The Supernatural Edification of Dean Winchester

CHAPTER ONE

An extract from the unpublished paper of Professor Castiel Novak (MA Berkeley, PhD Harvard) regarding his case study of the medium, E

Death – mortality – is the circumstance upon which all information processes are founded. It is the primary preoccupation or the preliminary interest – the force around which human behavior senses direction and from which it is repelled with anti-magnetic force.

The premise is simple, and undisputed. Finitude offers a realm for meaningful action, and pervades it with urgency to ensure efficiency. This is how the life narrative gains traction – there is little time, and much to achieve.

Distaste for panic in civilized society means the topic evades common parlance, and so common consciousness; it is dealt with in impulsive fits of basic chemical reaction in the private circumstance the social contract obliges. But it is pervasive, nonetheless, in its influence – motivating copulation, consumption and cheeriness – disguised in a language of want rather than need, that avoids the basic premise that there is an impending end for the sake of temporary emotional stability. The modern workforce is an obvious example of this – a social scenario in which immortality is so well pretended through sixty hour weeks, mindless administration and aimless rat racing, it becomes real in the mind of its beholder.

Any kind of psychological study recognizes the dangers of such an approach, and much of the modern literature is informed by a desire for transparency – the so-called "ailments" of the 21st century might be resolved, or at least substantially addressed by a clearer dialogue which recognizes death more prominently as a primary motivator for action. In other words, by treating the cause, and not the symptom.

The modern fascination with psychic phenomena is, on one hand, a welcome departure from this willful blindness. Its adherents are, to their credit, engaging at the most basic level with the modern dilemma of disinterest by reasserting the prominence of death and its associated consequences in social behavior. This is laudatory, in that it is exceptional.

But to tout this narrow benefit too enthusiastically is to obfuscate the problematic aspects of the practice. For to subscribe to the party tricks of the modern medium, psychic, or magician is in essence to seek the immortality that the modern capitalist does with acquisition of goods and services, or the intellectual does with published discourse, or the canaille does with sexual intercourse. That is, to manifest a flavor of immortality where there is (or at the very least, may not be) none, rather than to confront the possibility of a darker premise.

And that behavior, like that of those aforementioned, must be contextualized and analyzed in order to avoid the genuine psychological injury that its afflicted incur.

...

"Someone is making themselves known to me. She is... an older woman. Very ... dignified. But young... young at heart."

The blonde girl in the front row of the lecture theatre nodded minutely, and kept her gaze steadily on Castiel as he reached forward into the empty air with light splayed fingers, letting his eyes hood so that his view of the room was restricted to narrow slits. Dramatic flair.

The girl recoiled a little, tracking the movement of his hand carefully, while he continued in an audible whisper.

"She's telling you that you've been involved in some kind of conflict recently. Someone who you had higher expectations of has... betrayed you."

The girl blinked twice, and pressed her heavily glossed lips together, while her index finger ran back and forth across the ragged skin at the edge of a thumbnail – bitten recently, probably against better judgment.

"She says that you're anxious about your future – you wish to make a contribution, but you're not sure how you might go about doing so. Am I right, in saying that?"

The girl fumbled for an answer, and her voice emerged so weakly that only her immediate neighbors heard it. Meeting Castiel's gaze, she flushed, and cleared her throat once, more successful as she managed a louder murmur: "Yes".

Castiel smiled in soft reassurance as he cast his gaze away and drew the class' focus to an empty spot in the room, turning his body with him to carefully place a subconscious indicator of sincerity in the gesture – as though he genuinely were witnessing and speaking to a woman in the corner of his classroom. He inclined his head, like a dog trying to make sense of a high-pitched noise, and continued lightly: "She says you have tremendous potential. You just need to unlock it."

The girl ran her index finger along her nail again, and in her left hand, the pen she had been twirling faltered slightly in its oblong rotations through the air.

"She thinks... she thinks you're torn between two goals. Am I right?"

The girl nodded again, and Castiel rolled his shoulders backwards into a straighter, more authoritative posture, as he turned back to his imaginary partner.

"She says you procrastinate, that you can be disorganized. You need to work on that."

Another girl, beside the blonde girl he was addressing, nudged his subject with her shoulder. The blonde girl turned and met her eyes with an embarrassed smile, and Castiel took the opportunity of the momentary distraction to drop his gaze to her desk, and survey its contents quickly.

"You're an artist aren't you? Singing?"

The girl's eyebrows dropped minutely and Castiel quickly followed with a shake of his head, and a movement of his hand through the empty air, before she could correct him. "No, it's... it's a musical instrument, isn't it? And art. She says you're an artist. You like to draw."

The girl nodded again and beside her, her friend raised her gaze in interest.

"But you feel like... maybe you ought to be responsible. There's someone putting pressure on you, isn't there? She says ignore them. It will turn out alright."

Castiel held his breath for a moment, before dropping his hand abruptly and strolling back to his lectern. As he arrived before the whiteboard behind him, and shuffled his notes, the microphone rustled and he leaned forward to lower the volume, before asking – voice eerily loud in the otherwise silent theatre: "You see how it works?"

