Part 3-

Dean's under a piece of shit Toyota when he hears the footsteps coming. Sid appears a moment later, talking loud enough to drown out Lynyrd Skynyrd on the radio. Whoever's with him clears their throat with a cough.

"Uh, Dean?" Sid says. He rocks back and forth, his feet visible from where Dean's lying. Must be serious business. Sid only fidgets when he's nervous.

Dean smoothes his face into careful confusion and slides out from under the car. The owners of the heavy footsteps are two guys in cheap suits. Cops. Dean can tell just by looking at them. He takes his time wiping his hands on a rag that's already grey with grease, waiting for someone else to start them off.

"Dean, these guys—" Sid says before he's cut off by the older of the cops.

"I'm Detective Singer. This is Detective Holt. We'd like to ask you a few questions." The guy has the slight twang of an accent in his voice and a face that looks permanently disappointed.

Dean raises his eyebrows in almost sincere surprise. He's been careful and the fact that he's not bent over a car listening to the recitation of his Miranda Rights means they're not here for him. The detectives are staring at him without a hint of suspicion and Dean is immediately intrigued. "Yeah sure. What's this about?"

"We'll ask the questions," says the guy named Holt. He crosses his arms over his chest, threatening to bust the seams in his ill fitting jacket if he breathes too deeply. "Where were you last night? Say around… 11pm?"

"Bar down by the highway with the guys. Sid was there too." Dean glances at Sid. He's still looking a little hung over, probably enough that he would agree to anything Dean says whether it was true or not.

"Who else was there with you?"

Dean thinks a second even though he could recite the names backwards and forward and in alphabetical order if he had to. "Sid, Gordon, Ash. Andy was there for a little while but he left early. Specific enough for ya?" he finishes with a crooked smile, just a hint of disrespect for the law to show he has nothing to hide.

Holt writes it all down in a little book while the Singer guy gives Dean the staredown. "What time did Gordon Walker leave?"

Interesting question there. Dean frowns. "Don't know. Probably around 10 or so. Wasn't really keeping track."

"Anyone else leave with him?"

Dean shrugs. "Not that I saw. He had a tantrum about something. Stormed out."

"And you don't remember what?" Holt asks abruptly with a pointed stare.

"Not really no. Happens all the time. He's not exactly Suzie Sunshine."

There's a long pause then as Holt and Singer exchange meaningful looks and head nods. Finally Singer turns back to Dean. "Have you watched the news today, Mr. Winchester?"

The coy question gives Dean pause. Obviously he's missed something. It's hard not to smile. This game is getting more and more entertaining. "Nope. Been working since eight this morning."

"Gordon Walker is dead," Singer says.

"Murdered," Holt adds looking a little too pleased by the green look of surprise that crosses Sid's face.

"I didn't know," Dean says honestly. He feigns a little worry for their benefit but he keeps his happy surprise tamped down. That's one loose end he won't have to take care of himself. "How did he die?"

"Hanged."

"Thought you said it was murder…"

"Mr. Winchester," Singer begins, cutting into whatever it is that his partner intended to say. "We believe that this is the work of the Fallen Angel serial killer. Do you know anyone who might have had a grudge against Mr. Walker? An ex-girlfriend? A business partner?"

"Not really. The guy didn't have a lot of friends to begin with."

They ask a few more questions that Dean can't answer, at least not without giving away the game, and then shuffle on their way. As soon as the door closes behind them, Dean turns up the radio, humming along to Dancing Days by Led Zeppelin as he slides back under the Toyota he was working on before he was interrupted. Things are looking up.

He might have to thank Angel for that. Right before he guts him.


Dean is still smiling when he hits the bar that night, alone this time. Sid's still nursing a hangover and Ash has a hot date with some girl he met on the internet. Andy announced last night that he was heading out on another of his cross country "journeys of self discovery." Dean figures he should be back in a month, sunburned and stoned out of his mind.

In the meantime, Dean sets himself up at their usual table and kicks his feet up on one of the empty chairs to relax with a few beers. The place is subdued tonight. Murder must be bad for business. Not that Dean minds. If he'd known a few dead bodies would make it so he could belly up to the bar without clotheslining someone, he might have taken up his hobby sooner.

One of the waitresses slips past his table, running a hand over Dean's shoulder. "You need a refill, hon?" She smiles down at him. Winks.

