Whatever Castiel had done to her, it seemed to apply only to him.

Taking a bite of a sweet potato fry, Aya watched their server walk across the dining room of Spanky's Roadhouse – and the soul trailing behind him, his small cheeks mottled with the same distinctive maroon flush. Spring evenings tended to be too cool for comfort. The little boy reached for the button that lowered the garage door wall of the diner at the same time as their server, but of course, he couldn't manipulate it. He pouted, bottom lip pushed out, as the door rattled downward to shut out the blue-green twilight. Then he tried again at the second one with the same amount of success.

The music blaring from the ceiling-mounted speakers overlapped the rush of traffic and the first cricket songs of the year. Three flatscreens played three separate programs above the bar, while patrons clustered around the tall tables to unwind from a long day, eating, drinking, and, in the case of the many college students, flirting. Sam had assured her that talking in a place like this was more private than in a motel room; the crowd, yelling to be heard over the music, would mask anything they said as long as they kept their voices down.

She returned her attention to her companions and found Castiel watching the soul, too.

Vengeful spirits could make themselves visible to anyone, could interact with the physical world if their anger, or their grief, or their fear were strong enough. They, Sam had explained, were what hunters like he and his older brother dealt with, forcefully sending spirits and poltergeists on their way no matter how much they didn't want to go. A hunter's job: To protect the living from the things that went bump in the night. Vampires. Werewolves. Djinn. Witches. Shapeshifters. Rougarou. Wendigos. Changelings. Curses. The list went on and on. But there were so many earthbound souls quietly going about their non-lives, drifting in and out of the veil, largely forgotten by the world around them, hurting no one. She'd never met anyone else, besides her obaa-chan, who could see them.

Castiel could. An angel of the Lord, he'd said. Aya didn't consider herself of any religion, though her family casually participated in Shinto practices brought over with her grandparents. She knew next to nothing about angels except that their aesthetic influenced a lot of popular culture. They were supposed to be glorious. Ethereal. Otherworldly. Beatific.

Castiel's overall appearance, though clean, was disheveled. His thick, near-black hair was, to put it nicely, tousled; "bedhead" might have been a better term. Below that, the look of a man royally hungover smudged a triangular face that outed him on the wrong side of thirty. He wore a dark suit under a tan trench coat, the shirt collar undone. A loosened blue tie hung crookedly against the shirt like an afterthought. He sat sideways in the booth next to Dean as though he'd claimed the spot by accident, the table empty in front of him while the rest of them ate dinner.

From head to toe, Castiel looked harmless. Maybe kind of vulnerable. Like a pencil-pushing amnesiac wandering the streets on the bad side of town, about to get jumped and totally unprepared for it. Aya frowned. However, her nerves warned her, he could go up in flame and fill the diner with prisms, black holes, and golden fire at any moment.

She selected another fry, comforted by its soft, salty-sweet texture. The unkempt clothes, the on-the-slighter-side physique, the tired face, they did not belong to Castiel, but if there was another soul in there with him, she couldn't see it. The angel overpowered every other presence. Whatever he'd done to her reikan didn't block it completely. If she held still and let her eyes lose focus, she could catch the shadow of wings rising above his shoulders like water-damaged spots on a photograph, and the white-hot gleam, like the pilot light of a gas stove, simmering in the depths of his wide-set, cobalt-blue eyes.

Eyes that turned toward her, though his head did not move.

She froze, unhappy about being caught staring. Also – Holy crap. Harmless, vulnerable, unprepared? Try strike them all down with a bolt of lightning if they pissed him off. She blushed and dropped her gaze to her Irish cream milkshake.

The brothers didn't notice.

"Look at that, Sammy," Dean said, holding the top bun of his cheeseburger and grinning like a guy who had just won a complete home theater setup. He gestured toward his plate. "Bacon and a whole fried egg, right there."

Sam snorted and gave the burger a suspicious once-over. "What is that called? The Heart Attack?"

