The Dead Bodies Mean "I Love You" Part VII
Masterpost | Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI
Dean’s still riding on the high from the kill. Half of him hopes that Castiel leaves them well enough alone, half of him wishes that Castiel keeps pushing until both of them break. A small part of him, so small he keeps it squashed into oblivion, wants to find Castiel and see if those lips really are as soft as they look.
They escaped Missouri easily enough and are hunkered down at the edge of Louisville, Kentucky in a seedy motel. Sam is tapping on the laptop in the corner of the room, face set into a frown. Dean doesn’t ask what he’s doing. It doesn’t really matter in the long run.
Except, of course, when it does.
“Hey,” Sam throws a pillow at Dean’s head. “You’re gonna wanna read this.”
Sam pushes the laptop on Dean’s lap, carelessly letting his hands brush on Dean’s thighs. He scoots in close and puts his head on Dean’s shoulder. Dean sighs and starts reading. It’s an article from CNN.
Another tragedy has taken place only yesterday. Jo Harvelle (24 y.o.) was found dead in her apartment this morning. Authorities were contacted when she didn’t come in for work.
Jo Harvelle is the daughter of Ellen Harvelle, who was murdered by the Winchester brothers two years prior.
Harvelle didn’t have a social life. She had no friends and her fellow employees at Hooters had little they could tell about her, just that she was “rambunctious” and “more likely to kill someone than be killed herself”.
Cause of death was four stab wounds deep in her chest. A note was pinned to her shirt.
Dean clicks the picture and it fills the entire screen. It’s a crisp script, clear and legible, written on regular lined paper, splattered with rust-colored blood.
Your move, Winchesters. -C
If it isn’t for Sam sitting right next to him, Dean would’ve thrown the laptop out the window. This is wrong in so many ways. It almost unnerves him that Castiel, this nobody from Illinois, knows about Jo. Knows about Jo and is calling them out on it.
“We gotta get back at him,” Dean says.
“Yeah we do,” Sam agrees. “We need to visit Garth. Get information on Castiel.”
“Repay the favor,” Dean says. “Kill someone close to him.”
“Exactly,” Sam says. He bites his lips and looks up at Dean. “You remember it, don’t you?”
“Of course I remember it,” Dean snaps. He takes a breath and tries to calm down, “He just had to go for Jo, didn’t he?”
Dean remembers it too well. That night. It’s burned into his mind and though sometimes he dreams about it, they’re nothing compared to what really happened...
Bobby Singer was visiting Ellen that night. They wanted to celebrate another victory, putting a rapist behind bars for good. Jo was in the backroom, getting a fresh bottle of whiskey and Ash was playing pool with himself.
That’s when Dean and Sam came in.
Ellen was laughing with Jo and Bobby smiled as he took his shot. They all froze at the sight of the two boys standing in the doorway.
“What are you boys doing here?” Ellen asked. “I thought I told you to never come back.”
“Because you’re ashamed of our father?” Sam retorted. “And after all he did for you guys.”
“John Winchester lost his place here when he turned in his badge,” Bobby said.
“Turned in his badge?” Dean stepped in. “He didn’t turn in his badge! The damn cops took it from him! He was doing what was right.”
“He was breaking the law!” Bobby slammed his glass on the table. “There was no evidence that Alex was the arsonist, no evidence that it even was arson! It could have been anything and your daddy should’ve left it alone!”
“Shut up!” Dean shouted, pulling a gun out. “It’s your fault our father’s dead! You didn’t help him!”
“There wasn’t anything we could do!” Ellen stepped in.
“Yeah, sure,” Sam gave a wicked smirk. “I’m assuming you saw what we did.”
Their faces paled.
“We found that son of a bitch, and we killed him,” Sam’s smirk grew wider. “Tortured him even, until he was begging for death.”
“Boys,” Ellen dropped her hands. “What happened?”
“You know what happened?” Dean waved his gun. “That bastard took our mother, he took our father, and neither of you had enough of a spine to stand up and fight!”
“The system is corrupt,” Sam pulled his own gun out. “It’s wrong.”
It happened so fast, sometimes Dean couldn’t remember. He aimed a shot at Ash, but the man ducked out of there like a jack rabbit, the bullet splintering the wood paneling of the bar. Sam tied up Bobby and Ellen and Jo ran off.
Dean couldn’t kill her. Not with her blond hair and blue eyes. She looked like his mother.
Ellen and Bobby had no such luxury.
