AN: WARNING! This chapter contains references to rape. While the event is not described in any detail, a narrative is given of the lead up to the attack.
CHAPTER FOUR
Castiel ought to have anticipated that the scheduling of a meeting with Dean for two weeks' from the date of their last would not be the end of the matter. The fact that he was hurtling towards mid-semester break, and had three boxes full of essays to mark (and the tearful student appointments that would no doubt follow the assault of his red pen) were immaterial to Dean's purposes.
He had wondered if perhaps, despite Dean's swings to camaraderie on occasion, he might feel pleased to have an opportunity for a break from their encounters. Castiel, for his own part, felt that the occasion to contemplate what he had derived from Dean thus far would be of benefit to the study, and the time to consult with his colleagues even more so. He was happy to leave things as they were.
Spiraling events, however, undermined that aim.
The day after he deposited Dean at the police station, he received a cryptically worded text: "Halle-fucking-lujah." It arrived during a tutorial, which appeared to be the emerging unfortunate pattern for his receipt of Dean's correspondence, he was unable to respond or divert attention to deciphering Dean's meaning. On the walk back to his office, his fingers were halfway through tapping out an inquiring response, when Meg sashayed past him and muttered: "Check your inbox, bucko."
Upon due and hasty examination in the privacy of his office (with students waiting outside his door in a line for a slew of course-related queries), he found Meg had sent him a link to a local newspaper article decrying the release of the man suspected of the murder of "local jewel" Joanna Beth Harvelle. He didn't have time to respond to Dean's message until two hours later, when the last of his students trailed off, and by the time he checked his mobile phone again Dean – unperturbed by his non-response – had texted again: "His name is Ash Bonifante n he is cmn by 2mro 2pm if u wna b there".
Castiel typed out a quick reply: "Yes, I will, with his consent."
There was a pause of only minutes before Dean replied: "Hes al gud. C u thn."
Meg followed up in the next morning, and insisted Castiel take a dictaphone to his meeting with Dean. "What can I say, Clarence? I'm interested in the little tree-topper."
"You're not officially involved in the study."
"And you've spilled half the can already."
Castiel conceded to take the dictaphone with him, upon Meg's brutal stare and swirl of her lips. He had a headache, and he was hardly in any mood to argue. But, knowing regardless that he would be punished for it later, he "forgot" to turn it on upon his arrival on Dean's doorstep. His notepad, however, was primed and ready, stuffed into his half-empty satchel, with a few personal notations written in his own cryptic shorthand reminding him of hypotheses he intended to investigate, during the encounter.
A ute parked outside Dean's driveway marked Ash's arrival, and when Castiel entered the lounge he found him seated on Dean's couch, staring at an untouched mug of tea before him and fiddling with a loose strand of hair that formed part of a rather committed mullet. His hunched posture was out of sorts with the loudness of his style, and his lip was trembling slightly when he turned to witness Dean lead Castiel into the lounge.
Ash was quick to jump up and shake Castiel's hand – a little limply, and with cold fingers – and he stood aimlessly as Dean directed Castiel to another couch and excused himself to the kitchen to prepare Castiel a mug of his own: "Tea will be fine." Dean rolled his eyes minutely, but made sure to keep the movement from Ash's sightline.
"So, you're a PhD?"
"I'm a Professor at Carmel University, yes." Castiel seated himself opposite Ash, taking in the armless plaid shirt he wore and ripped jeans – not out of context with the haircut – though swimming on Ash's frame as he curled a little around himself.
"And you're writing a book about Dean?"
"I hope so, if he proves a fruitful enough subject."
Dean snorted in the kitchen and Castiel's gaze flickered to the doorway immediately. He hadn't intended the words as a joke. He looked back to Ash, whose mouth was twisted into an embarrassed smile and whose knees were bouncing up and down as he leaned forwards on his couch.
"I assure you," Castiel observed, as he extracted his notepad from his satchel, "I am here to observe Dean only. Your discussions here will remain entirely confidential. If you do feel uncomfortable at any point, I am happy to-"
"No. No. It's fine. Kind of… a free visit to a professional. Could probably do with one of those." Ash grinned an empty smile at Castiel and leaned back in his chair. "I'm, uh, a bit all over the place these days."
Castiel nodded understandingly and sat backwards, as Dean stuck his head around the corner of the kitchen. "You drink coffee, Cas? I've run out of your leaf-water crap."
Ash looked down at his own mug of tea and flushed, and Castiel waved him on. "Coffee is fine. Milk and sugar, please." Dean wrinkled his nose and clicked his tongue, but proceeded back to the kitchen, and there was a wrinkling sound as he opened a packet of biscuits and dumped them unceremoniously onto a tray.
"So, a psychologist huh? You practice?"
Castiel shook his head."Not currently. I teach at the University, and elsewhere."
Ash nodded in understanding and brought the tips of his fingers together, staring at them, even though he continued to address Castiel.
"Which college you study at?"
"Berkeley, then Harvard."
Ash smiled sadly at him, in a way that was clearly intended to mask the broiling worry beneath his skin, and nodded. "You look like a Harvard guy."
Castiel inclined his head towards his shoulder and stated plainly: "I suppose."
Ash lowered his hand to scratch absently at his thigh and turned his gaze to the kitchen, presumably watching Dean in the faint hope that he would hurry and relieve him of the suspense. "I was MIT. Before I dropped out."
"Really?"
Ash nodded without affectation or any indication that he had found Castiel's surprise rude, and pronounced casually: "Particle Physics. Got bored."He sat backwards in his chair and his eyes flickered to Dean in the kitchen, before his gaze dropped back to his hands. "You know how it is. Everyone there's a slave to the machine. I needed to get out."
He ran a hand across the back of his neck, pulling his hair with him, and pausing in surprise when his fingers happened upon knots.
"What do you do now?" Castiel asked mildly, as he watched Ash stare at his hand for a moment, before dropping it back to his lap in ignorance of his personal grooming.
"Bartend. A bar called the Roadhouse. You've probably heard of it." Ash's smile was an isolated cheeriness on a face that was otherwise heavy and drained. Castiel found himself momentarily stumped for a response, before they were mercifully interrupted by Dean's arrival back in the lounge. Balanced upon a gaudy looking tray were two mismatched mugs and a plate of haphazardly arranged and stale looking biscuits. Castiel quickly moved to grab at the coffee table set off to the side of the room and dragged into the centre of their chair arrangement. Dean threw him a look of thanks as he deposited the tray down and passed Castiel his watery offering.
