Title: This Can't End Well
Author: highermagic
Rating: NC-17
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Castiel, Sam/Gabriel
Spoilers: Season 4/5/6
Warnings: confusion, character death, angst, dub-con, violence, language, creature!boys, HEA.
Word Count: WIP
Summary:"Cas? It's Sam. Listen…you haven't seen Dean around, have you? It's been four hours, and I still can't get a hold of him. Call me back when you get this."
Notes: Unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own. Hey guys. I'm sorry I haven't been updating anything - life's been crazy busy, busier than I thought it'd be, and I'm going through one of those phases where my brain refuses to give me a fucking bone for anything. So, because I'm writing the SPN/Wicked High School AU for NaNo, I thought I'd give you a little bit of the other option too. Fair's fair, after all. Can't say when the next update will be, but probably soon. Hopefully. Along with everything else. (: Enjoy!


'I say to myself, I will not mention him.
I will speak his name no more.
But then it becomes like fire burning in my heart,
imprisoned in my bones,
I grow weary holding it in. I cannot endure it.'


Dean was no stranger to waking up in a house he didn't remember getting to – in fact, recently, it had been kind of on par. As long as he managed to get home alright, he figured no harm no foul, and after the epic fuck-up that had been the last hunt, he figured he deserved a damn drink too many, or five.

Besides, it was just common courtesy to go to the girl's house – that way he could slip out when he'd finished and avoid the whole awkward 'morning after' moments, steal into his car that he really shouldn't have driven there and peel away, leaving behind a mere memory and a smell on the sheets.

Blinking open his eyes, the first thing Dean saw was white. White ceiling, white walls…everything was white, and for a heart-stopping moment he thought he might be in a hospital, or dead (he'd ended up in a hospital once after a one-nighter went wrong, so it wasn't a completely strange thing to think. He did know, from experience, however, that death wasn't like this). But, blinking a few times and opening his eyes further, he saw that, no, he was neither of those things – just in a recently purchased home. He guessed that, when he sat up, from the half-unpacked boxes piled up on one side of the room. The bed he was lying on was large and spacious, the sheets felt soft and new – definitely more upper-class than what he was used to.

The sheets were a dark royal blue, and they felt so soft and inviting under Dean's fingertips that he almost contemplated waiting until the chick came back up and demand he get out. But that was just awkward, not to mention rude, so he threw his feet over the side of the bed and began the long search for his clothes.

Or he would have. Turned out he was still fully clothed, and that realization made him frown, looking back around the room again. Why was he in a strange house with no memory of how he'd gotten there…? Dean swallowed, suddenly on the alert, and stood. There was only one door to the room, but there were two large windows and he headed over to those first. Outside was the picturesque suburban street, the trees and sidewalks just lightly dusted with snow – there were two or three tracks in the street that spoke of cars, and given that it was – he checked his watch – nine in the morning, he assumed it must be a pretty quiet street.

He took another look around. The houses were large and typical; he wondered just how many people he might share the place with, right now. His gun wasn't tucked into his jeans; he had no weapons currently on him. He would have to rely on his wits and strength alone.

The Impala was not parked outside. He either really couldn't remember anything and totally blacked out before even getting anywhere with his lady of the evening, or he was taken here against his will. Either way he probably wouldn't get the most polite greeting ever when he went downstairs.

His phone was in his pocket, he found, and he pulled it out, scrolling to Sam's number. It rang three times before the 'This is Sam. Leave a message' recording played, and Dean grunted, hanging up again.

"Well," he murmured to himself, "must not be a kidnapper." They did leave him his phone, after all. Not the typical M.O. of a headhunter or body snatcher. Then again, humans were plain crazy, so Dean would still have to be careful.

Sliding his phone back into his pocket, Dean made his way to the door. He hadn't heard Sam's cell going off on this floor so Dean figured he was there alone, with whomever else might be here that had come here with him last night. His shoes were off, and his bare feet made little to no noise as he softly padded down the hallway, carefully listening for any movement around or beneath him. All of the doors to the hallway were wide open, letting in the morning light. It seemed like every room was in a stage of being unpacked, like whoever lived here had literally just moved in, and Dean frowned, wondering what kind of person would take a one-night-stand to a home that was barely lived in. There were no pictures hung up on the walls, no furniture set up.

