Author's note: I decided to try something new. I've been a fan of Supernatural for a while now, and I adore Dean's and Cas' relationship. So this is a Destiel AU. I won't update daily; I hope I'll update weekly. The chapters will be longer than usual.

I don't own anything, neither characters nor the images I used creating the Cover Image.

Please review.

It was a night in July. The sunset had caused a velvet blanket to drop over the town, and the oppressive heat that had been hanging over it for the last few days hadn't abated, making people decide to sleep with their windows open.

It wasn't necessary for his plan, but it certainly made things easier.

He slipped through the darkness, barely stirring the grass through which he passed on his way to the window at the back.

As he had expected, a window on the first floor had been left open.

He smiled.

There were protections, of course, but nothing he couldn't handle.

However –

Looking up at the house, a fleeting memory touched his mind. Him and his kid brother, playing in the backyard.

He hadn't thought about it for a long time. He had forgotten about it, and he had no desire to remember now. The memory sank back into the remains of his soul, into the dark, bloody thing that formed the core of his being.

He wouldn't fail.

He had been born to this, had been made into what he was to fulfil this assignment, and he wouldn't fail.

He stood in front of the house, remembering what he had been taught, what was expected of him. He wouldn't fail.

Slowly, he began to climb up to the window.

It had been a normal day until now. Special Agent Castiel Novak had filled reports and listened to his superior's explanations about the budget once again; not that it mattered, seeing as he had meant the budget concerning office supplies, and he'd always been economical with his paperclips.

It was a normal day, no cases, like it had been for weeks. He enjoyed the breathing space, even if it meant he had little to do and returned to an empty house at the same time every evening.

At 4 pm, the call came.

It was strange that the local police should call in the Bureau when there was no evidence that a multiple offender was behind the murder. Normally they preferred looking into the case themselves. They only notified the FBI when they saw no other way, and Castiel was immediately suspicious when he heard that they had all but begged for their help.

It meant that whatever had happened – it was bad.

Henricksen called him into his office.

It didn't come as a surprise. For the last half hour, several of his colleagues had passed his office to tell him about the strange call. Word travelled fast in the Bureau. And he was usually the man to go to for things like this, if he said so himself.

He might be young, only in his early thirties, but he had had more than ten years experience and he was good. Like his father before him.

"It's a strange one" Henricksen told him. "Lawrence, Kansas. Body was found an hour ago".

"Only an hour? Why did they call us?" Castiel asked. His boss preferred a direct approach. He couldn't stand it when people tried to pry answers out of him by being too subtle.

Henricksen shook his head. "It's not entirely clear. The body appears to be mutilated, and there's weird stuff in the victim's house – they're freaked out."

""Freaked out?" That's why they called us? No other information?" Castiel inquired, incredulous. It wasn't the Bureau's policy to pay attention to calls that not only failed to specify what was going on but also disregarded the official applications that had to be filled or before they could get involved.

The other man sighed. "I know. But if we help them out, even though they probably don't need us, other PDs might not be so reluctant to call us when they do."

That was why Castiel hated politics. They made it so much more difficult to do his job. And that Lawrence's PD apparently hadn't followed the rules but sent out a call and hoped that they would answer still irked him. He preferred his cases done correctly and by the book. There was no risk of a criminal escaping justice because of faulty procedures this way.

Henricksen was aware of this. Which made it strange that he had called Castiel to his office in the first place.

"Castiel" he began and the agent immediately understood that he was asked to do something he definitely should if he cared about his career. Henricksen had only used his first name on a number of occasions, and it had always been with the same tone: a mixture between pleading and subtle threats.

"I need you to go there and assess the situation. If there's nothing there, tell them they can do it on their own. Assure them that they didn't waste your time, though. We need the local PDs to trust us. Write a report, file it. Then we can forget about it".

"And if there is something?" He knew his boss, and he had heard the hesitation when he'd pronounced "nothing".

Henricksen gave him a wry smile.

"Then you call and we'll send reinforcement".

He didn't look forward to travel miles for a case that might not be one, and that without knowing what he had to expect. But Henricksen was his superior, and he wouldn't disobey an order.

He nodded and stood up.

"Jet's waiting" Henricksen said and Castiel raised an eyebrow. It wasn't normal for them to use a jet. He had expected to either fly in economy class or drive.

"If this is nothing, we can't afford to have you travelling across the country. You might be needed here".

It was a flimsy excuse, and Henricksen knew it. Obviously Castiel wasn't supposed to ask further questions, and after a quick goodbye he left the office. Someone at the Bureau must owe someone at Lawrence PD a favour, he decided. Someone of the higher-ups. And they sent him to look at the mess and explain their job to the police.

