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Dean liked his job.
After all, assassination is hardly a profession one ends up in by accident. It’s not like one decides on it temporarily to pay the bills because his last cubicle job fired him.No, he chose his job for the thrill of it. For all the planning and dastardly machinations (as he sometimes allowed himself to call them, borrow from a comic book villain too many), for the challenge to his imagination as well as to his control.
He wasn’t one of those men that shot unsuspecting victims from rooftops, at least, not most of the time. No, most of the time he was more subtle. A poison, slipped in a cup. A knife, planted in a back in the blink of an eye, before anyone could notice where it’d come from. And his favorite, for it had a rather great historical precedent, shooting a silenced gun as an audience burst into laughter at a theatre. That was the most dangerous, he knew, but the most rewarding.
Of course, afterwards, that thrill, that adrenaline rush, sometimes had nowhere to go. His body would refuse to come down from its hard-earned high. That’s when he went to Cas.
The first time had been rather a whim. A challenging job well done, as usual, and the club, as he’d heard, was one that took money and asked no questions. Even turned a blind eye to the usual no touching rules if he looked respectable enough and had enough bills. And with his job, Dean certainly had both.
Dean remembered how he first saw Cas. While most of the men in the place did ridiculous routines, dressing up head to toe as firemen, policemen and God knows what to ridiculous music, Cas had no artifice about him. All he wore was a disheveled suit and half undone tie, and his hair stuck up as if he’d just had several rounds of sex – which, for all Dean knew, might very well be a distinct possibility, except that Cas had this look of innocence that made Dean doubt he was one of those strippers that did extra favors for a few more bills. Not that Cas looked helpless and naïve, just somehow aloof – not out of place, but not quite someone who belonged there either.
Someone announced that next up was “Castiel,” and Dean had to smirk, because stripper names were ridiculous but this one had class. He did his routine like the other dancers, dancing to some song from which Dean only remarked the word “angel,” slowly shedding suit and tie and then unbuttoning his shirt with agonizing slowness until he revealed a pair of hipbones that are to die for. There’d been hoots and whistles and claps, though Castiel didn’t seem to remark them, and when he was done, several men beckoned, waving money in the air. But Dean knew he had to be the one to get this one.
…
Castiel looks around.
He’s just finished his routine, and he knows there’s eager customers waiting for his attention. Taking a moment to decide who gets his attention first, he notices him.
The man is dressed in a suit, an expensive one, dark gray, which is so flattering on his form that Castiel wishes he was the one sitting with the money and the man were the one stripping. He sits like he owns the place, with a casual sort of confidence that he probably doesn’t even know he has, raising a fifty-dollar bill in the air as if it were nothing. Castiel strides over to him, a well-learned veneer of confidence masking a suddenly battering heart.
“So, what can I do for you tonight?” he asks, putting on his best smile.
The man looks up at him, takes him in head to toe as if he hadn’t just seen the man strip, and says, “what do you think, Cas?”
Castiel opens his mouth in surprise – the man’s remembered his name, and managed to fashion out of it a new one that he can’t say he dislikes. Then, quickly, as he realizes he’s gaping at a guest, he closes it again, smiling as he straddles Dean – that, he learns later, is the man’s name.
“I think I have an idea,” he murmurs, sliding his hand up Dean’s chest. He can feel well-toned muscle beneath the expensive fabric, and it takes him a second to remember that it’s his body that’s being put on display here, not the other way around. But, though Castiel’s accustomed to separating his personal pleasures from work, there’s just something undeniably irresistible about this man. Not just his physical attractiveness – though that’s certainly there – and not the expensive clothing, but something about the way Dean was obviously enjoying this without radiating need or desire.
Call it professional pride, but Castiel took that as a challenge. He’d make Dean lose that damned self-control before he was done with him.
….
Evidently Cas did something right that night, because Dean came back again. And again. There was never a pattern to when he was there - sometimes he’d show up several days in a row, sometimes be gone for a week. He’d come on weeknights and weekend nights, until Castiel grew accustomed to looking over at the seat Dean usually occupied, playing that nightly came of waiting.
That night, Dean looks, well, dapper as ever, the usual dark grey suit and perfect façade. Castiel can’t wait to take him apart. He does his usual routine before making his way over to Dean.
Dean greets him with a simple “Hey, Cas,” as if they’re best buddies. Castiel knows what Dean likes by now – the slow, slow tease, the slowly building heat between them, then the intimate press of their bodies. He runs a hand up Dean’s body, reveling, still, in the perfection of it. How unfair it was, Cas sometimes thought, that Dean got to see him practically naked, and all Castiel got was hints of skin.