Only one room looked even remotely lived in, and it was at the end of the hall at the top of the stairs. Dean spared a glance downward, seeing that, like on the upstairs floor, none of the lights were on, natural daylight the only illumination to be found. Cautiously he went into the room, flicking on the light, and one single bulb flickered to life overhead – without a lampshade.

The walls were a deep, rich red color, like blood, patterned with copper and gold leaf to create a kind of repeating forest motif that spanned through the first two walls Dean saw when he swung the door further open. The end wall was completely covered in a bookshelf like something out of English romance novels – Dean was almost convinced that one of them would lead to a secret passageway. Biting his lip and tossing one last glance over his shoulder, Dean stepped all the way into the room, closing the door behind him.

There was a fireplace set half-way down the adjacent wall, and it looked recently used, and in front of it laid a large, thick Persian rug. Dean gave a soft whistle, his bare toes digging into the softness. "Pricey," he muttered, raising an eyebrow and looking around the rest of the room. In fact, everything in there looked of extremely high quality – definitely didn't match the dollar store boxes and Ikea bed, though the sheets made a little more sense. Clearly, whoever lived here had a sense of comfort and wouldn't spare any expense for it.

He almost jumped when he heard the front door slam, and he quickly plastered himself to the door, holding his breath as he tried to hear the other person moving around downstairs. He heard a jingle of keys and the rustle of paper bags being set down, figured she went to go grocery shopping. There were no windows to this room, and he knew the light would give him away, so he hurriedly flicked it off, casting himself into darkness.

The daylight from outside filtered under the door, and Dean held his breath, bracing himself when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs, saw the shadow of the other person approaching. Maybe, if they went all the way to the bedroom, he could slip out and try and get his bearings and maybe just leave. Because still being in bed for an unsatisfied one-night-stand was one thing, but being caught snooping in said one-night-stand's house while she was gone was an entirely different ball game.

The steps reached the top of the stairs, and stopped. Dean swore he could hear the person sniff the air. "Dean?" came a cautious voice, calling out like the first victim in a horror movie, and Dean's eyes widened, because that was not a female voice. In fact, that voice was decidedly male, and Dean let his eyes fall closed, just briefly, shoulders sagging. Maybe he had had a bit too much to drink last night.

Still, live and learn. Move on – now was not the time to have a big gay panic.

"Dean?" the voice called out again, and the shadow and steps move away towards the bedroom, and Dean took a deep breath, frowning a little – he could swear that the voice sounded a little familiar…but he shook it off. Sensory memory from the night before. Of course he would remember the voice of the guy he'd gone home with.

Right?

"Dean, are you home?" Well, that was a little weird to say, but Dean wasn't really paying attention right then – he was concentrating on how far away the voice was. It was exactly twenty-seven paces to the bedroom. He had counted fifteen…

"Dean?"

Eighteen…

"Dean, you're scaring me. Come on out, baby."

Twenty-three.

"I'm sorry about last night, I didn't mean to -."

Dean stopped listening, then, and quickly and quietly turned the handle on the door, shoving it open as firmly but as quietly as he could. The door swung open on oiled hinges and Dean quickly, after checking that the coast was clear, ran to the steps and quickly padded down them. The stairs turned twice, so he ended up facing the way he came, and looked around the very open-plan lower floor.

"Damn it," he muttered, looking up, able to hear the footsteps of the mystery man coming back his way. He couldn't see his shoes, didn't know where his car was or if he left anything that could identify him to the mystery man or tell him where he had gone…Quickly Dean swerved left, around a column supporting the house and then further still, towards what he assumed was a back door.

When he tried to open it, it didn't budge. It was not only locked, but something had jammed it in place, there. "Damn it," Dean growled again, looking up through the glass windows to the garden outside. There was about a foot of snow back there – where the hell was he?

