Approximately 12 Years Ago:
A hand lies on his back, urging him to move forward. Fake nails scrape his skin through the thin cotton tunic. He smells chemicals that burn his nose, and there's a faint whiff of smoke in the air. He looks up, into his mother's eyes. So blue, like his own. Her hair is pulled into a power bun, to match her steel grey power suit. She is impeccable, sterile, devoid of even a hair out of place. She has small lines near her eyes, which crinkle when she smiles at him. She leans down and pushes him forward again, gently.
"Castiel. Dear, I need you to do this for me. Don't disappoint me, please." She places her ebony handled, engraved family heirloom knife in his chubby seven-year-old hand, and he feels so honored, trusted, and loved. No one is allowed to touch this knife besides Mother. He loves her, he feels affection for her and smiles genuinely up at her, because that's what small children do. They trust and they love, especially when they don't know they shouldn't, and even when they do know better. It took him another ten years to realize his memory of her smile being loving was false; her smiles were nothing but lies, plastered on to cover the empty space where her emotions ought to be.
But for now he cannot detect past the shiny veneer of love and trust she has displayed, or the sense of familial duty that has been instilled in each of them. He sees a mother he loves, asking him to do his duty. He does not want to, but he must. He can remember when Gabriel came back with his mother, Castiel's mother's sister, from his own first Mission. Gabriel had been pale, but smiling. He had been given cookies, and patted on the head. His mother even gave him a hug. Gabriel had done well, and so would Castiel. He gripped the bone-handled knife and approached the source of the stench.
By that point, the man they had been interrogating was hardly a man at all. Castiel did not flinch when he saw the burns or what remained. This was not a person to him. It was as his mother had told him; this was a Demon. This was a Sinner. This was someone who had betrayed them and betrayed their family. Castiel may have been small, but he was tired of being called weak.
In kindergarten he had shown compassion, helping others and being kind to all, as was his nature. The other kids had all bullied him. He had swiftly been shown the error of his ways by his Mother. She had called him weak; her eyes had shifted from loving and kind to cruel and angry. He never wanted to anger her again.
"Treating them that way, Castiel, is what makes you weak. They are less than you. They are not your family. We cannot have you showing weakness." She had told him.
From her, he learned never to show compassion. And from All- Father he learned to never fail the family. He remembered Sunday sermons filled with his family, his brothers and sister and cousins all around him, all praying together, listening to All-Father as he honored those who had done well, and doled out punishments for those who had not. He had listened to those who were punished, as they screamed for mercy, and he vowed never to fail.
Where most seven year olds would have flinched, at the very least, Castiel did not. He remembered the teachings of his family, his Mother, and he stood strong. He could not fail them. He brought up the knife. He felt Naomi's eyes on him. His task was clear: interrogate, but do not kill. The man would die soon anyway.
Castiel reached up with his empty hand, standing on the tips of his toes. He placed the hand on the man's cheek, and whispered in his ear. The dead man cried. He wailed. Castiel did not remove his hand or stop whispering. The voice of a small child, supposedly an innocent thing, used in such a manner as to be a perversion. But to Castiel this was not the case. His sense of duty to his Mother surged as the man sobbed. Not another incision was made, but this had been the worst torture yet. After spilling his secrets, the wretched received praise from the youth, and a bone handled knife slid home before Castiel pulled away.
Castiel was given cookies that night, and even got a hug. But still, like Gabriel, he was pale. His voice shook. As his stoicism had not failed him before, it was failing him now. He was only a child. A powerful guilt shook him. That night, in his bed, he cried himself to sleep, muffled by a pillow like the shameful act Mother and Father would denounce it to be. The stench of death and the smell of blood followed him for days afterwards. He felt like he was the one who had died, not the man.
When Castiel was thirteen, he embarked on his first ever solo hunt. To be sure, this was a year later than most of the other children. However, Castiel was what they were calling a 'late bloomer' in his family. Always the oddball, despite his initial success, Castiel had become a problem child. His mother, once proud of his accomplishments, had become increasingly disappointed in him. After his initiation he had joined in training. All of the family was home schooled, and they were taught a rather… unorthodox curriculum, in addition to the regular school subjects.
While he excelled at some things, such as weaponry, aim, hand-to-hand combat and blade training, he failed miserably at interrogation skills, the most important of the arts. Where his cousin Alistair was clearly the next Einstein of the Torture world, Castiel was clearly their next assassin. Kill, he could do. Torture, he could not. The reason became clear soon enough, and he was put on a number of prescriptions when he was ten years old to 'fix' the problems. First, an antidepressant. Next came a sleeping pill. Then anti-anxiety medications. Naomi was just about throwing the pills at her son to make him stop caring about the people who lay on his training table.
