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Castiel was still kissing him.
His lips were hot, burning, more intoxicating than Dean had expected, and for a moment, he lost his resolve. He did not want to part with those lips; he did not want that body, so warm against his, to become cold and lifeless.
But his irresolution lasted but a moment. His finger pressed down on the trigger, slow and steady, and he could see it all unfold in his mind’s eye. The gun, pressing against Cas’ chest, in between their bodies as he held Cas to him. The bullet, firing directly into his heart. The surprised gasp as Castiel stared desperately into Dean’s eyes. Cas falling, his legs buckling under him. Dean catching him and lowering him to the ground, watching as the life faded out of his blue eyes.
Another ounce of pressure on the trigger, and the gun would fire.
Castiel’s hand came to rest on top of Dean’s, pressing down in encouragement. It was this, more than anything, that made him freeze and break away from Cas. Castiel, however, kept his hand on Dean’s, aiming the gun at his own heart.
“Do it.”
“What?” Dean sputtered. He’d expected Castiel to beg, to pledge his devotion, to make an oath of his loyalty to Dean. He had not expected this calm acceptance.
“If you must, do it.”
“Drop the melodrama, Cas,” he retorted.
It was Castiel’s turn to sputter a confused “What?”
“Nobody’s that devoted. You expect me to believe that your loyalty extends to letting me kill you? It’s a good act, Cas, but it’s not convincing. I’m not going to spare you because you pretend to be loyal.”
Castiel’s eyes searched Dean’s face, surprised, concerned.
“It’s not an act, Dean.”
“No?” he scoffed.
“If my life puts you in danger, take it. I’m a liability. I know too much, and if you think I will be unable to protect you when they ask questions I cannot answer…. I would never wish to put you in harm’s way.”
Dean looked at Cas then, really looked. At his eyes, always so blue and so wide, their pupils still dark from their earlier kiss. They looked so innocent, those eyes. The calm with which Castiel held the barrel of the gun to his own heart, the unflinching acceptance that seemed to pervade every inch of his frame. His intoxicating lips, parted slightly as he looked at Dean. The flush creeping into his face at being this close to Dean.
It was his, all of it.
He was struck suddenly with how much he liked having Cas around. Someone so utterly devoted to him. Someone who would accept every order Dean gave him, who would look at him with those blue eyes and never refuse him anything. Someone he could do anything with.
He knew, in that moment, that he wanted Cas. He wanted Cas with him. He never wanted to stop owning someone as completely as he owned Castiel now.
He sighed. “If I let you live, what then?” he asked. “Your loyalty won’t last forever, Cas.”
“If I had a choice in the matter,” Castiel began, carefully, “I would want to go with you. But – “
“You want to come with me? Really? Just drop everything and go?”
“Yes.”
Dean looked at him, thinking. Everything was falling into place so perfectly. Taking Cas with him was the perfect solution. A way to avoid making Castiel a part of an obvious murder investigation, of course. A way to avoid being at Castiel’s mercy whenever the man decided Dean no longer deserved his protection. But more than that, it would mean that Castiel would be his. His alone. No other men who would slip him money. No other men who could claim his time. He would belong to Dean, and if Castiel’s loyalty wavered, well, Dean would just have to be more successful at pulling the trigger.
Castiel evidently saw the change in his face as he came to a decision, because he burst into a bright smile. “Where are we going?”
Dean shrugged.
“I’ve always rather liked London.”
Castiel seemed to like the idea. “I’ve never been to London before,” he said eagerly.
Dean nodded. “But Cas, I swear, if you change your mind or – “
“You’ll kill me.” Castiel sounded amused. “Yes, Dean, I know, you’ll kill me, because you’re so good at doing it.”
“I mean it, Cas.”
Cas shrugged. “I won’t give you a reason to.”
Dean hoped that he meant it.
…
They settled in London. Castiel had never been here, having never had the chance to travel much. He’d had money to do it, saving up his tips over the years, but somehow he’d never had anybody to accompany him as he explored the world, so, after a while, he’d abandoned the idea before he’d visited even half the places on his list.
In the past, he’d occasionally gotten the urge to just pick up and go. Drop his job and leave his life and just go somewhere for the hell of it. But he’d always been too reasonable, in the end. He couldn’t just drop everything for no reason.
Except now he could, because he had a very good reason.
