#assassin!cas

Summary: Unpresented was who Castiel was. It let him do his job, let him see things, hear things that normal people couldn’t, so caught up in the magical world of scents. It allowed him to ignore distractions that preoccupied other agents. It made suspicious eyes glaze over him with only a momentary twinge of pity.

Show Me How To Love (And I’ll Show You How To Live) - slutpunk (LJ link)

Word Count: ~28,000 Rating: NC-17

Summary:  Dean's broken and he's 95% sure he's always been broken. He's a Fed because he used to believe it would do some good and now? He's not so sure. Castiel knows he's broken and he can't be fixed. He does as he's told, kills who his uncle tells him to kill, and pretends that the nightmares don't wake him up anymore. But they find some solace, some peace in each other, until the day it all comes crashing down.  

Dean stepped out of the elevator and made his way to Michael's suite. Calling it an office was almost insulting. The secretary was gone for her lunch break, which meant this was probably a secondary work assignment. If the worst happened and Dean got caught somehow, it wouldn't do for there to be a witness that saw Dean go into Michael's office like this.

Killing witnesses was unsavory to the Novak's. That made them different from every other one of Dean's previous employers, and he found himself liking it.

The door was unlocked, so Dean slipped inside quietly. Michael was moaning into a cheeseburger, another man sitting across from him at his desk. His eyes lit up when he saw Dean, the other man turning to look at him. Dark hair, strong jaw, sharp eyes.

Dean smirked. "This a brother, Mike?"

The other man stood and offered his hand to Dean. "Hello, Dean, my name is Castiel. My brother's been telling me about you."

Cas worked for the government first, that's where he got his training. Top of his class, sent on missions to kill public enemies, people the military thought was the enemy. He got a name in a dossier and was sent to do the job. It wasn't too far from what he was doing now: working as an assassin, a killer for hire.

The only difference was that now, Cas chose which jobs he took and which he left behind. When the government gave you a job, you did it or you were held in contempt, considered AWOL, you were court-martialed. Didn't matter that the person they wanted you to kill was a father, a mother, a hero, a brother or sister, son or daughter. Didn't matter that they may have been a good person, someone trying to get the people of their country a little freedom. Or trying to uncover government secrets, secrets of dirty deeds the government didn't want the public to know about. Deeds like the ones Cas was doing.

Now he did his research. He found out who it was they wanted him to kill before he took his pay day. Found out if they were good or bad. If they deserved it or not. Maybe that meant he was playing god, but Cas didn't think that deeply about it. It was a payday, and if it meant one less bastard was out in the world killing innocent people, then he took the job. That was the freedom that came with being an assassin. Meant running from the law, hiding from the people he used to work for, but that was the choice Cas would make.

He took a deep breath, set his finger on the trigger, exhaled and fired. One shot. Dead. The man fell and Cas stood. He dismantled his gun with military precision, packed it up, collected his shell casing and left. Job done. It was pay day.

Cas blended in with the crowd outside, just another guy in an overcoat, carrying a briefcase, on his way home from work. Average build, dark hair, no one anyone would notice. He went to the drop site and found his payment and a folder. Another job? 

“Dean!” Castiel greeted happily, well, as happily was he could play it off, which was still pretty damned happy either way. “I didn’t know you worked here… My goodness, are any of these your works?”  He asked, hands fluttering ever so slightly as his voice rasped brightly. “My friend told me about this place,” which wasn’t a lie, Gabriel did mention Dean Winchester was an exceptional artisan, and if he was ever in need of an excuse, or a touch up, the man was a safe choice. “Anyways, I was wondering if you did continuation work; typically I would go to my regular, but seeing as he’s pretty far away, I can’t exactly fall back on habit. I mean, here, it’ll be easier to just show you, actually.“ and it was that line that had Castiel stripping off his loose black t-shirt, revealing only his abdomen before he turned his back.

Castiel wasn’t typically a proud man. He wasn’t proud of his job, his title, his reputation or his –surprisingly immense –wealth, but the collection of motley feathers down the plans of his back was most definitely one of his pride and joys. The wings were a concept themselves, and were inspired by the death of Azazel, one of the first victims to his premature tortures. How the man mocked him, praised how talented he was for someone so young… and he was young, merely fourteen when he had his first kill, sixteen when he had his first run with torture. But never before had Castiel been more insulted. Child, he had called him, Angel, he had crooned, and in his last breaths, Angel Maker, he whispered.

An angel with wings made from his kills. Each man he had killed since Azazel was another feather on his back, a different feather to represent their different personalities, but the innocents that have died by his hands are remembered by dove feathers inked in white pigment. There were six white feathers and over a hundred others…

The wings sprouted from his shoulder blades, arching up, and then angling down steeply as they ran along his spinal cord, disappearing into his fitted jeans. The only thing out of place was the pair of sightless almond shaped eyes at the base of his neck. “Anyways, I was wondering if you could add a vulture primary feather to the very bottom. My friend was my artist when I first started this project, he said he’ll be visiting sometime soonish, but I can never count on him with time.” Castiel admonished, all the while thinking that he wanted a smoke.

(Wheezing, wow how was the storm?? I was out with the rents, not particularly fun; would have rather stayed and sent this to you earlier. Anyways I hope this isn't too terrible. It's 1.38am and I can't function very well, ahhh, sorry UnU, Anyways, good night, love <3)

-C.L.

((Gosh, it stormed again :3 I love love love the rain and the sounds of thunder- makes me incredibly relaxed. And shhh, this is great, I was so happy with the update dksjfskldfs where did you and your parents go?))

Dean sucked in a slow breath as Kaisen unveiled the tattoo. It was gorgeous, all smooth dark lines and colors of ink ranging from a few pale cream to many oozy black and all shades of grey in between. The questions in his mind- who sent you, and old customer? How'd you get here?- died on his tongue as he took a step forward, one hand raised as if to stroke the design; then he restrained himself and looked over the arching wings with a more critical mind.

It was clear that different feathers had been added at varying times. The older had faintly smudged outlines nearly unnoticeable to most but tell-taie to his trailed eye, age warping the ink ever so slightly. The newest weren't too old, so this was clearly a long-term project. The whole piece must have been time consuming, not to mention painful and expensive.

And he'd be damned if it didn't look good.

"I don't think another addition would be too much trouble," he hedged. "But I'd be hesitant to alter someone else's work, especially if you're planning on going back to him." Dean made a rueful expression. "Artists can get real particular." This was a bit different from what he normally did when correcting an old tattoo; fixing some amateur's ink was a lot different than adding on to something so obviously well-thought and practiced. Besides, in this line of work, bonds were formed between the artist and the customer- with all the trust involved the two could get incredibly close and artists could get agitated if their person went to someone else.

"Anyways, besides being really beautiful and symbolic, tattoos are a sign of someone's skill; in a way you're a walking display of this guy's talent," explained Dean. "It's not unheard of though, and I understand that with moving it may be easier to make the switch."

The bell at the door sounded, and Dean shifted to look beyond Kasien; Charlie was peeking through the door. Her dark hair was held up in a long ponytail but long strands hung about her face to be stirred in the breeze. Thick spirals of knot work curled up her arms, beginning at the wrist and terminating somewhere beneath her shirt. She took one look at Kasien, who still stood shirtless, and waggled her eyebrows suggestively at Dean before ducking out the door again. Charlie was one of his regulars, a favorite- she also owned the secondhand bookstore a few shops down.