Then, suddenly, he was not by the door anymore, but being slammed face-first against the wall next to it. He grunted in surprise, trying to twist around to get a hold and throw his attacker off, but there were strong hands caging his wrists, knowing fingers pressing down hard into the pressure points on the inside and Dean hissed in pain, sinking down to his knees when the man behind him shoved him down, because the way he had his arms caged Dean felt like the guy was a second away from dislocating his elbow, and he'd rather call this one lost and get out without being too badly messed up than fight too hard too soon.

There was a hand on his head, keeping his gaze centered down. "Who are you?" the man demanded, his voice low and rough and Dean could only think definitely familiar, where the fuck do I know that voice from? But his brain was addled from a hangover he was only just starting to feel coming on and the pain of being slammed against the wall and he couldn't think, couldn't place it.

"You've been calling my name," he gritted out, "you tell me."

It was, apparently, the wrong thing to say, as the mystery man behind him growled, and Dean felt him kneel down, hands tightening painfully around his wrists. "Where is he?" the voice demanded again, and Dean gasped and shook his head because how the hell should he know? He didn't even know where he was. The hands tightened. "Where is Dean?"

"I'm right here!" Dean gritted out, bending forward because it really fuckin' hurt, whatever he was doing to his hands, and no matter how Dean tried to wring them free, he couldn't. "Listen, buddy, obviously we're both a little confused so why don't you just let me go and we can -."

"I don't have anything to say to you," came the reply, and Dean swallowed when the creature let him go, standing instead, but Dean had a feeling that it would be better to keep his head down, so he did, trying to steal glances out of the corner of his eye. All he managed to glimpse was a thin body encased in loose-fitting, frayed jeans, bare feet also, and pale hands that hung down by his sides. He tried to look further up, to get a face or any distinguishing features, but the man looked back around at him and Dean quickly ducked his head.

The man growled. "Come here," he muttered, grabbing Dean by his collar and hauling him up, but Dean struggled, turning around, trying to get a punch in edge-wise, to get the advantage and run away. The last thing he heard, before pain exploded on the side of his face, was a dark laugh and a soft 'nice try'.


It had been too long – Dean was usually back from his random romps with women by now. Or at least he would have called, would have gotten into contact somehow; let's face it, when it came to Sam, Dean never tried to hide. He never left Sam in the dark when he could help it.

Sam frowned, knowing Dean's phone hadn't been picking up, and so tried Castiel instead. It went to voicemail. "Cas? It's Sam." He swallowed, clearing his throat, and looked down. Dean's car had never even left the bar parking lot. "Listen…you haven't seen Dean around, have you? It's been four hours, and I still can't get a hold of him. Call me back when you get this."

He hadn't left with anyone, so far as anyone could tell him – the bartenders didn't even remember seeing him, but that was definitely the Impala, sitting in the car lot. Sam swallowed back his worry, knowing something bad must have happened to his brother, but all he could think to do was start her up and drive her back to the motel, keep searching, and wait for either Dean or Castiel to make a blip on his radar.


The barking of Hellhounds spurred them on – it was wet, raining steadily, had been for the past four days, on and off, and he knew they were running out of time, before the hounds would catch up.

"This way!" he yelled, grabbing his mate's hand and hauling him in a different direction, and the larger man stumbled but managed to keep up. "Damn it, change!"

"I'm not leaving you behind," came the gritted out reply, the stubborn refusal to leave him, and he shook his head, looking back over his shoulder. He couldn't see them coming, because they were not after him – they were after his mate.

"Damn it," he murmured, looking ahead of him again, and spied the dark aluminum roof of a barn. "That way! Go!"

They hauled ass towards that barn, the barks and growls of the hounds just behind them when they ran inside. "Salt?" he asked, and the other man shrugged, helpless – they didn't have anything. Why would they? They had to run and that meant no weight. He growled, rubbing his hands together, and tried to think, tried to come up with a plan, but the barks of the hounds were so deafening, and his mate's fear was like a tangible sour taste in his mouth.