Not that he got to see too much of London, not at first. Dean had purchased an expensive penthouse with a ridiculous amount of ready money, so much that Castiel had wanted to ask him why he didn’t put all of it in cash into a suitcase, like in the movies. For the first few weeks Dean had been mistrustful and possessive, refusing to let Castiel leave it and go out on his own. At first, Castiel accepted it, thinking that Dean only needed time and devotion to be convinced otherwise. But the weeks dragged on, and Castiel felt like a bird in a gilded cage. Their apartment was luxurious, wide and spacious, with floor to ceiling windows and gorgeous views of London. It was furnished with wide couches and bookshelves, with an elegant, decidedly modern design. Everywhere there was space, and light, and comfort, but Castiel spent much of his time out on the balcony, looking down at London and wishing to be down in the streets rather than looking at them from on high.
There had even been a short period of time when Dean put him in a cock cage. “You’re mine, all of you, even your orgasms,” he’d explained.
Castiel had protested.
“Dean, you know I’d never, not without your permission – “
“Well, if that’s true then his won’t be a problem, will it? Think of it as more of an aid.”
Dean’s tone had allowed no argument, and Castiel accepted this as patiently as everything else, though it was difficult on those nights when Dean fucked him and left him unsatisfied. He knew it was useless to beg, though he had tried it a couple of times. It had not put Dean in a good mood, and Dean punished him for it. He laid Castiel out on the bed, trailing a gun and a knife over the most sensitive spots on his body, listening to his pleas as he fucked him, and then leaving him desperate and aroused.
Thankfully, this period did not last particularly long. Eventually Dean released him with the order to never touch himself without his permission. He seemed to slowly grow accustomed to not living alone, and something about him was no longer constantly on edge. They shared their meals and talked, though Dean still refused to let him go out. It wasn’t perfect, but, Castiel thought, it wasn’t all bad. He didn’t regret it. He was with Dean, even if his patient devotion wore thin some days as he remembered the expectations he’d had when he proposed coming with Dean.
Still, what he had was better than being left behind to wile away his days with strange men who would only remind him that Dean was gone forever. Instead of them, he had Dean, who still loved to round off a job well done with attention lavished on him by Castiel. This was Castiel’s favorite part of their time together, the evenings on which Dean came home from work with adrenaline running through his veins and needed Castiel to throw off stress.
Like tonight. Dean never told him what the job was until afterwards, when he came home and Castiel greeted him.
“Dean,” he breathed the man as soon as he walked through the door. He approached, examining Dean closely. He seemed unhurt, and Castiel let out a sigh of relief, as he did every time Dean came home safe. He knew how much of an expert Dean was, but nevertheless he worried. What wouldn’t he? It was perfectly human to worry.
“How was it?” he asked, crowding Dean against the door and beginning to divest him of a pristine suit.
“Successful. As always,” Dean added with a smirk.
“Tell me about it,” Cas breathed, working Dean’s shirt open.
Dean pushed him away, walking to the couch and sitting back on the cushions. “I shot him through the heart,” he said, as Castiel climbed onto his lap. “So much more poignant than a shot to the head.”
“Yes, it is,” Castiel murmured, mouthing kisses along Dean’s neck. He felt Dean smile.
“He went down instantly,” Dean continued as Castiel continued kissing down from his neck to his chest. “Looked so shocked, too. Barely had time to comprehend he was dying before he was dead.”
Castiel sucked on a nipple, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Dean.
“And then?” he murmured against Dean’s skin.
“And then I stayed to watch. They were all so confused to find a bullet flying out of nowhere.” He laughed at the thought. “You should’ve seen their panic, Cas.”
“I wish I had,” he murmured, his hands slowly unbuckling Dean’s belt.
“Hmm,” was Dean’s noncommittal reply. His hands were busy undressing Cas, and Cas aided him eagerly, divesting himself of his clothes. He pulled out the plug that Dean had made him wear when, frustrated one too many a time with the necessity for preparation and Castiel’s wincing, he’d decided to simplify matters for himself.
Dean sighed contentedly as Castiel sank down, hands digging sharply into hips. Dean set the pace, and Castiel allowed Dean to manhandle him. He threw his head back, knowing how much Dean loved to see the long line of his exposed throat, and moaned as Dean hit the right spot so easily. He knew how much it pleased Dean to see him like this, flushed and aroused, abandoning himself completely, helplessly, to the heat of the moment. He placed one of his own hands at his throat, though it was a poor replacement for Dean’s firm grip, knowing how much Dean liked to be reminded of Castiel’s desperate need for him.
