By Fortune or Design: Part One

[roadtoanywhere]

Masterpost



1. The half-remembered wild interior

Green eyes bored into him with simmering hostility, and every line, every taught muscle in the figure across the desk spoke of defensiveness. Still, this wasn’t particularly daunting, nor was it unusual. After all, no one truly wanted to attend substance-abuse counseling.

He calmly matched the hot stare with a cool one of his own, open and questioning, tilting his head slightly to the side. In cases like this one, with a lot of displayed anger, he had learned to let the client speak first. After a moment, the other man began to fidget, and dropped his gaze down to the desk, refocusing his ire on the manila folder lying on its surface, the tab marked with a name in crisp black ink: Dean Winchester.

He muttered something under his breath.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I’m afraid I didn’t catch that.”

Those eyes shot up, met his again. “I said that this is pointless. I don’t see how getting my head shrunk is supposed to…miraculously fix everything.” He paused, his face trapped somewhere between angry and miserable. “And what can you do, anyway, huh? I don’t know you. And you certainly don’t know me.”

He nodded solemnly and took a long moment before replying. “You’re right. I don’t know you, Dean. But I would like to, so that I can help you. Still, all of the hard work is up to you. The only one who can fix you is you.” He took a breath. “Still, I believe that you will find these sessions very helpful, if you can come to trust me.” He noted with interest that the moment the word trust had been said, Dean’s face closed up, hardened.

Nevertheless, he went on. “So, let us begin to get to know one another. I am Doctor Castiel Novak. I have a twin brother, Jimmy, and an older sister, Anna, and a large extended family.” He paused, waiting to see if Dean would volunteer information. Predictably, he did not.

“And you? Is there anything you can tell me?” he prompted. Of course, Castiel already knew about his younger brother, Sam, the lawyer. Dean had been living with Sam since he had been released from the hospital, and had only agreed to these sessions on the basis that he could return to his own apartment. But the rest was a mystery, a blank slate. Castiel preferred it that way, unbiased, no preconceived notions.

Dean was looking at the desk again, this time shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“Not really,” Dean answered, at long length.

Castiel couldn’t say he hadn’t been expecting that. So, he nodded slowly again, and replied, “That’s fine. What would you like to talk about?”

More shifting, more study of the faux-wood swirls on the desk.

“Nothing, really. This is…” He sighed, and abruptly stood up, Castiel’s eyes tracking the motion coolly. “Look, Doctor Novak, I’m sorry for wasting your time, but I really don’t see how this is going to help me. I’m just going to…go home, and deal with my problems on my own.”

“Dean, you could have died,” Castiel said bluntly. “If your brother had not have found you when he did, there is a high probability that we wouldn’t be here having this conversation.”

Dean scoffed. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, Doc, no offense to your lovely company. I’m not doing the world any favors, being here.”

He didn’t say anything, only looked sadly at his client. After a moment, Dean’s shoulders sagged, and he dropped back into his chair with a weary sigh. There was another long moment of silence, and Dean’s knuckles were white on the arms of his chair.

“My brother-Sam. He’s the only family I have left,” he offered finally, haltingly, but Castiel was pleased by the effort.

“And how would you characterize your relationship with your brother?” He asked.

“When we were kids, all we had were each other. Dad wasn’t really…you know, around. Not after Mom died. I mean, he was around sometimes, but not really…” Dean trailed off, looking for the word.

“Accessible?” Castiel offered.

He nodded. “Yeah, that.”

“And when did your mother pass away?” Castiel asked after he was sure that Dean didn’t have anything else to say.

“I was four…Sammy was just a baby. There was a fire, and Mom didn’t get out of the house…” He grimaced, looking at the walls, out the small window, at anything that might change his focus, and Castiel decided to press that issue in another session, preferably once Dean had lost some of his wariness.

Castiel finally opened the folder, then, though he didn’t look at the contents. “I read that your father moved you and your brother around a lot, sometimes staying in a town no more than a few weeks. Would you like to talk about what that was like?”

“Dad was-” He stopped, and the grimace this time was more painful. “I…really don’t want to talk about Dad. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” Castiel replied, filing that information away for later discussion. “We don’t have to talk about anything that you don’t want to.”

Dean swallowed visibly, and nodded. After a moment, he went on. “Sammy and me weren’t perfect, even back then. When he left for Stanford, I was furious, and we didn’t talk for two years. But then…some shit went down, and we kinda ended up back where we started, with just each other.”

“Was that when you lost your father?”

“I just said don’t want to talk about him,” Dean said back quickly, the anger flaring up again.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel said, walls cracking enough to let a frown slip through. The silence returned to the room.

At last, Dean broke it. “Hm,” he said with a smirk, relaxing for the first time since he’d walked into the office, “So you do have facial expressions.”

“I’m sorry?” he said again, and this time it was a question.

“You were all kinds of stoic over there. I was starting to think they’d assigned Keanu Reeves for my counselor. It was kinda making me nervous, Doc,” Dean said, smiling now, and looking more relaxed in his chair. So, clearly Dean was one who took refuge in audacity, and made light of things to downplay them. He would have to remember that.

“I apologize,” Castiel said slowly. “I can try to…emote, more, if that will make you more comfortable.”

Dean shrugged. “Nah. At this point I think it’d freak me out.” The strain in his smile made it clear that he was trying to find another excuse to put off the serious conversation, so Castiel decided to steer it back on course.

“And your current relationship with your brother?”

Dean sighed, tensing up again. “It’s…better than it has been, I guess. He’s moved on past everything, went to law school and all that smart kid shit. He’s coping better than me, that’s for damn sure.”