He sighed. He really would have preferred paperwork over this.

He grabbed his overnight bag from his office and made his way to the jet, only stopping once to explain where he was going to Balthazar, one of the few co-workers he considered a friend.

"You have to tell me all about the nightlife of Lawrence, Kansas when you come back" he said sarcastically. Castiel rolled his eyes and strolled on. Balthazar knew he wasn't as annoyed with him as he affected to be.

The jet was already waiting for him when he got to the airport. He spent the flight looking out of the window. He felt jumpy, nervous. It didn't have anything to do with the flight – he had never had any problems with height – but he should have a file before him, reports, maps. He wasn't used to running into a crime scene and not knowing what awaited him.

As it turned out, Lawrence PD had sent a car.

A young PC was waiting for him. Castiel saw his eyes linger on the trench coat that he invariably wore, the tie he never managed to tie correctly, his hair that would never stay flat once he'd combed it.

The man realized that he was impolitely staring and greeted him.

"Agent Novak? Constable Connors".

They shook hands and after he'd entered the car, Castiel asked, "What can you tell me?"

Connors waited a few moments before answering, and it told Castiel a lot. He may be young, but the PC should be used to gruesome sights. It came with the job.

"It's – " He cleared his throat. "It's a local man, George Stevens. Didn't work as far as we know. He was found almost four hours ago. The postman had a package he needed him to sign and when he wouldn't open, he looked through the window..." He trailed off and gripped the steering wheel tighter. His knuckles were turning white. Castiel decided not to rush him, letting him tell the story at his own pace. He was stressed enough.

"He was – lying in the living room. He had been mutilated."

"Mutilated? How?" Castiel asked automatically. Questions like these were his job, and he couldn't always stop himself.

"Eviscerated" Connors replied tensely. "His inner organs were lying on the furniture. It looked like a bizarre arrangement..."

He took a left turn and continued, "And then there was the stuff the victim kept at his house."

"I was told he kept some weird items" Castiel replied. He waited for Connors to elaborate, which he soon did.

"There was this pentagram drawn on the ceiling of one of the rooms; there were smaller ones all around the house, and salt everywhere".

"Couldn't it have been the killer?"

"The pentagrams look fairly old. And he kept an arsenal – shotguns, colts, knives".

Castiel nodded, thinking over what he had just heard. He never theorized before he had seen the crime scene or photos but it was strange that a man should keep an arsenal in his house.

"You said he didn't work?"

"Not as far as we can tell. Neighbours say they didn't know him – kept to himself. None of them thought him a nut job who'd have enough ammunition to blow away half the population, though".

Neighbours rarely did. Castiel could remember countless interviews like the ones the PD was conducting at the moment.

"He was a little strange, of course, but he always greeted politely".

"He was so nice to the kids".

"I can't imagine – really? But he was just a normal guy..."

They wouldn't get anything useful out of the neighbours. Most likely not even the family members, if he had any.

Connors seemed to guess where his thoughts were going and said, "He didn't have any relatives or friends, apparently".

A lonely man with an arsenal. It was not a good combination. Nothing he had heard, however, had convinced Castiel that this was more than a strange murder case that would stay a one-time-only for Lawrence. If this continued to be so, he could be back in Quantico in the evening.

He would have to study the strange symbols at the crime scene and the arrangement of the organs before he could be sure, of course. This might be the first crime of a serial killer, although it was unlikely. They seldom emerged with a mature modus operandi. They should have seen similar cases before now.

He realized he was theorizing without having seen any evidence and quickly concentrated at the view out of the window.

It looked like any other town, like any others he had seen in the past few years. According to the research he had done on the plane, it had a higher crime rate than most cities in Kansas, but he doubted that all murders were like this. The victim had been mutilated and eviscerated...

A few minutes later, Connors took a right turn into a quiet street. In front of them, Castiel saw the police tape and cars in front of a two storey house.

They got out of the car and made their way to the front door, Castiel ignoring the strange looks he got because he was still wearing his trench coat.

Connors led him to a middle-aged man who was standing on the lawn, looking tired.

"Agent Novak" Castiel said, extending his hand.

The other man took it and replied, "DI Thompson. Glad you could make it. It's – we don't get a lot of that around here".

Castiel nodded and the DI led the way into the living room. They stopped at the front door where he was handed a suit and gloves. Connors automatically took his trench coat and Castiel gave him a grateful nod. Normally he had to ask if he could put it somewhere.

Crime scene techs were still working the place, and the body hadn't been moved; Castiel suspected it had been left there for him, since normally on a day like this they would have wanted to get it to the mortuary as quickly as possible.

