"We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who seem to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken."
— Fydor Dostoevsky, Russian author
"I could not tell you if I loved you the first moment I saw you, or if it was the second or third or fourth. But I remember the first moment I looked at you walking toward me and realized that somehow the rest of the world seemed to vanish when I was with you."
—Cassandra Clare
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The car rolls to a stop in the church parking lot, and the two brothers both look down at the clock blinking from the car dash— one in disappointment that they are once again late, and the other in relief for the same reason.
"Now," Sam leans over from the driver's seat with determination. "Don't run off to some bar, don't go home with any girls, pay attention to Michael, and please, Dean, try to participate—"
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Don't have any fun, sit there and suffer through the monologues. I get the same speech from you every time, Sammy. I'll see you in a couple of hours." Dean rolls his eyes and shuts the passenger side door behind him, shielding his eyes against the glaring sun as he makes his way toward the large church building and, after walking inside, takes the familiar path down the stairs and to the left.
He enters the small room where the group therapy session is supposed to take place — seventeen minutes late, because despite Sam's insistences he can never be bothered to actually show up to these damn things on time— and finds that his usual seat in the circle of foldable chairs is already taken. He's never seen its new occupant here before, which is odd considering this is a group that hasn't added or dropped any members in at least six months. He contemplates telling the guy that he is in fact in Dean's chair, the chair he's sat in every Wednesday since he started coming to these things. Routine is another one of those "things" Michael says he shouldn't worry so much about, he supposes. He heads towards him, but before he gets more than halfway across the circle, the group leader Michael clears his throat and asks if Dean could please take a seat so he could continue.
Dean scowls heavily but stalks back toward one of the empty chairs on the other side of the circle, making sure there is a buffer of at least one empty chair between him and the other people.
As usual, he pays no attention to Michael as he welcomes everyone, reiterates the last thing they worked on together, and then encourages everyone to share their "victories" and "struggles" of the past week. Dean has no intention of sharing his own issues— he hasn't spoken in front of the group since the obligatory introduction six months ago, and he doesn't feel like breaking his streak anytime soon. He knows the next two hours of his Wednesday are going to be spent sitting here in this uncomfortable chair in this uncomfortable church basement, like always (although this time it smells suspiciously like cat piss, for some reason). His only source of entertainment is going to be himself.
Normally, this "entertainment" consists of counting and recounting ceiling tiles endlessly for two hours. (There are 136, by the way.) Today, though, there is a new object for him to focus on: this peculiar new guy sitting across the circle from him. He wears a handwritten name tag like the rest of them, and it simply says "Castiel." Not in cursive, or in an overly dramatic block lettering. Dean's always thought you could tell a lot about a person from their handwriting— because they have to make new tags every time they have a session, Dean knew that whenever Joanna was stressed her name was just written as Jo, and that if Crowley was angry with his wife again his pen strokes were heavier. Castiel's tag, though, despite the unusual name, is completely nondescript, as unimpressive and plain as handwriting can be. He can't help but wonder if it's on purpose— after all, this is a therapy session, and no one is ever too enthusiastic about making themselves stand out.
He has hair that seemingly defies gravity, sticking up in every direction, a shade of brown kind of like dark chocolate. His blue eyes, a brighter shade than Dean's ever seen in a human before, wander warily around the room, finding more interest in the blank white walls than in whatever the speaker is talking about. His clothes resemble that of a fashionably-challenged tax accountant, and his tie seems to be on backward. He leans backwards in his chair, his trench coat (who the hell even wears those now?) falling on either side of his chair. He definitely doesn't look like he's here of his own free will, and sure enough Dean spots a man sitting next to him. He has blond hair and is considerably short, but he bears a resemblance to Castiel nonetheless; he must be his brother. His name tag says "Gabriel M." This time Dean is slightly comforted by the fact that his script is easily dissected; the "e" and "l" of his name are wide and open, his writing slants to the right, and it's large enough to take up the entire tag, all signs of an open, friendly, boisterous personality. He takes this as a good sign.
Gabriel's gaze keeps shifting over to Castiel, and he nudges him once or twice in an attempt to direct his attention back to whoever is sharing, but he inevitably returns to his own thoughts each time. No doubt Gabriel dragged him to this meaning, and Dean finds that he can relate. His own brother literally hauls him to these meetings every single time, dropping him off and picking him up to make sure he doesn't skip. Although Dean could technically get out of it if he really tried, he follows along to appease his brother, and even though Sam has actually stopped going inside and sitting next to him, he knows that Sam expects him to sit and listen the entire time, every Wednesday. He's younger than Dean but significantly taller and also pre-law, and is therefore intimidating enough that Dean isn't too excited by the thought of angering him.