And there it was. “You’re referring to the drinking.”

He shrugged in reply, and sat very still. Castiel tilted his head to the side. So there was more? That he would save for a later session.

“Are there any…events that cause you to want a drink? In day to day life?” Castiel asked. Dean barked a bitter laugh in reply.

“I wake up in the morning and everything’s exactly the same.” Then, his posture drooped, and his voice became softer. “I didn’t think of it as any sort of addiction,” he spat the word, as if to say that he was better than that. “It was just a way to forget, you know?” He looked at Castiel then, and, against his will, he found himself nodding in agreement. He reigned the motion in before it became too noticeable-he wasn’t supposed to let the client know that he might have once had…problems of his own. If Dean noticed, he didn’t comment. “But I didn’t really think anything of it until I woke up in the hospital.”

“And do you think, now, that it is a problem?” Castiel prompted, thinking that they were beginning to get somewhere.

But then, the look that met his own was again hostile and defensive. “Don’t you think that nearly dying, being moved into my brother’s, and this little…intervention have convinced me, Doctor Novak?” His grip on the chair arm looked painful. “I don’t even know why Sammy thought this was a good idea. I can take care of myself. I’ve always taken care of myself.”

Ah, there. A breakthrough. Something he could work with.

Castiel spent the rest of the hour coaxing more information out of Dean, who closed up at that point. It wasn’t…encouraging, but Dean was far from the first introverted client that Castiel had encountered in his four years as a substance-abuse counselor. He had hope for this man.

2. Surging at the blood's perimeter

It was Thursday again, and Castiel was preparing to leave the office for the evening when his desk phone rang.

“This is Doctor Castiel Novak; how may I help you?” he answered, trying not to show his impatience to be home.

“Um, hi, Doctor Novak. This is Sam Winchester, Dean’s brother?”

Oh, well, that was entirely different. Even if he had only seen Dean for three sessions at this point, he was fascinated by the case. “Hello, Sam,” Castiel greeted him, with more warmth in his voice this time.

“I was hoping you had a few minutes…to talk about my brother. I’m just, I’m really worried about him,” Sam said hesitantly, and he frowned at that.

“I can’t talk to you about what Dean has told me, Sam,” he said slowly.

“Oh, I know that!” Sam assured him hurriedly, “I just wanted to say that…Dean’s probably being a jerk about having to go to counseling, but I think it could be really, really good for him, you know?”

“How so?” Castiel asked, wanting another perspective on the matter.

“Dean needs someone he can trust…that he doesn’t have to be strong for. He doesn’t let anyone in, and I think he needs to. Even with me…when we were growing up, Dean practically raised me. He still feels like he has to take care of me, so I can’t be the one he talks to.”

A pause, and Castiel honestly didn’t know what to say.

“Just…don’t give up on him, Doctor Novak. Please.”

“I won’t,” Castiel said sincerely. And it was a promise, even if he didn’t say so.

3. To hide below the ancient barricade

It was roughly five minutes before Castiel was supposed to see Dean for his seventh session. He was downright frustrated with Dean, unable to crack this one. The occasional bit of information would spill out, usually unintentionally, but it was like having four or five pieces to an enormous, infinitely complex jigsaw puzzle and trying to glean the picture from that. He frowned to himself, leaning over the manila folder without opening it. Then, he looked up, attention caught by the sound of raised voices approaching down the hall to his office. Dean’s he recognized instantly. After a moment, he placed the other as being Sam. However, before he could figure out what they were arguing about, the door flew open, and Dean confronted him angrily.

“So, I hear that you and my brother have been talking about me behind my back,” he said, voice rough and harsh.

“Dean, for the last time, I told you to leave Doctor Novak out of it; I was the one who made the call!” Sam said as he filed into the office behind his brother. Castiel resisted the urge to raise his eyebrows upon seeing Sam in person. He hadn’t been expecting someone so…tall. Suddenly, his office seemed a lot smaller.

“Please,” he said over their continuing words, “Sit down.”

Immediately the argument quelled, and both Winchesters sat, Sam contrite and Dean darkly staring at some point between his brother and Castiel, jaw clenched.

“Now, I’m going to assume that this is about the conversation we had a few weeks ago, Sam, correct?” Castiel asked, and Sam nodded quickly.

Then, Castiel turned to regard Dean, and said lowly, “I can assure you that nothing of what went on in these sessions was discussed. I do keep to the doctor-patient confidentiality code.”

“I just don’t like it when people conspire to fuck with my life without even telling me!” Dean said hotly, lip curling into a sneer before his face went blank again.

“Dean, please, it’s not like that,” Sam pleaded.

“Then what was your little phone call supposed to be, huh?” He turned to Castiel, “Sam’s not your client, so tell me what he said.”

Castiel didn’t think that was a good idea, and didn’t say anything for a moment, diffident.

Finally, Sam was the one to break the quiet. “Fine! I apologized for your being a bitch about needing professional help, and then told him about your trust issues.”

“And what, exactly, did you tell the doctor about my trust issues?” Dean demanded between gritted teeth.

“Only that you have them,” Sam defended himself, chin high. “I felt like he deserved a warning.”

“Is that true?” Dean’s eyes met his, and Castiel could see the hostility waver for a moment.

He nodded solemnly. “I promise you, it is. Now, would you like to get on with your session, Dean?”

