Why this story, my first reader insert, was born: I somehow found a pics of Karl Urban (after having re-watched him in Lord of the Rings with his very sexy accent) with trench, suit and tie, and there was a comment about how he looked kind of like Cas. But the Brit accent? It reminded me more of British's top spy on the supernatural of the Marvel Comic Universe- Peter Paul Winston "Pete" Wisdom.
So, yeah. Here there is.
(Also, I can't believe it's been over a decade since the last time I wrote a Supernatural story!)
When you feel movement at your back, you quickly turn, gun ready, your hands slightly trembling as adrenaline rushes through your whole body. You breath hard, your heartbeat thumbing all the way to your head like a jackhammer.
In the silence of the darkened and cold room, you hear only two sound: your erratic breathing, and the secure of a gun being pulled off - and you know it's not yours. You hear the gunshot, and see the light emanated from the barrel breaking the darkness, as lifting a veil, illuminating the visage of your assailant in chiaroscuro.
You jump to the side as in instinct, falling onto what your body assumes being a heap of useless crap left behind by the owner of the abandoned outbuilding. You clench your teeth, as your leg is torn by a sharp pain.
You can't move, and whoever assaulted you is coming to get you – to end what he started, each step bringing you closer and closer to your eventual death.
You are not going to beg. You'll face your death with the same strength and dignity you've faced the monsters you've fought in life – just like you've been taught.
"He" – or at least, you assume it's a man – knees at your side, and you grunts as you try to crawl your way out of the room. You'd cry for help – Sam, Dean and Castiel must be somewhere around here, after all – but they'd never get here in time. Worse, you believe that it may even enrage your assailant furthermore, condemning you, and maybe even your allies, for sure.
He sits there, lighting a cigarette when you finally dare to meet his gaze, and when you see his features mixed with the smoke, the breath dies in your throat.
"Lookin' uncommon respectable, Y/N…" he chuckles, and you sigh, closing your eyes, as you collapse on the floor, wanting to bash your head repeatedly against the concrete.
Just your lousy luck: of all the men in the whole world, it had to be him, Pete Wisdom, MI-13 – Her Britannic Majesty's Intelligence Services devoted to supernatural and weird happenings (his words).
Your former boss, and, for your eternal regret and chagrin... your ex fiancé.
The first time you met Pete Wisdom, you actually hated him. With a passion. Back then, you were occasionally freelancing with his agency after having being talked by your best friend Kate into moving back to Britain, six months into your marriage with Alex.
Kate was the one who introduced the two of you, and your dislike for the dark-haired, blue eyed spy was immediate. Pete was arrogant, full of himself and he didn't like to admit being wrong or taking responsibility for his own actions. And he was a real flirt, believing himself to be God's gift to women and calling all the girls things such as petal, flower, honey, love and the likes. (You barely allowed your freaking husband to call you honey, so why allow a perfect stranger call you pet names, uh?)
You knew he was just a rebound for Kate, and it wouldn't have lasted; still, you thought she was too good even for that. He was an ass – and he was fine knowing it. Actually, he even seemed awfully proud of this. You didn't like him, nor his line of work or his methods, and you weren't shy saying it at loud. You were actually glad when Kate finally called things off, after a brief affair with a young man her own age. You moved away shortly after, temporarily leaving behind the "family business" (which was your way of saying hunting without having to say the word out loud) hoping to get a sense of normality for as long as it lasted.
Well, flash fact… it didn't last.
It took you only a few years to get dragged back into the nightmare that had been your life for way too long. You weren't even twenty-five and you were already divorcing Alex (actually, it was the other way around) and your sister's disappearance (a gentle offering from a vampire nest) forced you to get back to your roots, replacing her in the "family business" you've despised so much.
Maybe it was Alex's treatment of you, maybe it was Ellison's loss, maybe it was everything and nothing at all, but the next time you and Pete crossed paths, even if you still considered him an ass and hated his teasing and flirting, you were now kind of all right with his line of work and his methods. You… sympathized with him, for lack of a better word. Before you could fully realize it, you and Pete were hanging out – sharing drinks late at night while discussing the last "weird happening", as he called all the supernatural stuff he had to deal with on a regular basis. You weren't even friends, but one thing leaded to another, and one day (one night) you shared a semi-drunk one night stand that eventually turned into an on again/off again relationship.
For eight freaking years.
You didn't know how, you didn't know why, but somehow, you clicked. So much so that when he eventually proposed, you accepted – but only on one condition: it was time to leave it all behind, and this time for real, once and for all. You were getting older, and if you wanted to start a family, bear his children, it was now or never, a family within the life justwasn't happening.