The class jostled at the question and the spell of fascination that had hung so magically moments ago was immediately dismissed with a creep of murmurs and shuffles. Castiel waited until they were calm again, only a few painful seconds or so, before resting his elbows on the lectern and announcing: "It's all there. I'm merely bouncing off what I see. My subject-"

He indicated to the blonde girl seated at the front of his classroom, pen poised over a neatly titled ring binder ready for note taking, and she responded – after a beat that indicated his desire for one – with a shaky: "Rachel."

"Yes, Rachel, thank you for your assistance."

He gave a small nod and smile in Rachel's direction, and she flushed deeply before looking back down at her notes.

"Now Rachel was the subject in the past minute of a highly amateur attempt at 'cold reading'".

The class chuckled at Castiel's self-denigration, and he gave them another small smile, while looking down at his notes: "a seemingly miraculous task that almost anyone can perform with enough practice, human awareness and a skill for theatrics."

Rachel shuffled in her seat before him and dropped her head slightly lower, following his words in a messy, loopy script. There was a minute frown on her face as she took her notes and Castiel paused for a moment, surveying her reaction for signs of discomfort at having been the subject of the demonstration. When she looked up again, however, her expression was clear and her head inclined in interest as she awaited the continuation of his lecture. He bristled once, and then continued:

"The basic art of cold reading is to particularize those behaviors that people feel are unique to themselves, but in fact are experienced in common. Where the statements are generic enough, they can seem miraculously insightful. There were two obvious examples of this technique in my demonstration. Can anyone identify one?"

The class was silent for a moment, before a nervous hand raised in the back. Castiel indicated towards his student who, despite her volunteering, pronounced her answer as question: "W-when you said that... Rachel procrastinates?"

Castiel let his hand bob in an expression of assent, before he turned back to his students. "Exactly..."

"Madison." The girl volunteered, her face suddenly elated with the prospect of having pleased her lecturer. She eagerly leaned back to her own notebook, and commenced scribbling frantic notes.

Castiel watched on in approval for a moment, before turning back to the class. "Procrastination, laziness, low self-esteem are all fairly obvious examples to begin with, but they are effective. For instance, how many of you would have felt I had struck a nerve had I directed that accusation at them?"

Around 90% of the class eagerly raised their hands, although a few stubborn students at the back of the theatre did not (or perhaps, their owners had been otherwise engaged at the time of the question), and one eager looking student kept her hand rigid at her desk. Castiel raised an eyebrow: "I expect those who have not raised their hands to be my best students this semester."

There was a titter throughout the class, and Castiel looked back down at his lectern for a moment, surveying the list of his students and their ID pictures before him. He noted Madison's name about halfway down, and the grainy image to be used for her identification. "And can anyone tell me the other obvious commonality?"

There was a careful silence this time, and even the preppy students at the front stayed silent. Castiel surveyed the class quickly, before relieving them of their suffering, by answering himself. "The second is the object of the vision itself. An older female. Acquaintance with an older woman is virtually universal – a grandparent or elderly family friend, a head mistress, a neighbor. The list goes on..."

Silence fell as students leaned forward to carefully copy his list in hurried handwriting.

"The more advanced the cold reading, the more narrow the assumptions that can be made. By gender, or age demographic, for serve to dispel the allegation of generality in reading, and vouch for its legitimacy."

He advanced out from behind his lectern, leaning against it with one hand and looking out towards his class.

"There was an example of this kind of assumption, in my performance. Can anyone identify what it was?"

The class stared aimlessly until he conceded, with a squint: "The demographic I identified you as was first year college students, who left the secondary education system as recently as six months ago. Does that assist?"

A hand raised at the back of the class. Castiel gestured towards it and raised his eyebrows: "Yes?"

The boy cleared his throat slightly, and pressed his lips together once, before asking: "the part where you were saying that Rachel... she's not sure what she's doing with her life... that there's pressure..."

He trailed off at the sound of a few murmurs and the turn of several heads to stare at him.

Castiel attracted their attention back to him, with a movement out in front of the lectern and a raised voice. "Exactly. That kind of uncertainty is naturally compounded in a tertiary setting. It would be highly unusual for any of you not to feel lost or directionless at some stage. Thank you –"

"Garth," the boy supplied quickly. Castiel smiled and moved on quickly, crossing to the other side of the lecture theatre.

"Do we have another example from over here?"

His students at once turned their gazes to their books, and feigned writing notes to avoid attracting his attention. He waited only a moment, before looking back out the class.

There were a few moments of silence, until Rachel herself raised her hand and spoke up. "When you said that someone had betrayed me."

"Exactly."

Castiel gestured to her with a nod, and turned his gaze to the back rows of the class. It was an astute observation – one he hadn't been certain the class might have pinpointed – and he was pleased.

"Having only recently exited the veritable social pressure cooker that is secondary education, it's not a stretch to assume that many of you are carrying resentment, frustration, or at least bad memories of one of your peers."

A few students shook their heads at that, but Castiel merely shrugged and progressed forward towards Rachel.