The anger didn’t fade. “Yeah, I guess,” Dean very nearly growled, surprising Castiel. He had been expecting a “Not really,” followed by some sort of sarcastic remark. For a moment, he allowed himself the idea that the other man was beginning to trust him, but, given how stubborn Dean had already proven himself to be, Castiel didn’t seriously entertain that theory. More likely, something had happened to upset Dean.

“Sam, if you would…?” Castiel said, and the younger Winchester nodded, stood up, and slipped out of the office.

As soon as his footsteps had faded away, Castiel asked Dean, “Something is bothering you. I know it’s not really that your brother spoke to me. Would you like to talk about that?”

“No, I don’t fucking want to talk about my feelings, Doctor Novak, Jesus fucking Christ! I promised Sam I’d go to these damn sessions, but this isn’t turning into some shitty chick flick!”

“So something did happen,” Castiel said calmly.

Defensive posture. “Get off my case and stop acting like you can read my fucking mind!”

Oh. A frown. “Dean, when was the last time you had a drink?”

There was a moment when Castiel was sure that Dean was going to continue his tirade, but then his face fell and guilt flooded his features. “Um. Last night,” he admitted, looking anywhere but at Castiel.

“Does Sam know?”

A long pause. “No.”

“Were you planning on telling him?” Castiel asked, no judgment in his voice.

No response. He carefully studied Dean’s face, waiting for some indication of what he was thinking. Then the dam broke, and the walls began to crumble.

“No. I wasn’t,” he said brokenly, and Castiel didn’t miss how he was blinking rapidly, or the hand he scrubbed over his eyes. “All my life, I’ve always let everyone down. I just… I don’t want to disappoint anyone else. Letting Sam down like that…I can’t…” The hand clamped over his mouth then, tightly, and his eyes went to the ceiling, body taught. Those words had been inside him for a long time, Castiel guessed, and finally he had been pushed over the edge. This was something to work with.

Castiel said nothing for a while, only stared sympathetically while Dean regained his composure. Finally, he asked, “Why would you say that you’ve let anyone down?”

“I’ve never managed to do anything right, not a goddamn thing…Dad, Sam…I dropped out of high school and barely managed a GED. Now I’m thirty and some stupid drunk, good for nothing but telling rich people that they need to get their oil changed,” Dean said, tone going bitter as he went on.

“It seems to me,” Castiel said, “That the only person whom you’ve let down is yourself.”

And then, as changeable as fire, he was angry again, lashing out. “And I’m sure you’d know, Doc…Got your Ph. D. and a nice, respectable job. I bet your family is proud of you.” Castiel sighed lightly to himself. He’d made Dean get defensive again.

“We’re not here to talk about me, Dean.”

“But you and Sam both keep going on about how I’m supposed to trust you and open up to you, Doctor Novak. How am I supposed to do that when I hardly know a damn thing about you?” Dean asked.

A long pause while he considered, then, Castiel smiled a tiny bit. “You can start by calling me Castiel. I feel like I age ten years every time you call me Doctor Novak.” Dean returned his smile weakly, so Castiel pressed. “What would you like to know?” He ignored the fact that it wasn’t professional to discuss these sorts of matters with his client… there was no rule against it, and anything that would help him earn Dean’s trust seemed like a step forward to him.

“How about that name, Castiel? It’s not exactly ‘Joe’ or ‘Mike.” Dean asked.

“That is…an interesting story, actually. My father is a religious scholar, as was my grandfather. I was named for Cassiel, the angel of Thursday, though my mother insisted on changing it to Castiel to sound less feminine. Most in my family have angelic names, with the exception of my twin, Jimmy, who was instead named for the disciple James. My mother chose his name.”

“Angel names, huh? Let me hear some.”

“Michael is my oldest uncle…then there is Rafael, Gabriel, and Lucifer, the youngest.”

“Lucifer. Lucifer. You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m afraid not,” Castiel said, hinting at a smile again. “Though he prefers to go by Luke.”

“Can’t say I blame the man. Lucifer. Geez. Did your grandparents want him to get beaten up in school?”

Castiel shrugged. “I’m sure they weren’t thinking of it. According to myth, before he fell, Lucifer was the brightest of all the angels. The Morningstar.”

Dean pursed his lips, nodding thoughtfully, before shrugging. “Still don’t think it’s cool to name a kid after Satan, but, hey, whatever floats their boat. So. Religious family. You some sort of…nutjob?”

He paused, considering what he ought to say, before deciding on honesty. “I am not a man of faith, Dean. Not anymore.”

“You used to be, then?” He asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“War,” Castiel answered bleakly.

4. A wandering association

When Dean went into work a few weeks later morning, his mind was irritatingly fixed on Castiel, and the things he had learned about the man. At first he had thought the doctor to be the prissy, hand-wringing type, but he had certainly been proven wrong. In fact, against his will, he was beginning to like the guy, even with the crazy focused staring and the robot face. It was more than a little weird, since it was Castiel’s job to ask him awkward and probing questions in order to “help him help himself.”

Or, that was the quote that Sam had used when he had gone and referred Dean to a counselor after he had flat-out refused to join one of those twelve-step programs. Castiel himself hadn’t used any lines quite that cheesy. He talked more like a walking encyclopedia, formal and reserved. He tried to imagine the doctor in a military uniform, holding a sniper rifle, and the image simply seemed so wrong in his head that he had to smile a little bit. Guy looked like a tax accountant, not any kind of soldier.

