skin next to her scrunched-up nose and eyes.
“I think you’ve been going to the movies too often with Cas.” The breeze pushes the branches back and forth again, a slight nip to it causing goosebumps to spread across the back of Dean’s neck. “When are you gonna see Cas again, by the way? Cas is already there in Lawrence, yeah?”
“Yeah. Soon. But also not soon enough.”
Dean frowns and glimpses at his watch. 8:42 p.m.
Another swig of vodka washes down his throat, followed by a sputtering cough and a gag. The worst part of the teenage experience by far is pretending that downing straight vodka is a decent, even fun, party drink. How the fuck people drink this shit without making a face is an enigma to him—they must be gods.
Then as if his night couldn’t get worse, a scream rings out in the distance, simultaneously echoing and obscured by the numerous trees surrounding the clearing they’re in. Instantly, Dean and Meg are on their feet, both of their bodies positioned toward the direction that the sound came from. Chances are it’s just a person throwing their friend in the water, but the blood-curdling quality of that particular scream sets off alarm bells in Dean’s mind. Apparently, everyone else has the same alarm bells ringing because it isn’t even half a minute later that Arthur, a particularly annoying fucker from Dean’s class, tells the rest of them that he’s gonna “investigate the sound.”
Solid idea, Arthur. It ain’t like anyone’s gonna miss him when he inevitably doesn’t come back.
The forest is so dark that it doesn’t take more than twenty steps into the thick of it that Arthur’s body disappears. There isn’t even a visible outline anymore, so Dean reverts his attention to Meg, whose arms are crossed tightly across her chest. Meg isn’t one to make a fuss over something like this, but there’s a glint of fear in her eyes, as though she can sense that something is very wrong.
It would fuckin’ suck if a bear happened to attack their party, especially if idiots were reckless enough to leave food out on the tables scattered around the camp. At that point, these bitches might deserve to get mauled by a grizzly.
“What d’ya think that was?” Dean whispers to Meg.
“I don’t know if I want to figure that out,” she replies, white-knuckling the bottle in her fist. “In fact, it is about now-o’clock that I’m gonna dip out of here. I have better things to do than stay around here tonight.”
“You sure?” Dean asks, more so worried because Meg is the only one here he can have an actual conversation with, and (generally) doesn’t think of him as some weird freak. “I’m sure whatever it was it was nothin’. There’s nothin’ out here except asshole geese and the occasional coyote.”
“No, I’m serious, I have something else I’m doing tonight, too. However,” Meg says, lifting the vodka bottle and shaking it. The clear liquid within splashes around, making a satisfying sound in the stillness of the night. “I’m gonna be taking this one for the road. Hope you don’t mind, Winchester.”
Surveying his surroundings, Dean spies a few people grinding on one another offbeat to the music, a couple practically having sex through their clothes on the ground across from Dean’s position at the fire pit, and a senior counselor that Dean barely conversed with this summer crying into his bottle.
“It’s better off going with you.”
“Thanks, Dean.” At that, Meg starts journeying in the direction of the cars, opposite to the sound of the scream. She glances back at Dean before disappearing on the trail, and says, “Have a wonderful night. Perhaps I’ll see you before you leave?”
“Mm, yeah. We’ll see. Bye, Meg.”
"Stay safe, Dean."
That just leaves Dean and a few other counselors idly standing there around the fire, periodically gazing at one another until they both hear the sound of running footsteps crunching atop the leaves and twigs on the forest floor. More screaming ensues shortly after that, this time it’s a man’s yell, however. It’s just as blood-curdling as the last, and Dean immediately hunches lower, darting his eyes back and forth between the direction of the scream and the nearest tree he could feasibly run to and hide behind.
This has to be some sick joke. Possibly an attempt at hazing the new counselors.
“What the fuck is going on?” someone across the fire from him asks, a nervous edge to his voice.
“Excellent ques—” Dean’s voice ceases to work when a bloodied Arthur reaches the edge of the clearing, appearing worse for wear, his eyes traveling wildly around as though he’s seen some major shit.
“Arthur?” a woman to Dean’s left, Ruby, says in a timid voice, taking an unsure step toward the man she references. “What’s that all over your arms? Is that…blood?”
She outstretches her hand as she takes another step forward, but it automatically drops when something sharp and mental bursts out of Arthur’s chest like some kinda freakish, movie alien. Blood drips off the blade and pours outta the wound, and for a moment Dean doesn’t know whether he’s shouting or if the people around him are. It’s probably both.
