Finding Faith [Destiel Love Story]

Chapter 1

The house shifted against the wind, deflating onto the soil with a hefty sigh. It whined under the wear of the weather, successfully startling Dean Winchester into consciousness for the fourth time that night. Like the three times before it, when he opened his eyes, his bedroom was lit only by the dulled glow of street lamps outside. His gaze shifted from the empty chair in front of his desk to the digital clock on his bedside table. Red numbers blared 05:43.

He flipped over on his back just as the wind howled again. It created the same horror movie sound effects that woke him up in the first place. This time Dean settled along with the house, sinking deep into the soft memory foam underneath him. Slowly, he allowed his eyes to fall shut.

For the fourth time that night, Dean was able to convince his brain to shut down and fall asleep. But for the first time that night, the floorboards just outside of his bedroom creaked, groaning under a heavy pressure. Shoe-clad feet scuffled down the stairs.

He urged his eyes back open to peer through the bedroom door. There were no lights shining up from downstairs. The house was smothered in darkness. Still and silent. He blinked once... twice... five times until deciding that there was no way he could keep his eyes open. They were stinging in his sockets; throbbing with every beat of his heart.

Dean gave in. He shut his eyes and turned his back to the doorway, letting exhaustion take over from there. He figured that the noise had probably just been Sammy going out for his early morning run. The guy was a freak that way. And with that thought, he was able to lull himself into a sense of security.

All was calm for about twenty seconds.

Adrenaline threw Dean out of his bed, stuck a shotgun in his hand, and shoved him to the stairs, reminding him that Sam's gone you idjit. Don't you remember him leaving for law school just the other day? And he's too busy listening for movement downstairs to wonder why his adrenaline fueled conscience sounds a lot like his surrogate father, Bobby.

He wasn't sure how much time passed, but his skipping heart started to walk again and his breathing had evened itself out, and by then he was ninety-nine percent sure that he just missed his baby brother too much for his own good. Carefully, without making much noise or turning the light on, Dean crept down to the first floor. The wood was ice against the pads of his feet, and it was hard to avoid the squeak that went along with every other stair (the condominium itself is old), but he managed to keep it at a low volume. Even if he wanted to get down there as quickly as possible.

At the bottom of the steps, his toes sunk into carpeted floors. For a moment he stayed standing between the wall and staircase, gliding his eyes through the entirety of the bottom floor. It would be hard for anyone to hide down there; it was an open-concept area with little furniture and a half bathroom. Regardless, there was no way he was about to go back to bed when there was still potential for being murdered in his sleep.

With both hands clutching the gun, he searched the downstairs area three times. He checked the hall closet, kitchen/dining room, living room, behind the couch, behind the television, the bathroom, his tiny backyard... No one was there. He realized it couldn't have been someone in his house. There was no way they passed him and ran back up the stairs while he was still looking around. So then his mind jumped to ghost, and for a few seconds he wondered if there were any other supernatural beings it could have been.

He stood there for a while, in the middle of the hallway with his back to the closet, and just thought about the hunting life. A part of him had been glad that he abandoned it for a normal lifestyle... A larger part of him almost missed the whole thing. It was a weird mixture of knowing that being a hunter was a miserable life choice, and not knowing what to do with himself otherwise.

Wind smacked the glass of his windows again, bringing him back into reality. He rubbed the heel of his palm against his eyes, trying to push the drowsiness out of them as he headed back for the stairs. He wiped his face and let his hand fall back to his side, climbing the steps.

The second story was just as dark and quiet as he'd left it. His body slacked as he trudged toward his room. He was physically drained but mentally alert, and all he really wanted to do was go back to bed. Although he doubted ten more minutes of sleep was going to do him much good.

He entered his bedroom, gun hanging loosely from his right hand. The unnatural lighting from outside illuminated bits and pieces of his room. He looked toward the comfort of his mattress, only to have something catch his eye at the foot of his bed.

Black dress shoes, black slacks, tan trench coat...

In an instant, Dean lifted the gun to point at the shadowy figure of a man. This stranger – this perpetrator – didn't even flinch at the sight of his weapon. He just stood there, unmoving.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean's voice was embarrassingly hoarse from sleep. He tried to sound intimidating nonetheless.

But the man wasn't perturbed by his attempted forcefulness. Instead of fidgeting or showing any signs of fear, this guy actually took a damn step toward him.

"My name is Castiel," the man said.

From what he could see, Castiel's hair was a dark, lopsided mess on the top of his head. With the room unlit, his stubble looked thicker, more coarse than it actually was. The coat and suit he was wearing looked expensive, albeit wrinkled and unwashed, and his tie – the color of which he couldn't quite tell because of such dull lighting – was crooked. It only added to the disheveled look he had going on,which bordered between creepy and straight up hot.