"Mister, um, Winchester, is it?" Charlie Bradbury inquired unsteadily, nervously adjusting her glasses. What am I doing? I'm not ready for this, she thought. Dean Winchester nodded, forcing a smile that came out less reassuring than he had intended. It's not her fault you're here, be nice, the polite part of Dean's brain nudged.

"You can just call me Dean," he said, attempting to put the lady sitting across from him in a purposefully ironed pantsuit at ease. Charlie took a breath. Bond with the patient, bond with the patient, she chanted in her head, resisting the urge to hum, which would have been the perfect way to calm her down in any other context but this most clinical of situations. She took a breath.

"Why would I waste the opportunity I've been given? I've never met someone named after a gun before," she chuckled.

Dean lips turned up wryly in spite of himself, "You know something about weapons?" he asked in reference to his namesake Winchester rifle.

"Only what can be learned from video games," Charlie replied, smirking. "Now, Dean, why don't you tell me why you're here?"

"Not much to tell," he said, shrugging, "Assault, I suppose would be the technical term. And the courts need to make sure that I'm right in the head and that the 'incident' was just a fluke."

"And can you tell me the specifics of this 'incident'?" Charlie asked without looking up, pushing a strand of her vermilion hair behind her ear.

"I broke a man's wrist and gave another man a black eye."

"And can you tell me why you injured these men, Dean?"

"I-," Dean paused, "I can't, Miss, uh..."

"Bradbury."

"I can't tell you why, Miss Bradbury," Dean said, looking just far enough to the side to avoid eye contact. Charlie looked up, her rhythm momentarily interrupted.

"I see," she said, her mind scrambling for something to say next, "Well, I suppose we can talk about something else."

"We can?" Dean asked, his eyes snapping back to Charlie's and his eyebrows raising slightly in surprise. He had expected her to push and prod at him like some kind of lab specimen and to go completely by the book. The phD in psychology on the dark wooden wall behind her head betrayed that his court-mandated therapist had only graduated the past year, which probably explained why she was stuck with rejects of society like Dean Winchester instead of more appealing prospects.

"Absolutely," Charlie continued, "We could talk about anything you want," she paused for a moment, before asking, "How would you describe yourself, Dean?"

"How would I describe myself?" Dean repeated, "I'm not sure, I've never really thought about it," he said, chuckling a bit at the realization.

"Hm," Charlie hummed briefly, scribbling on her pad for a second. There she goes, doing the psychologist thing, Dean thought, sighing internally. He prepared himself for an onslaught of uncomfortable questions. Charlie flipped a page over. "Tell me about your family, Dean," she instructed gently. Dean's gut clenched. His family. Huh. That was not a can of worms he wanted to open. And it certainly was not a can of worms he wanted to open when it had nothing to do (at least not technically) with the sons-of-bitches he'd injured.

"I, uh," Dean stuttered, his mind racing for a way out. He settled on the most accurate half-truth he could, "I don't really have one."

"What happened to them?" Charlie said without missing a beat, her eyes kind. Dean gulped.

"Some of them I left, and some of them left me."

"Did they die?"

"Not all of them, or at least, I don't think-" Dean stopped himself. He couldn't let himself think the unbearable possibility trying to claw its way to the front of his mind.

"What can you tell me, Dean?" the lady asked, and Dean realized that she understood. He would tell her what he could when he could, and no sooner. She deserved at least a portion of the truth for understanding that.

"My mother died in a house fire when I was 4. My father dragged my brother and myself all across the country, drifting from job to job until- until he died a few years ago. My brother ran away when he was 17. I haven't seen him since. He'll be almost 23 by now."

"I'm sorry about all of that."

"Don't be. Please don't feel sorry for me."

"Okay," Charlie said, nodding. She paused for a moment, before leaning in and asking, "Who did you leave, Dean?"

"I can't talk about it," Dean spat out quickly. The story about his family had been a rehearsed speech ever since his father, John had died (hey, pity comes in handy in the right situations), but everything else was a bit more raw and blistering still.