When the blade turns horizontally, creating a wider wound in Arthur’s chest, and his legs give out beneath him as he slumps forward, Dean realizes that they’re all hollering. When Arthur fully face-plants, the blade slips out of his chest and reveals a masked individual holding the machete on the other side. Before Dean turns all the way around to retreat, he does a double take. The killer is adorned in a hockey mask, like a fuckin’ Friday The 13th film. His outfit is all black, with fitted cargo pants and a tucked-in plain t-shirt. It’s a brutal sight, with Arthur bleeding out and most likely already dead at the killer’s feet, yet Dean can’t help but listen to the small voice in the back of his head convince him that it’s also an alluring sight. There’s somethin’ about a man in a mask that is plucking at remote nerves in Dean’s brain. It might be the prototypical psychopath’s equivalent of a man in uniform, minus the uniform and plus the guts and gore.
Rather than ponder on that for too long, Dean begins maneuvering away from the clearing, using the trees and thick bushes as cover in his haste to escape the hot-hockey-mask-man.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters under his breath as he attempts to move as silently as possible through the underbrush. His body tenses each time he steps on an extra noisy branch on the ground, and it doesn’t take long for him to become aware that he’s going in one big circle. It’s fuckin’ dark out here.
Especially once he halts, peeks out from under a large bush, and can observe the clearing, where the killer is stalking toward Ruby, his machete at waistline level. Ruby’s face is heartbreaking, her chin twitching as she silently sobs and pleads, her hands raised in a placating manner. Unfortunately, the killer doesn’t seem to care. His stride is purposeful and it doesn’t take long for him to be within swinging distance of Ruby.
“Run, bitch. Oh my god, run ,” Dean murmurs, exasperated on account of Ruby’s weak survival instincts. Whenever Dean’s been in the movie theater, his head on Cas’ shoulder, as they watched the latest installment of whatever slasher was released that month, he recalls all the times he has said those same, exact words.
Yeah, Dean understands there’s fight, flight, or freeze , but when a man is threateningly carrying a machete as he walks toward you, it’s best to utilize either of the -ights, rather than the -eeze, is all.
Ruby doesn’t come to her senses in time to take flight, though.
The machete rises in sync as Dean inhales, and he doesn’t get the opportunity to exhale before it’s swiped through the air and makes contact with Ruby’s neck, hitting the major artery. Crimson liquid spurts outta the wound it creates, some of it splattering across the killer’s mask, as Ruby’s mouth opens with a silent cry.
Once Ruby drops dead, Dean’s breath hitches when the masked murderer looks directly at him, his head tilting to the side as he waves the machete around in the air. Fuck this shit. Dean snorts without any humor and takes off running toward the lake, hopeful that there will be other people around there.
The murderer also begins his pursuit.
Tree branches whip against Dean’s face as he sprints, his chest heaving with each harsh, gasping inhalation of air. He may be out in nature, but the air is stifling and hot, and sweat begins to accumulate along his neckline and slithers down his back. Each sensation of a new droplet of sweat makes him believe that the murderer’s weapon is skimming against his flesh, but a glance over his shoulder reveals the killer to have stopped his pursuit. At least for now.
By this time, Dean has made it to the other part of the campsite where the ruckus and murder all began, and it’s essentially a bloodbath. Two bodies lay on the ground, their limbs bent at odd angles and even a few fingers are missing from one of their hands—which like, talk about fuckin’ overkill. A precursory scan of the ground surrounding their bodies doesn’t reveal to him where the fingers have gone, and Dean briefly wonders if the killer took them as a sorta keepsake.
The perfect thing to hang on his wall as a remembrance of the time that he infiltrated a teen party and killed a bunch of young, freshly turned adults. Stunning.
Dean nearly jumps outta his skin when a hand brushes against his back and another hand swiftly covers his mouth. Rather than wait around and see who it is, Dean bites at the person’s palm, hard enough that they eventually release the hold they have over his face as he detects the taste of iron on his taste buds.
“Fuckin’ hell, Winchester,” a voice Dean recognizes says from behind him. “I didn’t know you were a biter.”
Adler. Goddamn Zachariah Adler. He was one of the worst people for Dean to be around in his adolescence, and he’s certain he’ll never forgive the prick for all the shit he’s done to him over the years.
“I didn’t know you were here,” Dean spits out, aggravated at the fact that Zachariah had his dirty, grubby hands anywhere near his mouth. “Or better yet, I assumed you were dead.”