They didn’t scream when Sam and Dean started torturing. They shed a tear or two, maybe whimpered, but didn’t cry. Just begged for them to stop. That’s all they asked. They claimed that it wasn’t like the boys to do this. That they knew Sam and Dean.
It was better than hearing them cry out. Watching the betrayal hit their eyes, watching as their hopes and dreams shattered with the knowledge of exactly who these boys were. It was the first time Dean really felt the bloodlust boiling under his skin.
---
Garth Fitzgerald IV is in Pine Creek, Delaware. It’s some back country town that no one thinks twice about. A perfect place for him to hide and get intel for the Winchesters.
He met them several months ago, almost a whole year, and couldn’t stop himself. He works for the police, as a traffic cop. Garth spends his days sitting on street corners handing out speeding tickets, giving DUIs, and such. Doesn’t matter that he’s got more than enough brains to be a homicide detective because he’s “not strong enough” for the job.
Who’s not strong enough now, bitches.
Sam and Dean are sitting in his living room, asking for help. How many cops would kill to be in his position right now? To have the Winchesters at their mercy. Garth doesn’t confuse himself, he knows that he’s on the brothers’ timetable and they come first in, well, everything.
“You want to know more about this Castiel guy, right?” Garth sits down. “Because let me tell you, this was not easy to come by.”
“Just tell us what you got, man,” Dean says.
“Well, his name is Christopher Milton,” Garth hands over a file. “He left home at eighteen and basically dropped from everything. Nothing on him for ten years. That’s when things start getting strange.”
“Strange how?” Sam asks, flipping through the pages of Castiel’s file.
“He got a sword personally made, paid in cash. Had to be a few thousand dollars and he dished it out like pocket change,” Garth explains. “It’s got a six inch handle and twelve inch blade. It’s made of pure silver and one of a kind.”
“That’s not all though, is it?” Dean sighs.
“Then he bought a used car, also in cash, and disappeared.”
“When was this?” Sam asks.
“Last year.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Dean lifts his hands. “You can’t mean this guy has been planning to go on a killing spree for an entire friggin’ year. He showed up literally two months ago!”
“I’m just guessing here,” Garth leans forward. “But I think he was waiting for his calling or something. You know how religious he is. Maybe it took him a year before he felt ready for his first kill. I don’t really know.”
Sam elbows his brother, pointing to something on the file. Dean nods and writes something down on a spare sheet of paper.
“Well, we’re off,” Dean stands up and makes his way to the door. “Got a long drive ahead of us.”
“Where are you going?” Garth stands up and follows. “Maybe I can come with?”
“Not today, Garth,” Sam grins and pats him on the shoulder. “We need you here, keeping an ear to the ground for us.”
“Yeah, okay,” Garth shrugs. “I’ll text you if I got anymore information on your angel.”
“Thanks,” Dean waves, halfway to the car. “We’ll see ya around, Garth!”
Garth waves as the brothers disappear on to the main road. He has the most important job, he knows that. If not for him then, hell, Sam and Dean would probably be dead. He tells them when to back off and who to kill. He got them Bela for God’s sake! He’d just like to have a reward, to go on a hunt with them. Just once.
It’s not his place to ask, so Garth doesn’t push the issue. He shoves his hands into his pockets and sulks back into his house, ignoring the creeping feeling at the back of his neck.
---
Castiel smirks to himself. So that is Garth. He looks like an easy kill. Small and scrawny, more brains than brawn. Perhaps Castiel can play with him before killing him. He slides down the tree and casually walks back to his car.
He will have to wait, however, until Thursday. He’s still known as Castiel and he’s not going to break his pattern, even if his victims have changed.
There is a more pressing concern however. What are the Winchesters doing here? They haven’t personally visited Garth in months, why the sudden change? What information do they need? And do they have it?
Castiel doesn’t know what to think. He can only hope that the next few days will enlighten him to their motive.
---
Union, Kentucky. Another one of those quaint cities on the east. Sam double checks the address as he and Dean make their way to one Anna Milton. She’s the little sister of Castiel, only 21 and still living at home.
They drive for ten straight hours and arrive around two in the morning. Dean downs the rest of their coffee and glances at Sam.
“We’re going the right way,” Sam says. “Should be just up that street there.”
“How are we playing this one?”
“Thought we’d just go for it,” Sam shrugs. “This isn’t the time to indulge.”
He gives his brother a knowing look. Oh yes. Sam knows what feelings Dean harbors for Castiel. It’s some sick, twisted, lust he’s got. Sam can’t bring himself to be jealous. Honestly, Castiel is a perfect match. He and Dean will be equals. They will fight each other to the death. Fight until neither of them are standing.