Eventually, they took a different route. Alistair wanted someone he wasn't allowed to kill, who he could play with and mold into a new person. A long-term project, you could say. His final exam before he could graduate. Castiel was deemed the defective soldier who needed reprogramming. It was, to Naomi, a perfect solution. Alistair and Castiel then shared a room. A room filled with Alistair's tools and toys. It was then that Castiel discovered how thin the wall Naomi had displayed was. How truly fake she was. The veil of childhood was torn aside.
When it had been the pills, he had blamed himself. He wasn't right. He wasn't good enough. Of course Naomi was disappointed. But for her to allow the Father of their family, Metatron, to do this to him? For her to support her son being used as a permanent pincushion for Alistair's knives? Naomi lost her son's respect and his love. What had once been childhood reverence turned to hatred.
Castiel belonged to Alistair for three years. From age ten to thirteen. Alistair 'graduated' when Castiel was eleven, but got to keep him as a reward for doing good work. Castiel held out just a year before collapsing. Life with Alistair had been… painful, to understate it. Castiel slept on the floor with no pillows or blankets for three years. He nearly lost his hands twice, and had to amputate one of his toes. His back was covered in a scarring pattern shaped to look like wings; part of Alistair's cruel sense of humor. His once perfect body was destroyed, not a patch of skin left untouched. He did not see nor speak to anyone other than Alistair for most of the first two years. He did not leave the house, except at night to accompany Alistair on his Missions. It went beyond the physical tortures. Alistair finding great delight in crushing any and all personality or shred of mental health and self-esteem Castiel may have had.
Each day he spent a minimum of an hour on the rack. At first, it had been all day there. When he had become Alistair's property, he had been trussed up for a straight week. Alistair took great pleasure in eating and drinking in front of him while he starved. He was given the minimum to stay alive. But after the first year, the daily bit of fun was purely for Alistair's enjoyment, so it usually only lasted about an hour. Castiel lost his vocal chords for a period of time. With a lack of anything productive to do, Castiel's mind turned… animalistic almost. After he broke, and stopped fighting it, he was allowed to restart his training. He would work out, brutally destroying his equipment, releasing his fury. By the time he was thirteen, Castiel was lethal, and he was dead inside.
Two years in, they began bringing people to him. Victims, murderers, traitors. He obliterated them all. As he was expected to. It was almost a game, how creative he could get with his one and only task. It was a very dark time. Castiel initially had one goal: suicide. But after a year on the rack, he had no thoughts of his self anymore. He lived to serve. He served to live.
Thirteen. The year of hitting on girls because you like them, of joining the first year sports teams, and freaking out over first pimples. Normal teenage concerns. Not for Castiel. At thirteen he made his re-entrance into family life. Gabriel, a year older than him, had been doing his job for two years. He was highly successful, so no matter how much he annoyed people he was kept around. Castiel was glad to see him again, remembering when they were children, sharing their milk and sweets. Even as a monster, Castiel had not been completely dehumanized. He could remember being human once. On his thirteenth birthday, however, he was sent out into the sun again.
His target was a rival dealer, causing trouble in the outskirts of the town. Not a huge problem, but still a threat needing neutralization. He packed up his tools and took the subway downtown, just a small, pale, thin thirteen-year-old boy in a trench coat. His mark was at a cafe near his apartment, so Castiel got himself a latte while he waited. He sat and watched his target. He stalked him with his eyes as his prey left the establishment. After waiting a bit- he was in no rush, he knew where the man lived- he followed.
The cops knew who did it. The cafe had a security camera, picking up the child out on his own. At first no one would believe it. He was a child for crying out loud! But then, they matched him up with their last known info on the youngest Novak child, who hadn't been seen in three years, and they shook their heads in stunned silence. They had no proof besides the camera footage, which meant they had nothing. The crime scene had been immaculate, of course.
Castiel can still remember his first solo hunt. He will never forget it. It's the one that haunts his nights the most frequently. He was asked to gather information on the dealers network and then eliminate him. It was easy, if messy. In the end, he dismembered and drained the body of its blood, then cremated it in a controlled environment, so as not to burn down the apartment.
But, oh, the screams. The poor man didn't know anything.