Reluctantly, though, he was just glad that, if he had to get his head shrunk, it wasn’t by some snobby intellectual who hadn’t seen the world outside of his ivy-covered university walls. And…maybe, just maybe, some of the exercises they had gone over in the sessions were working, calming him down, quelling his shaking, when all he wanted was a drink. He hadn’t admitted that to Castiel. He still didn’t exactly trust the guy, even if he was willing to admit that he was…okay. Someone he might have been friends with, under different circumstances. He wasn’t planning on gushing about his feelings, or airing his family’s dirty laundry anytime soon, but maybe Castiel knew what he was talking about, at least so far as the how-to-stop-being-a-drunk-loser business went.

Of course, things weren’t perfect. He wouldn’t even say improving, yet. But they were stepping vaguely in the direction of improvement. And besides, he was determined now, determined to make himself better, for Sam, and nothing on Earth could stop a determined Dean Winchester. This wouldn’t end badly, wouldn’t be another line on his miles-long list of failures.

If you feel yourself getting bogged down in the past, stop, Dean thought, swearing that he had heard it in Castiel’s voice, even if the man had never actually said that. He was starting to get under his skin… Either way, Dean considered it good advice, even if Castiel himself probably wouldn’t approve of the ‘bottling.’

He snapped out of his thoughts when he pulled the Impala into her customary parking spot and went into the garage through the back door. He suppressed a grimace at the wave of car-smells that assaulted him as soon as he stepped inside. It wasn’t that Dean hated his job, or that he didn’t like working on cars. He loved working with cars, actually, but this wasn’t what he saw himself doing for a living. Maybe a hobby-rebuilding old classics, returning abused and worn down junkers to their former glory. Instead, he was changing oil, replacing tires, and checking engines for people who had no clue how to work a car other than to drive it-and that was debatable.

Still, he had known his boss since he had been a kid, and working at Bobby’s really wasn’t a bad deal. And, anyway, who actually got to live their dream job?

He hung his leather jacket on a hook and pulled one of the floppy grey jumpsuits on over his clothes and grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge Bobby kept in the employee room-now conspicuously missing the half-empty six packs, Dean couldn’t help but notice with a scowl. That was all he needed. People pandering to his issues. Frowning briefly, he chugged half the bottle and went to see what work Bobby had for him.

Hours later, Dean wiped his greasy hands on a slightly less-greasy towel and threw it to the side as he made his way over to where Bobby would be helping customers, outside. He was a little bit snappish, frustrated with the businessman who had completely ignored the necessary maintenance on what could easily be a show-quality, gorgeous ‘68 Camaro, with the excuse that he had thought that “all old cars did that.” A couple of beers would calm him down.

No. He shut down that line of thought before it could truly take root and turn into a need, a craving. Still, it was time for his lunch break, and he was thinking about stopping by that little diner over on 5th street. An adequate cheeseburger, tops, but the best damn pie in the state.

He found Bobby and a customer leaned over the hood of a Nissan sedan.

“Bobby, the transmission on that Camaro is shot to hell. We’re gonna have to order the part. Also, lunch,” He called.

“Okay, but-” he began, but the customer interrupted him.

“Dean?”

He blinked. “Castiel.” This isn’t awkward at all. He didn’t even look the same. The suit was still there, but the jacket was undone and the tie was loosely knotted. Also, the tan trench coat kind of made him look like a hobo. Or a flasher. Certainly not a put-together counselor.

After a moment of silence, Bobby asked Castiel, “I take it you know this idjit?” He gestured at Dean.

Dean answered for him, “Yeah. Castiel is my…doctor.”

“Your shrink, you mean?” Bobby corrected him gruffly, raising an eyebrow.

“Um. Yeah,” he admitted.

“Well, good. You take care of him, Doctor. God knows the he needs it,” Bobby commanded Castiel, who looked vaguely uncomfortable.

“I’ll do my best, sir,” he said, at length.

“Don’t sir me,” Bobby grumbled, but went on, “It’s probably gonna take me an hour to check out your brakes, if you want to head back to the waiting room.”

“That will be fine. I have time.”

And, before Dean really knew what he was saying, he was offering, “Have you eaten? I was about to grab lunch.”

There was a long silence, during which Dean realized that it was both weird and probably inappropriate to invite your therapist to lunch. However, those thoughts quickly passed.

“I…haven’t eaten,” Castiel admitted, and Dean flashed him a wide smile.

“Awesome. Hang out here for just a second while I get back into normal clothes, okay?”

“Alright,” he acquiesced, but Dean was already on the way to the employee room. He shucked off the jumpsuit and retrieved his leather jacket, pausing to properly wash his hands with soap and water, though the smell of grease would probably stay, anyway.

Castiel was waiting by the door when Dean returned. “Follow me. My baby’s parked out back,” he said, gesturing. Castiel nodded, and trailed him out the back door and to the Impala.

“This is a very nice car,” he said, though Dean suspected that he was just being polite. Castiel didn’t seem like a car person.

“She’s a good girl. Classic. She was my dad’s before I got her,” he replied, slipping into the driver’s seat. After a moment, Castiel slid into the passenger, somewhat gingerly.

“How do you feel about pie?” Dean asked, pulling out of the space and guiding the car to the edge of the parking lot.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever had it,” Castiel admitted, and Dean gave him the most pitying, incredulous look he could muster.

“You’re, what, thirty-seven, and you’ve never had pie?” He asked, hoping that his ears had betrayed him.

“Thirty-five. And, no. Not that I can remember,” he answered, expression open with trepidation, and Dean had to turn and look at the road again, because, seriously, it was high time they got that man some damn pie, and also, he really, really, didn’t need to be noticing exactly how blue those wide eyes were.

“Well, that just won’t do, Cas,” Dean said with determination, and stepped on the gas to introduce Castiel to the finer things in life.

