The plaque next to the door reads Center for Supportive Care. Dean sighs and knocks on the office door. There's a pause before a deep voice calls, "Come in."
The younger man sitting on the couch inside has a strong, stubbly jaw, dark tousled hair which Dean figures is either bed-head or the product of excessive styling, and he has a half-eaten burger in one hand. Dean assumes that this is the therapist's assistant of some sort.
"Can I help you?" he asks.
"Uh, I'm supposed to have an appointment with Dr. Emerson."
"Oh," the man quickly shoves the burger back into the fast food bad from whence it came, "I apologize, come in," he stands and strides across the small room to shake Dean's hand, "Please call me Castiel."
"Oh," Dean raises an eyebrow, "You're Dr. Emerson."
"Yes, I am. Please have a seat."
Dean sits awkwardly on the, admittedly comfortable, couch.
"You're Dean Winchester."
Dean smirks, "Yeah. Aren't you supposed to be wearing an earth-tone sweater and be like 65 or something?"
Castiel blinks at him, "Did someone say I looked like that?"
"No, no, I, uh, I just— Sorry, uh, how old are you?"
"Twenty-four."
"Twenty-four. Wow. So what are you, like, Doogie Howser?"
"Who?"
"Doogie Howser? The teenage doctor?"
"…Does he work here?"
Dean huffs a laugh, "No, no. I just meant, uh, you seem a little young to be a doctor."
"Well, technically I'm not a doctor yet. I'm currently working on my doctorate. This is a training hospital."
"Oh. I see. So… Have you had many patients?"
"I can't discuss—"
"I'm your first patient, aren't I?"
"No, of course not."
"Second?"
"No, no, I—"
"Third?"
"I…"
"Wow. Okay. Third. So… this is training for you."
"Well, this will be part of my dissertation."
"Oh, so you're going to write about this?"
"Don't worry, I won't use your real name."
Dean chuckles darkly, "Right. Sure. Just don't give me some pansy-ass name like William or something."