It’s not something Sam can give his brother. Sam can’t knowingly hurt Dean, can’t push the power-play as much as Castiel.
He’s upset that he isn’t more upset.
“I’ll go in,” Dean interrupts Sam’s thoughts. “Bring her out.”
“Oh, Dean!” Sam groans. “We weren’t going to do that! You promised!”
“Come on, Sam!” Dean punches him. “You don’t want to do the whole dead-body-in-a-river thing? That’s what horror flicks are made of!”
“Exactly!” Sam punches back. “We’re not horror flick material. And you promised!”
“We gotta get Cas’s attention somehow,” Dean pushes.
Sam freezes in his mind. Cas? Since when was Castiel Cas? Somehow, in the middle of all this, Dean added someone else on his VIP list. It’s not just Sam anymore. Castiel is on it too.
He wants to be angry. God, does Sam want to be angry. He wants to tear up the states to get rid of the angel. He wants to fight and kick and scream. He wants to demand that Dean stops thinking about Castiel, that he thinks about Sam and only Sam. Forever.
That’s what it’s supposed to be. The Winchester Brothers against the world until they die. There isn’t supposed to be an angel. This shouldn’t be happening.
Dean is smiling, for the first time, smiling over something that isn’t blood. It’s not a sinister smile, or a broken one, it’s one of exhilaration. It’s a smile that Sam hasn’t seen in years. And if this Castiel is the reason why his brother is smiling, then maybe Sam can overlook this one thing.
“Fine,” he lifts his hands in surrender. “Go get her, throw her in the trunk, whatever you want. I’ll look for a river.”
Dean’s smile is a million watts and he rushes out of the car.
---
Ronald feels a gag in the back of his throat. He’s seen plenty of drowned victims before, but it never gets easier, watching the body being hauled up to the surface. There’s a news crew behind him, trying to film what’s going on.
Henricksen is going to kill him when he shows up.
The coroner is looking down at the body, making noises under his breath and marking his clipboard. Ronald sneaks around so he’s blocked by a tree, but can still observe the scene. It’s not pretty, but there’s not much to tell.
Guesses are she was dropped somewhere around Belleview, Kentucky and floated with the river nine miles before beaching. It’s miraculous really, that the body didn’t float all the way down the Ohio River and that it landed on the Kentucky side as well.
“Reznick!”
Ronald cringes behind the tree, making shushing motions at the coroner. But there’s no hiding from Victor when he wants you. Victor looks surprisingly put together considering it’s supposed to be his lunch break and the press is at the crime scene.
“Oh hi, Henricksen, I was just getting an early look at the vic and-” his voice is cut off as Victor pushes him away.
“What the hell is the news doing here?” he growls. “This is not something we want spread out! We don’t even know who the stiff is or the motive! Castiel killed the last Harvelle and we couldn’t keep that quiet, so dammit Reznick get the press out of here!”
“That’s not my job,” Ronald pushes back. “Go tell the little Kentucky cops your problem and they’ll get rid of the press. I’m staying here.”
Ronald can see the gears turning in Victor’s head as he turns the idea over in his head. Finally, he sighs and goes to yell at some local cops, leaving Ronald and the dead body alone with the coroner.
“Cause of death then?” he squats by the body.
“I’m guessing the giant stab wound in the chest,” she replies dryly. “She has bruises around her wrists and a few other nicks here and there but nothing else of consequence.”
“Anything else?”
“Her name is Anna Milton,” the coroner snaps, standing up. “She was a sweet girl and didn’t deserve to die.”
“What’s your name?” Ronald asks. He’s dealt with people like this before. People too close to the victim, letting their personal feelings get in the way doing a job well done.
“Pamela Barnes,” the coroner says. “Anna is my friend. I asked to come here. It’s the least I could do for her.”
“You should have known better,” Ronald says. “This isn’t personal, this is professional, and if you’re finished then you can go and leave the rest of the work to me.”
Pamela Barnes frowns and rips off the paper from her clipboard. Ronald takes it and shoos her away, turning to the body at hand. Anna Milton.
She was a beautiful woman. Red hair and white skin, blue eyes wide and unseeing. All that youth lost, for what? Ronald pushes the damp hair away from the skin and sees his answer. A small pentagram marked on her neck. Pamela Barnes didn’t do such a good job.
Victor marches back, face furious, the news anchors leaving.
“They’re parasites,” he snarls. “Bloodsucking parasites who just want a story.”
“Well, this is a story,” Ronald points to the pentagram. “The Winchesters got another one.”
Part VIII