5. Pacing down the balance beam

Castiel would always remember that the first time he saw Dean Winchester outside of his counseling sessions was the first time that he saw the man behaving as he would with anyone else. No surly silences, no defensiveness. He was, in all honesty, a little surprised at how open and amiable Dean was proving to be. What was the difference? Could it be that this wasn’t work, but pleasure?

That thought had Castiel sinking awkwardly into the leather seat a bit. He knew that he shouldn’t have agreed to this, that he should have politely greeted Dean and then gone about his business. He certainly shouldn’t be in his client’s car, driving to an unknown destination for pie.

Cas. He hadn’t ever had a nickname. Not even when he had been in the army.

He had had clients who had gotten under his skin before, but he was nervous about this one. He was already finding it hard to say no to him, and that was definitely not good. Not professional. Entirely inappropriate. He shouldn’t want to be friends with the man, not when it was just a job, his responsibility to help him fix the problems in his life. He was supposed to be a neutral third party, an unbiased confidante. Not…someone to invite out for drinks. He winced inwardly at his own analogy.

The thoughts quelled when Dean parked the car in front of a small diner sandwiched between a realtor’s office and an indie bookshop, and looked like something straight out of the fifties. He must have made a face, because Dean was reassuring him.

“I know, I know. It looks hokey, but I swear. Best damn pie in the state.”

“I will trust your judgment, then,” Castiel deferred, hesitantly following him into the diner, where they were promptly seated by a pretty waitress who knew Dean by name, and whose smile lingered just a little too long to be merely friendly.

“Your usual draft Shiner, Dean?” the waitress asked, already writing it down.

“Um, no. I…uh…Just…no,” he answered quickly, surprising her. “I’ll… Coffee. Black.”

“Okay, then… one black coffee. And for you?” She asked Castiel.

“I’ll have the same, please,” he requested calmly.

“Two black coffees it is. I’ll be right out with that,” she said before swishing off. He studied Dean, who was fixated on the surface of the dingy table, and suddenly a lot more like the withdrawn, angry man that Castiel saw in his office Tuesdays and Thursdays. He was puzzled. Castiel hadn’t been able to delve to the root of Dean’s problems, though his reticence was at least partly to blame. Healing that would be the first step toward a happier life. The exercises and thought experiments that he had been recommending to Dean thus far were just Band-Aids to put over the symptoms, while the disease raged on, untreated.

He needed to get to the heart of it. He wanted to understand.

And it scared him, just a little bit.

But he’d get nowhere if he couldn’t get Dean talking.

“Pie,” he said, at length. “What do you recommend?”

Dean snapped up, reminding Castiel of his days as a soldier, and being called to attention.

“Well, that really depends,” he answered, striving for normality. “Are you a stick-to-the-classics kind of guy, or are you feeling adventurous?”

“Well, that depends. What does being adventurous entail?” Castiel asked.

Dean considered, looking serious and thoughtful as he contemplated pie. “Well. This place has this killer strawberry daiquiri pie, which sounds crazy, but is actually awesome, and I swear contains no booze.” A pause. “Or, if you wanted to play it safe, apple pie is American as fuck and always a good place to start.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “Then I think I’ll go with the apple. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Dean replied, flashing him a grin in return, once again all friendly charm, just as the waitress arrived with their coffees. They took a few moments, Dean sipping quietly on the coffee while Castiel stirred a packet of sugar into his.

“So, now that I’m not paying you to talk about my problems, you want to tell me any more bizarre stories about your life?” Dean asked Castiel, who paused, thinking. He took a swig of his coffee.

“I suppose I do have a few…”

And that was how he ended up in a diner on his day off, talking to his client about his life while eating pie. Of course, he left out the nasty bits, like how war had affected him in more ways than his loss of faith, the months in which he had been so high that he could only remember a few hazy details. When Dean had asked him why he got into his field, he had shrugged and said that he found the human mind fascinating, and that he wanted to help people. He didn’t mention that it wasn’t what he really wanted to do, but was a form of self-punishment. He certainly didn’t mention the time he’d spent coming down, rejoining the lands of the living. And he definitely, definitely didn’t mention the event which had pushed him into sobriety.

Even with as unusual a client as Dean Winchester, there were some lines a doctor couldn’t cross.

6. Murmurs in the dark confessional

When Dean walked into his office on a Tuesday, several weeks after having lunch with the man, Castiel could see that something was different. The hostility had more or less dropped completely since then, and he hadn’t exactly been open, but his defensiveness didn’t seem rooted in anger anymore, but something else…maybe shame? Their eyes met for a moment, and Castiel nodded, Dean closing the door behind him and settling into a chair.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said, folding his hands under his chin and leaning forward.

“Hey, Cas,” he said distractedly. Then, “I, uh. I think I’m ready to talk.”

He smiled, just a little. “I’m ready when you are. Take your time.”

Dean swallowed and looked down, holding the silence, letting it build, like black thunderheads roiling in the moments before a storm. Then, the clouds broke, and words, like rain, began to fall.

“You know how I said my mom died in a fire when I was little? Well, it wasn’t an accident. It was this…serial arsonist. Had been stalking Mom and some other women for years. After she died, Dad kind of lost it…went all vigilante justice since he didn’t think the police were doing enough to catch the guy…” He paused, then went on, stumbling occasionally, telling the story all out of order, but what Castiel was able to piece together shook him. Dean really had all but raised his brother, putting everything before himself. The way their father had moved them around the country, living out of the Impala and one dingy motel room after another, paying for food by gambling, hustling pool… Switching schools every few weeks. In all honesty, Castiel was surprised that Dean was as well-adjusted as he was, which was saying quite a bit.

