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webcricket · 6 years

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It Happened Like This

Characters: CastielXReader ft. Sam and Dean Winchester

Word Count: 4521

Summary: Castiel hears the haunted tale of how the reader and the Winchesters first met. Everyone involved remembers the story a little bit differently. Tiny bit of angst with heaping helpings of fluff and humor.

A/N: This fic is a mostly factual semi-autobiographical account turned reader insert of an experience I had in college with a spirit. Some details have been altered for entertainment purposes and to protect the identities of those involved. I mean, obviously Castiel is my boyfriend and I personally know Sam and Dean Winchester because they are real people, so that part is definitely true. I blame this fic on @willowing-love who took the bait first and asked for my real-life ghost story.

Forehead resting on the cold glass of the Impala’s window, you watched the landscape fly by at 90 miles an hour – an uninterrupted blur of autumn leaves and harvested fields. Not so long ago this was your favorite time of year – nothing but crisp dewy nights, pumpkin spice everything, chunky sweaters and cozy socks with nature tucking herself to bed for the season beneath a warm-hued mantle of ruddy and golden pigments.

An unruly wisp of hair broke loose at your temple in the brisk breeze from Dean’s cracked window. It tickled your eyes and you swatted at it absent-mindedly, reverie uninterrupted as you plodded farther back into the memory of a simpler time. Not so long ago the beauty of the world shone to you in unblemished innocence. Now you understood the literal lie of the land, her sinister underbelly exposed. Now your days and nights teemed with the supernatural. Fall in particular, culminating with Halloween, or Samhain, or All Hallows’ Eve, or whatever the villain of the week wanted to call it, seemed to parade out more than its fair share of monsters, and not the adorable candy seeking variety.

Sighing, your breath misted the window. You traced the outline of a jack-o’-lantern in the fog, erasing the grinning visage with another lungful of exhaled air. You never imagined this would be your life.

A calloused fingertip gently swept the errant lock of hair from your eyes, securing it behind your ear. “What are you thinking about?” Castiel asked from beside you, astutely concerned your wakeful quietude meant something weighed heavy on your mind.

You turned from the window, focusing to meet his inquisitive blue gaze. “Just, you know, autumn…the colors…it’s really beautiful out there, isn’t it?” you softly murmured, uttering the sentiment aloud to remind yourself of nature’s splendor, to convince yourself the beauty of creation still existed despite the ever-present danger lurking below the placid guise.

Cas brushed a thumb across your cheek, eyes glinting with affection as he studied your features and ignored the passing scenery. He nodded after a moment, agreeing, “Yes, absolutely breathtaking.”

“You didn’t even look,” you blushed at the compliment, fingers delving beneath his coat to tease at his ribcage in retaliation for perpetually being so sweet. A small smile danced across your rose-tinted features as his ticklish vessel squirmed. You also never imagined falling in love with an angel.

“I did look,” he countered in a strained squeaking tone. Clutching at your wrists and wriggling away from your delightful assault, he reflected your smile, aspect softening with a tenderness reserved only for you. “I just didn’t have to look very far to see the beauty of my father’s creation.” Sliding an arm around your shoulders, he pulled you to his chest and gave you a comforting squeeze as you nestled against him.

Your regard settled on Sam and Dean bickering in the front seat about where to stop for dinner. Dean, unsurprisingly, favored a dive bar a few miles off the interstate for their amazing nachos. Sam craved real food over the neon orange faux-cheese and lukewarm beer that, at this point, probably coursed copious and congealed through his brother’s veins.

Any second now Dean would peer back at you via the rear view mirror, vibrant green eyes pleading for your vote of support in the matter. Sam would then swing a lanky arm over the back of the seat, twisting around to face you, begging you with a quirk of the brow to, for the love of Chuck, please be reasonable in your choice. Lightly giggling to yourself in anticipation, burrowing deeper into the angel’s embrace, your thoughts again drifted inexorably to the past. You never imagined these two men would become your surrogate big brothers either.