“Perfect. My perfect little prize. Always here for me to use when I get home,” Dean praised him. The words sent a shiver through him.
“You like being used, Cas?” Dean asked him.
“Yes,” he breathed as Dean forced him down.
That word sent Dean over the edge. Castiel felt himself being filled up, Dean marking him from the inside, and clung to Dean in a desperate attempt to control his own body’s desires.
When Dean was done, his hands remained on Castiel’s hips, forcing him to be still.
“Stay. You’re going to keep it warm for me, and then I’m going to fuck you again.”
Castiel nodded obediently. He leaned forward, resting his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean sighed contentedly, playing with his hair.
“Dean?” Cas asked after a while.
“Hmm.”
Castiel pulled back to look at Dean. He needed to see his face as he asked.
“I want to help you.”
“Help me with what?”
“Your jobs.”
“No.” The answer was immediate, curt and final.
“Dean,” Castiel said softly. Dean was, for the moment, sated and content. That gave Castiel the courage to ask.
“I want to help you. To work side by side with you. Besides,” he added. “It’d be a shame if we didn’t put the stripper who’s actually a killer cliché into practice.”
Dean softened a bit at the joke. “All right, I’ll let you help. But I’m doing the killing. And then we’ll see.”
Castiel nodded.
Dean fucked him again, and Castiel knew, from the quickness with which Dean whispered “come” into his ear, that Castiel’s request had every chance of coming true.
…
Conveniently, their next target wanted a hooker.
“I was a hooker once,” Castiel confessed to Dean. “Long ago. Before stripping.”
Dean seethed.
“How many men?” he asked.
Castiel shrugged. “A lot.”
“Do you remember them?” Dean asked, fingering his gun.
Castiel shook his head.
“It was a long time ago, Dean.” That didn’t seem to content Dean too much, but he didn’t say anything.
“You still remember enough for the job?” he asked. Castiel nodded.
It was horribly cliché, and Castiel loved it. It had been easy enough to hijack the target’s phone call to an escort service and promise him Castiel. The target, who had given the name of Richard, resulting in Dean saying “Dick” with contempt, had arranged for a night in an expensive hotel. He had given Castiel a room number, and when Castiel arrived on the designated floor, the room was instantly recognizable with a bodyguard outside it. Typical.
He let Castiel through after a careful examination, and Castiel walked in, leaving the door unlocked behind him.
The client took in the man before him. It was a long time since he’d done this. He was used to men sizing him up, their eyes roving across his body. Once, it had disconcerted him as he worried whether or not he was satisfactory. Today, it hardly bothered him.
The man seemed satisfied, as he beckoned Castiel towards him and handed him several large bills. Payment first, services second. It was a mantra he had learned in his days in this profession, the one that kept him safe. He pocketed the money, doing his best to repress a smile.
The man had described exactly what he wanted, so Castiel got to it. He started with a kiss, rough and possessive. He kissed the man’s lips passionately, eliciting hungry moans from him. They masked the sound of a body hitting the floor quietly outside the door to the room.
He pushed his client over to a sofa, climbing into his lap and continuing the kiss. The man’s eyes were closed, but Castiel, out of the corner of his, could see as Dean walked in quietly, his figure hidden behind the curve of a wall. He could just make out Dean taking in the sight of him. Castiel felt more than saw him seething with rage at the view. He broke the kiss, sucking in some much needed air and taking in a look of satisfaction on his client’s face before delving back. He felt the man hardening against him as his hands undid button after button on his expensive shirt. “Hurry up,” he heard his client order, impatient. He looked up, smiling.
Dean stood behind the man, having walked over quietly while Castiel distracted him. He looked furious as he pressed a gun to the man’s head and fired.
Castiel watched in exhilaration.
Dean blew the man’s brains out with a cold precision, but Castiel knew that Dean was not killing this man because this man was his target. Dean killed this man because this man laid his hands on Castiel.
Dean killed for him. Dean killed because of him.
Castiel had never known a greater exhilaration than this. This was the unbreakable bond that tethered Dean to him, forcing him to kill. It was the proof that Dean would never let go, would never leave Castiel. No, Dean chained himself to Castiel with every kill, spelled out his attachment with every bullet.