The victim lay in the middle of the floor, his arms stretched out on either side of his body. The stench of blood lay heavy in the air, but he had enough experience to ignore it. Castiel kneeled down next to him, careful not to disturb anything, and let his gaze sweep over the injuries. There were a few slashes on his face, but he was still recognizable. He'd been a man about forty, dark hair, brown eyes.

He was naked. His body had been ripped open from the sternum downwards, stopping before the genitals. His organs – he could make out a kidney, the liver and part of the entrails – had been laid out in the form of crosses on the sofa and the table.

It looked ritualistic, but not as precise as Castiel would have imagined. Three of the crosses could hardly be recognized as such. If this was an important part of his ritual, the murderer would have paid attention. He wouldn't have allowed them to look so messy.

He didn't voice his thoughts, not yet. He had to see the rest of the house first.

A crime scene tech called out, and Castiel and DI Thompson went over to her.

She'd lifted a corner of the carpet and pointed at a marking on the floor.

"I'd say it's part of a pentagram. Same kind we've found in the rest of the house".

Thompson nodded. "I assume you want to see the rest?" he asked Castiel.

"Yes please".

There were three more rooms on the ground floor; a kitchen, a toilet, and an office.

Thompson pointed out several pentagrams on the hallway, as well as one in front of every door.

"Don't think the killer made them".

"No, it doesn't look like that".

Castiel kneeled down and scrutinized the symbol that was painted in front of the door of the office.

"It looks like the line was broken, and he painted it over". He pointed at a part of the circle around the pentagram that was lighter.

Thompson nodded.

"Any ideas?"

Castiel stood up and shrugged. He would have preferred not to assume before he'd had a chance to look at the other rooms, and perhaps find something that told him what significance the pentagrams had had for George Stevens, but Thompson was looking at him expectantly.

"Pentagrams are supposed to keep witches away."

"I thought witches used them?"

"Some of them do, but even if he was interested in witchcraft, why would he paint them everywhere if he only needed them for a ritual?" Castiel paused and, after a short deliberation, decided to say out loud what he'd felt since he'd seen the hallway, full of the symbols "This seems like he was protecting himself".

"From what?"

"I don't know".

"Maybe he was paranoid" Thompson theorized. "Thought witches were out to get him".

Castiel nodded to show that he was listening, although he was concentrating on the office. It was clean, impeccable even. The murderer either hadn't been here or he'd cleaned afterwards. Thinking of the living room, Castiel decided the first was more likely.

He went to the bookcase. Most agents preferred to start at the desk, but he'd always felt that books revealed a lot about a person.

He frowned as he scanned the titles. Many were in foreign languages, and all seemed to be about lore, mythology, witchcraft or urban legends.

"Latin" he mumbled to himself. "Ancient Greek. Enochian". There were a few other languages he recognized and he named them one after the other, more for his benefit than that of the DI.

"Enochian?" Thompson asked.

Castiel nodded.

"Late sixteenth-century England. It was transmitted by a medium. It's used in magical rituals."

Thompson looked at him. "You seem to know a lot about rituals".

Castiel shrugged. "It helps". He didn't feel that explaining his interest in occultism and magic as well as religion, all from a scientific standpoint, would be beneficial to his relationship with the DI. Many people regarded magic as strange, even after centuries in which it had been proven not to exist; and he needed his trust if he wanted to work the case.

He looked at the bookcase once more to give himself a few seconds to sort his thoughts when he realized that he had just assumed he would be working the case. This wasn't a serial killer, until further cases showed up; he hadn't even seen the rest of the house. And yet here he was, ready to start.

Something about this case – it just felt different. He couldn't explain it, it just did. From the moment he had entered the house – no, not only then. He had to admit that, while he had been annoyed that he was sent here... Something, a premonition...

Castiel forced the thoughts away. He had to decide whether or not this was a case the Bureau should follow, and right now there was no evidence of a link between states or a serial killer. Therefore, it seemed unlikely that he would work the case.

He went to the desk and quickly looked through the drawers. There were more documents in foreign languages, and more than once he read the words δαιμόνιον, daimon and demon, but there was no clue to George Stevens' killer.

It told him precious little about the victim as well. He had obviously been interested in the occult, he had been scared – the pentagrams proved that he'd tried to protect himself. But scared of what? Based on what Castiel had seen so far, he'd been scared of monsters, ghosts, demons – he couldn't exactly say what, but apparently it had to do with the supernatural, and nothing supernatural had committed this murder. It had been a man, a man with a lot of hate towards the victim, but as far as Castiel could tell, he had done nothing to warrant such ferocity.

He turned to Thompson.

"I'd like to see the rest of the house".

