A New Angel (Destiel AU)

Chapter 4: I've Got You Under My Skin

Castiel stood alone in his room. It was dark, homely, with a single bare lightbulb that had flickered out days ago. Yet the lonely angel noticed none of this, not the quiet drip of water from the bathroom, not the quiet voices from the rooms around him. But what Castiel was listening to was his soul. It stuttered weakly in his chest, swathed in grace, and it disturbed him. Surely that wasn't a soul? Surely the ache he felt in his chest wasn't a feeling.

It wasn't.

It most definitely wasn't attraction.

It most definitely wasn't falling in love.

It wasn't.

Castiel closed his eyes and reopened them. He couldn't remember this place. He couldn't remember why he stood here in a dark motel room, why he was here in this place. He sifted through his memories. He could remembered Gabriel in the forest. But after that his memories were strangely foreign. So Castiel decided to leave. He spread his wings, the shadows of them spreading across the wall behind him. He heard the hum of power in his veins, the uneven beat of his grace against his heart. What he didn't hear was his motel door opening. What he did hear were gunshots. And suddenly Castiel was face to face with glass-green eyes and a chest full of silver bullets.

***

Dean was looking through the records for the town. There didn't seem to be any recent werewolf deaths. None that weren't in the past cycle of the full moon. Which, to makes things even worse, was coming to an end. He looked through the records in confusion, with not even a single strange death in the tiny town of Greenville, not of any ripped-out hearts in the Wilderness or anything. This was a bit of a setback in the case. None of it made sense.

Not until he thought of when they had first pulled into the motel. A man was checking back into his room. Well, the man, the man that had stared Dean down in the motel lobby when he was disposing of that huge stack of papers. When they had just pulled in to the parking lot, he had heard the conversation between the man and the receptionist.

'Three days in the 100-Mile Wilderness, alone.'

A day, Dean realized, before the werewolf attacks had started. He felt his stomach drop. He remembered the trapped, confused gaze that the man had worn while staring Dean down. He must have known that they were hunters, the Winchesters no less.

"Hey Sammy, you remember that guy in the motel lobby that was throwing all those papers away?" Dean called out to his brother, who sat across the room, with his textbook and copious amounts of papers spread around him.

"Yeah, the guy that you were practically undressing with your eyes?" Sam asked, smirking, as he looked up from his research.

"Shut it, Sammy," Deam said, as he felt a slight blush creep up his neck. "No, I think he might be our guy."

"As in werewolf guy or next crazy one-night stand?" Sam peeked up at Dean and smiled crookedly as his brother rolled his eyes. Sam could almost swear he could see Dean blushing.

"Yes, Sam, as in werewolf guy," Dean said exasperatedly, "I thought you were supposed to be the smart one in this family."

"Apparently this leg of the woods has absolutely no werewolf history. Wendigos? Yeah. Ghosts, demons, they hang out here all the time. But in the past 100 years, I haven't found a single case of a werewolf in this general area. Nothing. And guess what else? The guy we saw in the lobby, well, he just spent three days in the woods, alone, and now that he's back, the attacks have stopped. A little fishy, huh?" Dean smiled demurely, ready for Sam to agree with him.

Sam considered it for a second.

"Yeah, but Dad isn't here. For all I know, your theory could be bullshit, we could storm this guy's room, and end up killing him. We all know how terrible your judgement is, Dean." Sam then gestured at his brother, looking him up and down. In turn, Dean stuck his tongue out at his brother and stood up.

"Yeah, well for all we know, your reasoning could be bullshit too, and we could be missing our only opportunity to gank this bastard." Dean crossed his arms, before standing up and grabbing his jacket. "Going to the car to grab our silver bullets, you stay here and be good."

Dean left his hotel room, skirting a few women. He noticed a brown-haired girl staring at him, a guidebook held in her hands.

"Federal agent coming through," he said gruffly.

He winked at her before Sammy climbed into the Impala and they drove to a less conspicuous location to gear up.

Th car was uncharacterustically quiet as they drove away. At least as quiet as it can get when Dean is blaring Led Zeppelin from his car stereo. Sam stared out the window, hoping for John to come back from the bar. He hadn't taken the car, of course he hadn't, this town was too small. His father had left them alone in the motel to do God knows what. Probably to get insanely drunk. Another town to trash, as was the Winchester way, with blood and blasphemy.

And then Dean pulled up in an alley behind the motel. It wasn't damp, like most alleys they'd been in. It was clean, with shiny metal trash cans and clean, tied up bags. The cement beneath their feet was clean, the asphalt almost gleaming. It was so far from what the brothers were used to. They had expected broken glass and the overpowering stench of piss and alcohol. The small town of Greenville was too nice for them.

So Deam hurried. He pulled out the gun tucked in his shirt, and unloaded the bullets, replacing them with the shoddily molded silver bullets. He tucked a gleaming silver knife in his boot. Sam did the same. Led Zeppelin blared in the background.

Dean was basically armed to the teeth as he stepped from the car. They drove back around to the hotel and entered again. Th woman at the desk sat, bored, reading a small book with too many words for Dean's taste. He looked around the lobby, as the setting sun set everything in stark relief, from the stuffed moose head in a corner, to the fake potted plant that was more dust than plastic. They padded softly down the hall to Room 4. Dean kneeled, as Sam's gangly, albeit tall, frame protected them from the stares of civilians. Sam hadn't said a word to Dean for a long time, not since their exchange of words in the room. He instead looked out for John, hoping for an end to Dean's rash actions. Because if Sam couldn't stop Dean from being stupid, he could at least make sure that Dean didn't get killed while being stupid.

The door opened with a quiet click. And suddenly everything was action and gunshots. Blue eyes and bullets. And just as quickly as they had stepped into action, everything was still. Dean felt his heart thumping in his chest as he watched the man. He stared back at Dean from across the dark room. It was dark, and small, and intimate. So dark, in fact, that Dean missed the shadowy set of wings that were spread across the wall behind the blue-eyed man. They shared breaths in the small room, and Dean felt too close to the man that obviously was not dying from the silver bullets in his chest.

Dean bent over, unsheathing the knife in his boot. He stepped into action, and stabbed him squarely in the chest. They stared at each other, and then Dean stared at the knife in the man's chest. He looked back into the blue that was the other man's eyes. He saw his own eyes reflected back to him in the ocean of blue. Dean felt a cold, smooth hand fold itself over his own. Dean watched the knife slide out of the man's chest, stared at the silver knife that wasn't in the least bit bloody. Thn he looked at the man.

For the first time, Dean noticed wings. Dark as midnight, they were in stark relief against the shadowy walls. All the windows were closed, the light was off, yet Dean could still distinguish the dark of the wings from the shadows on the walls. The gun in Dean's hand landed soundlessly on the hotel carpet.

The seconds before Dean spoke felt like years. Dean's mouth was dry, and he licked his lips before quietly speaking.

"What are you?"

"Castiel. Angel of The Lord."