Warning: They're serial killers. You know what that means. Read at your own risk.

Usual disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. I never did. Nor will I ever. But please don't sue me anyway because I'm not making any money off of this.

Author's Note:This story was inspired by a gifset that I saw on Tumblr and I just couldn't let it go. So here I am. Writing Dean and Castiel as serial killers. Obviously this is an AU. And I feel incredibly guilty. XD But I wrote it anyway. I'm sorry, Castiel. And Dean. But mostly Castiel.

This is just part one. I'll update as soon as I get the rest of the story edited. In the meantime, please excuse any mistakes you find. And thanks for reading.


Part One -

The first time is almost depressingly easy. A stripper of course because you don't mess with a classic. All it takes is a wink and his careful smile and the chick is all over him, dragging him to the alley out back of the club. She seems so into it that he lets her go for a bit, writhing against him and kissing like her life depends on it. Which it does in a way. When she reaches into his jeans, Dean finally loses the last of his patience, whipping the chick around and into the brick wall face first. She hits with a groan and a stifled squawk.

"What the fuck, asshole?" she says, talking straight into the bricks as he presses a hand to the back of her neck.

"Quiet." There's a swish when he pulls the knife from beneath his coat. A snap as he tugs on gloves. And all the while, he keeps her pinned to the wall like a butterfly.

She starts to whimper just before he makes the first cut. A thin, childish cry.

He bends in close to her ear. "I said quiet." Too bad he didn't bring some tape. A slit throat silences her just as easily. She gasps, struggles weakening by the second. Then it's short work to slice and dice to his heart's content. She bleeds out pretty, spilling red down the brick like a waterfall.

A door at the back of the club opens before he's claimed his prize and Dean swears, slipping into the darkness with bloody knife and hands and a swelling ego.

He did it.

The church is silent this late at night. No penitent souls. No mournful prayers to carry up to God. Just… stillness underlain with the guttural murmur of pleading through duct tape. Father Benedict hunches over the kneeler, face red and sweating, a swath of duct tape wrapping his mouth and another keeping his hands folded together in prayer. His eyes roll madly, trying to pinpoint the source of the echoing footsteps he's hearing so Castiel takes his time, stepping lightly until he makes no more noise than a trailing shadow. He's directly behind the priest before the man is any the wiser.

"Have you asked forgiveness for your sins, father?" Castiel asks quietly, watching as the priest jumps and tries to turn around, pulling against the tape holding him in place.

The priest shakes his head, the speed of his words increasing until it's nothing but a cacophony of gibberish and cries for salvation. The sweat is already loosening the tape over his mouth. Given enough time he might even be able to free himself.

Castiel rounds the kneeler, brushing his coat aside and crouching down in front of the priest. He's shaking now. Shaking and sweating like a demon on holy ground. But not penitent. Castiel can see it in his eyes. The defiance. Castiel licks his parched lips once before speaking with precision. "You are an abomination before God."

The priest goes into a frenzy then, wailing and throwing himself as far as the tape will allow. Castiel waits patiently for him to calm, still on bended knee, head cocked to the side. When the priest falls silent again, Castiel puts a gentle hand to his cheek. "May God have mercy on your soul." Then he's up, wire wound around the priest's throat pulled tight. It's over quickly. A flurry of movement and then nothing. Castiel unwinds the wire, coiling it back into the pocket of his coat, and lets the priest slump against the top of the kneeler. To the casual observer, he would seem to be deep in prayer.

Castiel bows his head, whispering a near silent prayer and crossing himself before he leaves the church.

Dean searches the paper for news of his conquest. Page after page of stock quotes and helpful hints on how to balance a household budget. No sign of a murdered stripper. He hadn't finished but it should have been enough. Finally he finds it, buried near the back, hardly a blip on the radar, reported as a possible crime of passion.

"Crime of passion, my ass!" Dean growls. He crumples the entire paper into a ball and tosses it at the garbage can, missing by at least a foot. Then he flips on the TV.

By some cosmic irony, the news is on, knee deep into a report about a local murder. For a moment, Dean sits up, all attention, but the victim was a priest. He sits back, smiling despite himself. Now there's a twist. Interesting.

When the news moves on to sports, Dean gets up and snatches the mangled paper from the floor. And there on the front page, down in the corner is a picture of the recently murdered priest, the article saying much the same as the TV had. No leads. Victim beaten and strangled. Dean smashes it back into a ball and jams it deep into the garbage can. It should have been him on the front page.