"Okay…okay," he whispered, rubbing his hands together again, tribal markings coming to life on his face as he summoned his power, tried to think of a spell – any spell, that he would be able to cast, to hide them or transport them away from here.

In another step, he felt a dark, cold shiver down his spine. Sigils flared to life under his feet and he looked up, wide-eyed and disbelieving, as his mate stared at him, and then the door they had come through slammed open and the demon stepped inside.

He was smiling.

"Have at 'em, darlings," the demon said with a careless wave of his hand, like he couldn't care less, like he didn't even give a flying rat's ass that he was about to kill an innocent creature – someone who didn't deserve -.

"No!"

He had to watch – helpless, trapped in a circle that is faintly glowing with power, he had no choice but to watch everything in horrific, sharp-edged detail. The scream of pain felt like it might be coming from his own throat, blood spurting, hot and thick in the rain-tinged air, over a broad chest and through desperately, weakly clutching fingers. He fought against the sigils holding his power at bay, but he was just one man – just one man, how could he fight against such a powerful creature?

The air was heavy with the scent of rain – the storm was thoroughly breaking over them. It might have been in response to his rage, to his anguish. He couldn't tell – he didn't care.

A broken scream of pain cut through the air as the body he was watching being ripped to shreds slumped to the ground, blood leaking sluggishly from the wounds on its chest and legs. He'd tried to fight. He'd tried to run away – damn it.

"No," he whispered, blinking past tears of fury and grief, falling to his knees and clutching at his own heart, as though he were the one to have been dealt such horrific wounds. He could see the outline of his mate's still heart through the giant cuts on his chest.

"A debt's a debt," came a voice, and he fell forward to brace himself on his hands and knees, fingers curling into fists against the concrete of the barn floor – it looked like it hadn't been used since the sixties, marred with dirt and weathered down. His eyes began to glow, full of hate and ire, and he snarled as he lifted his head, shoving himself to his feet.

"I had time!" he accused, throwing a hand out, intending to snap the smug little man to pieces where he stood, but the circle of sigils pulsed with power and there was no effect. The demon laughed. "I still…" He choked off, looking to the broken body, tears finally pouring over and starting to roll down his cheeks. His mate's skin was pale, blood pooling around him, thick and dark, staining his outstretched arm, as though he had tried to reach for him in his last moment.

Dark, sorrow-filled hazel eyes flashed back to the demon. "Let me keep him," he begged in a soft whisper, fingers slowly uncurling from his clenched fists, flexing nervously at his sides. "Don't take him away."

The demon laughed again, folding his hands over his belly and rocking on his heels. "So that you can just use your Djinni magic to summon him back?" He shook his head, stepping forward to the very outer edge of the ring of sigils. The creature's eyes pulsed blue in hatred, a snarl rolling from his mouth as the tribal markings on his face began to stand out – the magic was weakening in the circle. "I wasn't born yesterday, you know."

"You son of a bitch," the creature growled, baring sharp, shark-like teeth as he finally managed to tear his eyes away from his fallen mate, to the smug little demon standing in front of him and regarding him with cool black eyes. "I'm going to hunt you down. I swear, if it's the last thing I do, I will make you regret this."

The demon chuckled darkly. "It's fifteen-love, sweetheart. I look forward to your next serve." Then, with a snap of his fingers, he and the dead skinwalker disappeared, with not even a trace of blood to get the scent by, and the Djinn was left to seethe, and plan, within the circle of the rapidly fading runes.


Dean came to in the basement. Well, he assumed it was the basement, from the smell of water and the cold, bone-deep chill radiating from the cement walls. He looked around, grunting and trying to clear his throbbing head, and sat up a little, only to find that ropes had him bound tightly to the chair he was sitting on, wrapping several times around his chest and biceps, then his wrists. There were also ropes around his ankles and strapping his thighs down so he really couldn't move, despite how much he wiggled and tried to see any weakness in the bindings. There were none.

"Son of a -." He was cut off, then, as the door to the basement swung open behind him. He tried to turn around, to get a look at the guy who attacked him, but his head couldn't turn that far and he soon gave up. The door closed, casting him in shadow again, before a light flickered on overhead.