They left, as inconspicuously as possible. As soon as the doors of the elevator closed, Dean slammed him face-first against the elevator wall.
“You looked quite cozy there, Cas,” Dean breathed dangerously in his ear.
Cas chuckled.
“Liked his hands all over you, didn’t you?” Dean asked, pressing Castiel even more firmly against the wall. Castiel could feel Dean’s body against his, but though his grip was tight and uncompromising, Cas knew Dean wasn’t angry. He could feel it.
For a moment, Castiel debated saying “yes,” just to rile Dean up and enjoy whatever ensued. He knew Dean wouldn’t believe him if he said so, however, so he was forced to respond with a simple “no.”
“You’re mine, Cas,” Dean said, his ton calm and professional. He was back to acting as if the whole thing was a routine – which it was, really. “When we get home, I’m going to make sure you don’t forget it.”
“Sounds good,” Cas agreed.
Dean let him go, and the rest of the elevator ride passed in a companionable silence, as if what they’d just done was nothing more than discuss what they’d have for dinner.
Dean was true to his word. As soon as they arrived, and Dean’s deft hands double locked the door, he slammed Castiel against the wall.
“First things first,” Dean explained, undressing Castiel deftly. “Gotta remind you who you belong to.”
“You,” Castiel said, and watched a shiver of excitement run through Dean at the word.
“That’s right,” Dean said, unbuckling his own belt. “Going to make sure you never forget it.”
It was quick and brutal. Dean held him against the wall as he fucked him, pulling him by the hair and putting a hand around his exposed throat. There’d be bruises tomorrow, Castiel knew, around his neck from where Dean’s hand pressed down, at his hips, where his body hit the wall with each of Dean’s thrusts, on the wrist that Dean held pinned behind him. He reveled in it all. Dean didn’t even need to say all the words he often used. The marks on Castiel’s skin, marks that could bring forth pain at a moment’s touch, were even better. They were the letters with which Dean wrote his name on Castiel’s skin, and Castiel’s only regret was that they weren’t permanent.
“Come,” Dean murmured into his ear, squeezing his throat even more tightly. They came in unison.
…
When Dean thought back to their first kill together, something about what he’d seen nagged at him. Something about Cas, specifically. He had looked utterly familiar, disheveled and his lips kiss-swollen, just as he had looked with Dean. But there was something different about that familiar look. It took him some time to realize that the unfamiliar thing was the complete lack of arousal in Cas’ body and his eyes while he kissed in another man’s lap.
…
After that, they fell into an easy routine of job after job. Some targets still had to be killed the boring, old fashioned way, with a shot from a rooftop. On those jobs, Castiel simply accompanied Dean, serving as an (unnecessary) lookout. But the ones they both loved best were the ones where Castiel could put his skills to use.
Some men wanted a hooker because they were the kinky ones, willing to pay a professional to tie them up and fuck them. It was almost easy with those, tying them to a bed and trailing kisses over their skin as he so often did. Castiel would reduce them to a relaxed stupor. Then he would watch calmly as Dean appeared to take a clean shot at the man who had dared ask Castiel for the same attentions he received.
Some men wanted to tie Castiel up. They were the ones who handcuffed him to the bedposts and had their way with him – or were about too. Castiel would watch in awe, tied helplessly, as Dean would appear and put a bullet through the head of the person who dared to do to Castiel what only Dean was allowed to do to Castiel. “Damsel in distress,” he’d mutter playfully sometimes as he untied Castiel.
And every time, when they got home, Dean would make sure his claim would remain written on Castiel’s skin, to wash away the touches of anyone else. It was the thing Castiel liked best after watching Dean kill for him.
..
Of course, Dean’s profession being well-paying as it was, it permitted a significant amount of time off. They spent some of it travelling – for the hell of it, as well as for jobs, and Castiel visited all those places that he had never gotten to on his list. They eschewed museums and most of the touristy places, unless they held a professional fascination for Dean. He liked to visit old prisons and torture chambers and look in awe at the fearsome medieval devices. He was mesmerized by the Tower of London. In Paris, he stood in awe on the Rue de la Ferronerie, where Ravaillac had assassinated the King of France in 1610. He had shown Castiel the Place de Greve, where the French monarchy had murdered citizens under the name of justice. In Prague, he showed Castiel the Black Tower of Golden Lane, where the alchemists who could not turn lead into gold were tortured to death. In St. Petersbourg, he took Castiel to Saint Michael’s Castle, where the czar Paul had been killed in a brutal conspiracy.
