Kneeling on the roof top, garden surrounding him, twigs and sticks scratching uselessly at the material of his pants and jacket, Castiel waited. He stared down the barrel, lining up the weapon, taking into account wind and the movement of his target. Everything would go as planned, as everything always did. No room for errors. No doubts nestled in Castiel's mind. He knew what he was doing. He had done it a thousand times. No questions asked, Castiel would hunt through the crowds, stalking his pray, learning their habits, finding the opportune moment. He would map out the victim's days in his mind. Weeks, he would study them, learning when they were alone, when they were in large crowds that would make it difficult to determine which of the jostling bodies had held the knife.
He had the man in sight now. He was slumped over a table, outside. The trajectory of the bullet would be measured and tracked back to the very roof Castiel was perched on, but any evidence of his brief stay in the garden beds would be gone, or lost amongst the branches. The man sitting below was eating a meal, something so completely ordinary, that it would no doubt come as a shock to feel the sharp stinging of the bullet. If it hit his shoulder, the man would have time to call out before a second bullet cracked through his skull. Yet another reason why Castiel would have to be careful.
No one would hear the gun going off. It would appear as a very loud sneeze to anyone on the floor below, but it wouldn't even make a sound as it slipped into the man's skull and sent his head tipping into his soup.
It would start with a scream, maybe a waitress who had gone to see if he needed anything. But then the noises would build, the screams, the cries all layering over each other in a glorious symphony of terror and chaos.
That is when Castiel would take his leave, brushing away his footsteps, searching for any thread that may linger on spiked stems and branches. He wouldn't leave a flake of skin, not one stray hair to lead any one to him. He would slip from the roof, circling back down the stairs stuck to the outside of the building, round the back, blocked from view. He would set the weapon down in a bin, buried where it would take a while to find, no finger prints on it, bullets impossible to trace. He would shed his mask, his hood, his gloves, folding them carefully into his backpack to be either incinerated or used another time. He'd take his jacket off as well, and tuck it away, leaving him in a tight grey shirt with a logo and some words splashed across the front in red. He would be safe. No one would find him. No one would connect him to the killing, and Castiel would blend into the crowd, shoving his way through before stopping and gawking in terror at the dead man. He would show the appropriate response, though he would feel nothing but fiendish glee at the sight of his handy work. Another job completed, more expenses and bills paid, with some money left to splash.
Castiel narrowed his eyes slightly as he focused on the man, waiting until few people were around, waiting for the right moment. He squeezed the trigger without so much as flinching, though there was a momentary jolt as the gun kicked back.
Right on target, a hole was blown through the back of the man's head and he fell into his soup, liquid splashing up, little chucks of vegetables and meet falling to the table around him as the wound started seeping, matting the hair with blood.
Castiel smiled to himself and searched around quickly for loose threads as he waited for the scream.
There it was. Shrill and horrified, girlish, close to a sob. More followed after it, but it was that one purely terrified sound that echoed in Castiel's head.
He smiled. It was not a kind smile, just a tug on one corner of his mouth that contrasted with the fierceness in his eyes. He stood and swept over the area, destroying footprints and removing anything that might betray him. He was careful, going over things once, twice in a minute, still thorough. He took his backpack, the weapon, and rushed down the stairs.
Soon, he was out in the street, bumping shoulder to shoulder with panicked civilians, putting on his best 'concerned' face, though really, he didn't care. He let himself be jostled about, get lost amongst the crowd. He slowly disappeared in the mob, dark hair blending in, not standing out. Without his mask or his black jacket, he would never be seen as suspicious, wouldn't draw any attention.
It was a simple job. He would never say that he enjoyed it as such, but he certainly didn't hate it. It got him the money he needed to live, and enough for extras. Of course, he still kept up his appearances at his everyday job, filing papers, continuously pushing his unnecessary glasses up his nose. It was a monotonous job, with boring little tasks and minimal socialising, which was how Castiel liked it.
In a few minutes, he was around the corner, and he knew he would be safe. Job done. He adjusted the bag on his shoulders and slowed to a calm walk, still trying to seem a bit shaken, as any normal person would after seeing a guy's head blown open. He moved down into the pass under the road, taking the short cut. He needed to get home and have something to eat. He was always famished after a job.
Castiel let out a huge sigh as he entered is apartment, neatening up a pile of books by the door, getting everything in line. The front room was filled mostly with cardboard boxes, parts of his life that he couldn't be bothered packing away. The a few books lined the walls, and a large TV hung on the wall with some DVDs scattered beneath it, but that was the only indicator that someone lived in the large space. His apartment was spotlessly clean; clothes packed away neatly his wardrobe with a large padlocked box of weapons stored under them, not a speck of dot gracing the surfaces.
Castiel moved inside and emptied out his backpack, putting things away in their rightful places.
As he did every night, he microwaved some left-overs from the week before, and slopped it onto a plate with some freshly cooked rice. He poured himself a glass of wine, and as always, he sat down at his deliberately small table alone, just as he liked it.