It was only bright enough to illuminate a thin shaft of the basement, where Dean was sitting, and the outer edge of a metal desk that stood just in front of him and off to one side.

This is not gonna be good, he thought to himself, listening with baited breath to the soft footsteps approaching him. He jumped when he heard something clanging against metal, and looked over to find the man standing, with his back to him, setting out a series of…Dean couldn't not use the word…implements on the desk.

He couldn't see much of what the man was holding, couldn't see his face or make out any details aside from his pale, long-fingered hands. There was a flash of a silver knife before it was set down, and a flask, and the scent of blood in the room was very strong.

"I'm going to ask one more time," he said, voice too light and conversational when Dean swore he could hear the shing of a whet stone over a blade. The man turned towards him. "Tell me where Dean is, and we can brush this off and call it a misunderstanding."

"When will you realize that I am -." Dean cut himself off with a hiss when the man, faster than he could keep up with, stepped forward and plunged the silver knife into Dean's shoulder. The Hunter cried out, fighting against his body's instinct to curl up on itself, because it would only make the bleeding and tearing worse, and sat back, breathing heavily, sweat beginning to gather on his forehead and down the back of his neck.

"Tell me what you did with him!"

"I have no idea what the hell you're talking about!" Dean snapped back, jaw clenching, fingers curling harshly into the wooden arms of his chair as the man yanked the knife back out, growling in displeasure when Dean showed no signs of being affected other than a grunt of pain. "What are you, a hunter?" he demanded. "I'm not anything supernatural!"

The man paused, briefly, looking over his shoulder at Dean. "I'll be the judge of that," he murmured, before taking a flask of holy water and throwing it on Dean's bare forearm. Nothing. He growled again in frustration. "How does a man break into my house and overpower my mate and come out the other side, unscathed as you are?"

"Your…dude, what are you talking about?" Dean asked, blinking in surprise at the use of the word 'mate' – only monsters had ever used that word, in his experience. "What are you?" He deliberately ignored the little connection in his mind that the 'Dean' this guy was thinking of was mated to this psychopath.

The man paused again, looking over towards Dean who was staring at the vague spot he imagined the guy's eyes were. There was a flash of bright blue irises like the silver knife in the half-light. "My name is Castiel," the man said, and Dean's eyes widened. He sat back and stopped trying to fight against his bonds, blinking dumbly towards the other man.

"Cas?" he hazarded, confusion crossing his face.

In a flash, the creature was there, holding a knife to Dean's throat. Fury flashed in his eyes and he snarled, baring more than one set of teeth behind his lips, the second set serrated and jagged-edged like a shark's.

"Don't call me that," he growled, pressing a little more harshly, his eyes flat and dangerous. "Don't you dare call me that. You are not him."

"Woah, woah," Dean cried out, shrinking back away from the press of the cold blade against his skin, fear spiking through him for a moment. Looking at Castiel's mouth – and it was Castiel, he saw that now, lacking the Angelic Grace – with those teeth, his mind supplied him with one word; vampire.

What the hell was going on?

"Look, listen, calm down, I think I understand what's going on here -."

"Do you?" the not-Castiel demanded, pressing a little harder.

"Yes, damn it!" Dean bit back in reply, turning his head to one side to try and get more room between his throat and the knife. The alternate Castiel seemed to subside at that, his white-knuckled grip on his knife relaxing, eyes dragging down from Dean's face to the vulnerable line of his neck, and it clicked in Dean's mind that baring his neck to a vampire was probably not the smartest thing he had ever done, but it was too late for that now. "Listen…I have a Castiel too," he said, swallowing when the vampire makes a curious sound in his throat, leaning in and sniffing along the flexing tendon in Dean's neck. "But he wan't…he was an Angel – I mean, like, literally. I think, somehow, this Dean and I – your Dean, I mean – have gotten…swapped or something."