He said yes. That he agreed with you. So, you said yes in return, and discovered that despite the jeans, the t-shirts and the sneakers you favorited, you could actually be a bridezilla. And, Heavens forgave you, you loved planning your wedding – you very cliché, big, fat, white wedding.
You already had the band, the restaurant, the flowers were already in the church and you were trying your dress on for the following day when Pete came to, and when your eyes met, you knew that he had changed his mind. It wasn't you, he said. The Crown still needed him. He had been asked to step in and lead MI-13. And you could still get married anyway, he said.
Well, you didn't think so.
You packed your stuff and left, wanting the rest of your life to star as soon as possible. It didn't matter if you were to do it alone. You were ready to commit yourself to your own personal happily ever after, single version. You really, really wanted out, and in your defense: you would have left hunting behind, had not the universe menaced to end once and for all – and living your life with no reality at all would have been kind of hard, after all. But suddenly it was just one crisis followed by some other bigger crisis and before you knew it… you were back living the hunting life full time, thanks to the Winchester brothers.
The first time you had agreed to help Dean and Sam out you thought you would have come to regret it, but two years later, you've seen so much, lived so many adventures, that despite the dangers, you guessed you would have still done it all anyway – how could you not, when you had at your disposal one of the world's biggest collection of artifacts and texts about all those things that go bump in the night, when you used to try to get an actual angel – and a very handsome angel on top of that -to learn pop culture, when you've crossed paths not only with God himself, but his sister, too?
"So, let me get this straight: we're all hunting the same thing – only, it's not a wraith, but a psycho wraith." Dean gesticulates a little, his eyes darting from one side of the room to the other. You've gotten back to the motel, and you are currently occupying the brothers' room – in the gentle companionship of your beloved ex. "So, what's the difference? I mean, we get all stabby on it with a silver blade, and bang, we're done! "
Pete bows his head a little, and you see he is opening his mouth as to speak. Which, for some reason, just infuriates you – he did almost kill you, and even if it wasn't on purpose, he still injured you. You are snappy and curt, and the fact that the sexy angel in a trench coat, also known as Castiel, is sitting next to you, lingering on your side, not understanding what No, I don't need healing means just makes you snappier.
Sitting on the bed with ice on your injured leg, you clench your teeth and snarl.
"Offing them may be a little bit harder than usual, actually. Psycho wraiths? Differently from what the name may suggest, they are actually hybrids – wraiths with robotic parts." You spell the last two words, staring at Pete as you were a disappointed parent. "I'd say, your dad's baseball bat? If we coat the barbed wire with some silver, it could do the trick."
"Robots, uh?. Just great. Like we don't have enough troubles as it is!" Dean grunts, sighing heavily, hands on his hips. "And, just out of curiosity, who the hell had the brilliant idea of mixing robots and monsters?"
"They go by the collective name of Mys-Tech nowadays. A consortium of British druids who, in 980 something, made a pact with a demon to be immortal." Pete explains, playing with his lighter, an unlighted cigarette resting between those pink lips of his. He has lost the trench and his suit jacket, loosening the knot of his dark blue tie a little.
"But It doesn't make any sense," Sam interferes. "How could the demon collect the souls, if the druids were immortals?"
"Well, mate, the guys promised to… channel innocent souls into Hell through the years. And, anyway, as Faustian pacts go, theirs wasn't very wise…"
"They were given immortality, but not eternal youth. When Pete and I crossed paths with them, they were just a heap of useless old men on life support trying to find new and creative ways to conquer the world." You sighs, rolling your Y/E/C a little. "I guess that the demon who made the pact thought they would have eventually begged to be done with their sorry excuse of an immortal life."
"Still, how does a Brit end up hunting psycho wraiths here? Don't get us wrong, it's just that you are kind of a little far from home." Sam says, clearing his throat a little. The number of British people in their line of work he can trust is rather small, after all, considered his history with the Men of Letters.
"When SHIELD fell," Pete starts, finally lighting his cigarette. He keeps his head low, and presses a thumb to his forehead, his blue eyes closed, as he was lost in thoughts. "Mys-Tech came over to the States. Thought it would have been easier working here, now that there's no one policing the supernatural.. My mates and I – Lance and Alistaire – we kind of went rogue and decided to settle some scores, before the goddamn wizards do something real nasty. "
Pete lifts his head, and his eyes look for yours, meeting them on the other side of the room. They are burning through your very soul, making you swallow your saliva, hard. When he speaks, he is calm – so much so that you know he wants to hurt you, make his point.
"Never thought I would have found you here, though. Thought you made a point of wanting to leave this kind of life behind?"
