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“Confess.”
“I-AH! My name is Alistair Damon. I- I kidnapped and killed-” A scream interrupted. “FINE! I kidnapped, tortured, and killed some- NO! I don't remember! I swear I don't remember, DON'T!” Screams interrupted again. ‘At- at least 15 young men. I started when I was a kid, I can't remember all of them, I swear! I was on a lot of drugs back then, please!”
Dean paused the tape, breathing deeply. Musk, salt, and an edge he couldn't quite describe but that lit up his brain like magic every time he smelled it
The tapes held the scent of the killer.
“Right,” Dean barked, turning to the forensic crew. “You know the drill. I'll take the tape and start finding the named victims and contacting the local precincts.”
People nodded, getting out their equipment and starting to process the scene. Dean bagged and logged the tape into evidence before looking around one more time.
Alistair’s body had been found wrapped in plastic garbage bags on the side of a rural highway. Busy enough to have been found within a day, but not busy enough for witnesses to the dumping. And like all similar bodies, he was found with a cassette tape confession.
The tapes were all the same: a man's voice saying confess, and then the reluctant confessions from the person who was then killed, wrapped, and dumped.
He had to admit, he never felt a strong need to stop this vigilante. Dean had been alive long enough to know how flawed and ineffective the justice system really was. He knew that few of these killers would ever have been found or stopped legally.
But he did want to find the killer
Desperately.
The first time Dean had caught the scent was 3 years ago. He was new to the department and the moment he smelled that amazing mix of musk, salt, and magic, his heart stopped. Mate.
He thought he was smelling the victim. Thought he found his true mate after their death.
Dean got into his car, and drove until he found a good place to pull over for some privacy.
He sat quietly for a moment, gathering himself, before picking up the bag with the tape in it.
He opened the bag and breathed deeply, inhaling the scent, brain lighting up, muscles relaxing.
“Hi, honey. Nice to see you again.” He closed his eyes, resting his head back against the headrest, settling the tape bag on his chest, open towards his face, breathing in that perfect scent. “Got your present, appreciate the assist.”
When Dean accepted this job, he never realized he would one day greet the news of another victim from a prolific serial killer like a 14 year old girl who is about to see her crush in the lunchroom.
—
It had been three months.
No leads. No new bodies. No more scent, all traces of it faded after the first month.
And Dean wasn't moping, he wasn't. The best serial killers were inactive serial killers, after all.
Dean thumped his head on his desk. “I'm going to lunch.”
His partner Benny snorted. “Want company, or do you need alone time?”
“Probably should have company, but I wouldn't inflict me on you right now, I actually like you.” Dean heaved himself up, left his suit jacket hanging over the back of his chair, patted his pockets to assure himself that he had his wallet and phone, and headed out of the precinct.
There was a sandwich shop on the corner across the street that he liked, so he walked over, ordered his usual Philly steak and a pop - he filled the cup mostly with Coke but added a bit of Sprite for old time’s sake.
He settled into a corner taking a too big bite of his sandwich, taking a sip of his drink to help wash it down. The bell over the door dinged as someone came in but he was reading a text from Sam and didn't look up.
And then he smelled it.
That scent. Musk, salt, that something extra that smelled a little sweeter, now that he was getting a bigger sample.
Dean looked up, and saw a man facing away from him as he began ordering his sandwich at the counter - tall, around 6’, dark messy hair, broad shoulders under an ugly tan trenchcoat.
Dean swallowed painfully, not having chewed enough. Took another sip.
The man didn't seem to have noticed Dean, he was calmly pointing out vegetables for his sandwich.
He didn't disguise his voice in the tapes.
It was deep, rich; a voice Dean has used countless times in fantasies, so much better now that it's saying other words.
Though Dean was absolutely not going to get off on how this man said “lettuce.”
Probably.
Dean took another bite, smaller this time.
The sandwich was assembled and wrapped, the man moved to fill his drink cup - Fanta Orange, interesting choice.
And then he turned.
He was beautiful. Bright blue eyes, lips that deserve sonnets, and bone structure that, damn.
Dean swallowed and took another sip, unable to stop staring.
The man paused, locking eyes with Dean, took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes.
He walked up to Dean's table and breathed in deeply again before smiling softly.
“Hello, alpha.”
Dean smiled back
“Omega.”
—
“Dean, can you get the door, please?”
“Yeah, Cas!” Dean rushed ahead, opening the door for Cas as he brought in the last box from the car.
Dean closed the door and moved behind Cas after he put down the box by the couch, wrapping his arms around his mate and breathing in his scent happily.
“Welcome home, love.”
“Mm.” Cas leaned back against Dean's chest. “I hate moving. I never want to do that again.”
Dean kissed the side of his neck. “Keep your scent off the evidence and we won't have to.”
Cas rolled his eyes. “I still think it's quite a reach to think anyone would have recognized my scent. You only did because we're mates. Anyone else would have either not noticed or thought it was only similar. I'm an Omega, obviously I'm not a serial killer.”
Dean snorted, moving to sprawl across the couch. “Our guys were actually good at their jobs, you know. And I'm not risking it. My job is to take care of you, and that starts with moving away from the place they found your scent on 36 dead bodies.”
Cas laughed. “Dean, darling, you are a cop. Your job was to arrest the murderer when you found him, not mate him and help him escape justice.”
“Mm,” Dean nodded. “Whoops.”