But then the story got worse.

“And then, when Sammy was about to get his pre-law degree, Dad went missing… I panicked, and showed up in Palo Alto because I couldn’t think of anything else to do…We left in the middle of the night…Never found Dad, but when I took Sammy back to his apartment, the whole damn building was on fire…and Jess didn’t make it out…She’s…well, she was Sam’s girlfriend. And she would have made it, if I hadn’t been so selfish.” He stopped then, for a long moment, taking deep, rapid breaths. “And then, a year later…”

It was nigh-incoherent, but Dean was able to stammer out the story of how he and his father had been in a car accident, how John Winchester had thrown himself into the passenger seat and over his son, taking the brunt of the blow. He hadn’t survived. And Dean was convinced that that, like Jessica, like everything that had happened in his childhood was his fault. He was carrying enough regret to drown in, and was only just staying afloat. The fake smiles, hiding a world of guilt. The drinking was self-medication. Not of the healthy variety, certainly, but Castiel, more than most, could understand why.

When he had finally finished, their hour had been over for a while, but Castiel was in no rush to kick Dean out.

“Dean,” he said, at length, “You do know that none of that was your fault, right?” He stared imploringly, wanting to reach out and somehow take away the hurt he saw in the other man’s face. And he wanted to be the one to drag Dean out of his self-created Hell, not the one to facilitate his ability to help himself. And that was bad, and not professional at all, and he knew that he should get out now and refer Dean to someone else, but when those eyes filled, expression heartbreakingly open for a fraction of an instant, Castiel couldn’t bring himself to care.

“You just heard me spill my freakin’ life story…Cas, how can you say that?” His voice was thick, eyes cast to the side and down, focused on the ground, blinking rapidly.

And, boundaries be damned. He reached across his desk then, covering Dean’s hands where they were folded together, resting. “It’s because I listened that I can say that, Dean. You’re a good man, and strong, but you can’t put all the world’s problems onto your shoulders and not expect to break under the pressure.”

His face was still downcast, and Castiel couldn’t make out much of an expression. So, Dean didn’t believe him. He hadn’t expected any sort of a great change of heart immediately. That was okay. They had time. All the time he needed.

After a long while, Castiel removed his hand, opened a drawer in his desk, and pulled out one of his business cards, flipping it over and scribbling on the back. He pressed the paper into Dean’s hand, now open.

“I don’t usually do this, but that’s my personal number. If you ever need to reach me for whatever reason, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Even at four in the morning?” Dean asked with a watery smile, pocketing the card.

“Especially at four in the morning,” Castiel assured him gravely.

“Don’t make that promise unless you can keep it,” he warned, and the smile this time seemed a little more solid.

Castiel found himself answering it. “I promise you. I can.”

They made their goodbyes and Dean shuffled out of the office. The remains of the grin slid off of Castiel’s face as soon as the door clicked. What was he doing? Then, he steeled himself. Dean Winchester was worth it.

7. Chasing down an anodyne

Dean hadn’t told Castiel everything. He had certainly told him quite a lot, and way more than he usually dumped on people he’d known for a month, give or take a few days. He was…easy to talk to, though, just sitting there with his chin on his hands, nonjudgmental, head tilted to the side like he was really, honestly listening. Like he cared.

He wasn’t sure if it was the shrink training, or if it was just Cas, but he was beginning to suspect the second one.

Still, he had kept a couple of things to himself. Like how he and Dad had been fighting the night that the semi had hit them… Or how Dad had been drinking. John hadn’t been a happy drunk, and Dean was terrified of ending up just like his father, for all that he had hero-worshipped the man in his youthful ignorance.

He also didn’t mention how he had spend most of his adult life wondering-or, more accurately, trying not to wonder-what being with a man would be like. He had always played it off as an idle curiosity in his own mind, and had never acted on it. Besides, he liked women. He liked women a hell of a lot. Even if he wasn’t much for real relationships, he had never had any trouble picking up chicks at bars, clubs, or, once, memorably, in a library. And that was to name only a few.

Point being, Dean Winchester did not crush. And he certainly didn’t crush on men, no matter how ridiculously blue their eyes were, or how their hair may or may not always be tousled, perfect for grabbing, or how their voice could get so low, just rough enough that it set off all sorts of fantasies about what it may sound like as he-Dean shook his head, clearing the thoughts. Because he was certainly not crushing on his counselor. There had to be laws against that sort of shit, right? Not that that meant much to Dean, but still, it was one of those unwritten rules. You don’t fuck your teachers (until after graduation, at least) and you don’t fuck your shrink.

Nevertheless…he settled down on the couch with his laptop and opened the browser. Idly he reached over to the side table for a beer that wasn’t there, and curled his hand into a fist to fight the gnawing ache. He’d already slipped up more than once, and after coming so close to dying of alcohol poisoning, he couldn’t deny that he actually did want to make himself less of a fuck-up. Not for his own sake, no, he had given up faith in himself long ago. But for Sam. Sam deserved better than to have a shitty alcoholic older brother.

After a moment of gathering his resolve, he turned on the private browsing-or, as he thought of it, Porn Mode-and tabbed over to Google.

‘Relationship +therapist +illegal’ he typed into the search box, and hit enter. The list of links and their corresponding blurbs were anything but promising…At random, he opened one of the articles, wincing a bit and stopping himself from reaching for the nonexistent drink as he read through it.