Ash reached forward to take his and all but drained it before Castiel had raised his own mug to his lips, depositing it back with a blank expression. Dean ignored him momentarily, instead looking to Castiel meaningfully with a message that was unclear from the context, before seating himself beside Ash and meeting his gaze."So, what can I do for you?"
The bouncing of Ash's knees trebled in pace, though he kept his words measured as he answered Dean: "I heard that you came to the police station, when I was in holding. Said that you knew it wasn't me."
Dean flushed and looked back to Castiel, as though expecting him to interject (or maybe hoping that he would), before answering with a quiet murmur: "Yeah, I did."
"How did you know?"
Dean pursed his lips and stared downwards at his lap, fiddling idly with his hands and shifting awkwardly in his seat.
"If you were at MIT, I figured you've at least googled me already." It was Ash's turn to color as he watched Dean move away, and wring his hands once. "I know that you're… a medium, and you say you can talk to spirits."
"That's right."
Ash's gaze flicked to Castiel for a reaction, but he betrayed none, and turned down to his notepad to scrawl: modest presentation. The action had the effect he was hoping for, and rendered him sufficiently invisible for the conversation to continue, uninhibited.
"So… you've seen Jo?"
"Yeah. I have."
Whatever dubiousness Ash had held, he found sufficient sincerity in Dean's tone and in his stare that had a rush of emotion swelling within him. With a shudder, he leaned forward and covered his face with his hands, murmuring hurriedly: "Shit. Shit."
"Hey. Hey, it's alright, man. Here."
Dean reached forward and grabbed Ash's tea, growling when he realized it was already empty. When Ash seemed less than interested, Dean looked to Castiel quickly, before murmuring: "Water? Do you need water?" Dean's meaning was clear, even though Ash followed up with a sob and a shake of his head. Castiel stood and moved to the kitchen, selecting the cleanest glass from the drying rack (Dean had done the dishes, surprisingly) and filling it with frothy tap water. He returned and deposited it on the table, to Dean's mouthed thank you.
Ash drew a quick breath around an oncoming sob, and looked back to Dean who – Castiel noted, since his departure from the room – had extended an arm and was circling his hand between Ash's shoulder blades.
"I just… I can't believe this. That some… bastard..."
Ash cast his gaze around the room, and the fury in his eyes was so heated that even Castiel felt momentarily accused of being the perpetrator himself.
"I was working that night. She was right there. And he must have been. If only I'd-"
Ash's voice cracked and his eyes ran around the room again in vague and aimless search for some kind of comfort. His gaze settled on Castiel, even though Castiel was keeping his eyes determinedly away from the exchange to afford the moment privacy. His knee twitched under the sudden attention.
Dean leaned forward and held around Ash's arm tightly.
"It wasn't your fault, Ash. You know that?"
Ash shook his head slowly, eyes staring before him in vacant disbelief as he failed to absorb the comfort in the words.
"I know it was. Guys, they'd come after Jo all the time at the bar. She was tough, but it was always up to me to keep an eye on her. Her mother gave me a roof over my head for just that. And I…"
Dean looked to Castiel, not helplessly but with some kind of plea for assistance, before he turned back to Ash and moved closer.
"The people that do these things, Ash. It's their fault. You can't blame yourself."
"She was my best friend."
Dean's jaw shifted and he rubbed at Ash's shoulder lightly for a moment, before giving a small smile and inclining his head to the right.
"I failed her."
The bland smile stayed fixed on Dean's face and he froze in his movements on Ash's shoulder, nodding his head evenly as though pounding out a soft beat. Ash breathed in a hurried sob, before registering Dean's lack of response, and turning towards him with a question in his slack jaw.
"What the-"
Castiel waved a hand to attract Ash's attention and gave a small nod of understanding. Ash's face changed from despair to aggression in a moment, and just as he turned with the energy of insult invigorating his body, Dean wiped at his ear and his eyes re-focused.
"C-Can't fight this feeling?"
There was a beat as even Castiel stared on in disbelief.
"Dean-"
"You know, the song." Dean hurried out, eyes flickering to a point beyond Ash's shoulder. "REO Speedwagon."
Ash's mouth fell open and his face drained immediately of color. His shoulder jumped, and Dean's eyes moved to that point. He nodded slightly and withdrew his hand from Ash's shoulder, encasing it in his other and rubbing furiously at the skin as though he were cold.
"Wait… is she?"
Dean nodded again, eyes closing momentarily, and a smile spreading across his face which revealed both layers of his teeth. Castiel made a quick note on his pad: discrepancies in expression during "visitation".
"Oh Jesus Christ. Shit, what do I say?"
Dean pursed his lips, eyes still closed, and raised a finger.
"Just… just wait a minute. She's…"
He rubbed at his temple absently, and across from him, Castiel mimicked the movement as a momentary pulse rose in his own. He massaged it carefully for a second, before dropping it and watching the pair closer.
"She's not angry at you, Ash. Not at all. There's only…there's just a lot of love there. She wants you to know she's alright now. Don't… don't regret anything."
Ash's lips began to tremble as he looked at Dean's closed eyes earnestly, before back to the empty spot at Castiel's shoulder.
"H-How can I? If I had-"
Dean's eyebrow twitched, and he cocked his head towards the space beside him. He twisted his lip until one of his incisors ran across it, and repeated the motion several times, to Ash's widening gaze. With a rub to his eyelids, he opened them again and looked at Ash, mouth moving back to his usual pursed smile.
"Just.. take care, sucker."
"But-"
Dean shook his head again and pressed his hand to his temple tightly, before sighing.
"I'm sorry, shit…She's… she's back on the witch's claws again. Um-"
"What?"
"Just… this rhyme. Don't step on the witch's claws. No, wait-"
Dean reached out slowly as though he might be able to grab something, but only succeeded in grasping thin air and opened his eyes in frustration, searching the room quickly. "Shit."
"She's gone?"
