Castiel dumps his rucksack between the two armchairs facing Mary's desk, trying not to contemplate the emptiness of that second chair too much, and lets his body sink into the cushion. You might think him rude for calling his counsellor by her first name, but it's all part of the 'thing' they have going on. It's supposed to make him feel more at ease or something like that. It doesn't really have the desired effect, but he lets her and all the other staff members at Opal Grove believe it does for the sake of blending in. He doesn't want to be the only kid who insists on calling his counsellor Mrs. Winchester. Being new here already makes him stick out like a sore thumb, when all he wants to do is disappear into the peeling wallpaper and forget he exists.

"So, Castiel," Mary hops backwards onto the edge of her desk - because sitting in the chair like a regular person would be way too formal - and folds her hands into her lap. "How's your first week going?"

Castiel shrugs. "Fine, I guess."

"You guess? Doesn't sound too convincing, does it?"

"I don't know. Does it?"

Mary narrows her eyes and shifts her right leg over her left, shrugging a little. "Well, I was hoping for a more enthusiastic response, I'm not gonna lie. Have you made any friends yet?"

He wants to roll his eyes, because being shoved into the same building and being forced to make small talk with a bunch of other nutjobs hardly counts as 'making friends', but he doesn't. Instead, he fiddles with a loose thread on the arm of his chair and shrugs again.

"I met a few. Jo was the first person who talked to me. Then there's Charlie and Kevin… They're okay."

"Why don't you tell me a bit about them?"

"There's not much to tell," Castiel says a little impatiently. He doesn't mean to act like an asshole teenager, but everything about this situation feels like it's been plucked directly from an angsty YA novel his sister, Anna, undoubtedly has on her shelf.

Mary isn't easily deterred. That's probably why she got this job.

"How do you like Jo?"

"She's okay," He feels like he's repeating himself. He most definitely is. "I mean, she doesn't really talk to me per se. She plays guitar a lot. And sings."

"To you?"

"To everyone. She's trying to make an album, apparently."

"Well, that's exciting."

"I suppose."

Mary nods her head slowly, as if he just said something ground-breaking, and slides off the desk to grab something from her drawers.

"You're here for three months," She says matter-of-factly, like he's not already counting down the minutes in his head as they speak. "And during your stay here, we're gonna be seeing a lot of each other. I'd like you to do a little something for me. An exercise, if you like."

"I don't exercise much."

Mary smiles wryly, the way people do after he's said something unintentionally funny. Then she's handing him a black, leather-bound journal. It's probably faux leather. It smells like chemicals.

"I want you to keep a diary of your time at Opal Grove," She explains as he flicks through the blank pages. "You can write about anything you like."

He closes the journal softly and cracks his knuckles. "Why do I have to do this?"

"I'm not saying you have to, Castiel. But keeping a diary can be a very rewarding experience."

"I... I don't want to."

"That's fine," She smiles, not missing a beat. "Why don't you take it just in case? Maybe you'll change your mind."

He bites back the 'no' dying to come out and clenches his jaw, sliding the journal into one of the inside pockets of his trenchcoat. Well, it's not really his, but it may as well be now. It's not as if his father is bound to come back after eight years to reclaim his old coat, especially considering Castiel's been wearing the damn thing practically every day since his dad ran out him. Ran out on them. Sometimes he forgets he has a family back home, probably because he's never really felt a part of it.

"Okay," Mary's smile softens a little, which almost makes him want to throw the journal on the floor out of spite. He doesn't want to upset her, but he really hates it when people smile at him in that way - like he's finally on the road to recovery. He's never going to recover. When will they realize that?

"Is… Is that it? Are we done?"

"I think that's more than enough for today," Mary walks around her desk to take a seat in the dark red recliner leaning against the window. "I just wanted to make sure things were going okay. Seems like you're adjusting very well, which is great."

He bobs his head a little awkwardly. He sure as hell doesn't feel great, but Mary doesn't need to know that. As long as she believes that everything is fine, then he might have a chance of getting out early.

"Oh, and Castiel?" She asks as he heads for the door. "If you do change your mind about the journal, bring it to our next session, will you?"

"Sure," He says, because what else can he say?

Walking back to his room is always unpredictable. He braces himself for Jo to pop around the corner with her guitar and force him to listen to yet another song about being dark and messed up inside, or to find Kevin squatting on the floor, collecting bits of dust and lint from the cracks in the boards. All he really wants to do is collapse onto his bed - preferably his bed at home, but we can't always have what we want - and forget about the stupid journal and Mary's stupid smile. He's fully prepared to punch anyone who tries to keep him away from pursuing said desire. Using his fists is always a last resort, but he's really not in the mood for taking anyone's crap right now. Sleep and anger are weighing heavy in his mind, and he just wants to forget.