Dean also had an affinity for fancy dinners on the rooftops of tall buildings with majestic views. Every time they visited a metropolis, Dean was sure to find the tallest buildings with the most expensive restaurants and take Castiel there. Sometimes, Dean would rent a car and drive them, at high speed, along torturous winding roads through mountains or speed them along roads by the oceanside. Sometimes, for the hell of it, he would rent the Presidential Suite of a five-star hotel for their stay. He liked to lay Castiel across the indescribably luxurious bed, play with him in all the right ways until his skin flushed with arousal against the white bedspread, and then fuck him on the impossibly soft bed.
Presidential suites, as it turned out, also had a lot of room and a lot of pillows. And Dean, who was so serious in everything else, turned out to like pillow fights. Castiel had laughed almost hysterically the first time Dean suggested it. “Shut up,” Dean ordered, hitting him with a pillow. Castiel loved the ensuing fight, because it was one he usually lost. Dean simply had so much more speed and precision. And when he lost, Dean would make his victory known by fucking Castiel on a layer of pillows as feathers covered the floor around them.
Sometimes, however, their penthouse was simply enough when Dean wished to relax with a book or film. Dean, as Castiel discovered, liked to read. He liked historical adventure stories best, followed by Westerns and heist movies. Castiel had expressed surprise once at Dean’s preferences. “Don’t you get enough of that kind of excitement in your daily life anyway?” he asked.
Dean shrugged. “My job’s not as interesting as the stories make it sound. Besides, it’s really interesting to read about how my job was done before they had actual guns,” he explained. “Catherine de Medicis once killed someone by poisoning their candles. And the pages of a book. Or lipstick. Imagine having death upon your lips…”
Castiel smiled.
“Or the countess of Carlyle. She seduced a man in five days and convinced him to assassinate the Duke of Buckingham. I wish I could do that. Charm someone so completely and hold their life in my hands.”
Castiel looked at him pointedly. Dean chuckled.
“Point taken.”
Castiel rose gracefully and walked over to Dean, settling in his lap.
“You like it, don’t you?” he asked, reaching for the gun Dean carried. He removed it slowly as Dean’s eyes watched him carefully. “Holding the life of someone so willing,” he handed Dean the gun, “in your hands,” he trailed the gun in Dean’s hand up his own body until it rested above his heart, “so completely,” he flicked the safety off.
Dean grabbed him by the hair and kissed him. His lips ravaged Castiel’s mouth, unrelenting in their passion. He seemed unsatisfied with everything he got, taking more and more, and Castiel gave more and more until he was completely breathless.
It was the first kiss they’d shared since the last time Dean pressed a gun over Castiel’s heart.
…
They sat on the terrace of the London House Hotel in Chicago. The sunlight shone down, punctuated with a light breeze, as he and Dean sipped cocktails and gazed at the city from on high. The skyscrapers rose into the sky, with a wide river snaking between them. It was a view of human achievement, and it was all at their feet.
Castiel leaned back, wondering about the life he had left. He didn’t have much family, only a sister named Anna that he had once remained in touch with. A couple of friends that he’d never been particularly close to. He wondered if they missed him. They probably thought he was dead, killed mercilessly by the dangerous man who had taken him hostage. Castiel imagined them looking for his body now, wondering where Dean had left it before making his escape. He smiled at the thought. If only they knew.
Dean raised an eyebrow.
“What are you smiling at?”
Castiel shrugged. His mind wandered to the job they had ahead of them that evening, the reason they were in Chicago and the one that would be followed by Dean laying an adamant claim on his body. He looked at Dean, this man who he sometimes didn’t believe could exist. The sun’s afternoon rays provided the perfect lighting for his beauty. He thought of the promise Dean had made him to teach him to shoot a gun, imagined Dean’s body pressing against his and correcting his aim. He felt the mark Dean had left on his skin, right above the collarbone and just where the collar of his shirt could hide it.
“I’m happy,” he answered.
Dean smiled. He had one of those versatile smiles, that could be both deadly and kind, angry and amused. This one was a genuine smile, a content one. He didn’t respond, but Castiel could read the “I’m happy too” in his face.