A/N: I know, I'm starting another story, I'm a bad person, etc. But I really wanted to write this and couldn't get it out of my head. I plan to update once a week. Warning: This entire fic will include language, violence and gore, dark themes, and psychopathic characters. It's meant to be creepy. So, if you don't like that kind of thing, stay clear!

Disclaimer: For once in my life, I actually kind of do own this. I mean, it's AU, so the story is mine, the backgrounds of the characters are mine, and, heck, even the characters really are mine, because they're completely OOC. This is AU, after all. However, the names and starting characters do belong to Supernatural not me. Think of it this way - Dean Winchester belongs to Supernatural, but this Dean Winchester is mine because I took theirs and twisted it to make something new. Anyway ... you know what I mean.

The Righteous Man

Prologue

It was a beautiful night. The stars were sparkling in the dark, blue tinged sky, the air was crisp, cool, and alight with fireflies, and the only sounds that could be heard came from the crickets in the grass. It was the kind of night that sends painters running for their canvases, writers for their pens and papers, and musicians for their instruments. It was the kind of night for which artists live, one where you can practically see the inspiration sparking off every moonbeam and drop of dew on the grass – where beauty permeates every inch of creation.

The man who stood at the bottom of a grassy hill in the midst of this scenery was no stranger to this beauty. In fact, he appreciated it deeply. Indeed, he felt inspired by the same sights, sounds, and smells that the writers and painters captured in their work. He endeavored, in his humble way, to do the same thing.

A girl lay on the ground at the foot of the hill and was so sublimely lovely that she added to the beauty of the night. Blessed with a straight, little nose, full, pouting lips, a translucent complexion, and large, expressive hazel eyes, this girl had a face that had broken many hearts. Those days, however, were over, and she would never break another. Those lips would never smile again and those eyes would never sparkle but instead, would be perpetually locked in that dull, lifeless state. After all, when the body is dead, the soul cannot live on through the eyes.

The man smiled at her almost fondly and then looked over at the man who lay next to her. As handsome as she was beautiful, they seemed the perfect couple. And now, they would be together forever in death. The man's name was Jack and the girl's, Jill. Their friends had always laughed at this – and teased them about the nursery rhyme.

Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water.

Now, they lay in a crumpled, broken heap at the bottom of a hill, practically every bone in their bodies broken. The only things that remained unblemished were their faces, which held identical looks of horror.

Jack fell down and broke his crown and Jill came tumbling after.

Sure enough, lying by Jack's broken hand and Jill's golden locks was a plastic gold crown, wet with the dew. The smiling man stared at it for a moment and then stomped on it with his boot, smashing it with a loud crack. It was the final touch, that broken crown, to an hours long work - a work that had begun with the quick subduing of Jack and Jill, a couple on a stargazing expedition, with simple blows to the head. After that, Jack had been tied up and sat down against a tree so that when he woke up, he would have the front row seat to view Act I of this masterpiece. Upon the revival of both Jack and Jill, the man had quickly and methodically broken every bone in Jill's body by stomping, twisting, bending, and in some instances, squeezing the bones. The man smiled as he listened to Jack's shouts of horror and anger which grew louder as Jill's screams and pleas and whimpers grew quieter, ending finally, with the loud snap of her neck. Then it became Jack's turn and although he was more skilled in defending himself, he was no match for the man, who was a master. The man took the same amount of time and care with Jack that he did with Jill. Just because he had no audience did not mean that a sloppy job was acceptable. This was an art and he was the artist. And he would not accept mediocrity.

The job completed, all that was left was the gentle placement of the bodies and crown he had brought along at the bottom of the hill. The man surveyed his work one more time as he began to walk away, and he found it good.

It was the kind of night that inspired painters and writers and musicians. A night of creation. And that was what the man had participated in. He had created something he found beautiful – the horror on their faces, the deep red blood that seeped from the compound fractures, the dusty gold of the crown were all his part of his perfect creation and he was proud of it. He only wished he could see the reaction that his audience would have to it. Wished he could know the judgment of the critics. But, alas, that opportunity was denied to him.

After all, while he hated the crude sound of the words, he was a serial killer and it does not do well to be in the vicinity of law enforcement when that is one's trade.

The man reached his car and drove away, making his exit. Two beautifully dead bodies left behind and the open road in front of him – he was in his Impala and for Dean Winchester, all was right with the world.

A/N: Let me know what you thought! Review, favorite, and don't forget to follow, cause another chapter is coming up soon. In the next chapter, we meet Castiel, so ... stay tuned!