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Winchester.” Then, Zachariah does the worst thing ever, he leans even closer to Dean. “We need to get out of here. The cars are too far away, though, and I have no idea who the fuck is doing this shit or where the fuck they are.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought you were the killer,” Dean replies petulantly, leveling an angry glower in his direction. He has to stop himself from chuckling when he notices that Zachariah’s face is covered in mud, as though he tripped in a puddle on the way here. That is a sight that Dean would pay to view.
“Do I look like I have a hockey mask on me?” Zachariah retorts before his eyes widen so absurdly that it’d be hilarious if they weren’t in this situation, and it takes Dean an embarrassingly long amount of time to react to what Zachariah is reacting to.
Dean literally isn’t able to before the killer sneaks up from behind him and grabs Zachariah’s hair, tugging him across the ground and out into the clearing. Dean stares onward in horror and morbid curiosity as the masked man deposits Zachariah some ten feet away and uses the machete to slice into his abdomen in one fell swoop.
Well, Dean was gonna respond to Zachariah by saying that he’s never seen both Zachariah and the killer in the same room before, but that joke clearly won’t land anymore.
Guts spill out at the exact time that the blade is pulled from the wound it created—long, pink intestines slip from the hole, inch after inch, and both Dean and the killer observe as though enthralled by it. It’s neverending, and Dean is reminded of the time that he read a “fun fact” in his biology book back in tenth grade that informed him there are fifteen feet of small and large intestines in a human body. Will they keep lurching out indefinitely if Dean stands by? Or will they eventually stop?
They must eventually stop—Zachariah’s never been one to spill his guts so easily. Truthfully, this might be the most personal that Dean has ever, and will ever, see him. There’s something intimate about death, namely being present when someone else dies, brutal murder aside, of course. When Zachariah’s head lulls over and his sightless eyes puncture glassily into Dean’s eyes, he becomes transfixed by them, glued to the spot on the ground where he witnessed the murder. Regardless of whether the masked man is about to chase after Dean, he remains there a few seconds longer than he should, digesting the scene in front of him.
Just because Zachariah ain’t digesting anymore, doesn’t mean that Dean at least can’t.
What Dean should have been doing is paying better attention to the maniac wielding the machete in front of him, especially once he instinctively ducks down and barely misses what would have been a swift beheading. Fortunately, the blade lodges itself into the tree on Dean’s right, and rather than sticking around any longer to see what the machete fanatic does, Dean breaks out into an unrelenting sprint in the opposite direction.
Dean Winchester is keepin’ his head tonight, folks.
The two main thoughts in Dean’s head while he runs past tree after fuckin’ tree mainly revolve around him realizing how sore he’ll inevitably be tomorrow, but also that there might not even be a tomorrow. The point is particularly poignant when Dean runs past another body, this time, however, it’s leaning against a solid oak tree, held up by a second machete stabbed through his chest cavity. Briefly, Dean contemplates whether he should check to see who was unlucky enough to be split open on that trunk, but then he remembers that, oh right, there’s a killer on his heels.
He picks up the pace, his feet kicking up debris and he nearly slips and falls to the ground as a damsel in distress might before he catches himself and continues to run like his life depends on it.
Because it fuckin’ does .
Turning to the right, Dean heads to the wooden cabins where the kids and counselors used to sleep, thinking that if he can’t outrun the lunatic chasing him, maybe he can hide from him. Upon reaching the door of one of the cabins, he belatedly realizes that one of the counselors locked all of them at the end of their last shift this afternoon. Adding insult to injury, he can hear the approaching footsteps of the killer, and for a brief moment, he hits the door with closed fists, on the verge of wailing even though he is aware there’s no one in there.
With no hope of outrunning the man chasing him anymore, he accelerates between two cabins, spotting what could be the perfect failsafe—a sturdy, wooden palette. When he is protected on one side of it, Dean turns while the killer is bounding up to him, ready to lash out with his machete. As Dean waits impatiently on the other side of the palette for machete-man to close in, and in the nick of time, he pulls the palette down on top of the man, applauding himself mentally when he hears the pained grunt it pulls outta the faceless killer.
In lieu of waiting around to see if the killer is downed, Dean heads to the lake at the same hectic pace he’s been maintaining all night.