"So, you two…" Dean purses his lips a little, looking from you to Pete and vice versa, indicating you both with a finger. "You used to work together? On this kind of stuff?"
You blush, and Pete starts laughing, so much so that he almost falls on the ground, his belly hurting. "Work together? That's what you told your friends, Petal?"
"Don't call me Petal!" You hiss between clenched teeth, as red as a tomato. "You couldn't call me petal when we were together, you can call me like that even less now… and just for the record, I never spoke of you!"
"Together? As in, together- together? Like, you know, that?" Dean asks, with eyes wide-open.
You grunt, very un-lady like (not that you've ever been a lady to begin with). Sometimes, when you and Dean try to have a conversation, you feel like you are talking with an overgrown twelve years old, and not the grown up, mature man he is supposed to be.
Pete nods, all smug and arrogant and seriously, did you really waste almost a decade of your life after him? "Yep. We just had to walk down the aisle when Y/N left me. Which reminds me: you still have my ring, Petal."
"YOU WERE ENGAGED TO HIM!?" Even Sam has the decency of looking ashamed of Dean's reaction, his half-scream more suited to other kind of situations, further evidence that the man who claims to be an adult is still, in fact, really just a child in a man's clothes. Sam shoves his older brother a little, clenched teeth as he silently glares at his sibling. Dean doesn't answer; he simply opens his arms a little, looking confused at the younger Winchester, as to say, so, what?
Pete's finding it very hilarious – he still chuckles, shamelessly.
Castiel, in his usual fashion, tilts his head to the side, in confusion.
You've managed to blush furthermore, and you are quite sure they're gonna name this bran new shade of red after you.
You'd like to disappear (why can't the ground swallow you when you need it the most? Even a tear in reality would be fine…) because you are following Dean's gaze, and you know, you just know what has gotten his attention – and if you know him – which, you do – you have a feeling of what he'll say next.
"You were engaged. To him." He repeats again, spelling the words as you all were a brunch of five years old; Dean's looking at you, but his right index is pointing at Pete, who's quizzically lifting an eyebrow too perfect for his own good. A bit astonished and shell-shocked, running an hand over his five o'clock shadow, Dean looks at Pete, then back at you – or, to be more accurate, to the seraph sitting next to you.
Dark, messy hair.
The bluest eyes known to mankind.
A penchant for trench coats, black suits, white shirt, dark blue ties and dress shoes.
They are even kind of the same height.
"Holy crap." Dean whimpers, as he was a girl. He is looking at Castiel as he was seeing him for the first time, and you think – you can't be sure – that he is actually blushing – as he was imagining you and the angel in a compromising situation (which, to your eternal chagrin, hasn't happened yet).
"I don't understand," Castiel asks, looking at you as you could give him an actual answer. You fish for one, but your mind turns out empty: everything you'll say now, will just embarrass you, and makes things awkward between you and your angel (which you are well aware is not yours at all).
Pete leaves his seat and joins the brothers, too satisfied for his own good. You are sitting on the bed, still as a statue. You're not even sure you are still breathing – the upside of this whole debacle is that, were you to die, Castiel is already here, ready to bring you back.
"It means, mate," he says, putting out the cigarette against the stained wall as he was a Neanderthal, already in the doorjamb. "That she traded her ride for a newer model."
"Have you changed your car, Y/N? I thought you were still driving a [YOUR CAR MODEL]…"
"Yeah, Cas, we're not talking about cars here." Dean sniggers. "We mean…" But he can't end the sentence, because you hit him with a pillow, to Sam's amusement.
"Don't you have a wraith to get? Stop wasting your time and get this bloody shit done and dealt with!" You snarls, redder by the second, just glad that Pete is already outside, and Sam is pushing his brother away.
Your secret (also known as your crush on the sexy angel with the trench coat) is safe. For now, at least.
"Are you certain you don't wish for me to heal you, Y/N?" Castiel asks one last time, standing up. He is readjusting his trench coat, ready to join the Winchesters (and Wisdom) in the hunt for the latest monster of the week.
Still blushing – even if now your cheeks are more pink than polka dot red – you nods. "I'll be fine. Some ice, a couple of ibuprofens, and a little rest and I'll be as good as new when you'll be back."
Castiel smiles – something that always makes your girly parts dance – and leaves, joining his surrogate family, and once you know he's outside and he can't hear you any longer, you breathe a sigh of relief, collapsing on the cheap bedsheets.
Well, your secret's safe - for now. Just for how long, it's up probably to Dean.
But that's gonna be a problem for another day.
Now, it's time for ice, ibuprofen, and some decent sleep.
(And maybe some hot dream featuring your favorite angel…)