He's so close to his room, he can practically smell the dusky scent of mothballs clinging to his pillow. In fact, he's so engrossed in reaching the door that he doesn't even notice another body heading his way - not until it clashes into his and sends them both flying.

"Fuck," The other boy mutters as he picks himself off the ground, dusting off his jacket (which is a bit of an overreaction Castiel thinks, considering the floor is pretty much spotless at the moment). "You wanna try lookin' where you're goin' in the future, buddy?"

He opens his mouth to speak, but he finds himself distracted by the startling green of the stranger's eyes. He has freckles, too, arching over his bulky nose and strong jaw.

"Yo! Earth to weird guy," There's suddenly fingers snapping in his face. He blinks up at the handsome stranger hovering over him, and faintly realizes that he's still on the floor. Thick fingers soon wrap around his forearm though, lifting him to his feet with ease.

"Thank you," He breathes, a little dazed by the shade of those eyes up close.

It's not news to Castiel that he's attracted to men; that's partly why he's in here in the first place. But never has he seen a boy so beautiful - and yes, that really is the only fitting word to describe him. It's such a shock to the system, witnessing such beauty, that he almost forgets how to breathe. The air sort of punches out of his lungs like a burst balloon, and then he's hunched over with his hands on his knees, trying to suck in as much as the stuff as humanely possible.

"Woah, woah, woah," The boy grasps his shoulders tightly. "Hey. You good, man? You want me to go fetch a nurse or something?"

Castiel straightens up in an instant, eyes wide. "No! Um… No. No, thank you."

"You sure? Cos I could just -"

"No, I'm fine! Honestly, I… You just surprised me, is all."

The boy scoffs. "I surprised you? Says the guy who came runnin' round the corner like the frickin' devil was chasin' him."

"I can assure you, he wasn't," Castiel squirms out of his touch, willing down the blush threatening to reach his ears. "I'm sorry for running into you like that. I'm just tired. I wanted to get to my room."

"Uh, yeah. No problem, man. Don't sweat it."

He goes to turn around, but the handsome stranger keeps on talking.

"You new here or something? I've haven't see you around before."

"First week," Castiel says with a nod. "I'm still getting used to everything. It's strange, living somewhere that isn't home. It doesn't feel quite right."

The boy hums, then thrusts out his hand. "Name's Dean, by the way. I'm not a resident, I'm just waitin' for my mom to get off work. She's a counsellor here."

He doesn't even have to ask who. He can see bits of Mary staring back at him as they speak.

"I'm Castiel," He takes the proffered hand, albeit cautiously. "I am a resident unfortunately."

"What you in for?"

"Stuff," He says rather ominously, because he doesn't feel comfortable answering such a forward question from a complete stranger.

Dean raises his brows a little. "Damn… Are you a serial killer or something?"

"Or something," Castiel echoes.

They stand in the middle of the corridor, staring each other down like cowboys ready to draw their pistols on either end of the town. Dean seems to find something he likes, because a smile tugs at his lips and he nods approvingly, finally breaking eye contact to take a cigarette from out of his pocket.

"Shh... Don't tell on me," He presses a finger to his mouth and winks, the asshole. "M'not supposed to smoke, ya know? It's gonna send me to an early grave, yadda, yadda…"

"Well, that is very true."

"Yeah, I know. Doesn't make it any easier to stop though."

"You better take it outside," Castiel says, trying to ignore the way those plump lips wrap around the cigarette.

Dean scoffs. "Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. M'not a complete idiot, ya know?"

He works the cigarette to the corner of his mouth and bends his spine backwards, sighing at the series of crunches that signals the crack of his bones. Castiel can hardly judge a habit of his own. Besides, there's something very appealing about watching Dean flex his body like so. It makes him feel all hot and tingly. He even has to pull at the collar of his shirt like they do in old comedies to cool down.

Dean reaches forward to pat him on the shoulder. "Be seein' ya, Cas."

He watches the boy disappear down the hallway, then grabs the journal from his inside pocket and opens it a couple pages in. He's also the kind of person who keeps pens in his coat as well, which is rather practical. Whatever this is bubbling up inside of him, it can't wait until he gets inside his room and locks the door. He simply leans the journal against the wall and scribbles in the first thing that comes to mind.

Dear Diary,

I think I'm going to like it here after all.