You weren’t born into hunting like Sam and Dean. Nor did you suffer some mortal wrong or tragic loss on account of something supernatural that spurred you on a hell-bent lifelong crusade seeking vengeance. You enjoyed a happy childhood, fortunate enough to possess a generally supportive family with a stable home life. There were a few awkward years between middle and high school where your hair, body, and personality were seemingly at odds with the entire planet, or gravity. Hard to say which, really; but you got through it all by utilizing the usual rebellious self-dramatizing tried and true teenage tactics. Then away you went to college, proclaiming independence by setting off for the hallowed halls of an institution several cushioning states from your roots. After a couple of unexpected bumps in the road going by the name of Sam and Dean, you graduated with a piece of paper designating you as an official English and Psychology duel major with a Russian Lit minor. The gravitas of these words in delicate black script on eggshell finish parchment, tastefully framed in gleaming cherry wood beneath frosted glass, imparted you with an enormous sense of self-importance. That is, until reality sunk in.

You became a hunter because, to your chagrin, you discovered upon exiting the cushioning bubble of academia that you were qualified to do precisely nothing in particular and very few employers offer paying positions for this interesting and generally useless skill set. Drudge work for minimum wage, or worse, the coveted unpaid internships people fall over one another to pursue, numbed your wits and barely paid the bills. You longed for excitement, adventure, and escape from the daily grind of squeaking by and getting nowhere fast. Hunting was the backup plan you stumbled into when the student loan lenders came calling. You chose to be a hunter. You chose this life.

“You’re awfully quiet back there,” Dean spoke up, he and Sam evidently having resolved the dinner plan without your input. “You good?”

“Living the dream,” you muttered.

Cas squinted fretfully down at your melancholy mien.

Sam flicked the radio off, exchanging a worried glance with his brother.

They all three knew your mind and mood were apt to wander on occasion into the disconcerting and anxiety-riddled land of the what ifs? You wouldn’t trade your relationship with the angel or the brothers for anything in the world, but that didn’t dissuade regret about everything else from rearing her ugly head and casting a malicious sneer upon you every now and then.

There was only one sure fire way to pull you out of a funk that didn’t involve a malted chocolate milkshake or a certain special angel’s worshipful ministrations of sensuously directed grace. And although well-stocked with a staggering variety of spell ingredients, the Impala’s trunk wasn’t equipped with the requisite fixings for even a paltry-by-comparison vanilla milkshake. And Dean strictly, and quite unreasonably you thought, forbade any and all angelic affection exceeding a rating of PG-13 to occur within 25 yards of the Impala or his physical person.

“Hey Cas, did Y/N ever tell you how we met?” Sam mused, implementing step one – the suggestion to share – of the story-telling distraction method for uplifting your spirits.

The angel looped a finger under your chin and tilted your aspect upward, answering, “Only in passing, but I would like to hear the details.”

“Maybe some other time,” you whined, shaking free of Cas’ caress to bury your face in the crook of his arm, preferring to wallow in woe a while longer.

Cas obligingly cuddled you closer.

“Aw, come on. A ghost story is perfect for Halloween night,” Dean stubbornly protested, whacking the steering wheel for emphasis.

“I’m sure Dean can tell it better than me,” you mumbled into the fabric of the angel’s trench.

The elder Winchester peeked back in the rear view mirror, catching Cas’ concerned gaze. Employing step two – spreading misinformation as a means of provocation – Dean snorted and smirked, “You’re probably right. And it’s my favorite kind of story too. Sammy and I swooping in to rescue the damsel in distress.”

“Hold up there, prince charming!” you huffed, extricating yourself from the angel’s hug to kick Dean’s seat. “That’s not what happened. I saved your asses.”

Dean feigned a wounded pout, muttering, “Yeah, right. Not how I remember it, princess.”

“I recall it being more of a group effort,” Sam goaded, seamlessly transitioning to step three – dangling the bait for you to set the record straight.

“Well, it’s my story,” you reproached, swallowing the bait – hook, line, and sinker, “and this is how it happened.” You began, “It was a dark and stormy Thursday night-”

“I thought it was a sunny Friday afternoon?” Dean quipped.