"That's fine," Charlie quickly said. Don't freak out, Charlie. Your first patient as a practicing professional won't tell you anything, so what? I'm sure that's how it is for every psychologist. Not a source for concern at all. Okay Charlie, get a hold of yourself. You are Hermione Granger. You are the brightest witch of your age. You became a computer genius by age 12 and got your phD in psychology before you were 30. You got this, She cooed soothingly in her head. "I'll tell you what," she said to Dean, "I want to see you next week, same time, same place, and I want you to think of one thing to tell me about yourself and your past, one thing to tell me about your family or people close to you, and one thing to tell me about your day-to-day life. And I want you to write them down in..." she rifled through her rather large, practical handbag for a moment before pulling out a small notebook that she then held out towards Dean, "...this journal. Can you do that?" Dean paused cautiously, hesitating before he nodded his head and received the notebook "Great," Charlie exclaimed, attempting to conceal her relief, "In that case, we still have plenty of time before your hour is up. Let's just chat a little bit. Um, what do you do for a hobby, Dean?"

"I work on cars," Dean replied as if he had answered this question many times before.

"Cool. Cars. Talk to me about that, then, Dean. Tell me about cars," Charlie said, sinking back into her practiced flow. Dean paused, aware of Charlie Bradbury's poorly veiled attempts to break down his guard. But Dean had to admit, "cars" was one of two topics Dean could actually discuss with a complete stranger, the other being 70's and 80's rock and roll. And he didn't really have anyone else in his life who was particularly eager to hear about the project that had been gobbling up his time and savings for months on end.

"Well, I've been restoring my 1967 Chevrolet Impala for the better part of a year now. My, uh, my dad drove it for years, but it got totaled a few years back. Once I finish it'll finally be mine. I can't wait."

Dean babbled for a little while about his beautiful car, never going deeper than a few technical facts. Never daring to tell Charlie the truth about that car accident. And definitely not daring to tell her that it would be the first time he had been the sole owner of something he cared about in years and how unreasonably excited he was.

Charlie stood up to shake his hand at the end of their hour, her movements sure but slightly ungraceful. Dean shook his shoulders as he left, as if trying to fling away any semblance of feeling. Emotions were messy and uncomfortable, and he'd had more than his fair share of both messy and uncomfortable in his lifetime. He stared at the window, allowing his mind to go blank while he rode the city bus to the stop by his apartment complex in downtown Wichita. He grumbled, frustrated, as he stepped onto the pavement. He did not enjoy his current dependency on the unreliable American public transportation system.

As he approached his building, he noticed someone paused outside the entrance. Dean assumed it was a man, but couldn't be sure as the person was practically drowning in a beige trench coat. It could just be a woman with short, dark, and artfully tousled hair (hey, Dean liked to recognize a master of a craft when he saw one).

"I don't understand, why do you want me to say my name?" the figure inquired in a gruff voice, leaning into the buzzer on the front of the apartment building, "I already said it. No, that's really my name," Still could be a woman, don't judge too quickly, Dean thought, pausing.

"You need some help there?" Dean asked in a purposefully unfriendly voice. It wasn't so much that Dean didn't like whoever was standing there. The unfriendliness was just routine at this point. However, Dean was certainly not prepared for what happened next.

"You think I need help?" the figure snapped, whipping around to reveal stubble and a suit with a slightly undone tie underneath that oversized trench coat. Yep, definitely a dude. "I work my ass off at a grueling job everyday to put bread on the table for my brothers who won't even stop their stupid feuding long enough to get their lives together, and for what? So that I can spill orange juice all over myself because I'm too preoccupied to avoid knocking stuff down at the grocery store?" the man ranted with exasperation, gesturing to the stain on the front of his white shirt and the brown paper bag in his arms, "And evidently it's bad enough that here I stand at this apartment building in downtown Wichita because there was a sign about an apartment for sale and I just thought 'Hey, no harm in looking, right?' except apparently the answer to that question is YES because now the owner won't let me in for an interview!" he finished, throwing his free hand up in the air in a final burst of stress. The two men paused uncomfortably.