So far he hasn't learned anything from these sessions; no spontaneous moments of personal revelation or anything. His condition hasn't improved in the slightest, either. This meeting is no exception, save for the mild interest he's developed in this Castiel guy. He isn't sure what exactly intrigues him so much; Dean's kept to himself since the war, not attempting to cultivate friendships or relationships of any sort. The only people he ever talks to anymore are Sam and his boss, Bobby. And that's perfectly fine with him, although after the last couple incidents, Sam is slightly concerned with his mental wellbeing, hence the trips to the group therapy sessions.
When the meeting finally ends, everyone stands up and gathers their various paraphernalia. Most of them begin to file out the door, while a few of them stay behind to chat with each other (or in one lady's case, an imaginary friend this group has yet to cure her of). Dean takes one last glance at Castiel as he leaves— and is surprised to find him staring back. He holds Dean's gaze stoically for a moment, but before he can say anything Castiel turns around and follows Gabriel out. Dean stands in shock for a moment before leaving as well, but by the time he reaches the parking lot Castiel and his brother have disappeared.
He returns to the house he shares with Sam that night (after the first incident, Sam insisted Dean live with him so he could keep an eye on him) and finds himself unable to stop thinking about Castiel, with his piercing blue eyes and his nondescript handwriting and his mysterious behavior in general. He grabs a ginger ale from the fridge (his drink of choice now that his brother has encouraged (i.e., threatened) him to stop drinking), plops onto the couch, and flips the TV to a random late-night talk show, only half paying attention to it as he tries (and fails) to stop thinking so much about the guy who stole his chair.
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Dean wakes up the next morning to find he left the TV on, and it's now showing some ridiculous reality show about British nannies or something. As he presses the button on the remote to turn it off, he hopes that he hasn't run up the electricity bill too much— his job at the local auto shop may be everything he aspires for in a career, but it doesn't pay that well and the last thing Dean needs at the moment is to be unable to pay his brother rent. Sam hates it when Dean insists, seeing as Sam was the one who invited him to stay in the first place, but Dean at least wants to pitch in for the groceries.
He goes about the rest of his day as he normally would: taking a shower before heading off to work at the shop from eight till five, returning home to leftover pizza and a ginger ale, watching his favorite movie The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (Clint Eastwood is basically a god, plus the soundtrack is badass), falling asleep on the couch, and then repeating it all the next day.
This cycle goes on for a week until after what seems like an agonizingly long six days it's Wednesday again, and for maybe the first time since he started attending group he's actually looking forward to going— even if it is just for the new guy.
He's only ten minutes late (a new record), and when he sees Castiel sitting in his chair again he isn't sure if he's relieved or irritated. Really, he isn't sure why he cares so much. It is just a chair. (His chair, he adds stubbornly.) He shakes his head at himself and sits once again on the other side of the circle.
Dean can't help but notice that distinct lack of a specific brotherly individual sitting next to Castiel, and he wonders if Gabriel has trusted him enough to attend on his own or if he's waiting in the parking lot. Probably the latter— it's likely he has a similar relationship with his brother to what Dean does with Sam: I'm your sibling! I'm doing this for your own good, you need this experience, it will help you, etc. He wonders why it is that Castiel is here, anyway. He hasn't shared anything yet, although this is only his second attendance. This is Dean's eighteenth and he still has yet to explain himself. He prefers to (half) listen to others' sob stories rather than offer up his own for psychological analysis.
Michael is the man who runs those psychological analyses, prompting them all to share their struggles, and even cry about it sometimes if they feel like it. Dean is mildly impressed by how even after four and a half months they all still have so much emotional baggage to impose on everyone else.
After he finishes recounting the ceiling tiles once again, he starts to listen to a few people's stories. Crowley, always sharply dressed in a suit, talks about how his drinking is affecting his marriage as well as his relationship with his mentally disabled twelve-year-old daughter; a blond guy in his forties (who is sitting across the circle from Dean, so he can't quite ever see the name tag… Balthazar, maybe) rants about how his wife drives him crazy and he wishes she would just shut up (even though his wife died in a car accident three years ago).
Something is wrong with every single person in this circle: depression, mostly, with some scattered schizophrenia, delusions, and PTSD, like Dean. Everybody's got something that isn't right in their head.
Dean wonders what it is for Castiel.