#snp

You were halfway through your second cup of burnt precinct coffee when Captain Dodds tapped twice on the edge of your desk. No greeting. No small talk, just a man who only showed up when something was very very wrong.

“Detective,” he said, dropping a thin, unmarked file in front of you. “You’re taking this one.”

You frowned. Homicide files were rarely ever thin. Always a plethora of forensics and witness reports to read through. “What’s the catch.”

Dodds exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Three bodies in six months. Different ages, different backgrounds, different parts of the city. No connection. No motive. No leads.”

You flipped open the file. The crime scene photos were…strange. Clean. Precise. Almost ritualistic, but not quite. Whoever did this wasn’t sloppy.  They were deliberate. Controlled and intelligent.

Your pulse ticked up. “This looks like it should’ve gone to a specialised task force.” You spoke.

“It did.” Dodds voice dropped. “They gave up.” You looked up sharply. “They don’t give up.”

“They did on this one.” He tapped the file. “But you don’t.”

There it was, the real reason. You were the detective who didn’t let go. The one who chased threads until they bled into answers. The one who didn’t sleep when a case whispered instead of screamed.

You turned another page. The wounds were surgical. The staging was careful, and on the last victim, barely visible a small deliberate mark carved into the skin.

Not a symbol or signature but a message, just one word.

‘Soon.’

A chill slid down your spine. “Soon what?” You murmured.

Dodds shook his head. “We don’t know, but whatever this guy is doing, he’s getting bolder and smarter. And he’s not stopping.”

You closed the file. Fingers tightening around the paper file. “I’ll take it.” Of course you would. You already felt the hook in your ribs, the pull of something dark and clever and waiting.

Somewhere across the city, in a dim apartment lit only by the glow of a single lamp, Dean Winchester wiped blood from his hands and smiled at the news report playing softly on the radio.

A new detective had been assigned to his case. He didn’t know your name yet. But he would.

Soon.

The case file had grown slightly thicker, but not heavier. Not with answers, anyway.

Weeks of combing through old crime scenes, re-interviewing people who where in the area at the time of the killings but somehow witnessed nothing. Re-reading autopsy reports until the words blurred. Every night you stayed later than the last, your desk lamp the only one still burning in the precinct.

And still nothing.

No fingerprints. No DNA, no fibers, not shoe prints, no leads, nothing.

It was like chasing a shadow that knew exactly how to stay out of the light.

But you couldn’t let it go. You didn’t want to. Something about this killer. His precision, his patience, the way he carved meaning into silence. It pulled at you, like he was speaking a language only you could hear.

You found yourself revisiting the first crime scene again, standing in the same spot the victim had died, staring at the same brick wall, trying to feel what the killer felt.

Trying to understand him, trying to get close.

Your flashlight beam cut through the dust-heavy air as you stepped into the alley, boots echoing across the cracked brick floor. There had to be something someone missed.

You were crouched near the rusted man hole where the victim had been found, running your gloved fingers along the floor, searching for anything the original sweep might’ve missed. A hair, a fiber, a miracle.

Nothing, just like every other time.

You exhaled sharpy, frustration tightening your jaw. “What are you hiding…?”  You whispered to the empty alley.

But only, it wasn’t empty.

Not tonight, high above you balanced silently on a rusted cat walk, Dean Winchester watched you with the stillness of a predator. He’d come back to the scene out of habit, he liked revisiting his work, liked remembering the feeling of control, liked knowing no one could ever trace him.

He hadn’t expected you.

He didn’t even know you name yet. Didn’t know your voice. Didn’t know the way your mind worked. But something settled deep inside him, something raw and powerful.

You moved with purpose, scanning every inch of the room like you were trying to crawl inside the killers head. Like you were trying to understand him. Like you were trying to find him.

Deans breath hitched, a quiet, involuntary sound he hadn’t made in years.

You were smart, focused and you weren’t scared of the dark.

He leaned forward slightly, eyes tracking every movement you made, the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. The way you frowned when you didn’t find what you wanted. The way you whispered to yourself like the case was a living thing.

You were beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with looks.

You were dangerous, a threat.

You were prefect.