"That'd be great." Dean smiles back with every bit of his good cheer. He can already imagine the way he'd slice her open, peel back her flesh like an orange rind. But he's in the mood for a little extra fun first tonight. All work and no play makes Jack a very dull boy.

When she brings his beer, Dean glances at the nametag pinned to her checkered shirt. "Betsy, huh? That's a pretty name."

She giggles like he knew she would. "It sounds like a doll's name, huh? Like one of those American Girls."

But Dean isn't listening anymore. His eyes slide away to the TV in the corner. The sound is down like always but it's clear from the caption at the bottom what's going on. Local candidate, Sam Winchester, speaks out about recent rash of murders.

"I'll bet he does," Dean mutters into his beer as he takes a swig.

Betsy looks stricken at his sudden loss of interest but she takes it well enough, pulling herself up to her full five foot nothing height and heading back to the bar without another word.

The guy on the screen is on the younger side, hair a little too long for his crisp suit. He's got a briefcase in one hand, descending the steps of the courthouse like a lawyer in a John Grisham movie. His mouth turns down at the corners and he shakes his head. When he does his hair flips likes he's in one of those shampoo commercials.

Dean can practically hear it. "We need to stop these ruffians before they strike again. My Chihuahua Fifi is absolutely terrified. She won't even go out to tinkle." Dean snickers. The guy looks like the type to own one of those little football dogs, the kind that fit in a pocket or a frilly pink purse. Probably has a cute little girlfriend at home just like his cute little dog. Cries over chick flicks and talks about his feelings. Dean hates him already.

Dean takes another gulp of his beer, happily building an entire yuppie life for the guy on the screen who's probably talking about how Dean's lack of hugs as a child led to his urge to slice people in half.

Dean spins his beer on the table beside him, watching the news despite himself, wondering just what it is that this guy is saying about him. The story changes to something else, football players running across the screen, dancing over yet another touchdown.

A familiar mop of brown hair eclipses the TV. Dean does a double take. Couldn't be.

But it is.

Sam Winchester, Mr. Briefcase himself. He didn't look so big on the TV screen but in person he's like a movable mountain. A moose with too long hair. Dean's half surprised that his head doesn't graze the ceiling as he makes his way to the back of the bar.

He settles into a booth in the corner with a shady looking brunette hanging on his arm like a wet rag. They're barely there ten seconds before she's got her tongue in his ear. It's like porn without the pesky plot. Dean stares at them full on, half expecting Mr. Briefcase to catch him in the act. But he doesn't. He's too busy rubbing circles on the woman's hip and doing a shitty job of hiding the tent in his fashionable jeans.

This just gets better and better. They're barely inches away from public indecency, probably came all the way out to the 'burbs just for the questionable anonymity of this particular bar. So much for Mr. Briefcase and his shiny new career as a politician.

But no one is paying them any mind. Except Dean of course. He's the only one who sees the chick slip him a little bag of something whitish and definitely illegal.

Dean nearly chokes on his beer at that. This is the best show he's had in ages. He sits forward, feet flat on the floor, beer forgotten in hand as the two of them grope and whisper with heads bent together. The guy passes money back to the woman and she nests it in her cleavage like they do in the movies. When they leave a little while later, Dean would be willing to bet money that they're headed to a cheap motel for a night of fun. He kinda wonders if she charges for that too or if that bit's free.

The bar seems quiet with them gone.

Dean doesn't usually like to shit where he eats but the little show he just witnessed left him feeling worked up. It's too much to resist the temptation. His eyes drift over to Betsy. So guileless, always batting her eyelashes at him. She's practically begging him to take her out back and fuck her senseless. Of course that's not quite what Dean has in mind but close enough. He has enough time to play with her a while before he finishes the job. Maybe take her to a motel, do it up right. They can slow dance and listen to Van Morrisson. Dean can be patient this time because he knows it'll be so much better when he finally does the job. He can draw it out with hours of foreplay if he has to. He has to make it last. Make it count. The next target won't be anywhere so easy. Best to get his kicks while he can.

So when Betsy swings by his table again Dean's ready for her.

"Can I get you anything else?" she asks with an unsubtle tilt of her ample cleavage in his direction.

"How about your phone number?" Dean suggests.

She smiles wide with pink lips and straight teeth. She takes care of herself. That's good. "I get off in a few hours," she counters.

"Really now." Dean leans forward, smiling his choir boy smile.