Due to adrenaline, it isn’t until Dean flees onto the deck of the lake that he realizes he essentially trapped himself with nowhere else to escape. The water isn’t a choice since Dean is the worst camp counselor on the planet and can’t fuckin’ swim (even though he said he could to get the job.) To make matters worse, when he backtracks in a vain attempt to leap and bound back into the woods like some terrified prey, the murderer is already looming at the mouth of the deck—just standing there— menacingly .
“Great,” Dean mumbles as his eyes are drawn unconsciously to the liquid dripping off the end of the machete. He has a pretty good idea of what that liquid is, too, yet if he dwells on it long enough then he might vault himself into the lake and drown instead.
What is worse, really? Drowning or being stabbed? At least the water is warm in the lake, so it’s not like Dean would have to drown in freezing temperatures. Drowning could potentially be similar to a comforting embrace.
“You fuckin’ won,” Dean says, louder this time, and the man standing at the end of the dock takes one, large step forward at those words. “What’re gonna do now? Kill me?”
A side tilt of his head is all that Dean receives in response to his question, along with a few more strides forward, putting him within striking distance of the long machete. This isn’t exactly how Dean prefers to stare down a sword in his face, but beggars can’t be choosers. In one last ditch attempt to leave, Dean steps backward but his foot becomes caught on something sticking up from the dock, and he loses his balance and falls backward, hitting the dock below with a thud and an “ oomph .”
The man in front of him chooses that time to advance closer still, mere inches between them at this point. The warm, blood-slick blade presses against the skin of Dean’s neck, and he gulps involuntarily from the sensation, his pulse beating faster and faster, supplying a plethora of blood to spill out onto the deck blow when the razor-sharp machete finally slices through his jugular.
The man holding the machete is breathing equally as heavily, his chest heaving from all the acrobatic shit Dean has watched him do tonight while killing camp counselor after camp counselor. Rather than slitting his throat immediately, the killer raises the hand not clutching the machete toward his own face, grips the bottom of his mask between his thumb and forefinger, and pulls it upward.
“That was fucking hot,” Dean blurts out, tracing the bead of sweat trailing down the side of Cas’ face with his eyes. “You know, I didn’t know if it would work or not, but you were right. People become stupid as hell when put under immense stress.”
Cas nods, clearly still straining to catch his breath while clinging to the mask.
“...Or like, more stupid, I guess,” Dean adds after a couple of beats of silence pass between them.
“I told you so,” Cas replies as he eases up the pressure of the machete on Dean’s neck and flashes him a carefree grin, his blue eyes wide and a bit wild, darting up and down Dean’s face and body. “Did you see the way I stabbed this machete through Ketch’s chest? I didn’t know whether it would go all the way through, but I must have managed to avoid the spine and went between the ribs.”
“Very impressive, babe,” Dean praises, loving the way Cas practically preens from it, his chest unconsciously puffing out from the compliment. “I truly felt terrified. Like I was in a high budget slasher or some shit. I’m your final girl, Cas.”
“You are my final girl. Thank you.”
Cas stares down at his blood-soaked shoes as he says it, properly bashful and adorable like he didn’t just brutally slaughter enough people to label him as a mass murderer tonight. It’s one of the many things that Dean adores about him—the way his hands are so benign amidst the harshness and brutality. His hands even shake as he reaches for Dean, touching his legs as he falls to his knees, uncaring of the rigid, wooden dock beneath them.
“I promised you that they would pay,” Cas says, flinging the machete into the water—out of sight and out of mind. “I promised you that there would be a day that neither of us would have to feel as though we’re in some one-sided war.” Inching even closer, Cas situates himself between the ‘V’ of Dean’s open legs, sliding a hand up Dean’s thigh and then hitching it around his waist. “I’m grateful, you know?”
“Grateful for what?” Dean asks, breathlessly staring up at the stars above, thinking that they might be the last two people on Earth.
“Grateful to be loved by someone who hates everyone else. There’s nothing more special than that.”
“You know what I know?” Dean inquires, catching Cas’ hand before it reaches his hips, and pulls him forward until Cas nearly tumbles entirely on top of him. With Cas’ face close, Dean can make out his features better despite the dark, and he crudely swipes his finger across the wet, scarlet marks around his eyes and mouth, where the blood could breach the mask. “I know that all this red on your face really brings out the blue in your eyes. You’re disturbingly beautiful, Cas, and how fucked up is that?”
“Maybe it’s not fucked up at all. Maybe this is just who I am.” Silence ensues. Over the milder breeze passing through the forest, even the crickets and cicadas are audible. “Who we are.”