When you finally stood, brushing dust from your hands, Deans fingers tightened around the railing, leaning closer, chest leaning over the cold railing. He wanted to see your face more clearly. Wanted to hear your voice again. Wanted to know what you’d sat about him when you thought you were alone.

But you were already heading back towards your car, shoulders tense with frustration.

“Nothing.” You muttered. “Again.”

Deans lips curled into a slow, fascinated smile.

He stayed perfectly still until your footsteps faded outside, then let out a low breath, pulse thrumming with something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Something killing used to make him feel.

Interest, curiosity, possession.

He watched you drive off, eyes darkening, he would see you again. He would make sure of it.

And he knew exactly how.

By the time you reached the precinct, you shrugged your jacket off dropping it on the back of your cracked leather chair, as you slouched down into the seat, pressing your fingers tight against your temples, your eyes drifted shut.

A blearing alarm woke you, unsure of how long you had been asleep for, or even that you fell asleep, your phone buzzed relentlessly in your pocket, you answered before thinking. “Hello?” You groaned out, voice thick of sleep.

A beat of silence, then your partners voice, tight and breathless.

“Y/n… we’ve got another one.”

Your heart dropped, then surged. Adrenaline, dread and maybe something darker.

“Location?”

“Warehouse district, same signature. Fresh...really fresh.”

You grabbed your coat and keys in one motion, pulse hammering, fresh meant he was active again. Fresh meant he was close.

You didn’t realize you were smiling until you caught your reflection in the glass door on the way out.

Across the city, dean wiped a smear of blood from his jaw, humming under his breath, he wondered if you’d notice the message he’d left, carved a little deeper this time, just for you.

He wondered if your hands would shake when you saw it, he hoped they would.

The warehouse district was already crawling with uniforms by the time you pulled up, red and blue lights strobing across the cracked pavement. The air smelled like rain and rust and something else underneath, something metallic and warm that made your stomach tighten.

 As you walked closer to the scene and uniformed officer ran past you, face pale. One hand covering his mouth and the other holding his stomach.

Your partner jogged over as you ducked under the tape. “Victims inside, same precision as the others. But this one…” He hesitated. “This one is different.”

Different was good. Different meant escalation.

You stepped into the warehouse, boots crunching over broken glass. The space was cavernous, shadows stretching long and deep. Your flashlight beam swept across old crates, peeling paint and-

Your breath caught.

The body lay in the centre of the room, staged deliberately, reverently. No chaos, no struggle, just a man placed like an offering.

His arms bound behind his back secured to a chair, he looked bloody and beaten, multiple stab wounds scattered across his body, his top discarded leaving his lifeless torso bare.

Scatted around the body were printed off photos of the victim. As you stepped closer, you began to recognise the photos, some were of him leaving court, seemingly being followed home, all shot from a distance.

The photo closest to the victim was what looked like him attacking a woman,

That is when it clicked, this was the recently released serial abuser and rapist. He was released on a technicality, something about evidence not being managed correctly or the suspects house being illegally searched before a warrant was issued.

As you inspected the victim closer, your eyes caught onto his sternum, carved letters clean and deliberate.

‘I saw you’

Your throat tightened. Your partner swore under his breath. “Sick bastards taunting us.” But you barely heard him, because the words didn’t feel like they were meant for the department.

They felt like they were meant for you.

You crouched beside the body, studying the edge of the carving, the angel of the blade, the confidence in every stroke. This wasn’t rushed. This wasn’t sloppy. This was someone taking their time.

Someone savouring it, someone who wanted you to read it.

Across the street, perched in the broken window of an abandoned office building, dean watched you through a pair of stolen binoculars. His breath fogged up the glass, his pulse thrumming with a thrill he hadn’t felt in years.

You’d come, you read his message. As your scanned around the building looking in shadows anywhere a man could hide.

Your reaction to his crime, your deep analysis of his work sends a warm rush through him.

And the way your eyes had widened when the light of your flashlight reflected against the glass of his binoculars, He dropped them, but stayed, seeing how you’d react to spotting him.

Something hot twisted in his chest when you looked the other way, continuing your scan across the surrounding areas, a stoic looks across your face as you tried to not look back up at the abandoned building.

He learned forward, whispering to the empty room, voice low and hungry.

“Now you’ve seen me too, sweetheart.”

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