"Swapped?" Castiel repeated, his breath ghosting over Dean's pulse, his flushed-with-pain skin, and the Hunter shivered, tensing up defensively, making the vampire chuckle. "You shouldn't do that," he murmured, instead leaning his head down to the sluggishly leaking wound in Dean's shoulder. "It'll make you bleed out faster."

Dean tensed up further in response to that, wincing when pain shot up and down his arm and shoulder, and his arm began to feel numb. He wiggled his fingers to try and get feeling back into them. "Listen," he gasped out, one last time, "I know you don't want me here – you want your mate back." It took willpower he didn't even know he had not to blanch at the word 'mate' in reference to something that apparently shared his name. "Well, I want to get back too. So help me – help me figure out what's going on and how we can get everyone back where they're meant to be."

"Hmm…" The vampire paused, his breath very close to the open wound in Dean's shoulder. One of his hands came forward, pressing against Dean's chest, against his pounding heart, and Castiel chuckled, leaning in and licking, once, at the smooth trail of blood running down from Dean's open wound. Dean shuddered, fists and jaw clenching at the sensation of being…drunk from – he knew the feeling, of being a vampire, even though he'd never tasted human blood; he knew how good it smelled, how…tempting it was to bite and drink forever.

The vampire lapped at his wound again, just one more small flick of his tongue, before he withdrew, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, though there was no blood there to wipe away. His narrowed eyes regarded Dean.

"You will wait here," he said, "and I shall be back."


Sam's phone buzzed at five thirty in the morning – the Hunter rolled over sleepily, wiping at his face and the tiny amount of drool that had been determinedly mapping the corner of his mouth to the pillow with his palm, before sitting up. The bright blue of his phone made the little black letters trying to bleed into focus hard to see, but after a few more slow, rhythmic buzzes and another face-wipe, Sam managed to focus enough to see the name 'Cas' flash across the screen.

Immediately he flipped his phone open. "You got anything?" he asked, rubbing at his eyes again and willing himself to wake up.

"I've found him," came the Angel's reply, sounding tired and accomplished. Immediately, a lot of the tension that Sam didn't know he was holding bled out of the younger Winchester's body, and he heaved a huge sigh of relief, brushing a hand through his hair.

"That's great," he said, smiling a little. "Where was he?"

There was no answer, but in a flutter of wings Castiel appeared in the motel room, a distinctly Dean-shaped burden in his arms. The Angel flashed his eyes over to Sam, and then flopped Dean down on the other bed, and that was when Sam got a good look at his brother. His eyes widened and he shoved himself out of bed, unable to believe what he was seeing.

Dean…looked a little worse for wear. His neck looked like something tried to take a bite out of him – his shirt was ripped open and bleeding sluggishly, like the wound was fresh. He was very pale and, aside from the occasional flicker of his eyelids, looked like he could almost be dead.

"What the hell happened to him?" Sam demanded, hurrying over to his brother and sitting down on the bed, placing his large palm on Dean's forehead. He was not overly warm, not feverish. Quickly Sam rose again, heading over to get the first aid kit.

Castiel stopped him. "That is not necessary," he said, and then pressed two fingers to Dean's forehead, healing him. Immediately the blood stopped flowing and the marks on his chest and neck healed over, leaving nothing but a bloodstain to say they were ever there. Sam swallowed, looking up to find Castiel watching Dean with his brow furrowed in concern. "I found him three towns over," Castiel said, eyes flashing to the younger Winchester's. "In a house that I could find no links with, to him. It had been abandoned and I could find no signs that someone had been there recently."

"Someone obviously did this to him," Sam snapped, gesturing back to his still slumbering brother. "You're saying no one was there?"

Castiel blinked at him. "There was no sign of anything, supernatural or otherwise." The Angel paused. "I can look again, if you'd like."

"No." Sam huffed out a breath, shaking his head and ran a hand through his hair. "I can go check it out, maybe…after he wakes up. See what he remembers." There was another pause, the two of them staring down at Dean's prone body, before Sam smiled a little and looked towards the Angel. "Thanks for looking, Cas – I really appreciate this."

The Angel graced him with one of those almost-smiles. "Anytime, Sam."