“And this is really who you want to be?”
“Dean, I’d be anything if it meant being with you.”
“Anything?”
“Yes…” Cas kisses him, their lips melding together like they’ve done time and time again in the past, yet it’s still sweet enough to make Dean’s chest ache every time. “I will always be your protector, your shield, your—”
“My angel?” Dean suggests, personally lovin’ the way Cas with enormous, sleek black wings would appear underneath the night sky, covered in blood and repentance.
“Even your angel,” Cas confirms with a solemn nod. “Especially your angel.”
“Well, angel, what’s done is done. Now, are ya just gonna lay on top of me all night?”
“Hmm.” At that, Cas adjusts his hips until his pelvis is digging into Dean’s, and it’s wonderful, but not enough . “What do you propose we do in the meantime?”
“I think you should fuck me—” Dean punctuates each word with a grind of his hips, briefly thanking past-Dean for having the foresight to put a few travel-sized packs of lube in his back pocket, knowing that he would desire nothing more than to be fucked by his boyfriend post-killing-spree. “—immediately. Post haste. Uh, right-fuckin’-now.”
“My pleasure.”
It really must have been Cas’ pleasure, since he takes no time in ripping Dean’s pants off, and Dean is surprised that Cas even manages to pull the denim off each ankle before he moves on to placing his mouth over the head of Dean’s cock. It’s desperate and adrenaline-fueled, and Dean can’t help the fact that his back arches off the wood as Cas swallows down his cock.
All the blood in his body rushes to two very specific places in his body, and they’re both either one of his heads, ‘til he’s straining and moaning incomprehensibly while Cas fingers him open with the aforementioned lube on the uncomfortable, wooden deck. The discomfort of the wood beneath him (which, mind you, is nothin’ compared to the ache of the wood attached to his body) is the last thing on Dean’s mind when Cas slides into him smoothly ten minutes or so later, stuffing him with a hot combination of respect and urgency.
Cas flips Dean over again, so he’s belly down on the deck, his knees digging harshly into the deck.
“Put the mask back on,” Dean pants out as Cas drives into him from behind, his cock stretching Dean’s hole until he whines out, desperate for some kinda release—if not physical then at least vocal. “Put the—”
“What?”
Dean flashes what was supposed to be a lighthearted glare behind his back due to the interruption, but all he accomplishes is a reverential double take when he catches sight of Cas’ rosy cheeks, his toned abs, and the nipple piercing shifting ever so slightly with each snap of his hips. When he squints his eyes further, he can barely make out the tiny splatterings of red on the little bits of his exposed chest. Cas is quite literally painted in the blood of his enemies—their enemies—and it’s fuckin’ hot.
“Put the mask back on, now,” Dean demands, enamored with the way Cas’ cheeks tint an even deeper red as he does what he’s told, the mask slipping back over his face, smearing more blood on it. “That’s it. You look fuckin’ hot like that, Cas.”
Cas doesn’t answer this time, just tilts his head to the side, similar to how he did while standing over Ruby’s corpse earlier that night. The grind of Cas’ hips as his fingertips dig into the flesh of Dean’s hips in conjunction with the mask and the murder of tonight is maddening, and Dean worries whether tonight is the night that he goes completely insane. Or whether that has already happened.
Those thoughts quickly exit his mind when Cas drapes his body over Dean’s back, that shitty plastic mask rubbing against his neck, as he whispers sweet nothings in his ear that consist of words like, “I would kill anyone for you, Dean— anyone ” and “I’d burn down the entire world to keep you warm.” This might be peak drama, but who the fuck doesn’t want the love of their life to tell them that? To take care of them and then commit mass murder for them and then dote on them some more? That’s what Dean likes to refer to as ‘the ideal relationship’, and he’s just lucky that Cas happens to agree.
For a moment, Dean contemplates when he’ll start hearing the sound of police sirens, as there had to have been somebody who escaped and managed to find a pay phone. Unless Cas killed every remaining person at this camp. There are a lucky few who either left early or never came to the party at all.
“Where’s your head at?” Cas asks as he halts his movements. He gives Dean a moment to respond before wrapping his arms around Dean’s chest and pulling Dean toward his own, granting him better access to Dean’s ear. “Every single person I killed tonight deserved it. You know that, right?”
One of Cas’ hands glides downward and grabs hold of Dean’s cock, giving it a harsh squeeze, which catapults Dean back to Earth.