Dean looked back to Castiel, almost accusingly, before he let his head loll back and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "I asked her to stay but… I don't think she had the energy for it. I think it's hard, for her to see you… grieving."
Ash hastily wiped at his eyes, despite the action being defunct in light of Dean's loss of fascination with the empty space.
There were a few minutes of silence, during which tears brimmed over and ran down Ash's cheeks, and he rubbed at them with the heel of his hand. Dean was otherwise preoccupied staring at the ceiling, and Castiel moved to pass a box of tissues – helpfully situated directly beside him – to Ash.
When Dean broke the silence with a groan, and leaning forward to rub at his temples, he carried on as though there had been no break in the conversation. "Even to manifest to me… it's a lot of energy. And Jo is… she's going nuts trying to find the killer. And trying to get you out. She woke me up twice with that."
"H-how?"
Dean threw another glance at Castiel before turning to Ash and answering sincerely. "It's… it's like an energy thing. I just woke up and I could… feel how angry she was. She was showing me… things."
Ash recoiled slightly at that, and his face drained of color. "That's not like her to be so… vengeful."
"I'm sure it's not. But that's the way with spirits. She's just pure, unbridled emotion at the moment and she can't control it. She's watching her friends and family suffer. And she's afraid to tell me what happened to her, so she's turned it all on…" Dean cleared his throat and rubbed at his jeans.
"Look, when you're alive, your life is the most important thing, right? Everything you do, it's about enjoying it, or protecting it, or prolonging it, or… Well, when you die, your death becomes the big deal. I haven't come across many spirits that aren't fixated on it."
Dean wiped at his brow, and reached forward to take a draught of the water that Castiel had brought to Ash. When he deposited it, half-drained, his voice was low and his face was pale.
"I'm sorry, but that's all I have for you."
Ash nodded slowly and resignedly, still twisting his hands atop his knees.
"Do-Do you think they'll find her killer?"
"I don't know. She won't show me what happened. To be honest… I'd rather she didn't."
Ash jolted at the revelation, and leaned back in his chair, running his hands down his face and dragging his cheeks with them. His mouth dropped with the exertion upon his skin.
"I-I guess. That's it then."
Dean nodded once, and his gaze flickered back to Castiel, perhaps with expectation of interjection.
"You know," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on Castiel's, "you can talk to her, if you want. Just to the empty air. She's around and she'll hear. You can tell her… whatever it is you didn't get the chance to say today, or before…"
Ash hiccupped once, and a single stream of tears emerged from the edge of his right eye. "Seems stupid."
Dean grimaced and chuckled once, before landing a light slap on Ash's shoulder. "I know. Death… it makes you feel stupid. But… it's important for you to feel… all of that. And if you need to talk to her… you should. Right?"
Ash nodded over and over, starting with smaller nods that turned into more sweeping arcs. "Yeah. Yeah. I-… Shit."
He fell forwards again to wipe at his face with his hands and brush a few further tears away. Castiel reached across the table and held out the tissue box again, but otherwise kept silent as Dean's gaze flickered to him.
"I don't know how it's going to be at the Roadhouse from now on. Jo, she was kinda the heart of the place. Apple of her mother's eye. Hit with all the patrons. She was… still so young."
Dean squeezed Ash's shoulder and let him drop a few tears into his lap.
"I know, I know." For as many times as he had looked at Ash during their conversation, Dean looked again to Castiel and his eyes widened as she spoke. "But… d-don't give her a reason to haunt that place. She needs to pass on, and she needs to know that she's safe to leave you behind. That's all you can do for her now."
Ash nodded quietly and let a few more tears, before he eventually stood and made his move to leave. He fumbled at his trousers in the doorway to the hallway and made to remove his wallet, but Dean stopped him with a quiet hand and a soft stare.
"There's no charge, Ash. You take care of yourself. And Ellen."
Ash's mouth dropped open at the name, but Dean offered no further explanation for the statement. It seemed, as Ash's face paled again, that he and Dean both understood the name to have emerged from a spirit dialogue with "Jo". At the back of Castiel's mind, however, a previous conversation fastforwarded, until it hit on the crucial detail: "Her mother, Ellen, runs this place."
Castiel stayed in his seat, and let them move through the doorway for farewells, with a foul taste on his tongue. He had expected to find it eventually. The decodable revelation – the obvious pointer to falsity. It wasn't as if he had begun to doubt his own hypothesis regarding Dean, but nonetheless there was a certain bitter disappointment in seeing the first crack in the veneer. His brow furrowed tightly around the thought and he sank further back into the armchair, rubbing at the bridge of his nose in an effort to dispel the tension there.
No doubt there would be more to come. And each exposed in a circumstance where a tearful, misguided patron was drawing comfort from Dean's condition – to their own detriment, and likely to Dean's too. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, while Dean and Ash murmured through a final conversation.
Ash failed to question Dean's elaborate lock system as Dean navigated his exit, although the dismantling took almost a full minute. Castiel wondered vaguely as to the origins of Dean's need for security of his home – while it made sense that he was paranoid about outside influence, it seemed unusual that the same system essentially hemmed him in with the spirits he protested fear of. If Dean ever did need to make a hasty escape, they would certainly hold him up in no small measure.
"Y-you know where they found her?"
Dean paused momentarily, and the floor beneath him creaked as he adjusted restlessly, letting the front door fall open with a light whine of hinges ill-equipped for its weight.
"Forest behind the bar, just out of town."
"Yeah."
Ash's voice dropped low. "I saw a picture of it at the station, when they were escorting me out. That sicko dumped her in the roots of this massive tree. You know the kind? Buttress roots? The ones that grow out of the ground."
"Yes."
Ash swallowed carefully, and his voice cracked as he explained.
"Just… just a shallow grave. You can't dig much around those things. She wasn't even well-hidden, just..."
He cleared his throat and paused for a moment, and on the other side of the wall, Dean moved to stand beside him and murmured a few quiet calming words that had Ash breathing harshly and making small noises of assent as he took control of himself.
"It's just… that thing you said about the witch's claws. She told you that?"
"Yes."
Ash sniffed once and there was a lengthy pause in the doorway, as they both seemed to hold their breaths.
"You know… there was this nursery rhyme that went around my school when I was a kid. I think some kid at our school must have made it up. Never heard of anyone else knowing it."