Dean's grin faltered. "Yes," he said, defiant. He replaced the bun and picked up the sandwich, fingers spread to hold it all, grease dribbling over the heavy silver ring he wore on his right hand. He took a huge, deliberate bite.

Aya giggled as he chewed in the most bovine way he could, elbows on the table, mouth open, eyelids at half-mast.

"Dude, that's disgusting," Sam said with an affectionate grin.

"No, it's delicious," Dean said, aiming a ketchup-covered onion ring at him as though it were a pistol.

Sam chuckled. "I'll take your word for it."

Watching the Winchesters was like watching videos of otters juggling their favorite rocks. It made her happy. Aya appreciated their good Midwestern looks the way she appreciated an apple tree blooming in spring, or the translucent aquamarine of snowmelt racing down a creek bed, or the joy that made a soul glow when it moved into the light. The brothers, tall, fit, brown-haired, hazel-eyed, tan-skinned – so alike, yet so different. Sam had brought his "work" to the diner. He absently left his fork lying across his cobb salad as he typed odd calculations on his laptop. Dean, on the other side of the booth, ate with gusto, his unshaven cheek bulging.

Back at the motel, Sam had asked her if her Sight had manifested shortly after her twenty-second birthday, and then seemed relieved when she had explained it was a gift within her family. It hadn't been easy getting over their mutual surprise, but believing him, trusting him – that had been shockingly easy.

Dean had the sort of commanding, stick-with-me-and-you'll-live presence that made her sit up and listen. He had explained to her that they were on the trail of the demons who had taken Lemara. Then, and only then, had some of her anxiety eased. Sergeant Mollerson, wrapped up in departmental red tape and procedure, hadn't instilled confidence in her; Dean, the pearl handle of a handgun peeking above the waistband of his jeans as he packed his duffel, had.

"They killed Julia," she'd said in the voice of a mouse. "Because she was too old."

Though he'd been joking only moments before, a sort of feral stillness had taken over his handsome face, transforming him into the hunter he claimed to be. "How do you know that?"

"She told me." Aya had retreated into her sweatshirt as both brothers looked at her. She wasn't used to saying stuff like this out loud, but neither one of them had laughed, or scoffed, or shown her anything but respect. "Luka is dead, too."

Dean had cussed with flavor. "We're going to find them," he'd said heatedly. "I promise you that."

It had been easy to believe him, too.

And Castiel?

"Why did you save me?" she had asked him.

"I was ordered to," he'd answered in his emotionless, gravelly voice. Then his focus had switched to Dean. "My superiors confirmed that the demonic activity I sensed in the area relates to one of the seals. We do not yet know which one. They have asked for your assistance."

While Sam and Castiel and Dean had argued about a lot of things that meant nothing to Aya, so angrily that even the detached angel had raised his voice, she'd tried to take stock of her current situation. Like how she'd gotten there. On the wings of an angel. Like how she couldn't go home. There might be a demon waiting for her. Like how every minute that passed put Lemara and those other people in greater danger. There was nothing she could do. She'd sat at the motel room's table, her mind reeling as she looked over the books and Sam's notes, struggling to fit what she knew of life into this wider, scarier world. But now, squeezed into a diner booth with all three men . . .

A mortifying realization stole over her. She was capable of thinking someone sexually attractive. Who knew.

With a pang, she thought of Lemara. Someday, ace, you're gonna meet that someone special and feel the spark.

Morosely, Aya ate another orange fry. Why did it have to be this someone? She couldn't even tell which one was so attractive, the non-human entity or the borrowed body – which, by the way, was too old for her. And who knew where it had been! This man, this sleeping stranger, could be married. He could be a father. He could be gay. He could be dead. Yet, never once in her entire life had she felt the sort of yearning toward another person as she did right at that moment, an alien desire that played havoc with her internal rhythms in an extremely unpleasant and embarrassing way.

She rubbed the heel of her hand into her eye. She didn't need this. Not today. Things were weird enough as it was.

"You're injured," Castiel said.

