Repo Man
Summary: It doesn't take much to make a man snap. All he needs is the right incentive and a little push.
Contents: Character Deaths (major and minor).
All Characters in this work of fiction © Eric Kripke and the CW
I mean no infringement and am not making any money off of this, because that'd be stepping on toes and that's not me.
This crappy idea is mine and no one else is to blame for the train wreck that will no doubt come.
Dean sits one night in his garage, having closed up shop hours ago. He's sitting in the dark in some lousy, plastic beach chair, a bottle of beer sitting idly in one hand while the other holds his hunting knife.
He's stripped down to his boxers, too lazy to go upstairs to his apartment and with no one around to care, he finds that he doesn't either. Dean just sits there in his dark, dimly lit garage, dragging the sharpened edge of the knife along his thigh.
His breath hitches for a moment, feeling his blade catch and warm blood slowly drip down the cold metal and over his thigh. He's cut himself, but it is only one of many. Some old, some new, some scarred, and some still healing from previous nights like these. Nights when Dean doesn't feel like finding his next victim and slicing them open like Sammy was all those years ago.
Sliced open and gutted like a pig. Left just barely alive and with barely enough strength to call Dean and breathe his last words over the static of the cell phone.
Dean…sorry…tell Jess-
A pained, but somehow relieved sigh escaped as Sam's life expires in his twenty first year of life. Dean never knew what to say to Jessica.
Dean twirls his knife in his hand and takes another sip of his beer, casting his gooseberry green eyes to an illuminated corner of his garage. To his '67 Chevy Impala that sits on display when she isn't being driven around town.
A scream echoes through Dean's mind, the scream of some blonde he had killed the other night, as the memory of her death plays again. A pretty blonde that reminded him of Jess, the poor, sweet girlfriend of his baby brother who lit herself on fire after finding out the bad news. Dean had lit her up too, like a twisted memorial to the girl that was like a sister to him.
Another scream, this one of screeching metal pierced Dean's consciousness as he remembers his Uncle Bobby dying in a ten car pile up just a block down from Dean's garage. His head cut clean off by a piece of the windshield from his own junker of a truck.
Dean sets down the empty beer bottle beside the six others that sit on the cold concrete floor and slides his knife back into the holster around his thigh. The dark blond rises from his seat, his skin sticking to the now warm plastic for a moment before it releases its hold and he's standing on too steady legs.
The image of Castiel's confused little head tilt as he gives Dean a questioning look flickers to the front of Dean's mind now.
A shy smile and always sad looking blue, blue eyes.
Confessions of love and the sharing of warmth and body heat.
The pang of terror when Dean finds Castiel standing at his doorstep one night, covered in blood. A bloody knife hanging loosely from numb, blood slicked fingers.
"I'm sorry," he remembers Castiel half sobbing, even as Dean is licking the blood off of him, somehow terrified, but, at the same time, beyond aroused by the sight.
"Teach me," Dean murmurs one night after finding out his angel's darkest secret. That Castiel is a murderer. Far from the Mr. Rogers image he always seems to portray. A serial killer. A high functioning sociopath who gladly, though reluctantly, begins to teach Dean his art.
"I love you. You're mine," Dean chuckles out several months after Castiel first begins mentoring him. A few days after Castiel has decided that he has taught Dean all he would need to know about the life. And a few hours after Castiel has revealed himself as the one who killed Dean's baby brother.
Castiel has put on a sad smile and holds his arms out to Dean.
Dean has willingly gone to his lover's arms and slides his knife, what had once been Castiel's knife, free from its holster.
"Let me redeem myself to you," Castiel whispers, taking Dean's hand, the one that holds his knife, and presses it up, under his ribcage and beneath his heart. Offering himself. Sacrificing himself.
Castiel is Dean's first victim.
Dean stands now at the back of the Impala and pops open her trunk. He reaches in and lifts his most precious possession from its protective confines. A dimly lit, self-contained jar. The dark blond presses his lips to the cool glass containing the perfectly preserved, severed head of his lover and mentor.
"I love you, Cas."