Ash breathed out, a light pulse of his voicebox accompanying it. Dean, for his part, smacked his lips, and murmured: "Sorry, I-"
Ash swallowed carefully again, and his voice dropped lower, such that Castiel was obliged to strain his ears to make out the phrasing.
"It goes, something like: don't step on the witch's claws, don't step on the tree, keep your steps careful, or else you'll step on me..."
Dean farewelled Ash without much more, and he breathed out a heavy sigh as he shut the door behind him, once again attending to his locking system. When his rattling ceased, he waited for almost a full minute before returning to the lounge. Even though Castiel remained in his seat, Dean's eyes moved to him at once when he entered the room, and they narrowed slightly.
"You heard… what he said?"
Castiel nodded curtly and stayed stoic on the floor, as Dean stared at him momentarily and clenched his fists at his sides. With a sigh, he gestured to the untouched plate of biscuits still sitting at the coffee table.
"You, uh, done?"
"…yes. Yes, for now."
Dean paused momentarily, and a small smile twitched across the corner of his mouth. "You gonna want your cold coffee later then?"
His eyes lit as he awaited Castiel's recognition of the jibe, but his expression dropped when none came.
"Cas. You alright? Can I get you-"
Castiel unfroze himself to run a light hand down his face in a vague kind of apology, before gesturing at his temples vaguely.
"An Advil, if you have one. I have a headache."
Dean was the one to pause then, eyes surveying Castiel's quickly, before he nodded and turned away.
"Right, sure."
Dean bustled quickly to the kitchen and opened and closed several cupboards. There was a rustling as he sorted through random sounding collection of tin-foiled packets, and Castiel shut his eyes and breathed out in irritation until Dean returned with a glass of water and a small silvery packet.
"Here you go."
Castiel took the pills and popped them from their packet, and Dean watched as he drained the glass downing them. Afterwards, he took the empty packet and glass back from Castiel and placed them inside the kitchen, before shuffling out and anchoring his hands in his pockets, staring him down.
"You, uh, do you need to go back home? Or…?"
Castiel shook his head and re-deposited himself back upon his chair, fingering idly at the armrest before meeting Dean's gaze. "I just need a moment, it will pass."
"Oh…ok."
Dean sat opposite Castiel again and played absently with the mug in front of him, lining up the wet spoons and rearranging the milk and sugar into a shape no more logical than they had previously been before he looked up at Castiel.
"You-"
He was interrupted by the buzz of his phone in his pocket, and extracted it quickly. His eyes glazed over as he scanned the message, before depositing it and sliding it into his pocket. "Just Ash. Sayin' thanks again. That it really helped."
His mouth twitched into a small smile as he leaned back in his chair again and slotted his fingers together, letting one leg begin to jiggle as he waited out Castiel's episode. Castiel endured only a few moments of the bated silence before he let his head loll to the side and looked at Dean squarely.
"You… spoke well to him. Differently than I had expected."
"What you're used to seeing?"
Castiel shook his head, and Dean blinked and smiled lightly at the edge of his mouth before looking away.
"I told you, I don't turn tricks. And I told him the truth. He needs to move on. He can't stay haunted by it."
Castiel held his breath at that, and pressed his lips together, unwilling to betray his sentiment to the contrary. To abate the need for an immediate answer, he ran his hands up the armchair of the couch lightly, twirling one finger in a circle around an old cigarette burn. The house had no scent of smoke, and Dean betrayed no symptom of the addicted. Likely, it was due to a habit long since forgotten, or had been inherited with the second hand item. He looked to Dean from the corner of his eye, as Dean stared at his walls blankly, and continued: "Why didn't you accept his money?"
Dean, apparently ignorant of Castiel's new hostility, continued mildly and openly: "Doesn't seem right, profiting off grief like that. Sometimes they insist. I usually donate it to the hospice or something. Few times I've been desperate, but… I always feel guilty."
"How do you meet your basic needs, if not through such appointments? You are not employed."
"Nah." Dean shook his head, looking away from the walls and back to his hands, twisting them lightly at his lap. "Actually, I used to be a care worker. You know, in retirement homes, if you can believe that." He snickered before he even looked to Castiel to gauge his expression. It wasn't what he seemed to expect though, for Castiel was hardly shocked by the revelation, given Dean's easy manner with Ash. With a quick pause, and a lick of his lips, Dean continued:
"I mean… not for long. When I started seeing things it got… too much. But..." he shrugged, "I tried a few things for a while. Caring for people mostly. After the nuthouse though, the phone stopped ringing. Sometimes I get the funding. You know, for wackos. And I inherited this house. Other times…"
Dean shrugged, and wiped at his mouth, looking away pointedly.
"I'm not bad at pool, so…"
He left the implication hanging, and shuffled uneasily in his chair.
"In a way, it kinda fits. I never would have been the type to go to college anyway. Not like you."
"Why do you say that?"
Castiel sighed and prodded at his temples as a wave of tightness ran across the front of his forehead. When Castiel turned back to Dean, his pupils had blown wide around a narrow green iris rim, and he blinked several times at Castiel before stuttering around an answer.
"Not smart enough. Not anything enough."
Castiel's mouth twitched as he appraised Dean carefully. The look drew Dean's eye and his face gradually flushed as Castiel held his gaze evenly, masking his distrust: "I do not believe that."
Dean breathed out a laugh, but didn't look away from Castiel once as his eyes raked his face. "Yeah? What makes you say that?"
There was a bated pause before Castiel realized he had not covered, perhaps, his newer feeling of disdain enough. Dean's mouth fell open slightly, and his eyes flickered back and forth across Castiel's face in quick darts, gathering evidence for his conclusion. Despite the still metallic taste in his mouth, Castiel immediately regretted not coming up with a better lie.
"You mean cause you still think I'm a fraud, right?"
Castiel opened his mouth to respond, but his expression was not quick enough to hide the accuracy of the statement.
Dean's entire expression dropped, even though Castiel sat forward in his chair and held out a hand to indicate his desire to address the matter further. Dean looked on it with barely concealed instantaneous fury, before snarking: "All offence meant, you don't know shit Professor."