"Sorry about that man," Dean said, shrugging a bit. What did this guy expect him to do? The stranger stood for a moment, looking at Dean. Dean noticed a few things about the man. His skin was very obviously tanned, though whether artificial or genuine Dean couldn't tell. The trench coat the man wore de-emphasized the man's rather impressive stature and muscle tone, though Dean still had about an inch on him in height. But mostly Dean noticed the man's eyes. His eyes were an intense, jewel blue that peeled back a layer of skin with every glance. This man made Dean uncomfortable. He wanted to get away, yet at the same time he found himself strangely transfixed on this atypical stranger.

"Can I at least have paper towel or something? For the orange juice? It would be nice to not have this shirt entirely ruined. I don't have a whole lot of clothes," the man said, looking down at the stain on his shirt. Dean paused. Without the man's nearly unblinking gaze, Dean's discomfort was momentarily replaced by sympathy. Dean had had enough bad days to recognize one when he saw it.

"Sure, why not?" Dean said, forgetting for a moment that this man was a complete stranger. I've made a horrible mistake. This man is probably a serial killer in disguise. My body will turn up in a river. Ah well, it's not like anyone will care, Dean immediately thought. The man grinned, his smile blindingly white. The man. Hm. What was his name? "And seeing as I'm being kind enough to invite you into my own home to give you a gift so precious as several of my paper towels, I think the least I can ask in return is your name?" Dean requested facetiously, holding the door open for the stranger.

"Castiel," the man replied, walking through the door and towards the elevator. Dean pushed the "up" button and waited.

"Castiel? Huh. Interesting choice on the part of mom and dad. Family name?"

Castiel chuckled, "In a way, they would say so, I suppose." The elevator arrived with a ding. Dean and Castiel got in and Dean pushed the button for the fifth floor.

"What do you mean?"

"Castiel is a rather obscure religious name. It translates as 'Shield of God' and according to some sources Castiel is an angel, specifically the angel of Thursday. My parents were very religious."

"Were?"

Castiel looked at Dean for a moment. "Yes, were," Castiel replied, his face unmoved. They arrived on Dean's floor, the doors of the elevator opening with another bing.

"Sorry, didn't mean to pry," Dean said as they got out. What was he thinking? He would certainly never tell a perfect stranger about his family. It just wasn't everyday that a tall, dark stranger named after the Angel of Thursday invited himself into your apartment after spilling orange juice on himself and failing to get an interview for an apartment at a crappy little complex in downtown Wichita. And Dean had thought he didn't have any curiosity left in him...

Dean fumbled for his keys once they reached his apartment. As he did so, the door directly across from him opened up and out popped Frank, Dean's xenophobic neighbor. Dean was taken aback. If Dean didn't think that he got out enough, it was because he wasn't comparing himself to Frank. He was pretty sure he had only ever seen the man two or three times before.

"Oh, uh, hi Frank," Dean said with surprise.

"Don't 'Hi, Frank' me, pretty boy. I'm not in the mood," the man grumbled.

"Sorry," Dean said, raising his hands defensively, "What happened that's got you so grumpy?"

"If you must know, these damn neigborhood kids won't stop putting up signs saying my apartment is for sale. I've had nonstop loonies trying to get me to let them upstairs to poke around in my personal belongings. Next thing you know, some douche is telling me his name's Castiel. The hell kind of a fake name is that? What do these people take me for? No wonder I always stay inside. Now I've got to go outside to take the goddamn signs down! Damn tricksters and their dumbass pranks..." Frank continued to grumble as he walked toward the elevator. Dean looked back at the man, Castiel, both of their mouths slightly agape.

Dean heard Castiel mutter something. He could've sworn it sounded vaguely like "Damnit, Gabriel," but Dean assumed it wasn't. That would be an odd thing to say. Who was Gabriel?

"What?" Dean said.

"Oh, uh, That was quite the diatribe," Castiel responded, his eyes slightly wider than before, "I'm glad he didn't let me up. Who knows, I might've never seen the light of day again."