“I said, you know that, right?” Cas repeats, swiping his thumb over the tip of Dean’s cock, as though giving a sorta erotic emphasis to his words.
Stuck where he is and loving every torturous second of it, Dean nods minutely, barely perceptible—and if it wasn’t for the fact that Cas’ head is resting in the space between Dean’s neck and shoulder, he would have been unsure if Cas would have caught it.
“I do know that, Cas.” The pressure lessens on his cock, and suddenly Dean feels as though he has to scramble for the right words. “I just, can’t believe you really did it, is all. You murdered every person who ever made me—us—less than, or dirty, or depressed—or—or—”
“Wrong,” Cas finishes for him, the word scarcely above a whisper. “Every person who ever made us feel wrong for loving each other.”
Dean nods, more confident this time, and says, “That’s partially true, if only you could do the same to my dad.”
Turning his torso until he can’t anymore, Dean catches the wicked grin that forms on Cas’ face from those words underneath the mask that’s creeping its way down with each pound of his hips.
Too bad Dean is joking.
Kinda.
(Not really.)
It’s a pity that it’s impossible.
Rather than answer that, and for that Dean is grateful because who the fuck wants to speak about their father while their boyfriend is inside of their ass, Cas shifts his body and begins to pump his hips again toward the same rhythm as before he faltered, a hot hand still sheathed around Dean’s cock this time. Cas enters and exits him over and over, the thick head of his cock stretching Dean’s rim as his moans echo around the trees.
As Dean peers out toward the lake in front of them, he smiles at the way Cas’ stubble tickles the sensitive skin of his neck. The moon reflects off the still water in a perfect circle, clear enough to even see the craters scattered throughout the surface of it. It’s what Dean would call a perfect evening, made even more perfect by the fact that he’s with his perfect match.
To Dean’s dismay, his eyes snap shut as he climaxes, painting the deck with his come, possibly not all that dissimilar to how a psychopath jerks off on his victims. Maybe Dean isn’t all that different from them. Maybe Dean doesn’t want to be all that different from them.
The only thing Dean knows for sure is that the effect of Cas collapsing on top of him post-orgasm will never get old, regardless of where they may physically be. They could be fucking on top of the bodies of every single person Cas killed tonight, their two bodies squirming amid all the split open skin, the organs that fell from their wounds, and the blood pouring out of their veins, and Dean would still like it— love it, even.
Consequently, that’s what Dean tells him, in their own absurd version of pillow talk.
“I’d love you even if you killed me,” Dean confesses, his lips barely moving to shape the words, and he can practically watch those words drift off into the wind after he speaks them out loud.
Yet, Cas hears them. Because of course, he hears them.
“I’d love you even if you killed me, too,” Cas responds, even quieter than Dean this time, his brain presumably mush from the excitement of tonight. Then, a little louder this time, he says, “I’d love you even if I killed you.”
“You’re such a romantic,” Dean says, his voice rising an octave on those last words when Cas pulls out of him and plants a kiss on the back of his neck. Now that the night is done, though, there comes the question of what next. How do Dean and Cas function without those that hate them? Sure, there will always be more, but this felt righteous, fitting for Castiel, his angel, to carry out for him.
“What do we do now?” Dean asks, resisting the grimace that forms while the sensation of Cas’ come slithers down his thighs, inevitably mixing with what Dean discarded on the dock. “I mean, whaddya even do after something like this?”
Cas shrugs, something so informal for him, and replies, “Whatever we want. I don’t know about you, but I feel stronger than I ever have before. Let’s go back to my dorm for the weekend, and get out of town before this all blows up.”
Dean, and his seemingly last brain cell nod enthusiastically to that answer, recognizing it means that unlike small town Milton Lake, they can walk down some streets hand-in-hand, they can be a little louder while they make love at night, and they can exist without that nagging in the back of their heads that compels them to be ashamed. Tonight, at least, they have eradicated those thoughts.
As they walk back through the woods towards Baby, carefully stepping over the carnage, Dean asks, “So, how’d you even get here? You were all cryptic about it while we were planning this. Made me think you didn’t have an idea, but you were too afraid to say that.”
“I hitchhiked.”
“You hitchhiked ? What the fuck, Cas?”
“It’s not that far of a distance,” Cas replies as he squints up ahead when they reach the top of a hill and Baby comes into view. “Besides, I’d do anything to get home.”
“Cas, you hate being at home. Your mom is a suburban housewife from Hell, she could be casted in a movie adaptation for The Stepford Housewives.”