Dean thudded back into his chair and crossed his arms, staring furiously in the area of Castiel's shins. Castiel sat backwards in his own too, more slowly, regretting the evaporation of the easier camaraderie that had developed over the morning. Dean at once became the awkward patient again, determinedly avoiding Castiel's gaze and offering aborted, one-word answers to even the slightest investigation.
When Castiel left him in the early afternoon, Dean scarcely bid him farewell at the door, and shut it behind him with a slam. But as Castiel made his way to his car, and sat himself within it, he heard the sound of a crash within the house, and Dean's aggravated cry of "fuck!" He looked back to the doorway, almost anticipating Dean would storm back through it, and offer Castiel a piece of his mind. But silence quickly fell over the house, and there was no movement in the windows. Castiel waited for a minute or so, before cautiously starting his car, regretting that it would be audible to the interior of his house. Still, there was no sign that Dean wished to confer, and with a sigh, he pulled away from the kerb and set down the street en route back to the University.
…
The news was preoccupied for days with criticism of the local police department for their release of Ash without further apprehension of another suspect. Ash, unlucky as he was, had been caught on film leaving the police station, and one news station had been ignorant or perhaps callous enough to display the footage, speculating that Ash had managed to get away with murder. Ash had a solid legal case for defamation and breach of privacy, but on a bartender's salary, Castiel doubted he would ever have the opportunity to pursue it. Even if he did, the damage was done.
Dean was silent, even though Castiel did text him and request another appointment. Meg was less than sympathetic, when he raised it over their weekly coffee. "It's called trust, you imbecile. Don't you know it's not nice to call people names?"
The fact that Castiel had done no such thing, he knew, was a technicality. And he regretted the momentary invasion of judgment that had offended Dean. The revelation that Dean was fraudulent – or at least the indication of it, in his discussion with Ash – was hardly a surprise. Castiel knew what he had bought into when he commenced the study, and lies or not, he was certain Dean would benefit from psychological investigation. It was in everyone's interests that that should be allowed to occur.
Bobby, despite his misgivings as far as Castiel was concerned, appeared to agree when he phoned Castiel one night later (again failing to disclose how he had come by his mobile number) and requested his presence on a "field trip". His directions lead Castiel to a cordoned off back-country road an hour and a half away from the City, where Bobby met him with a flashlight and a surly looking Dean, who had pulled his hoodie up over his face.
"Sorry about the late call out, but I don't want the whole precinct knowing we were comin'. If the journos caught wind of it, my career would be down the crapper."
Dean had apparently only just been informed of Castiel's arrival, for he was quick to stalk off when Castiel ambled over to Bobby and greeted him with a handshake.
"You two in a spat?"
Castiel nodded and dug his hands into the pocket of his trenchcoat, blinking against the cold night air. While it wasn't strictly ethical to disclose any matter of their working relationship, Castiel suspected he wouldn't get by without offering a further explanation to the Police Chief for dean's behavior. "Dean is frustrated with the current path of my study. He does not appreciate my skepticism."
Bobby raised his eyebrows. "S'not like that's new."
"It was to be expected," Castiel answered mildly, falling into step behind Bobby as Dean – own flashlight in hand – lead the way up the winding road onto a grassy knoll which a sign nearby declared to be: "Woodhill Reserve". "I'm assuming from Dean's countenance it was not he who considered my presence was necessary for this."
Bobby tutted and lowered his voice. "Aww, you think?" Bobby looked across to Castiel with a raised eyebrow, but he quickly smoothed over his aggravation, before continuing apologetically: "We're low on leads and I need his help. But… the times we've done this before… can get a bit messy."
They stepped over a few stiles that prevented cars accessing the grassy part of the reserve, and then slid under a marker of yellow police tape. The fact that Dean seemed to know exactly where he was going without Bobby's instruction didn't seem to worry him.
They trudged together in silence, watching Dean warily, and Castiel asked: "What do you mean, messy?"
Bobby cleared his throat, and his steps faltered a little – allowing Dean to power further ahead across the field.
"We need the story from the horse's mouth. Dean can do that, but… he tends to get emotional. I was hopin' to avoid this, given what…"
He trailed off, and Castiel stared at him the darkness. He had the sense that Bobby knew he was awaiting further explanation, but was reluctant to give it. Dean stormed on ahead though, and his flashlight disappeared from view. With a sigh, Bobby stopped them and directed his flashlight to Castiel's face."I know you think it's all a crock of shit, but… if he gets too caught up, I was hopin' you could keep him out of harm's way. Can't hurt to have a professional here, right?"
Castiel paused and swallowed. "To be frank, ïf I'm not sure what to expect, I'm not certain I can be of assistance."
Bobby only grumbled and recommenced walking. "You're the best I've got, so you just do what you think is right if it comes to it."
He started at a jog to catch up with Dean, and passed into the treeline marking the forest boundary. Castiel followed, internally cursing the fact that he hadn't had the presence of mind to connect the directions to the forest with the prospect of a trek and worn more appropriate shoes. Bobby's own hiking pair were well suited, and, between Castiel's own plain leather pair and lack of flashlight, he tumbled more than once, and scraped his hands on the bark of several trees.
Fifteen minutes along the trail, they left the path – following instead a winding marker of police tape for another ten. Eventually, they reached another cordoned off area, although signs of police presence were fairly minimal. Only a tape remained, and a few boxes of equipment to presumably be retrieved later. Dean was frozen, staring at the tape and trembling.
Bobby nudged him as he walked past and raised the tape, directing his flashlight towards Dean's chest. "You ok, Dean?"
"Fine."
His hand reached out and ran along the yellow plastic, fingers fumbling with its edge. Hand clasping o the tape, he turned back to Bobby and brought his flashlight up to his face. "You ok if I just get in here…s'not gonna mess with anything?"
"We're done with the area. Do what you want."
For Dean's benefit, Bobby directed his flashlight out beyond the tape, and illuminated what Castiel had already expected awaited Dean – a large tree, with massive twisting roots, some of which were forced out of the ground with such strength that they sat around waist height. Dean, with visible reluctance, went immediately to their centre, moving his hands over their peaks – lip curling.
Castiel didn't need to state the obvious – that they had been brought to a crime scene, where someone had died, and cruelly.