"Huh? Oh." She bent her arm so she could examine the scrape, which she'd cleaned as best she could in Spanky's restroom. "I got that when you knocked me down."

Though his expression didn't change, he nevertheless seemed upset by this news. "Let me see it."

Without waiting for her consent, he reached between the ketchup bottle and her melting milkshake and took her hand.

His hand, she noticed, was short and broad and a lot bigger than hers, the nails neatly trimmed. He turned her wrist and pushed her ripped sleeve out of the way so that the light above them picked out the scabs that made a scarlet mess of her forearm and elbow. Aya thought about pulling her hand away, but she didn't want to make a scene. Besides, it still hurt. A lot. So she and the Winchesters watched, unspeaking, as the white fire kindled in Castiel's blue eyes.

A tiny trapped star blazed in his palm. He passed it over her injury as though wiping down the table's surface with a rag, but didn't make contact. It left unblemished skin in its wake.

Castiel released her at the same time she drew back. Aya turtled into the upholstered bench, rubbing her feverish arm – not because she couldn't believe what he'd done, but because she could, and it was itchy. He'd also healed the burn she'd gotten at work that morning, rendering the Band-Aid moot.

Angels are among us.

"Thank you," she said, barely able to make her voice audible.

Gratitude tasted so inadequate. She wanted something . . . more. She wanted him to look away and leave her in peace, but she wanted to cry at the thought that he might. She wanted to make him speak, but she couldn't think of a thing to say. She wanted to see his true form. She wanted to believe he was as human as she was. She wanted to run home and hide her head under her pillow. She wanted to touch him again. To make sure he was real.

All her life, she'd avoided physical contact since even a touch on the shoulder could be misconstrued as sexual. The awkward conversations that followed were too often abusive toward her. She'd learned how not to flirt, though if she was enthusiastic about a topic, she got it wrong. Other people's flirting went right over her head; it took Lemara or Paulie pointing it out for her to understand. Even something as simple as a kiss could turn her stomach – she left the room if what she was watching began to steam, usually on the pretext of refreshing her drink or using the bathroom, because she couldn't stand the sounds. Thinking about them now made her shudder. Kissing made her feel the same as she would if she put her bare hand down the disposal and pulled out a wad of soggy, rotting matter.

So why, under every star in the sky, was she wondering what it would be like to kiss Castiel?

She was sure she was staring again. At his vessel's interesting, strong-jawed face. At his mouth, the upper lip fuller than the lower. At the way his eyes drooped at the outer edges, hiding his thoughts. His gaze seemed both curious and wary. What did he see when he looked at her?

Why did she care?

"You're welcome," he said, but it almost sounded like a question.

And she sat there drowning in confused misery. Sam finally picked up his fork and began to eat.

Abruptly, Castiel turned to Dean and said, "I need to speak with you. Privately."

Dean, mouth full of burger, raised his peaked eyebrows. "Wha', righ' 'ow?" he asked, indignant.

"Right now," Castiel agreed. He stood up and walked toward the door, expecting Dean to follow.

Sam's eyebrows traveled toward his hairline, but Dean shook his head at him and stood, still chewing. After gulping half his pint of beer, he wiped his mouth and fingers but threw down his napkin as though it had offended him. Then he swaggered out of the diner, drawing more than one admiring glance after him.

For Aya, it was as though he didn't exist. She watched Castiel through the front windows. He wended his way between parked cars, putting distance between himself and the diner. The night breeze fluttered his open trench coat. He paused under a yellowish streetlight, turning his face up the way people did to feel the warm sunlight on their skin.

His leaving felt a lot like the gate closing in the veil, when the world seemed dingier and chillier. Aya sat forward, tenting her forearms over her dinner, and put her face in her hands. Was this how everyone else felt all the time?

If so, the world was crazy.

Sam's voice brought her out of her head. "So, you see ghosts."

"Um." Aya surreptitiously dried her eyes with her fingertips. "Yeah. Obaa-chan, my grandmother, calls them tamashii – souls," she added, in answer to his inquisitive look.

