Disclaimer: I do not own them. If I did, they wouldn't die. But lots of other good stuff would happen.

It was only one glass of wine. That was it. A night spent in a fancy restaurant, surrounded by uppity people. That and one glass of wine. It had felt good going down too. It made the dizzying pleasure that was looking at Kate even better. Smooth, slippery, light. Just a glass of wine. It was one he would never forget.

Not because it was special. Or expensive. He'd had plenty of those types of glasses of wine. He was a man who had tasted the spectrum, but none would change him like this one.

He offered to drive. She'd had three glasses of wine. She held her alcohol better than him, but he had only had one glass of wine. Far better than three. So she let him. Let him escort her around the vehicle, place a hand on her face, felt his soft, warm touch, then watched in rubbery pleasure as he had gone back around the car.

Sliding in, he had looked at her, the vehicle silently pulling out of the parking spot. Bliss so perfect, so quiet that neither wanted to break it. Not even the infamous Richard Castle and his rapier tongue. So they let it sit there.

A backstreet. They took a backstreet to get home, one that glowed in the moonlight, and lit up every perfect flower. No other cars would interrupt their night. Gliding around the curves in the small road, Castle held her hand in his.

He turned to smile at her, his face shifting slowly. But a moment, a single glance, it would ruin him. He slid his face around front, frozen in a still time, he realized he was in the wrong lane. The wrong lane. And that soft lit back road, the one with no other cars, it belonged to another set of lovers. But they were going in the opposite direction. And he was in their lane.

Bright lights illuminated his face, his eyes glowing from the high beams. She gasped, the sound crossing her lips so soft, so sweetly silent that for the rest of his life he would wonder if it was his imagination. Funny how such a small gesture would be the last from her.

With a sickening crunch, the slow motion that had been their night, came racing into full speed. The man, the driver, Richard Castle, would lurch forward, the airbag stopping him in his place. His hand fell away from hers as the vehicle was flung wildly to the side. Squeals greeted his ears as his hand desperately searched for hers.

And then, a soft lurch, the car came to a stop. It lay on the side of the back road, crunched. The front glass was broken and the driver side door was smashed open. Richard Castle pulled himself from the car, limping around the front of the mess, oblivious to anything else. He didn't notice the blood that dripped from his face, or the white mark on his hand from one last squeeze.

The only thing he saw, laying cold in the moonlight, was a pale hand, extended out of the ruined passenger side, and the empty hollow face that accompanied it, pulse deadened, eyes closed forever.

It was only a glass of wine.

It was only his wife.