It was impossible to particularize, but there was a stench of it in the air. Not of decay, of course, aside from that earthy decay that was typical of forests the world over. But above it, like a thin note, was a foulness. Castiel knew that it did not originate from any physical surrounding of the forest at all. Rather, it was associated with some chemical by-product of a mental discomfort with the circumstance. He unwillingly momentarily revisited a time when his nostrils had been filled with the acidic scent twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. Its familiarity provoked a host of associated physical responses that he had long since had occasion to feel – twitching fingers and an upset stomach being the most obvious. With a wipe to his mouth, he turned away from Dean and moved his focus to Bobby, swallowing heavily.
"You alright there?"
Bobby's voice was too quiet to be directed at Dean, and Castiel stiffened beside him, nodding redundantly in the darkness.
"Hmph." Bobby turned back and moved the flashlight as Dean clambered over another root, and wiped at his face with a softly shaking hand.
The forest was eerie enough, despite their location. The trees bristled with nightlife, and the wind caught on branches all around the vicinity, sending sounds reverberating through the otherwise silent space with clarity. While Bobby was obviously used to the site, the time of night seemed to get to him slightly too, and he pulled his jacket tight around his shoulders, even though the temperature itself was mild.
Dean stumbled around another root and paused momentarily, and then he fell backwards against the root, bringing his wrist to his mouth and coughing.
Bobby nudged Castiel and started forward. "You got paper? Write down what he says."
Castiel didn't have paper – anther oversight in his hurry to make the surprise appointment, but he did have his mobile phone, and he pulled it from his pocket quickly, tapping out notes as Dean called out hoarsely.
"I've got a car, Bobby. It's a… dark blue sedan."
"I'm here boy. What else?"
Dean wrinkled his nose and wiped at it, before he coughed ones and garbled out hoarsely: "Smoky."
He coughed a few more times and leaned down, pressing his forehead against his knees and letting his chest heave. There was a silence for a minute or so, before Dean murmured lightly: "Come on… show me." He shook his head once, before letting it fall back against the roots. For a few seconds he sat there silently, and his breathing evened. Then, unexpectedly, he jolted forwards with a statement caught in his throat. He managed a small sound before looking up and staring at them both, directly into the flashlights.
"She knew him… that's why she got in the car. Hers wouldn't start."
He coughed again and wiped at his mouth with his sleeve. "She'd had…", Dean gritted his teeth for a moment, before nodding once and following up quickly. "Some mouthy jerk at the bar… and she was feelin' kinda sick."
"We need a name, Dean."
Dean nodded and his brow furrowed as he covered his eyes with his palm. "Uh, he offered her a ride. Said he was passing by hers anyway… he said it looked like she'd had a rough night."
He swallowed once, and the sound came out wet.
"She's showing me… uh, cigarettes."
"A name Dean."
Dean nodded again, although this time it seemed less inclined to hear Bobby, and he started rubbing around his neck, holding himself between his thumb and index finger.
"Um," he swallowed, and garbled out another answer, "He, uh, said something about needin' to… pick something up, I don't know, it's kinda vague."
Dean grimaced and cleared his throat. His nose wrinkled once and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Just… he's smoking… she didn't like the smell so she tried to open the window… but he said it was broken…"
Dean bit his lip, brow furrowing in concentration, as his fingers rubbed at his neck.
"He was… he was being weird. Kinda quiet. Uh… they took a turn down the road and…"
Dean paused suddenly, before stiffening, and his fingers suddenly dug into his throat, so that white patches appeared against the skin beneath his touch.
"Dean? What is it?"
Dean's jaw shifted and his body stiffened, so that he was pushing his back up against the root.
He coughed again once, and then hurried out. "She… she got her phone out. She was gonna text Ash. Get him to… urrk." He fell sideways slightly and twisted his head, hacking out another cough into the ground before bringing his had up to wipe at his mouth. "Oh god, it tastes awful."
"What?"
"The smoke, it's all over me." Dean twisted his mouth and spat again, before coughing drily, his lips curling in disgust. Bobby nudged Castiel once and stepped forward, reaching for Dean, who remained doubled over.
"Dean, are you-"
"Ugh." Dean spat again and the spittle hung on a thin trail, descending down across his chin as he righted himself, paying no mind to the way it hung from the edge of his mouth. Bobby threw a quick glance back at Castiel and used his flashlight to illuminate Dean's face, who squinted and turned away. He clutched to his chest and coughed a few more times, before his right arm twitched and fell to his side.
"Dean?"
Castiel was surprised to hear that his own voice wasn't calm when he stepped forward and tried to attract Dean's attention. Dean didn't even glance at him, pushing himself harder against the root and hands coming up to pull his jacket tightly around himself. His voice, although hurried, was suddenly rising, and warbling with the effort.
"He asked who she was texting...she said that… Ash needed the keys to lock the Roadhouse, and they needed to go back…Oh."
Dean dropped his head to his chest and gritted his teeth. His breaths suddenly hastened, even though his chest scarcely seemed to move in his hunched posture. Bobby moved closer to the tree, and shone the torch in Dean's face.
"Dean… you only need the name."
Dean shook his head, and a small whimper marked a constriction at his throat.
"He told her that she…" Dean wiped at his mouth again and pushed back against the tree as Castiel took another step forward.
There was a change in Dean's tone as he shook his head vigorously, eyes still squeezed shut tightly.
"Please, Jo, don't make me see."
He pressed his lips together tightly as the color drained from his face, and he flinched away from Castiel as he extended an arm, murmuring: "Dean." Dean's mouth gaped a cry as his lips curled in disgust.
"He told her she was beautiful. That…oh god, no. No no no, please don't."
Dean slapped at his own thigh with a fist and his gaze scrunched up as his knees began to judder. Bobby moved to Castiel's side and pushed him forward. "Cas, can you do somethin'? This a'int helpin' anyone."
Castiel stared at Dean for a moment, as he swallowed and let his head drop back against the tree trunk, fists clenching around his jacket. "Bobby-"
Bobby only pushed him forward roughly. "He's hallucinatin'. Don't you have a trick for that?"
There was a beat as the two men appraised each other. Bobby's panic, despite his strict tone, was evident, and his moustache twitched as he ground his teeth. Beyond them, Dean twisted in on himself and ground out a cry.
