Title: Haunted
Word Count: 895
Rating: T for language
Summary: Dean just met an angel and its completely different from what he expected. He just wishes it would leave him alone and mind its own business.
Notes: This started out really good, but ended kind of poorly. I wrote it in a span of two classes. It's Dean's first thoughts on Castiel. I kept calling Cas an it because of the fact that Dean doesn't want to care for the angel. Yeah, I don't know.
Deep blue eyes haunt him. They follow his every move. If he so much as breathes in too deep for the norm, he can feel them glued to his person. He's suffocating.
The flutter of wings is not a blessing. Instead, the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. His teeth clench, fingers tighten into fists. It feels as if there is something crawling under his own skin, an all encompassing chill that unsettles him, makes him want to scratch at his flesh until there is nothing left.
An angel's voice, not soft and sweet, but deep and as rough as gravel, stops him in his tracks. He can't move, can't keep himself from shivering. His body and mind fractures as he is pulled backward and pushed forward all at the same time; he's so unbalanced. He wants to answer the being's call, wants to be everything it says he will be.
But he can't be this Righteous Man, the man the world relies on. He's bruised and broken, not something to be looked upon. It's not in his nature. He doesn't blindly follow just anyone, anyway. He was bred to distrust. If it's Supernatural, kill it. Don't talk to it. That was a rule that used to be easy to follow. Used to be…
Gunfire did not work, so he just quit trying. Knives couldn't do any lasting damage, either. Stab it in the heart? It'll just remove the blade; let it clatter to the floor as the gash, cut deep and oozing blood, knits back together within a fraction of a second. Blood spilled has no lasting effect on this being.
Waste more bullets? No. Save the energy? Yes. Befriend and trust it? Most definitely not.
It said it was an Angel, gave itself a name, a name that he can not bring himself to say. If he does speak its name, he humanizes it, makes it a person. It's an it, simple as can be. Let's just leave it at that. Makes life easier, right?
Wrong. This angel's appearance upset the balance of things. Believing everything is evil was ideal for his occupation and for his sanity. A ghost? Salt and burn the corpse, the specter was harmful. A vampire? Pump it full of dead man's blood to slow it down and cut off it's head. Werewolf? A silver bullet to the heart ends that particular night terror. Demon, shape-shifter, siren; you name it, he could kill it. But an angel? What the fuck is that?
Cast all your view on angels aside, they are far from being correct. There are no fluffy white wings, no fat cheeked babies dressed in diapers and toting golden harps. Music and all that is euphoric do not mark their coming. They are not something to be trifled with, and he does not understand why some desperate person would waste their prayers and laments on something this cold and uncaring.
When he was first visited, he thought his head was going to explode, the ringing in his ears so intense. Windows shattered; doors were blown of their hinges. There was definitely no peace on earth felt then. Definitely gave another meaning to the saying 'reap the whirlwind', right?
Peaceful. Euphoric. Still not words he would associate with this particular God-like figure. This angel is vengeful. It can smite a demon within the blink of an eye; can cause serious bodily harm with the touch of two fingers. Hell, from what he's seen of the other dicks with wings, because of course there had to be more than one, touching wasn't even necessary to kill and maim.
And so, he walks on eggshells and bites his tongue for the most part. He is defensive, his hackles always raised. It expresses authority, demands gratification. After all, it did pull him from the pit, gripped him tight and knitted his soul back together, which is something he knows he didn't deserve. He should still be in there; burning, screaming, flaying flesh from bone…
It's always watching him, always in his personal space. He supposes it's nice to have such a powerful being on his beck and call. Why not call on the Angel of the Lord whenever he's short changed? It can sure fight and it doesn't hurt that if he's in a bind, it can for sure bail him out and fix him all up. But he can't. He feels as if he's giving up by relying on it. It's not human, not like him, which totally screws up the balance.
He wishes it would just leave him alone and go back to its home in the clouds. It's presence on earth can't mean anything good is about to happen. When divine intervention is necessary, then you know that shit is about to hit the fan, right? Plus, he can't shake the feeling that he's just some sort of an experiment, always being observed.
Blue eyes study him, glance over his form and take everything in; break him down into parts, making him uncomfortable in his own skin. He can't breathe, can't think. It feels as if his thoughts are not of his own design anymore. He's so off balanced, his world teetering on the edge of something so much bigger than him. He can never find rest; his mind is plagued with an Angel.