Not only was it illegal to be in a relationship, it was very illegal. Not to mention against the code of ethics, and broke more moral rules than a nun getting an abortion. It was even frowned upon for a therapist and a client to become ‘involved’ years after said client stopped going to the sessions.

All in all, he thought with a grimace, it seemed like something that should never happen. Besides, he didn’t even know if Cas was into men. And, of course, the guy was way too professional to ever do something like let himself become interested in one of his clients. He was kind of counting his chickens before they hatched. Except that he knew the eggs were unfertilized and wouldn’t hatch anyway, and this was turning out to be a shit metaphor. Dean really wanted a drink. He had half a bottle of Jack stashed away in the one place that Sam hadn’t found when he had fucking gone through every nook and cranny of Dean’s apartment.

And he was halfway off the couch to go get it when he got an image of Castiel’s face blue eyes wide with disappointment. Suddenly angry, he got up anyway, stalking into his bedroom and retrieving the bottle from the air vent. With a tight-fisted grip around the neck of the bottle, he took it to the kitchen, unscrewed the lid, and poured the amber liquid down the sink.

Almost immediately, some part of him regretted it… He really, really missed the way a few drinks had been able to dull the edges, make it all less sharp. He never, ever forgot, but sometimes the drinks would make remembering hurt less.

If you ever need to reach me for whatever reason, don’t hesitate to call.

The card was still in the pocket of his leather jacket, which he had thrown haphazardly onto the couch. Absurdly shaky, he retrieved it, staring at the bold black numbers for a long while. He fumbled for his own cell phone and typed the digits in, where they stared back at him, bold and accusing. He had one shaky moment, that didn’t mean he was going to turn into a complete girl and whine to his therapist at…he checked the clock…five minutes to midnight. He was probably asleep…and seriously, Dean could handle his own damn problems. So, maybe Castiel helped. A lot. But he had taken care of himself since he was four years old, and Sam, too, and, well, at least one of them had turned out okay.

He didn’t dial. He just programmed the number into his phone instead. Then, he locked the screen and went back into the kitchen to pop a couple of Nyquil. It was going to be a long night, and Dean couldn’t help but feel that sleep wasn’t going to come easily.

8. It rides along the road, ephemeral

Weeks passed, and Dean didn’t call. God damn it, he wanted to, sometimes, but something always kept him from hitting the button. He wasn’t sure if it was pride, or that he was chickenshit, or maybe a little of both.

And maybe he’d slipped up once or twice. A shot or two, not enough to really get drunk, but he still felt guilty as hell afterwards. He slumped down in the driver’s seat of the Impala, vaguely miserable about life. He’d thought that it would start getting easier, the not drinking. It wasn’t. And sometimes talking to Cas actually made it worse…dredging up memories he’d tried to bury, trying to sort through them…every single thing he’d ever fucked up in his long history of fucking things up, right there on the surface of his mind, like filthy oil floating on water, the waves building, crashing against him until he shattered, got sucked down, drowning…

But then Cas would say something so…exactly what he needed, and it was like being gripped tight and dragged back into the light. Those blue eyes would meet his, with such unwavering, rock-solid faith that he could change, could accomplish anything, and, for a moment, Dean would believe it too. Would feel like he deserved to be saved, just for that moment.

Naturally, the first time he really, truly fell for someone, it would be the one person that it would be completely wrong for him to have. He couldn’t even do this right.

He pulled his car into the parking lot of the now-familiar medical complex housing the building where Cas worked, and turned into his accustomed spot. As he got out of the car he idly wondered how much longer he’d be in counseling…he’d been going to his sessions twice a week for two and a half months, now, and as much as he’d like to be pronounced cured and allowed to go on his merry way, he couldn’t deny that the thought of never seeing Cas again made his stomach clench.

He wandered into the building on autopilot, conjuring up a smile for the pretty receptionist while he signed himself in. He knew for a fact that Cas used the hour before Dean’s appointments to catch up on paperwork, so he usually just walked into the office instead of waiting to be called in. As such, he was surprised to find the door open and a large dark-skinned man looming over Castiel’s desk.

They both heard him approach, and the man turned to look at Dean darkly for a moment. He swiveled back to Cas and Dean could make out a harsh, “I’ll let you go on with it, but don’t forget that I warned you.”

Then the man brushed past Dean and disappeared around a corner.

“So, what was up with Prince Charming, there?” he asked, stepping into the small room and closing the door.

Castiel sighed and slumped back in his chair. “That was Uriel. He works here, also.”

“And his problem was…?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “You, actually. He thinks I’m too close to you.”

A surging mixture of panic, apprehension, and a touch of hope rose in Dean. “Oh yeah? Why would he say that?”

“Because he’s an assbutt, mainly,” Castiel said flatly, startling Dean into a laugh. “And because he doesn’t believe in speaking to his clients beyond the perfunctory questions he has to ask.”

“Hold up-Assbutt?” For some reason, the only word to describe that particular choice of expletive that Dean’s mind could come up with was adorable. God damn it. Might as well turn in his dick license now.

Cas blushed and looked down. “An insult I invented for my uncle, Michael, because ‘ass’ wasn’t quite strong enough.”

Dean laughed again and let the subject drop, finally taking a seat in one of the chairs. “That may be the case, but, anyway, are you really supposed to talk about your coworkers like that to a client? Or your uncle?” He was smiling, it was meant as a joke, but the look on Castiel’s face was serious, considering, before he smiled in return.

“Well, admittedly, I don’t go have pie with all of my clients.”

Dean chuckled lightly, and looked down.