In theory, Castiel knew the ways to manage a patient struck with such an event. But, turning back to Dean, shivering in the darkness against the tree root, his mind abandoned him and he stumbled forwards aimlessly, dropping to his knees to reach lightly for Dean's arm. Dean yelped as Castiel made contact with him, but he didn't pull away – only stiffening and breathing harshly.
"Bobby. Bobby, he-… He stopped the car up here. He stopped the car down there. And then he… then he…"
Castiel looked back to see Bobby staring helplessly as Dean's mouth twisted around a disgusted expression, and his breath shuddered out in horrified, shaky attempts. With a deep breath of his own, Castiel turned and reached for Dean's flashlight, pulling it from him and using it to illuminate Dean's face.
"Dean, you can stop. Dean, listen to me."
Dean didn't listen as he gave a soft cry and curled further into the trunk. He struggled feebly to wrench his arm away from Castiel, and whimpered when Castiel held firm.
"Dean, it's not real. Focus on my voice, you're safe here."
"No… I-" Castiel gave Dean's arm a tight squeeze and the touch was enough to force Dean's eyes open. He searched around frantically for a moment, before his gaze found Castiel's and he fixated on him with panic, huffing out hurried breaths. In the torchlight, Castiel saw the shimmer of tears that hung suspended against his iris, above the rough red lines that ran as a cross-hatching across Dean's eyeball.
In a small voice, Dean asked: "Cas?"
"Breathe deeply. Keep your eyes on me."
Castiel squeezed Dean's arm again, as a reminder, and Dean's chest heaved with a sob. But, pressing his lips together, he forced in slow breaths through his nostrils. They flared with the effort, but the concentration put paid to the hyperventilation.
"You're safe with me here, Dean. It's just us here, alright." Dean nodded tightly, and with his free hand, he fumbled to find the sleeve of Castiel's jacket, gripping tightly and staring as he breathed in light wheezes, blinking furiously against the torchlight.
Castiel kept his gaze on Dean's until Dean was ready to look away. It took several minutes, but when he was ready, it happened abruptly, and he pulled himself away from Castiel, wiping at his brow.
"She's gone. I'm ok. I'm ok."
Castiel shuffled forward across the damp soil, bringing the flashlight up to illuminate Dean.
"Dean?"
Dean swallowed heavily, breathing out a few short breathes when he was done as though exhausted by the simple effort. Slowly, he drew himself backwards towards the root, moving his gaze to Castiel's and raking it emptily.
His face was no longer terrified, and his eyes were focused with stern resentment. "Good enough for you?" he spat, pushing himself away from the root and scrambling to stand, leaning against it heavily when he managed it. With a growl, Dean slammed his fist down onto the root, before he let his head drop – forcing his neck to let it lay low across his chest: "He fucking… that fucking coward."
With a twist of his lip, Dean wiped at his mouth again and spat, carelessly. The globule landed in the vicinity of Castiel, and, as unobtrusively as he could, he stood and moved away, allowing Bobby to step forward to take his place.
Castiel stood quickly, and moved away, allowing Bobby to step forward to take his place.
"Come on, Dean. Let's get you out of here."
Dean was less aggressive in rejecting Bobby's touch, but nonetheless he grimaced as he turned to meet Bobby's gaze.
"He's still out there, Bobby."
"I know. We'll catch him."
"How?"
There was accusation in Dean's gaze as he eyeballed Bobby, who turned away first, rubbing aggressively at his ear.
"I… I hope so. We'll do what we can."
Dean snorted and turned away, lip curling.
"It's not enough, you know?"
With a vicious sniff, Dean pulled away from the tree trunk and stalked toward Castiel, holding out his hand. There was an awkward pause as Castiel made to understand the gesture, eventually fumbling to pass over the torch. No sooner than Dean had it in hand, he stalked past Castiel and back off into the forest. Bobby stared after him for a moment, before turning back and staring at the roots regretfully.
"Bobby?"
Bobby didn't bother to answer Castiel, running his hand across his beard once and wiping his face into a more deliberate expression. With grim determination, he turned and immediately walked past Castiel as well, directing his own flashlight to illuminate the forest floor before them.
"We can't let him get too far ahead. Come on."
Castiel scarcely had the opportunity to spare a glance for the scene before he was sliding back under the yellow tape, and trailing after Bobby in silence. Ahead of them on the trail, Dean's shouted curses made clear his location. With a grimace, Bobby glanced at Castiel once, before he turned his gaze to the forest's floor and ploughed forward.
Castiel followed without a word or observation, suspecting any kind of offering, no matter how well-intentioned, would be treated with contempt. Despite his efforts, Dean still hissed spitefully at him as he moved to return to his car. "I'm that sick a fraud, you know, that I'd exploit the rape of a dead girl to impress you."
A glance at Bobby made clear that Castiel ought not to respond, and he slid into his car while directing his gaze carefully forward, and avoiding Dean's contemptuous glare. Despite his lack of engagement, and Bobby's growl, Dean made sure to add one last jibe, before Bobby forced him into the police car.
"Put that in your fucking book, you coward."
…
Dean's voice sounded dead when he phoned Castiel the next morning. "Bobby's coming around tonight. Do you want to be there?"
"Would you be comfortable with me being there, Dean?"
"I'd rather you were, yeah."
The admission was muted and grudging, but Castiel took it, and quickly emailed Meg to cancel their dinner plans. He doubted an apology from Dean would be forthcoming further than that, and in any event, he wasn't sure he deserved one. Even if Dean were a malicious fraud, it was not Castiel's place to reveal his suspicions regarding him. Meg was right to have asserted that he had breached Dean's trust, and Castiel was guilty.
"I'll be there. Is 7pm alright?"
"Yeah." Dean hung up before Castiel had the opportunity to inquire further.
Bobby hadn't arrived when he pulled up, and Dean leisurely unlocked his door, admitting Castiel to his lounge in silence with red-rimmed eyes. Bobby arrived only a few minutes later, after Castiel had stared uncomfortably at the floor while Dean stared at himand jostled his knees. Bobby greeted Dean with what sounded like a hug from Castiel's position in the lounge, and when Dean re-entered the room he was shuffling a set of a4 pages in his hands. Bobby followed, watching his perusal.