When Cas was a tall, yet thin and gangly sixteen year old, he had black holes instead of eyes. The humanity burned out of him by Alastair long ago, he was a robot. His only goal, besides basic survival, was to kill Naomi. The people he murdered blended together. They no longer stood out, he no longer dreamt of their voices. He no longer dreamt. He stood far taller than Gabe by now, and he counted Gabe and Anna among his only friends. The rest of his family could die for all he cared, and he might as well be their killer. But, he had no means of survival without them. To be excommunicated by the family would prove disastrous at this point, and besides, they far outnumbered him.
He began assisting in the training of the young blood. His nieces and nephews and cousins. One cousin he grew particularly close to, finding the young boy to be much like he had been. Innocent, open eyed, and kind hearted. Something inside him felt… strange when he looked at the boy. Samandriel was his name. He was shy, but good. Castiel felt the irrational need to protect him. When they were training with weapons, he always paid Samandriel special attention. Over time, they became a team, Samandriel backing him up on his Missions.
At the same time, Castiel felt lonely. Sure, he had become a rather soulless and heartless being, but that was mainly just when he needed to be. Underneath the monster, he existed still. And he was lonely. He had Gabe, Anna, and Sam, but he needed something more. This was when he began his playlist. He had always found music to be a calming, cathartic experience, and he delved into it headfirst. He began taking risks for a shade of normalcy. As any teenager, he began branching out, searching. The playlist was one risk, as they would never allow him to have it, but his gamble went much further than that. Anna and Gabe, and even Samandriel were all covering for him.
The fucked up life he had led left something fundamental lacking, and he wanted to find it. If he were quite honest with himself, he had been lacking in love. Sure, Anna, Gabe and Sam all cared for him, but in their lifestyle of intimidation and violence, there was no real love. Naomi certainly hadn't loved him. His deadbeat sperm donor of a father, allegedly named "Chuck", had hightailed it out before he had been born, disappearing into the night, never to be heard from again. So he searched. And what he found, well, it certainly felt like what love was supposed to feel like.
They had met at a bar. And they talked, drank, flirted. He had been blond, with lovely big brown eyes, and a smile bigger than the state. He didn't care that Castiel refused to talk about his past, but he had told Castiel all about his. Growing up in a small town, moving to the big city, high school, college life, everything. Castiel lapped it up like a starved animal. He was so normal, and Castiel loved that. He was kind, and good, and everything Castiel wasn't. The best part was he had no idea who the Novak-Milton's were.
Castiel saw him for six months before anyone found out. It was Michael. Of course, it was Michael. Do-gooder, Mr. Perfect, Heir to the Throne Michael. He caught him sneaking back in. Castiel lied, of course, and covered for himself, but the damage was done. He was sent out relentlessly on Missions. He killed three people in a week. There was no time to see the man he had fallen in love with.
He came home one day from a training session with the children, only to find Anna weeping in his room.
"It's all over Castiel. It's done. We're done for." Anna had been ordered to kill him. Not Cas, but Cas's lover. And Anna- wonderful, rebellious Anna- had refused. An unheard of feat. He was shocked she was still breathing. But then it became clear. Michael had killed her love. Her own, secret, forbidden love, which she had hidden from everyone, even Castiel. That was her punishment, one almost worse than death. That was the last he saw of Anna for a long time. Gabriel too disappeared that week. Perhaps it had been Anna's sudden departure, or Lucifer's mysterious actions, but Gabriel fled as well. Castiel was well and truly alone. He went to his last refuge, his only hope of escape from the void that was his family.
But it was gone. Dead. Clearly Michael and Lucifer's handiwork. Even some of the gore looked to be the signature flair of Alistair. Everything he had loved was now lost. Castiel saw black. Not red- black. Night had fallen, and he let the monster take him over.
The police had always been interesting. He never left without valuable information, ironic since he was always brought in for interrogation and they always got nothing. But such was the way. He would space out for a while, and they would get frustrated, and yell, or shout, or give away secrets they shouldn't in order to get a rise out of him. It was amazing the detail gleaned from a few hours being yelled at.
In any case, when Castiel was seventeen, he was brought in for the murder of James, or Jimmy, the man he had fallen in love with when he was sixteen. It was so ludicrous; he nearly broke just to laugh at them. But laughter would inevitably turn hysterical, which would turn to tears, which would end with him sobbing his heart out on the police interrogation room floor. So, he remained stoic. Impeccable control was what he was known for, after all.