Dean chuckled nervously. Perhaps he needed to rethink his locational life choices.

"Well, anyway, I'll go get your paper towel," Dean said, opening the door and walking inside, Castiel trailing in behind him and closing the door gently. After Dean had handed the man several paper towels and Castiel had spent a few moments dabbing at his shirt, Dean realized he should probably attempt to make some kind of conversation. "So, um, what do you do for a living, Mr... uh..."

"Novak. I, um, I teach."

"Oh. Cool."

An awkward pause hung in the air. As Castiel continued to dab at his shirt, Dean watched the man intently. He was still half-convinced this guy would pull out a knife or try to steal something any second. Dean was a bit of a gun enthusiast (he never went to sleep without a 9mm under his pillow) and wanted to be alert should defense be necessary.

"There. That should be good enough. You don't happen to have any kind of stain stick, do you?" Mr. Novak asked, looking up and once more making Dean vaguely uncomfortable with a mere glance.

"A... stain stick? No. Sorry, man."

"Oh it's fine. Well, I should be on my way, then. Thank you for your help, uh..."

"Dean. My name's Dean Winchester."

"Thank you for your help Dean."

Castiel paused a moment before continuing, "I, uh, hope this isn't somehow out of line, as I'm an intruder in your place of residence, but what do you do for a living?"

"Me? Oh, I'm just a waiter."

"And, if I may be so bold, where are you a waiter?"

Dean narrowed his eyes a bit, surprised at the man's curiosity, "Harvelle's Roadhouse. Where are you a teacher?"

Castiel smirked a bit, "Wichita State. And Harvelle's Roadhouse? Hm. Never heard of it. But good to know. I always like to keep in touch with fellow ex-junkies." Dean's head snapped up a bit. He was on alert now. How could he have possibly-?

"Fellow ex-junky? Wha-? How?"

"We have a look. I'd recognize it anywhere. I'm guessing you would too. I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have let a perfect stranger up to your apartment unless on some subconscious level you felt a sense of community with me. Was that not the case?"

Dean paused, slightly bemused, "No, no, you would be right. I, uh, just thought you looked like someone who had had a bad day. I've had enough of them to know." Castiel nodded and smiled.

"Just as I thought. What was your poison?"

"Alcohol. I'm one year sober next week."

"That's a big accomplishment, congratulations. Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Dean the waiter," Castiel said as he began walking towards the door.

"You two, uh, Cas the professor," Dean said, still rather dumbfounded. Castiel stopped in his tracks and turned his head around.

"No one's ever given me a nickname before," he stated simply, beaming before he walked out the door, closing it just as gently on the way out as he had on the way in.

Dean sat around doing nothing of import for a while after that. He thought a little bit about therapy. He felt strangely comfortable around this Bradbury character, almost as if they were inherently similar. But he couldn't get too comfortable, no. There is some knowledge that nobody should be burdened with, even if it's their job to be so burdened. He pondered her assignment for him- one thing about myself or my past, one thing about my family, and one thing about my day-to-day life, he thought with a sense of dread. He could tell her only truthful things, sure. But he wasn't there because he actually intended to get help. He was there because he had no other choice. Well, he had had another choice. He could've not gotten into a fight with those dickwads. But after what they had said? No, he didn't have another choice after all.

Dean also thought a bit about the stranger. Who was this guy? What did he teach? Why did he make Dean so uncomfortable? Was uncomfortable even the right word? It was almost like Cas could look into the depths of Dean's soul with one glance, like nothing was hidden to him. That made Dean tingly in the worst possible way. He tried to shake off the lingering feeling of vulnerability, but it was difficult. Perhaps he could otherwise occupy himself.

He pulled out the notebook Miss Bradbury had given him, staring at it for a bit. He thought about writing in it, getting his "assignment" out of the way. However, something told him he shouldn't, not yet. Dean had some weird inkling that there were things to come for him. But itt was probably just some remnant of past wistfulness, he thought as he got dressed and ready for his shift at work. After all, nothing could possibly happen to a nobody waiter in Wichita.