“Context!” you snapped. “I did have a life of my own before you two flannel flaunting interlopers showed up on my doorstep.”

“I’m pretty sure it was raining on our drive there,” Sam reminded Dean.

“When isn’t it raining?” Dean lamented, flicking on the windshield wipers as droplets coincidentally started to pellet the glass.

You sighed audibly, continuing from the top, “It was a dark and stormy Thursday night...”

Lightning illuminated the room, flashing blinding white through the oversized window panes overlooking the rain drenched courtyard. One, two, three, the thunder rumbled in retort, shaking the stone foundation of the historical building converted into a women’s dorm. The lamp on your desk flickered. “Not again,” you mumbled, closing your book – a disinteresting text on the statistics of psychology. You peered up at the ceiling in exasperation. Bam! Just as you expected. Light and noise in unison heralding pitch black as the power failed – a blazing slice of nature’s raw fury targeting the metal railing on the peak of the building and blowing every fuse in the place as it travelled the old wiring in frenetic search of the ground. You’d begun to think the college housing department had overstated the charming quirks of living in the historically rooted building – part of the original campus and used as a temporary Union hospital and soldier’s barracks during the Civil War. The lobby of the building even boasted a creepy collection of sepia-toned photographs – one with soldiers’ lifeless bodies laid out on the front lawn, another of the pile of amputated bullet and shrapnel battered limbs in the basement. This was the third time in as many weeks that a storm knocked out the power, and being alone in a site steeped in suffering and death, with the obligatory ghost stories attached to such locations, was more than a little unnerving.

“Battlefield towns are a massive pain in the ass,” Dean interrupted, whacking his brother on the arm. “Remember what Bobby used to say about them?”

“Yeah,” Sam sighed sentimentally, “he called them a hunter’s worst freaking nightmare. How do you salt and burn a body when pieces of it are scattered everywhere?”

“You don’t.” Dean let go of the steering wheel to mime an explosion.

“Anyway,” you went on, clearing your throat.

You slid carefully off the bed, blindly rummaging through your roommate’s top dresser drawer for the contraband candle and lighter she kept in there. You lit the stubborn wax-covered wick, singing the pad of your thumb with the lighter. Sucking your stinging finger, you studied the now strange shapes of furniture in the corners of the room from the safety of the yellow ring of light. You reassured yourself that your roommates would return any minute from band practice. They wouldn’t dally, not tonight, you had plans to go into town together for a late dinner and dessert at that quaint diner on Main.

Knock, knock, knock, “Campus security!”

“Shit!” you hissed, jumping out of your skin in fright, dousing the flame between your fingertips to minimize the smell of smoke. “Coming!” Scrambling, you cracked the nearest window and hid the candle on the ledge.

“No can-” the guard faltered when you swung open the door “-les allowed. Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to put out your candle.”

You batted your lashes as if to ask, ‘What candle?’

He looked behind you into the blackness, apologizing, “Sorry, from outside it looked like-”

“Maybe it was next door?” you offered helpfully.

“Rebel,” Sam coughed teasingly.

You ignored him.

With security routed, you huddled on the floor beside the door, back to the wall, listening to the thinning patter of rain on the window glass. The thunder, answering the fading electric glow of the clouds, was almost too distant to hear now.

Tap, tap, tap.

You stared up at the door, waiting for the guard to announce himself, relieved this time you had nothing to hide. No words followed.

Tap, tap, tap. Again. Maybe your roommates had forgotten their keys.

You stood, grabbing the knob of the heavy wooden door and cracking it open to peer into the hall. No one was there. A cold breeze rushed over your skin, sending a shiver down your spine and making your hair stand on end. The window in the room behind, left open in your haste to hide the candle, slammed shut. The startled cry rising in your throat died as you heard the voices of your roommates on the stair landing below. ‘A trick of the wind,’ you told yourself, taking a deep breath.