"Every known sex offender in the area – from harassment to assault."
Dean thumbed through the pictures and shook his head. "I don't know if…"
"Maybe your girl can. I can leave them with you."
Dean nodded silently and deposited them on the arm of his chair. "Do you want a drink? I can-"
"I've gotta get back to the station. Someone leaked to the media that Jo was… they're havin' a field day."
Dean nodded in understanding and immediately padded back out to the hallway, murmuring good night to Bobby before re-locking himself into the house. When he returned to the lounge he sighed and leaned back against the doorframe, letting his head seek support from the wall behind him.
When he did speak, his voice was tired, rather than angry, and he kept his eyes shut.
"Did you sleep at all last night, Cas?"
Castiel surveyed Dean's posture for a sign of a forthcoming aggressive episode, before conceding lowly: "very little," his rough voice demonstrative of the fact. In fact, it was thirty six hours since his last bout. Dean chuckled darkly and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "Me neither."
He pushed himself off the wall and shuffled to the kitchen doorway, blinking blearily in the murky light. "Do you wanna come get a drink?"
Even framed as a question, it was clearly an instruction, and Castiel padded behind Dean to the dining table, seating himself in the same seat he had occupied when he and Dean had first met, and fingering the edge of the table.
"I've got the hard stuff, or the harder stuff. Your call."
Castiel threw a quick glance at Dean, but his back was turned.
"The hard."
Dean sniffed and extracted a bottle from the fridge, bringing over two whiskey glasses and all but dropping them on the table before Castiel. His portion sizes were generous, to say the least, and when he sent Castiel's sliding towards him, the force sent the liquid over the brim and left it trailing on the table surface. Dean didn't seem bothered by the mess and took a healthy swig of his own drink before thumping his hand on the table and breathing out wetly. "That's the stuff."
"Did yesterday's events prevent you from sleeping?" Castiel asked, mildly, taking a far smaller sip of his own drink and drumming his free knuckles against the table surface.
"Bingo." Dean raised his eyes to Castiel's and gave him a hard, wooden look that had Castiel looking away quickly and down to the mahogany colored liquid in his glass.
"Fuck… what he did. If they don't catch him…"
Castiel swallowed lightly and watched as Dean gritted his teeth and stared up at the ceiling momentarily, before sighing and looking back down to Castiel.
"Even if I find something, I don't know if it's gonna do anything. They have nothing on this guy. He used a condom. Shit, I just want to help her but I don't know."
Dean's lips parted with a wet snap as he leaned back in his chair and let his head fall backwards, shutting his eyes and grimacing. He sat in silence for a few minutes, shoulders shaking with a light tremble, before Castiel's stomach broke it with a gurgle.
Dean didn't open his eyes, or correct the posture of his neck, and his voice was flat and almost uncaring.
"Didn't you eat dinner, Cas?"
"No, I forgot."
Dean huffed with irritation and pulled himself forwards, pressing down on the table to heave his body up and propel it towards his cupboards. He opened one and stared into it aimlessly, before mumbling: "I've got – uh – stale pasta, less stale bread, cheese…"
He shut it and moved to the fridge, repeating the same exercise, rummaging and pulling out a box of eggs (performing a quick check of their best before date): "You take scrambled?"
"Dean, you don't need to-"
"Shut up¸ Cas. I'm making eggs." The words came out harsh, and Castiel bit his lip as Dean dragged himself over to the oven and turned the gas element on. It clicked as he waited for it to light, and Dean stared down as the flames licked at the air above them. With a sigh, he followed up, with a forced casual tone.
"I can poach them. Or fry. Though, I'm not gonna lie, I'm pretty-"
He froze and stared blankly at the element as the sound of papers falling came from the lounge. Castiel remained set in his seat, unsure what Dean had imputed from the sound, until Dean hastily stumbled out to the living room. Castiel stood quickly, his chair scraping against the linoleum floor, and hurriedly turned off the element, before following Dean out. As he reached the doorway, he witnessed Dean, bending to a messy pile of papers, each laying face down, white sides facing upwards and staring at the ceiling. That was, except for the page which Dean pulled out, whose subject was staring upwards, a twisted smile adorning his face. Dean contemplated it for a moment, before turning away and passing it to Castiel, letting it go before Castiel had a proper grasp on it. It fluttered back down to the floor and Castiel had to drop to his knees to retrieve it, while Dean staggered over to and collapsed in an armchair, letting his forehead drape against his kniuckles.
The image depicted a man with an evenly set jaw grimacing at the camera. In his hands he held the identification board for the police photographer, and assembled on its surface was a name: Alastair Gregorovich, in hastily stuck felt letters.
"I guess that's it then," Dean murmured softly, as Castiel turned his gaze upon him. For a moment, they did nothing but stare at one another, until Dean's lip began to tremble. Thirty seconds later he was enduring a full blown panic attack in his armchair, and Castiel had a hand wrapped round his forearm and was pleading with him cautiously, once again: "Dean I want you to focus on squeezing my wrist. Can you do that? As tight as you can, and then hold it. Dean?"
…
An extract from the unpublished paper of Professor Castiel Novak (MA Berkeley, PhD Harvard) regarding his case study of the medium, E
What E offers, perhaps in contravention of his colleagues – at least, those inexperienced – is a dejected kind of charm that draws in even the disbelieving. Whereas an ordinary conartist relies on the spotlight of attention being shifted from the point of focus, E relies on his own malady being brought to the fore. Prominently, he relies on empathy and a victimized status as his means of ensnaring attention and focus, and encouraging the release of information.
For the audience, that kind of conspicuous sympathy is a siren call in circumstance of grief. Not only does E promise the delivery of a message from a departed soul, but he packages it in a way that is utterly palatable. Earnest, simple, even sweet in its methodology. Almost unassuming, in a way that deprivileges the "gift" through which it speaks.
The entire performance is fine-tuned in that aspect, in rather a remarkable package. More unique is the fact that much is generated subconsciously, from E's own desires anchored in other situations. His own unwillingness to reveal the location of that anchor – in trauma and origin – betrays its ties there. The gift relies on not being able to make sense of it, and so the prospect of illumination of the cogs of the mystery is itself a threat. And therein, the psychological key lies.