Castiel was very sure he was broken inside. If not from Alistair, then from Jimmy. He had thought he would never love again, not after Alistair and Naomi. But then Jimmy had made him feel things, to feel human again. He must be a psychopath by now, he figured. They'd been calling him that for at least three? No, four years now. Ever since his first solo. But regardless of what the police thought, Castiel knew he was broken now. For good this time. He had no one to save him now, after all.
Ten hours. That's how long it took for the bearded angry man to get tired and walk away. He had been in and out, muttering under his breath a lot. His clothes were alcohol stained, and Castiel wondered how an alcoholic became a cop. He had even taken a swing at Castiel at one point, when Castiel was four hours in and still not speaking. Castiel just let his eyes become black holes, and well, it was their choice if they wanted to get lost in that. The one-way glass mirror mocked him. He watched it as if he had x-ray vision.
Immediately after his release, Castiel was brought to the Father himself, Metatron. A small man, with beady eyes and an ugly scruff, Metatron was the leader of the family. He preached for their church, he ordered their troops, and he contracted every execution. As their best assassin, Castiel had been under his direct control for years. He was debriefed in the usual fashion, and sent to his room for a brief quarantine. Food and Netflix were provided, and Samandriel made library runs for him each day. Not a single blueberry had been eaten, each meal being returned untouched.
Four days later he was summoned. This time by Naomi, Metatron's right hand. Also known as the egg donor for Castiel's existence. Long having given up the pretense of caring, she handed him a file and said,
"This is for you and you alone. Without this Mission accomplished, you will be excommunicated from the family, and killed. Kill the traitor in our midst, or be killed." And with that, Naomi had left him.
That night was the first time Castiel ever got drunk in his life. After reading the file, he had vomited, and decided nothing else would get him through to tomorrow. Well and truly smashed, he lay on his bed, listening to some Tchaikovsky. Knives lay on the floor, the sheets were tattered, guns in the trash can, whiskey had sloshed across his desk, and the room looked like a hurricane had swept through. In a way, it had; drunken Castiel was more physical than he was sober. In a fit of rage he had destroyed his prison cell of seventeen years.
Castiel muttered under his breath to himself. Broken sentences, fragments of thoughts, slurred and muddled together. This was the one and only decision that was better made drunk. Hidden away, deep inside his mattress was a file. Inside it was filled with evidence of every hit he had been contracted with since he was fifteen. Before then, he had hated, and plotted, but never been decided enough to go through with his plans. Now though… All bets were off.
Jimmy was dead, Samandriel was next. Alistair still haunted his life, day and night. Castiel had little left of a life, and so it wasn't hard to risk it. Gabriel had left the fold some time ago, somehow, and Castiel found himself reaching out to him now for help.
Unfortunately, help wouldn't be in the country for another week or so. Castiel panicked, not knowing what to do. He was backed into a corner, with little to no options. He needed to fake it until he could fix it. So, he slept, ate, 'planned', and acted normal for the rest of the week. Eventually, however, Naomi cornered him again, breathing down his neck and threatening him. He had no choice. That night, he went and trained with Samandriel. His young cousin was doing so well, and it broke Castiel's heart.
Afterwards, when Samandriel lay on his bed, cold and still, Castiel sat on the floor, head in his hands and he wept. What was Samandriel, but just another body in a long line leading back to the beginning, when Castiel had been nothing more than a defective soldier? No, he had been more than that. There had been countless men and women Castiel had eliminated, but he had never loved any of them like a brother. This was so far from okay. None of it, even Alistair had come quite this close to cutting him this deeply. He had done this to himself. He had let himself be used, but this was the last straw. This was the last time he would let himself be manipulated into hurting people. He wanted out.
Gabe found him the next day, in his room, lying in his bed on top of the covers, which were drenched in spilled whiskey. Castiel clutched the bottle, curled in a fetal position. Guns lay around him, under him, poking him in undoubtedly uncomfortable places. He was passed out cold, the only way to sleep at all now, save the pills. This was his rock bottom. This was sinking so far down as to be hell-adjacent. All it would take is one ill-timed roll in his sleep and he would break that ever-thinning veil separating him from there.
Gabe dumped a glass of water over him. It matted his hair across his face, but he sat up abruptly. Too abruptly. He ran to the bathroom. Gabe began looking through his files, looking for usable blackmail. Fortunately, there was enough that with a clever enough plan, Castiel might be able to get out alive. Never okay, but breathing.