Dean trots up the two short steps to his back door, keys jingling in his hand. It has been an enlightening day. Probably the best he's had in years. He almost misses the jet back shadow as it slips past his shoulder.

He throws up a hand, catching the wire just before it goes taut around his neck. It slides over his palm like fire, biting into the flesh and threatening to cut clean through. His unseen attacker gives the wire another tug. They both trip backwards down the steps.

The guy has a grip on him. Dean has to give him that one.

Dean works his other hand under the wire before it can cut him in half at the neck but just as he's getting a grip on it it zips away, slithering from his grip like a snake.

Dean spins on his attacker, fists up. What he finds is not what he expected. Not by a long shot.

The guy is wearing a tan flasher coat. Ordinary. Like a Jehovah's Witness. Dean could have walked past him ten times and not noticed a thing if it wasn't for those ocean blue eyes, sharp as a hawk's watching his every move.

"Dean Winchester," says the guy and Dean can't help chuckling. The voice is so serious, like he's never laughed at a joke in his life. And it's sharp as gargled glass. "I've been looking for you."

Dean takes another second to look him up and down. He'd suspected. The moment he saw that shadow at his back, he suspected. But greeting just confirms it. "Well, well, well. The fallen Angel. You're smaller than I expected."

His answer is a glare that could melt stone.

Dean snickers. "You didn't think I was gonna make it easy, didja?" He pulls his knife, making sure the Angel gets the full show. The silver glint of the blade in the dim light. A clean canvas waiting for a wash of blood.

"No. I didn't."

The guy moves like lightning but this time Dean is ready. Dodging and ducking, this is a dance he's good at. They trade blows like playing cards. An uppercut to the jaw. A grazing kick to the ribs. The Angel knocks Dean on his ass with a punch to the stomach. He bares his teeth, wheezing for air. Then the guy comes at him again. Dean sweeps his legs out from under him. Angel fights without making a sound. He's silent as the grave and twice as serious. A flash of eyes in the dark. The swish of his oversized coat. Dean hasn't had this much fun in years. This is a fight worth having. He would laugh if he had enough breath left to do it.

They tumble and roll, picking up dirt and a collection of bruises that will be a bitch in the morning. The Angel wrenches Dean's wrist almost hard enough to break it, trying to get the upper hand. Dean smiles. Then he headbutts him.

It stuns Angel long enough for Dean to free his knife hand. The gush of blood from Angel's side is the reward he's been seeking for months. The satisfaction he's needed. The man gasps, falling back into the grass and scuttling away like a crab.

Dean climbs to his feet, taking his time.

The guy's wearing a stuffy black suit under his trench coat, tie askew despite the overall neatness of the rest of him. Dark blood is already soaking the side of his shirt.

"Gotcha," Dean says. "But don't worry. I'll make it really, really slow for you." He grins.

The Angel is back on his feet, hand pressed to his side. His head dips, a wince curling his lip, before his eyes meet Dean's again. "You will be judged." He falters back a step.

"You keep talking while you can, Angel boy. Show me how much energy you got. I've been waiting months for this. I don't want it to be over too soon."

The Angel straightens with a visible effort. "You will be judged," he repeats. Then he turns and flees, coat flapping behind him like wings.

It's so unexpected that Dean stays rooted to the ground until he's almost out of sight. He's had the Angel's blood on his hands. He's had his life in his grasp. And now it's disappearing like sand. Dean takes off after him, vaulting over a fence and sprinting through the next yard.

The Angel makes it to the corner before Dean spots him again. The streetlight hangs over him like a spotlight painting silver highlights in Angel's hair. There's nothing ahead but the orderly sprawl of houses and two story flats. Angel's fast but he's injured. He trips, falling heavily into a car parked on the street.

Dean smiles. He's got him. He's got him.

Just as he thinks it, Angel pulls open the car door and tumbles across the seat.

No. Dammit. No. Dean sprints the last few steps but the car speeds away before he can catch it. He follows Angel's shrinking taillights for another half a block out of sheer spite. Only when he's winded and alone in the middle of the empty street does Dean realize that he's still got his bloody knife in one hand like some asshole in a slasher movie. He stashes it under his coat and swipes at his split lip with a thumb that's tacky with Angel's blood.

This game just gets more and more interesting.


Author's Note: I'm so sorry, you guys! I've been horrible about updating this story but thank you for being so patient. I hope part 3 lived up to your expectations.

Thanks for reading!