Slowly, he straddles the man, and Dean takes the opportunity to place a generous twenty in his waistband – the first of many gifts of the night, Castiel knows. He rocks his hips invitingly, and is gratified when Castiel places his hands on his hipbones. He moves to the music, each movement slow and languid, their bodies barely touching even as the heat builds. “Damn, Cas,” Dean murmurs, sliding his hands up Castiel’s sides as he takes in his graceful movements.
He leans in, his hands wandering over Dean’s chest as he licks a stripe up Dean’s neck, and is gratified to hear the man’s startled breath. His own body has already started its dull ache, its craving, and it only builds as he presses closer to Dean. The man before him is intoxicating, and Castiel sometimes wonders why he tortures himself each night with something he can’t have. He lets his hands wander further, determined to take as much as they can before it’s all over; his mouth at Dean’s neck, he breathes in the man’s scent- something spicy – before exhaling against Dean’s skin. Dean makes a sound in his throat that, Castiel is sure, would have been a moan.
Dean’s eyes are wide, the pupils dilating as he gazes at Cas, the sizzling heat building as they gaze silently at each other, and it’s this that give Castiel the courage to run his hands under Dean’s suit, exploring every inch of the man’s body as he continues his slow, tantalizing movements.
Then his hand wanders over something cold and metallic. It takes Castiel only a moment to realize it’s a gun, and with the way Dean gazes at him, looking slightly lost in the moment, it’s easy for him to move his hand away, continue his explorations on safer ground. He hears the song coming to an end and leans in for one final taste of Dean’s skin, which feels burning hot as he runs his tongue over it.
The song ends, and Dean winks at him, their habitual farewell, as Castiel climbs slowly off Dean’s lap. Dean places several more generous bills into the waistband of Castiel’s briefs, his hands brushing over Castiel’s skin with their agonizing touch lingering a moment too long.
“Good night,” he says, hoping his tone doesn’t betray him. Dean seems to remark nothing and Castiel lets out a breath of relief as he heads back to the changing room. His shift is the last one, and the other dancers he shares it with change quickly, eager to head home in the morning hours. Castiel takes his time, thinking.
Of course there’d been something just slightly off about Dean. The way his suits were always so expensive and so pristine, the way his money always flowed so easily – though that in itself was not so remarkable. Rich men existed. But then there was always the control, the restraint – even when Castiel reduced him to a wreck, he had no doubt that, at the slightest touch of suspicion, he would be alert, on his feet. His lapses into relaxation were perfectly controlled. And then, as he’d discovered tonight, there was the gun.
Castiel doesn’t know what to make of it. Perhaps he shouldn’t make anything of it. After all, Dean’s been a regular customer, and though he enjoyed getting his hands over Castiel more than a good guest should, that isn’t exactly unheard of. And it’s not like Castiel minds. Dean is polite, respectful, and a very generous tipper. Perhaps the gun was is something Castiel could overlook. At least now he knows where not to let his hands go wandering.
Suddenly Castiel realizes he’s alone in the changing room. All of the other dancers have left, and only he – lost in his own thoughts – remains. Slowly, Castiel slips on a shirt and pants, leaving the suit and tie combo awaiting him for the next night. Suddenly, out of nowhere, he feels himself slammed face-first against the wall, with something uncomfortably pointy stabbing him in the lower back.
He admits it, he panics for a second. He had thought that the rest of the dancers were gone, and besides, he’d always been on respectable terms with the rest of them. He knew what went on behind the scenes at some strip clubs, and he had no doubt that it wasn’t pretty, but this place, as far as he’d been able to tell, was strangely devoid of such tensions. But perhaps he’s miscalculated.
“Hello, Cas,” he hears.
Dean. There’s no mistaking his voice.
“Dean. Happy to see me, I see.” He knows he’s dancing on ice here, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. Evidently Dean isn’t amused. With a brutal jerk, he turns Cas around until the two face each other, mere inches between them. Dean grabs his hair, tilting his head back, and Castiel feels the press of the gun against his chest.
“What do you know about me?” Dean demands.
“What?”
“My gun. You noticed it. What else do you know?” Dean demands.
Castiel swallows. Dean is terrifying like this, and he’s terrified, all right, but their bodies are also pressed close together, intimate as a lover’s embrace, Dean’s hand in his hair, and Castiel can’t help but his terror give rise to the arousal that slowly creeps up on him.