“That one girl, what was her name?” Dean pondered aloud. “Mandy? Yeah, Mandy. She was hot.”

“Yes, Mandy,” you confirmed with a punctuating eye roll.

Your roommates, Mandy and Jen, crashed after you all returned from the diner. They were leaving early with the rest of the marching band for an away game the next morning. Too hyped on adrenaline from the night’s events and sugar from the most fantastic chocolate malt milkshake you’d ever drunk to sleep, you wasted a few hours playing computer games.

“Sims, you were playing Sims,” Sam remembered with a smirk. “It was running on your computer when I borrowed it for research. They all drowned in the pool after you removed the ladder.”

“You borrowed my computer?” you griped.

“Yep, when we broke into your room on that Friday when the sun was shining,” Dean supplied, glowering at Sam. “It’s also possible I borrowed half a bag of pretzel rods.”

“Seriously?” you scorned.

“I’ll buy you a bag at the next Gas-N-Sip and we’ll call it even.”

It was nearing 3AM when you finally crawled into bed. This time of night always made you uneasy on account of a story you heard as a kid about the 3AM being the witching hour – when supernatural forces are at their most sinister and powerful. You superstitiously endeavored not to look at the red digital numbers of the clock and pulled the covers taunt.

Tap, tap, tap.

The strange almost-knocking scuff upon the door roused you as you hovered at the brink of unconsciousness.

Tap, tap, tap.

Jen, her bed closest to the door, seemed to hear it too, mumbling in her sleep and rolling over.

Tap, tap, tap.

A bone penetrating chill seizing your frame, you pulled the comforter up to your neck.

The floor creaked. Specifically, the wood plank in front of the door creaked – the plank on the inside side. The one that only creaked like that when someone crossed the threshold and stepped into the room.

You got the distinct impression there was a presence walking toward you. Paralyzed by terror, you couldn’t look. You didn’t hear the door open, you reasoned. No one could be there. You were imagining things.

Mandy joined in Jen’s restlessness as whatever it was moved past her bed.

You held your breath, eyes squeezed tight, repeating the mantra that this wasn’t real. You were only dreaming. Any second now you would wake up gasping in a clammy sweat from this nightmare. Any second now. Any. Your eyes opened in slits. Second. Your gasping throat was immediately assailed by a mass of ethereal energy. Now. It stole the very air from your lungs as you tried desperately to scream – to cry out and wake your slumbering roommates. And then, in a blink, it was over – the room silent save for your rapidly pounding heart.

The angel’s fingers sought and wove through yours, soothing the flood of fear the memory unleashed.

You trudged through your classes in a preoccupied haze the next morning, thoughts turning again and again to the terrifying episode. Surely it was a nightmare, but you couldn’t shake how real it felt. Returning to your room for lunch, focus no farther the ground between your feet as you walked up to the dorm, you ran smack into the chiseled torso of an extremely tall man wearing an electrician’s uniform with handsome hazel eyes.

“Woah, hey, hi. Sorry,” he apologized, dropping his duffle of tools to stoop to help you retrieve several fallen books. “Let me.”

“That was me,” Sam piped up to inform Cas.

You gestured at the man’s shirt, asking, “You here about the power outages?”

“Yeah.” The man stacked the books, glancing over his shoulder at the building and back at you. “Hey, you live there, right?”

You accepted the books proffered in his arms, nodding.

“You notice any strange noises, cold spots, funny smells?” another man in a matching uniform inquired as he approached.

“Dean?” Cas suggested, stealing the elder Winchesters thunder.

You gaped at the new freckle-faced arrival for a moment and contemplated his odd question. You supposed fizzing or burning wires might account for the peculiar query, but something seemed off about him. About both of them. Your gaze fell to the partially opened duffle bag at your feet, taking note of the decidedly non-traditional collection of electrician’s tools contained therein – a large quantity of rock salt, an iron crowbar, chains of varying size and length, and what looked alarmingly like the barrel of a sawed off shotgun. You peered around the empty courtyard, feeling vulnerable, reflexively stepping backward. “Um, nope, just, you know, the power outages and what not.”