Castiel straightened the papers on his desk and then ruined it by shoving them haphazardly into one of the drawers to be dealt with later.

“So, Dean,” he began, “I was thinking about you last night.”

“Taking your work home with you?” Dean replied, and Castiel couldn’t be sure if he was trying to avoid a subject or not. His sense of humor was as much a defense mechanism as anything else, but, then again, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Not to mention that the subtext of that conversation was venturing dangerously close to waters that Castiel refused to lend even a spare thought to, even when he was at home, alone in his bed, in the dark, with no one to judge him but himself.

“There was nothing interesting on TV,” he brushed it off, and went on, “The point being, I think that part of your problem is that you too often dwell on the past, Dean. It is…a bit like constantly picking at a wound. It won’t heal if you do that.”

Dean didn’t look convinced. “Are you suggesting I take yoga and meditate on the future or something?”

“Maybe something a little more practical. Tell me, are you happy with your life?” Castiel asked, tilting his head to the side and leaning forward to rest his chin on his knuckles.

Dean blinked, and pursed his lips for just a second. “It’s not what I wanted, but it doesn’t suck too bad, I guess.”

“What would you say is your ideal career?”

Another moment of consideration, followed by a smirk. “Well, when I was a kid I wanted to be a monster truck. Then I wanted to be a monster truck driver. But when I got older I started to think about doing something that would really help people, you know?” He sobered, the grin fading. “I looked into what it took to become a doctor, but there was no way I could possibly do that. And, I’m more of an adrenaline rush type, anyway…so, I guess if I could pick anything realistic, I’d go with paramedic. Saving people…doing something right.”

“And you haven’t considered going back to school to get your license?” Castiel asked.

Dean laughed bitterly. “I didn’t get my GED until I was twenty-one. I’m not smart like you and Sam. I’m a dropout. School? Not my thing.”

“Dean, you’re far from unintelligent. I could see that the first time I met you.” He wanted to press, to point out that maybe the reason he had had so much trouble the first time around was because of John Winchester’s half-baked revenge scheme, or making sure that Sam had everything he needed, no matter what Dean had to do to get it for him, or switching schools constantly. He didn’t think that Dean would appreciate his bringing that up, though, so he refrained, even as he burned for the injustice this man had faced. He should have had a stable home with loving parents, a chance to play Little League baseball, the opportunity to go to college and live his dreams. Instead, he had given up everything for his family. And he was punishing himself for it.

But Dean only smiled brokenly, not believing a word of it.

“I’m serious, Dean. Unintelligent people don’t own the complete works of Kurt Vonnegut. And they certainly haven’t read the books multiple times, much less actually understood them.”

“So I can get inside the mind of a bitter dead guy; that doesn’t make me the next Einstein,” Dean replied after a moment, and Castiel was glad just to get him talking again.

“If you insist,” he deferred. “Either way, if you don’t want to go back to school, there are a few less drastic things you could do that I believe might make a difference.”

“What’s that?”

“Anything to get a fresh look at your life. Rearrange the furniture in your apartment. Get a haircut. Drive to your job by a new route. Take up a hobby,” he suggested.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “How exactly is this supposed to help with my assortment of issues?”

Castiel smiled before he could stop himself. “Like I said a moment ago, you focus on the past, and that isn’t helping you. If you can learn to focus on the present, and see what is, rather than what was, you can make your life into something that you like waking up to every morning.” And Castiel inwardly grimaced, because he was a complete hypocrite, telling Dean to do the things that he couldn’t manage to do for himself.

They spent the rest of the hour talking about ideas for Dean, and his stomach kept sinking, because Castiel’s mind kept focusing on what he’d desperately, desperately tried to avoid acknowledging: he and Dean were too much alike for him to remain professional. For him to keep his distance.

Castiel’s mother, too, had died when he was young, and his father was distant and withdrawn. He didn’t have the sort of close sibling relationship with Anna or Jimmy that Dean had managed with Sam, but he understood all too well the need to change himself, to deny what you want for the will of his family. He had never wanted to enlist, but he had always felt that his father was never proud of his bookish younger son, especially compared to his more outgoing twin. And so, he had gone to war. His father and several of his uncles had been soldiers before him. He just wanted his father to notice him, to let him know that he meant something.

Before the war, he had always thought that Sartre was correct when he had written that “hell is other people.”

After, he had changed his mind. Hell was war. Still, he had carried out his orders like a good little soldier, serving his four years, but, pride be damned, when he got the opportunity to get out, he took it. His father spoke to him then, to condemn him as a coward.

The nightmares never stopped. So the drugs started. It was a slow, masochistic suicide.

Too slow, because if his uncle Gabriel hadn’t decided to drop in for a visit the night he decided to down the whole bottle of painkillers, Castiel wouldn’t have been around, a decade later.

He wouldn’t be around, empathizing far too easily with Dean Winchester. He wouldn’t be around to realize that Dean was everything he wanted. Even if Dean wasn’t seeing both sides of the story, Castiel was, and he saw that they fit, the same, yet complementary. Because common experiences aside, his father was right: Castiel was a coward. But Dean was a hero.

He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. Uriel was right. This was beyond unprofessional. He was lost.

Castiel had known for a long while that he wasn’t necessarily attracted to men, or to women, but rather, to specific people. Always, it was something about their personality, as if their soul shone brighter than the others, and after that it became obsession. Physical, emotional. He never fell fast, but he always fell hard. And he was there, on the edge of this precipice, reeling with vertigo. And it was wrong. So, so wrong.
But that didn’t mean that he was going to let it go.

Part Two