He hadn't yet laid eyes on the arsenal and was very aware of the fact. It meant that he had kept his weapons upstairs – not unusual if one owned one gun to defend oneself against burglars, but since there appeared to be a whole collection of arms, Castiel found it strange that he hadn't kept it in his office or in a safe. Then again, there could be a safe upstairs – once more, he thought bitterly that it would be easier if he'd had files to study before coming here. Maybe he shouldn't be too angry, however; he had seen the body at the crime scene, and that happened seldom enough.

Being called in early had it upsides and his downsides, he guessed.

Thompson led the way again. He went straight into the bedroom.

There was barely any furniture; a bed, a bedside table, two cupboards. Castiel immediately thought that there must be a reason for the second one. Most people who lived alone were satisfied with one cupboard.

He was right.

The DI opened the one next to the door. It appeared to be empty until he reached out and moved his hand along the back. A wooden panel all but fell into his hand and he dew it out.

"We put it back the way we found it until the crime scene people take a good look at it."

Castiel was looking at the arsenal, and he had to admit it was impressive one. Colts, shotguns (two of them sawed off), knives that looked like they were made of silver, sables, and, strangely, some bottles of water.

"I assume he didn't have permits for the weapons?"

"You'd assume right. He had a permit for one shotgun, but that's it. Don't understand the water. Didn't think of him as a survival freak".

No, it didn't fit. There had been no survival books in the office, and no attempts to protect the house from attacks other than the supernatural kind, which really meant there had been no security system at all.

What had George Stevens needed an arsenal for?

"The shells for the shotgun appear to be handmade" Castiel said, leaning into the cupboard. "Analyzing them might offer some clues." It was a long shot, but in a murder investigation every trail was worth pursuing.

He more felt than saw Thompson nod as he turned around and focused on the rest of the room.

There were only two things on the bedside table: a crime novel and a picture.

Castiel picked up the photograph. It showed a young girl around twenty, smiling at the camera.

"I was told he had no family?"

"Not that we know of. I have my guys working on at as we speak". Thompson took the picture out of his hand.

"Pretty".

Castiel didn't comment and opened the drawer of the cupboard. Reading glasses and tissues, a flask as well as a gun.

"He certainly felt threatened" he stated as he took out the flaks and sniffed at it.

"Water" he continued, surprised. He had several bottles of water in the cupboard, yet he had a flask in his bedside table? It didn't make sense.

Nothing about this case made sense. The victim had been interested in witchcraft – but why kill him and use crosses as symbols? A satanistic killer, or someone who shared his interest in the occult, probably wouldn't have used Christian symbols, and the crosses were obviously supposed to imitate those found at churches. And the victim – he hadn't had any friends or family, but hadn't disturbed anyone. He had kept to himself, not spoken about his beliefs, whatever they may have been...

Castiel couldn't see a motive, and that would point towards a serial killer. But why George Stevens?

He tried to remember the victim's position on the floor. He had been naked, but there were no blood stains in the rest of the house, which meant he had been killed where he was found. Either he had been naked or the murderer had undressed him. There were no signs of a break in. He might have let his murderer in. Which, together with his lack of clothes, indicated –

No. Castiel doubted that this was a crime of passion. Why mutilate the victim in this manner?

He quickly looked over the bathroom and a guest room that had served more as storage. In the latter, they found many boxes.

"There're books in some of them, bones in others" Thompson pointed them out, "and some of them have weird markings on them. We haven't even opened them yet."

Castiel looked at them and wondered if he should investigate them now, but decided against. The less they risked contaminating the crime scene, the easier it would be for the forensics.

He walked downstairs, followed by the DI. They left the house and stood on the lawn, glad to breathe the fresher air. Castiel got out of the plastic suit and put on his trench coat that Connors brought over immediately.

"What do you say?"

It was the question he had feared. Thompson obviously thought that he'd need all the help he could get. He wouldn't have a problem with Castiel working the case. But he didn't know if there was a case, at least for the Bureau.

And yet – he could feel it in his bones. Something had happened, something strange, something big, and he had to find out what. Normally, he tried to ignore feelings and do his job to the best of his abilities.

He couldn't, this time. The realization came so quickly and was so obviously true that it scared him.

"I don't know yet" he found himself saying. "I'll stay a few days, observe how the case develops".

Thompson smiled, relieved.

"I appreciate it. I know this isn't exactly – the DCI knows someone, and – "

"I told you I'm staying" Castiel interrupted, harsher than he intended. He didn't have to hear about any politics that had played a part in him being sent here. This was about the case, not about someone higher-up doing someone a favour.

Thompson didn't take it personally, only nodded, and left Castiel alone as he pulled out his phone.

He didn't know what to tell his superior.

Author's note: Please tell me what you think.