Castiel comes out of his week of solitude to find the city a flurry of activity and paranoia. He automatically checks the date, wondering if perhaps he'd kept himself locked away longer than he'd intended and missed some important event. But it's been only seven days since he passed judgment on Father Benedict. Seven days of prayer, right down to the hour. No more.

Every news report on the television flashes pictures of a pair of pretty young women wearing too much makeup. The same pictures are on every newspaper, splashed across the front page like an advertisement for irresponsibility. At the grocery store, Castiel finally bothers to read the headline accompanying the pictures. He nestles his shopping basket on one arm and takes up the newspaper, brow furrowing as he reads.

Another murder…

Possible links to an earlier crime…

City in fear…

The details on the deaths are scarce, but one thing stands out above all others. Last seen leaving St. Mary Catherine's together after the wake of Father Trent Benedict…

Two girls snatched from the parish of Castiel's last victim on the day of the wake. It's too much to be a coincidence. And the police were using it as an excuse to pin these sloppy, pointless murders on him.

Castiel drops the newspaper into his basket, intent on finishing his shopping as quickly as possible. He needs to get home and write a letter.

Dean whistles his way through work with his head stuffed under car hoods and hands coated in grease. His latest conquest has been all over the news for days. No leads. Terrible tragedy. Of course the police claimed he was the one who killed that priest the other day but that wasn't a big deal. Dean is happy to take the extra credit if that keeps the story in the papers.

Sid pokes his head into the garage, clapping a hand on the wall to get Dean's attention. "Winchester, you in for a beer?"

"Yeah." Dean straightens, wiping his hands on a rag and dropping the hood back into place. "I'm done."

Sid shoots him a smile. Then he heads back into the office, flipping off lights as he goes.

The bar is dark and boisterous. Just the kind of place that Dean would like to hunt but the persistent presence of the guys from the garage keeps his attention focused elsewhere. Namely on the parade of women heading up to the bar.

Sid points out another, a blond this time and at least ten years too young for him. "What about that one?" he asks and a noise of approval goes around the table.

"Whatsa matter, Dean?" Gordon says, smile mocking and face shiny with sweat from the stifling heat. "Not your type either?"

Dean shrugs and glances at her again. Long legs peek from beneath her too short skirt. What he'd like is to get out of here, find a quiet alley somewhere, and find out what color red she bleeds. But he doesn't say that. That would give the game away. He turns back to the table. "I'd hit that," he says with a grin and peace is restored at the table.

Ash nods and puts up a fist. "Hell yeah."

Over the bar, the TV switches from the latest baseball game straight into the blue background of a breaking news report. A somber faced reporter with overly gelled hair fills the screen. His words are muted but a second later a box appears in the corner, the words Fallen Angel Killer filling it.

"Turn that shit off," someone snaps and the channel gets changed to more mindless fun and games. But for Dean the night has just come to a screeching halt. Somehow he knows what those words mean even though he's never heard them before.

"Hey, I gotta get home," Dean says, downing the last of his beer and scooting his chair back before anyone thinks to stop him.

"What? Ya just got here." Sid's mouth hangs open, eyes wide and glazed. It's the look that Gordon shoots his way that makes Dean pause. The predatory glint. It's a dare that he's just waiting to voice.

So Dean settles back down, hooking a foot around the chair leg and trying to smile like he means it. "Okay, you talked me into it." He doesn't care for the way Gordon smiles at him and gives a little nod. "I'll get the next round."

Three hours later, Dean crouches in front of the TV like an animal ready to pounce. He glares at the words on the screen as the reporters lay out the story in sound bites.

A letter signed Fallen Angel, received earlier today…

Contained information not previously reported…

The mysterious writer claims responsibility for the murder of Father Trent Benedict…

Dean feels like putting a boot through the screen. "Son of a bitch," he snaps at the TV instead, pacing the tiny living room. That bastard. Stealing his thunder. Again.

Copies of the letter had been sent out to every TV station and newspaper in the area, arriving earlier that day.

To whom it may concern, says the letter.

Father Benedict was unfit for the cloth, an abomination in the eyes of the Lord, but his death was an act of compassion. In pain and suffering, his soul was purified. I pray that God has been merciful in his final judgment of Father Benedict.

However, the Lord had no designs on these women, Tara Campbell and Felicity Reed, which you have attributed to me. But have no fear. I am a soldier of God. He guides my hand. Through Him I will find the perpetrator and mete out His justice. Have faith.


Fallen Angel

It was all so carefully worded. Like a scholarly Jack the Ripper. The news wouldn't stop talking about this shit but all Dean could hear was the threat.

This Angel asshole thought he would find him? Well, Dean had news for him. Soldier of God or not, that asshole would bleed. And Dean would be there when he did.