He seemed genuinely curious. "Are there any souls here now?"

"Yeah, a few," she said. She picked up her neglected milkshake and stirred it to give her hands something to do.

Dean had reached Castiel, and they seemed embroiled in another argument, the angel standing wooden, the taller human gesturing angrily. Then Castiel produced something from his coat pocket and handed it over. She blinked, and just like that, he was gone as surely as though he'd never been there.

Aya took a sip of her shake, determined to keep it together. "There's a toddler attached to our server. They look so much alike. I think they were twins. He's waiting until they can play again like they used to. If his brother could still play with him after his death, that might be why he didn't move on right away."

"Yeah, I've heard that children can see spirits," Sam said, sounding sad at the thought of a child's death.

"Sometimes," Aya agreed. "Lonely children, especially. Most of them grow out of it and then chalk the memories up to imaginary friends." She paused, studying his expression. "Was that you?"

Sam coughed on his Coke, surprised, but he did answer her. "I don't know. Maybe."

She smiled at him, feeling better with each passing second now that Castiel wasn't there to mess with her head. "I see a middle-aged woman near that girl by the bar. I think it might be her mother." She paused, listening hard through the general noise. The girl laughed at something her date said, too shrill, and listed dangerously on her stool. "She wants the girl to take better care of herself and not end up like her father, who died in the same car crash that killed her. He was the driver. Drunk. There is also a gentleman sitting in the corner." She squinted at him where he occupied a spot somehow missed by the lights, a wide-brimmed hat pushed high on his forehead. He was people-watching, just like her, his lip curled haughtily, his collar tight, his boots dusty, holding an empty shot glass. "He looks like Val Kilmer did in Tombstone."

"You mean as Doc Holliday?" Sam laughed, shaking back his longish hair.

"I don't think it's him, but yeah, someone from the eighteen-hundreds. A soul who has been around that long, I leave alone. He's here for his reasons and won't be interested in anything I have to say."

"But the others you would help?"

"If I can." She stabbed her straw into her shake, felt it scrape the dip in the bottom of the glass. "They're not supposed to be here. It's sad that they still are, but people can be funny about death. What I learn from the souls is so personal. Making their loved ones believe that I'm not some delusional stalker can be . . ." She trailed off, not sure what she could say to convey how awful it made her feel to be accused of running a scam, called a psycho bitch, or to be threatened, sometimes with the police and sometimes with clenched fists or, once, a gun. "But other people, they're more open to the truth. And it feels so good to help heal their pain. Both the living and the dead."

A whiff of cool night air off a waxed cotton jacket. Sam, who had been listening avidly, looked up then, expectant. Dean had returned.

"Cass is gone," he said unnecessarily. He plopped into the booth, sprawling across the bench, legs and arms wide. "Off to do whatever it is angels do when they're not helping us with their problems. He gave me this, though." He dropped the thing he'd gotten from Castiel in the middle of the table.

It was a paper wristband, The Church printed on it in purple ink. Aya picked it up, her heart breaking within her. The draggled band had been ground into asphalt. It still bore part of a tire track.

She pulled it taut between her fingers, wondering whose it had been because, along one edge, a smear of blood had dried to a dull red-brown.

A/N: Hello, Dear Readers! Here it is - the transitory halfway point chapter! BLEH! lol. I'm not feeling super confident about this one, so I'd like to ask you all: Does it work for you? How is the flow - did I slow things down too much, ramble on too long, or perhaps did I err in the other direction and hurry things too quickly? Are you still with me? Bored? Interested? Please let me know!

Reviewer Thanks! Topkicker26, Momochan77, Darwin, happyperson42, and MiMiMargot (every one of these people is an awesome writer, so go review one of their stories too, won't you?). Oh my goodness. The response to that last chapter - a-ma-zing. I appreciate all your words so much. Any time I get stuck I just have to go back, read the encouragement in your reviews, and then I'm jazzed to write. Thank you. All of you.

~ Anne