“I didn’t say I’d do anything to get to my house, Dean. I said I’d do anything to get home . There’s a substantial difference in those two statements.”
“And where’s your home, then, Cas?”
They both stop in front of Baby, her shiny, black exterior shimmering under the bright moon. The smell of bonfire and death no longer permeates Dean’s senses, and he can finally take his first, real deep breath of the night.
“You.”
Oh .
“Geez, how did I end up with such a—” Dean stops his words short when he detects movement out of the corner of his eye. A dark, indistinguishable figure is standing tall on the hilltop before they begin jogging down it.
It isn’t until she gets closer that Dean recognizes her. A girl from Dean’s English class his senior year. Kind, smart, and most importantly, not a homophobe—but unfortunately, with the way her face falls when she takes in Dean and Cas’ decidedly bloodstained appearance and carelessness, she already understands too much. Even if she hasn’t come to an accurate conclusion right this second, there is no doubt in Dean’s mind that she will. There's no doubt about it.
“Natalie,” Cas says from beside him, and Dean can picture the fake smile plastered on his face. “What are you doing here this evening?”
The tear tracks down her face are evidence of her crying, and she hesitates before answering in a choked voice, “I came late to the—the party, and I…” She bites her bottom lip, and her foot takes an involuntary step back. “I saw all the bodies, the—the—the blood and the dismemberment , and—”
“Yeah…” Dean trails off awkwardly, mentally kicking himself for that reaction. Fuckin’ “yeah”? That’s all he could think of?
“I think—” Natalie begins, glancing back and forth between the two men as if finally coming to grips with the fact that they are more than likely the ones who are the murderers. “I think—maybe—I should just go .”
Dean shakes his head before his brain could even formulate a verbal response.
“We can’t let you do that, Natalie,” Dean explains firmly, with no room for argument in his tone. “I’m so sorry.”
And he is. He is .
But no one was supposed to come out of this night alive, save for Dean and Cas. She is now a liability, and Cas is not about to go to prison for the rest of his life. Or worse, fail in what they have set out to do.
Natalie lets out a sob, whirls around, and runs to the left toward a long line of cars. Due to her head start, she manages to stop next to the driver’s side door of a Buick, frantically shoving her hands in her pockets as she searches for her keys. It doesn’t take long for Dean to catch up to her, though, and he slides on the soft dirt beneath his feet, body-slamming her onto the car door.
“My bad, my bad,” Dean says, as though empathetic to her pain, whilst he rotates her and proceeds to wrap both of his hands around her delicate throat. They fit perfectly.
Natalie kicks and makes feeble attempts to scream, even going so far as to try and gouge Dean’s eyes out, until Cas arrives at the car and blocks her arms from moving. They restrain her together—Cas on arm duty while Dean slowly strangles the life out of her. The flesh on her neck morphs from a tan to a purple-blue in the places where Dean’s fingers dig into it, only visible once Dean releases her and she collapses onto the ground—suffocated— dead .
“She isn’t gonna pop up like the fuckin’ exorcist or some shit, right?” Dean half-jokes, half-inquires as he lightly flips Natalie’s head over with the toe of his boot, so she isn’t staring at him anymore with blank, wide eyes. “The last thing I need is a face-off with some demonic being tonight. It’s been stressful enough.”
Rather than comment on Dean’s actual question, Cas sighs and wraps one of his arms around Dean’s shoulders, tipping his head until their foreheads partially touch.
“You’re just like me,” Cas says instead, smiling fondly at Dean as he plants a tender kiss on his temple. “I never thought I’d ever get the chance to end up with someone like you. Like me. When I question whether my actions were justified, I remember that you’re my mirror, and I, yours. And if that’s the case, then I could never be evil, because you’re righteous in everything you do, Dean.”
Dean relaxes his hands, arms, and shoulders, not even consciously recognizing how stiff and anxious he felt mere moments ago until the pressure resolves itself from Cas’ words, soothing as a balm. At times, Cas seems to be the only one who has ever witnessed him for real—held Dean’s soul in his hands and didn’t turn his back in disgust. Saved him from the hellishness of his life.
All that is left in Dean for tonight is a certain type of exhaustion that stems from finally freeing himself of everyone who has ever buried him, along with the boundless admiration for the man who gave him the courage to do so. Their love is violent and wrong, yet also safe and so right . The type that’ll leave Dean stranded in purgatory, cursed to repeat the same thing over and over again for it.