“Nothing, I swear.” His voice betrays him, each word hoarse with desire as he stares at Dean. He feels his cock hardening and, with the proximity of their bodies, he has no doubt that Dean will soon note the occurrence.
Castiel watches as Dean takes him in, from the parted lips to the eyes that, Castiel has no doubt, are by now wide and dark. “Hmm,” is all Dean says, trailing his gun slowly down Castiel’s chest, down to….Castiel moans as Dean slides the gun between his legs, toying with his erection. It’s all Castiel can do not to move his hips forward, seeking friction.
“I suppose I’ll have to make sure no one ever knows,” Dean says, his voice so terrifyingly devoid of any emotion that Castiel’s heart skips a beat. He could mean any number of things, and it’s obvious to Castiel that the man he had so painstakingly reduced to incoherency earlier that evening is gone, replaced by someone untouchable and uncompromising.
But Dean merely drags him by the hair until he’s on his hands and knees, the muzzle of the gun pointed towards his head the whole way through. Dean runs the gun slowly, agonizingly slowly, down the length of his back, presses it to his spine as he kneels behind Castiel and undoes belt and zipper. Castiel gasps. So that’s what Dean meant.
Before Castiel’s even prepared to consider what comes next, he feels something slide in him, cold and hard and metallic. He attempts to gasp in terror but instead, all that comes out is another moan. Dean is unceremonious, there’s no lubrication or preparation before the gun is thrust in and it stretches him painfully in exactly the right way.
Dean begins to thrust, but the movements are slow and languid, and Castiel wants to sob with frustration. Dean’s not touching him anywhere, no press of hand or fabric against his skin, merely the slow movements inside him. “Please,” Castiel begs.
“Yeah, Cas? What do you need?” Dean’s voice would almost be gloating, if a voice that cold could be said to gloat.
“Please.” It’s all he can say, and Dean seems to get the hint. At least, he speeds up, and Castiel moans again. It’s still not enough, nowhere near enough; if Dean’s going to take him like this, on his hands and knees at his mercy (literally, Castiel thinks), then he wants Dean to be brutal.
He’s harder than he can remember, and his body begs to be split open and wrecked. He attempts to move, though each motion is tentative lest Dean lose control of the lethal object in his hand. As if Dean could lose control! He whimpers in agony as Dean toys with him, the gun still breaching him painfully and yet so completely not enough. He feels so close, completely on edge, and yet so empty. He whimpers.
“You’re such a slut, Cas,” he hears Dean’s voice, cold, calm, controlled, like everything about this man. “I mean, that sort of comes with the job description and all, but I had no idea you were this desperate.”
He doesn’t know if the words are meant to be humiliating or if Dean’s just teasing, can’t tell with this tone that Dean is using. It’s torture, fucking torture, to be played with like this, and Castiel wonders if maybe Dean’s profession involves hurting people and not just killing them. He lets out another whimper of protest, and that seems to satisfy Dean, since he speeds up, finally, finally fucking him open.
“You know, Cas,” Dean drawls as his finger plays with the trigger. “The safety’s not on.”
Castiel’s body seizes up at that, as the full force of what the fuck has he gotten into hits him, and before he can completely process that thought, his orgasm rips out of him. He hasn’t even touched himself, his hands scrabbling desperately for purchase on the floor as Dean fucked him, and he was coming so hard that he was afraid there might never be anything left.
When he’s stopped shaking, he looks up at Dean. The man, damn him, still looks entirely composed. As the bliss of his orgasm fades away, Castiel is aware that he should be embarrassed, angry, indignant, even, but all he can do is look up at Dean and say “Please.” Dean nods before disappearing.
Dean comes back the next day, and Castiel is relieved beyond relief that the man heard his plea. He gives him a dance, as usual, and allows his hands to wander. He smiles at Dean, almost imperceptibly, as his fingers find the gun tucked away under his suit, and Dean nods in almost indiscernible acknowledgement. His face remains expressionless, though when Castiel leans in, gyrating his body to the music and pressing it against Dean, he whispers “Please” against Dean’s neck and feels the man tense almost imperceptibly.
Later, with Castiel in the same position again and begging shamelessly, Dean only has to say “You know, I have a bigger gun at home” for Castiel to spill himself all over the floor. He hears Dean chuckle behind him.
Yes, Dean’s quite certain that Castiel will never tell anyone.