“Oh, see, she must think we’re looking for ghosts.” The man with the freckles laughed, gesturing a thumb toward the dorm, trying to diffuse your nerves.

“Right, cause this place was a hospital,” the hazel-eyed man added. “Didn’t a bunch of soldiers die here, or something?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s, uh, it’s all there in the lobby,” you stuttered, waving at the dorm. “I’m, uh, I have to, I think I forgot something at the library.” You spun and fled, cutting a beeline across the grass without looking back.

“Were we really that scary?” Sam pivoted to ask.

“Were?” You arched a brow. “You guys still scare the crap out of me on a regular basis!”

You found yourself on the third floor of the library, wandering a maze of special collections with no goal other than killing time. You ran your fingers lightly across the dusty spines of rows upon rows of first edition books. Something about books always had a way of settling your anxiety. An unseen force compelled you to turn down an aisle where a thin faded sky blue tome with no title written on the spine drew your attention. You slipped it from the shelf, flipping it over in your hands to view the cover. The image imprinted there caused your breath to hitch – it was a person lying in bed with a malevolent scowling creature perched upon their chest. Fingers trembling, you opened to the first page, whispering the title aloud, ‘The Terror that Comes in the Night.’ Knees weak, you sank to the floor. You had no idea how you came to find this book, a tome that promised to reveal an explanation for what had happened to you last night.

“That was probably Clotho’s work,” Cas stated matter-of-factly.

“What?” you turned to him in surprise.

“One of the sisters of fate, Clotho,” Cas repeated. “Surely it was she who led you to the book. She’s always been fond of words as a means to direct fate. It’s an obsession of hers.”

You smiled at the angel, never having guessed he would unveil new significance to your story.

You read the book front to back, sprawled out there on the scratchy carpet of the library. The supernatural creature who visited you was known in folklore as an Old Hag. It could be controlled and sent by a witch to take vengeance on foes, or simply be a restless spirit, a human soul transfigured by agony and grief, doomed to spread misery until such time as it was destroyed. Since you were fairly certain you hadn’t enraged any witches, you guessed your problem was the latter. Either way, the lore contended this creature would plague you until you defeated it, or it killed you. Naïve and overconfident in your abilities, you figured destroying it couldn’t be any harder than getting a passing grade in organic chemistry.

You made your way back to your room as evening descended on the campus. Pushing open the door you shouted a greeting to your roommates, “Hey guys, how-” You remembered with a sinking feeling that they were gone, cheering on the football team, and not expected back until morning. You nervously flicked on the overhead light – and every other light in the room. A firm knock at the door disrupted your luminous fortifications. “Who is it?” you asked through the closed door.

“The, uh, electricians,” someone replied uncertainly. “Do you have a minute?”

‘Right, electricians,’ you thought, ‘or not.’ Your eyes darted around the room, landing on Jen’s can of pepper spray she carried when running. You grabbed the can, notched the chain of the door, and cracked it an inch, bristling, “Who the hell are you guys?”

The toe of a boot braced against the door to prevent you from closing it, “Y/N, listen, we’re not axe-murdering kidnappers or whatever you think we are, we just want to help.”

You peeked through the crack, it was the tall man speaking. “Well start with telling me who you are and how you know my name.”

“College directory, Myspace, that weird little developmental psych professor that teaches your 8AM class and pets himself while he lectures, take your pick,” the green-eyed man grumbled. “We don’t have time for the full explanation. I’m Dean. This is my brother Sam. We hunt bad things and your life is in danger and not from us.”

“I know,” you murmured.

“You do?” Sam asked.

“I kind of figured the luminescent apparition that tried to strangle me last night wasn’t exactly Casper the friendly ghost.” You unlatched the door to allow them to enter. “How did you know?”

“We ganked the witch that sicced this thing on you last week.” Dean brushed past you. “Her name was Lily Donaghue, you know her?”

“Ganked? Witch?” you gaped in disbelief, not recognizing the name.