“You really know how to make a guy feel justified about murdering an innocent person,” Dean remarks, brushing off the insane way that Cas thinks to compliment him—to prove that they’re soulmates, destined to find each other in this life and the next.
The truth is, Dean’s never been a wordy type of guy, and part of Cas’ charm is that he allows Dean to remain the way he is, with no expectations of whether he’ll change to fit whatever ideal that Cas could have potentially created. He’s never been someone that anyone could fit into a box—a mold. His father, John, tried and failed too many times. Not even John’s fists could beat the queer out of Dean.
Not even a group of ignorant, asshole people could either, as evidenced by the caked blood underneath Dean’s fingernails, and the obvious bits of entrails that somehow made their way into Cas’ thick, dark hair.
“Are you positive that we shouldn’t do anything about the bodies?” Cas asks, looking back in the direction of the campsite as they walk hand-in-hand, their fingers linked, to Baby.
“You’re welcome to stay here longer than you should, but good luck hitchhiking back to Kansas City, babe,” Dean says, grinning sardonically and giving his boyfriend a wink as they slide into Baby.
“You could have just said ‘no,’” Cas grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest, careful not to lean any heavily blood-soaked parts of his body on Baby’s interior.
It melts Dean’s heart.
“Let’s just go home, okay?”
Before he can turn the key in the ignition, Cas wraps his hand over Dean’s hand and gives it a squeeze.
“As long as I’m with you.”
As the car inches down the gravel road, Cas finally relaxes against the door, and Dean can’t even get after him for it because they both know what’s gonna happen next.
“I liked the backstory of this round, Cas. We should do more roleplaying like this on the regular. It even makes the fucking that much hotter after everyone’s sacrificed.”
“Yeah? I liked it, too. And by the looks of it, uh—” Cas stops speaking and simply points to the monstrous, pure black being in the sky. It has thousands upon thousands of various-sized tentacles worming around on its body—some of its tentacles have more shape and rigidness to them, though, appearing more like spider legs than slimy limbs. “—the Entity appears to have appreciated it, as well.”
The Entity is more bottomless abyss than tangible being, yet staring into it every single night since Dean and Cas began its trials long ago, it’s become easier to ascribe emotions to the way its physicality quivers and gesticulates. Usually, the more it vibrates and wiggles, the stronger its excitement, which, in turn, brings a smile to Dean's face. There’s something invigorating about delighting a timeless, omnipotent presence—one that relentlessly feeds off the strong emotions gathered during the murder sprees and uses it to destroy entire worlds.
Some people find this existence excruciatingly torturous, while Dean just finds his role to be thrilling.
“What’re you thinkin’ of doing for the next trial? Same old, same old if we don’t keep it interesting. Remember how monotonous it became before we started acting out scenarios?” Dean asks, locking fingers with Cas as he drives closer to the Entity, which is calling them forth, encouraging them into its gloomy embrace.
“We should go the duo route, I think. I worked too hard this round, you have to help me kill everyone next time,” Cas responds, his lower lip sticking out the slightest bit into a faux-pout.
Sometimes Cas can be such a drama queen.
However, Dean is well aware that Cas prefers to kill the majority of their endless supply of victims, even though they’re the same people time and time again, cursed just as them, except the opposite way. Those who are doomed to die, do so every night, only to be revived and wiped of their memories after they’re murdered, in time for the next trial. The next feeding. Indefinitely.
“How about you kill Meg first? Follow her into the woods when she attempts to leave. I don’t think we’ve ever done that before,” Cas says, never averting his gaze from the Entity.
Dean looks back and forth between him and the Entity, his tongue poking against the inside of his cheek as he momentarily pretends to consider it.
In spite of this, he nods in agreement with Cas’ suggestion, thinkin’ it’s adorable when he tries to involve Dean in his shenanigans. Dean is more of a passive role type of guy, but sometimes slicing through Ruby or Arthur’s abdomen with a machete fulfills an itch in his brain that he becomes desperate to scratch.
There’s zero hesitation when they drive into the Entity, and the second that Dean opens his eyes, it’s daylight again. The opposite of every night's iniquitous ending.
“Winchester,” a voice shouts from the lakeside, and Dean’s shoulders stiffen in response to it instantly.
Rather than replying, Dean continues to sort through the various pins and badges they would award kids for good behavior. The blues in one bin, pinks in the other, oranges in the container on the corner of the picnic table…
A new trial has begun.