Castiel enjoyed his own company. He never knew how to act around people. There had been times when he'd considered getting a cat, but he knew that he would constantly forget to feed it, and it would just be another thing that he had killed. He had bought himself some goldfish once, but they hadn't lasted more than a week. With two jobs, Castiel wasn't home very often, and when he was, it was just to have a meal and go to sleep. He had no time for pets. He had no time for friends.
He finished his meal, sat down on the couch and read a few chapters of a book that he didn't particularly like, and before he knew it, it was seven pm, and he was tucked up in bed. Tomorrow he would start the process over again. Find his target, learn them, determine a pattern, and then in a week or two's time, he would strike.
His new target was a man named Dean Winchester. He worked as a mechanic, had no family apart from his younger brother and his father. He was an ordinary man with an ordinary job, and that made Castiel wonder what he'd done to deserve this special attention, but he never asked. It wasn't his place. He followed Dean for one week, trailing him in crowds, watching his house day and night to determine when his fixed appointments were. He always stayed a safe distance away, and would leave a day where he wouldn't follow him at all, just so the man wouldn't be so suspicious. Castiel went into his day job, and spent another dreary day in perfect solitude, sorting out a mess of filing cabinets. He would hardly speak to anybody, and no one would mind.
After another week, Castiel was ready. He had determined his weapon. A small switchblade would be impossible to see in the crowded underground, and Cas would be able to hide the weapon in his coat until he could dispose of it safely. He would bump into his target as planned, and stab the small blade into the man's side in one swift motion, hitting an internal organ. If the crowd was thick enough, he could afford a few stabs, securing his death in a matter of minutes, no time at all to be saved. That would be the ideal situation, but Castiel never knew exactly what would happen until he was there.
He had followed Dean from his small, messy, bottom story apartment, tailing him from far behind until they had started their descent.
Castiel hadn't expected it. The situation had never even crossed his mind. No one ever talked to him. No one ever even noticed him. Not in a crowd like that. He'd specifically chosen the crowd in the subway, as the jostling bodies all pushed angrily in a hurry to get on the train to their destination. He was wearing ordinary clothes, a tan trench coat over jeans and a plain shirt. No one would look twice at him.
Or so he thought.
He'd spotted the man easily. His shoulders were hunched and the leather jacket he always wore was slightly too big. His knees appeared to be a bit of a hazard, and he kept receiving glares from strangers he had bumped into. This was what he did on every Saturday. He made his way onto the train, travelling to meet up with his brother.
Castiel walked with his hands in the pockets of his coat, one wrapped around his blade, ready to strike out, glancing at Dean out the corner of his eye. He made mental notes about the man's speed as he walked along the platform, in order to get his timing right. He could not afford to mess this up.
Then something happened.
As Castiel found himself bumping into Dean, and both men were stuck in the crowd, slowly shuffling, he decided to take the chance. He flicked out the blade, slowly took his arm out of his pocket, and looked at Dean one last time before he made his move.
Dean was staring at him. His green eyes were wide, locking onto Castiel's. He smiled a stupid, crooked grin that sent a cheeky sparkle to his eyes. "Don't you just wish you could clear a path?" he asked, voice low, soft, smooth.
Castiel told himself to do it, to seize the moment, but he couldn't... He'd never been close enough to hear the man speak, and he founding himself wanting to hear more of his words. His grip on the blade loosened. He felt his mouth fall open and he racked his brains for something to say, but he was lost for words, lost in those eyes. He cleared his throat and nodded, shouting at himself mentally. Castiel tried to keep going, to pretend that he hadn't really noticed Dean Winchester saying anything. He ignored the man's gaze, looking straight ahead, heart sinking.
Dean sighed and his smile faded. He turned back to start shoving his way through the crowd. "Let me through!" he roared. "Police!" He grinned to himself as the crowd parted and he made his way through, flashing a smile in Castiel's direction. "Not really," he added, walking past a shouting woman as he pushed his way onto the packed train that had just pulled up. With a beeping sounds, the train doors slid closed and Dean was rolling away, off to meet his brother.
Castiel had missed his chance. He couldn't believe it. He'd messed up. He'd been found out. No, he reminded himself. Dean had merely seen him. He hadn't known of Castiel's intent.
That brought Castiel back to the real question. As he stood still amongst the churning of bodies, he couldn't escape it. Why had he frozen? Why hadn't he taken his chance and finished the job. It had been his eyes, he thought. Those soft, wise eyes with all that life in them…
Castiel's heart thudded in an unfamiliar way and he turned on his heel, pushing back against the crowd like he was swimming against the current. He forced his way through and stepped lightly up the steps; jumping the turnstile and heading back out into the open, in need of air. The image of them was burned against his retina, two green, kind eyes, staring at him from the inside of his eyelids every time he blinked.
Castiel was in trouble, and he knew it.
Author's Note: This was a request from Destiel101 ^_^ I hope you like it. That goes for ALL of you. XD This is mostly up now for feedback and stuff. If no one likes it, I won't continue. :P