“He means we killed her,” Sam clarified. “Her dying declaration was a curse upon you.”

“And you have no idea how many Y/N Y/L/Ns exist in this country,” Dean lamented.

“What did I do to her?” Head reeling, you sat on the edge of Jen’s bed to steady yourself. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Hell if we know.” Dean shrugged. “Maybe nothing. Maybe it was for something you were going to do in the future. She specialized in destiny spells.”

“So,” you spoke up after letting their explanation sink in, “what do we do?”

“You,” Dean emphasized the word, “well you just try to stay alive, sweetheart, and we’ll worry about the rest.”

“You took it all in stride,” Dean reminisced. “I never told you that, most people freak out when you tell them an evil creature is stalking their soul.”

“Well, at the time I assumed you were professionals and knew what you were doing,” you sassed. “Had I known then what I know now-”

They expected you to fall asleep. You rolled over in bed to look at the wall. They expected you to fall asleep in your bed which, for some bizarre reason you did not think to inquire about, was surrounded by salt while they watched and waited. Like that was happening! You flipped over again. The clock read 2:59AM. You shivered involuntarily when the numbers flashed to 3:00.

Tap, tap, tap.

You heard Sam and Dean shift to readiness.

Tap, tap, tap.

The firing pin of a gun cocked.

Creak went the wooden plank.

The shotgun blasted a round of rock salt.

Sam groaned as he was thrown against the wall and pinned there, flaying his long limbs uselessly and clutching at his neck.

“Dammit!” Dean cursed as the iron crowbar he held defied gravity to clatter to the ceiling. Further curses damned up in his throat as he was tossed choking to the floor like a rag doll by the evil creature who had come for you.

You sat up, throwing aside your comforter, willing yourself to look at the hideous thing, its features distorted in agony, jaw open in a perpetual scream, its clawed limb pointed toward you as your fingers fumbled to retrieve the little blue tome from beneath your pillow. You flipped to the final page of the text and began to read in desperation as the creature simultaneously squeezed the air from your lungs, “Malo a nos libera sed tentationem in nos inducas-”

“The Lord’s Prayer,” Cas noted. “In Vulgate and backward.”

You nodded.

The book was correct – the hag shuddered and flickered, growing weaker with each word you uttered. When you reached the final line, you ran out of breath. Squeaking, tongue a useless dry lump writhing against your teeth, lungs empty and collapsed, your vision dimmed at the edges as unconsciousness loomed. The last sight you registered before passing out were Sam’s hazel eyes, brightening as the creature’s energy sapped enough to free his throat.

“Caelis in es qui noster pater!” Sam roared out, having caught on halfway through that you were reciting the Lord’s Prayer backward, and surmising you had a good reason to be doing so.

Dean released the steering wheel to mime another explosion, the hag’s demise.

“Like I said, group effort,” Sam restated.

“You forgot my favorite part,” Dean smirked, twinkling eyes catching yours in the rear view mirror. “The happy ending.”

“I didn’t forget, Dean,” you objected, “I blessedly don’t remember.”

Cas held up two fingers to your temple, earnestly saying, “I can help you to remember.”

“No!” You yelped, grabbing his wrist and twisting it away. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Why? What happened after the creature was destroyed?” Cas looked to Sam and Dean for the answer.

Dean’s smirk deepened.

Sam chuckled, “Dean, uh, had to-”

“-give Y/N the kiss of life,” Dean finished.

The angel’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Mouth to mouth,” Sam elucidated. “CPR.”

“Oh.” Cas subtly scowled at the back of Dean’s head. “I see.”

You pecked a quick kiss on the jealous angel’s stubbly cheek.

Cas looked at you, blue eyes shining with love, a smile curling the corner of his mouth. “I can understand why she wouldn’t want to remember that.”

Dean grumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

Sam laughed airily.

Forgetting about the what ifs of life, you dove back into the angel’s warm embrace, humming contentment. Saving people, hunting things, the meaningful relationships cemented along the way – you never dared to hope you could be so lucky.

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