"Of course, you are each unique individuals and you cannot simply be reduced to typical aspects of your age, gender and social background. And that is where the most astute cold readers will turn to rely on more minute visual cues - things like dress, manner, body language and so on."

He reached forward towards Rachel softly, and indicated to her notepad. "May I?"

She cast her eyes downward at her desk, and flushed immediately, before conceding to pass it to him without meeting his gaze.

"An efficient cold reader will hunt for a subject – some are more readable than others. Rachel was my chosen subject because she provided so many obvious clues."

He raised her ringbinder to show the class, gesturing vaguely at its interior. "You see how beautifully Rachel has illustrated the margins of her notepad?" There were a few titters as the class cottoned on and Rachel hung her head. He handed it back to her with a kind smile. "Not to worry, Rachel. I would surely have done the same through..." His eyes flicked to the heading on the adorned page "ECON that I could rather easily derive that Rachel has an artistic flair."

The class jumped at his explanation, and at once set to scribbling. Castiel then moved his hands to the other side of notebook, where Rachel's class timetable was visible. "Equally, from my vantage point at the front of this lecture, I could easily see Rachel's class timetable, which states that she is enrolled in a jazz performance paper this semester. From that, I imputed that Rachel is a talented singer or instrumentalist, as this University's jazz programme is most selective in its applicants. Now-"

Rachel blushed even more furiously as he handed back her ringbinder, but the compliment gave her enough cause to meet his gaze and he nodded his head in thanks. Castiel spared her any further attention by moving back to the lectern, retrieving a small remote control from its surface and clicking it once to activate the powerpoint presentation for the ensuing lecture. Behind him, upon the pull-down screen, a white slide appeared, adorned with an image of a crone with warty Disneyesque features staring into a crystal ball and a title declaring the class to be PYSCH100: Psychology of Superstition and Mysticism. A few laughs arose at the picture, and Castiel shared in the joke for a moment, before waiting for silence. It fell quickly, beneath his blank gaze, and he stood with one hand on the lectern as he looked out at the class:

"Even an amateur cold reading, made with enough sincerity, can enfranchise the subject sufficiently with the supposed psychic to give rise to a genuine belief that the experience is a spiritual one. I am sure you can imagine that, with sufficient experience, a skilled cold reader might be remarkably persuasive. Much more so than I was, in this instance"

The class hummed in agreement, and continued their notetaking.

"Even more formidable are those that employ 'hot reading' techniques. These are where the 'psychic' gathers information on the subject of the reading before the encounter, and uses them as a springboard to create a ploy."

The class continued scribbling furiously, and at the front, Rachel kept her head down, letting her bright blonde hair spill across her textbook and curtain her face from him.

"Even for the lesser skilled readers, however, there is still capacity to employ such techniques to great effect. For, at the end of the day, the possibility of an afterlife – which all such readers represent – is a truth almost universally desired. And one that any subject of a reading will be only too willing to believe."

Another young woman at the back who had precociously introduced herself to Castiel prior the commencement of the lecture as Naomi White, raised her hand, but didn't wait for his permission before she asked: "Sir, are you rejecting the notion of life after death?"

Castiel frowned and stared up at her, where she cocked her eyebrow in challenge. Castiel was hardly ruffled, used to her high-school-debating-champion-type and well rehearsed in dismissing such queries.

"Certainly, I would not deny anyone their beliefs. But that is simply what they are – beliefs, not facts. And while no man could seek to postulate the true nature of things – at least, not yet – that is not to say that certain untruths ought not to be dispelled, and that is the subject of this course."

She met his gaze for a few more seconds, before surrendering and dropping her gaze back to her desk. Beside her, a friend leaned over and commenced whispering in her ear.

"The susceptibility of the human mind to imagining mystic experience is one of its greatest weaknesses and also one of its greatest strengths. And this is what we will be looking at over the course of the semester – the psychology of belief."

Castiel pressed at the small remote in his hand, and the powerpoint screen at once flashed to the first of several substantive slides, with which he intended to conclude the first lecture: "The Inception of Belief?"

The class kept their heads down for the rest of the lesson, and Castiel was treated to a fitful kind of silence as they scrabbled to absorb the voluminous content of the introductory lecture, and even greater, the implications with which he had left them to contemplate.

...

"I hear you alienated another classroom today?"

Castiel didn't bother to slow down as "Meg Masters, PhD" (as she preferred to introduce herself, at least when in bars with a glass of red wine dangling out of one hand) hurried down the hall after him. While the joke was pronounced in her unusual lazy drawl, Castiel took no offence, registering the light note of teasing that accompanied it.

As such, he answered mildly, even as Meg caught up, and bumped their arms together in greeting: "It was the same an introduction as any other year." He ploughed onwards through the throngs of students milling between classes, sparing minimal sympathy to whatever aches plagued the balls of Meg's feet encased within four inch stiletto boots.

"Keep an 'open mind' and remember there's a forty percent fail rate?"

"Yes." Castiel shrugged his shoulder to slide the leather satchel he carried with him into a more comfortable position on his shoulder.

Meg smacked her lips together, and smirked, in a way that might have been perceived as sexually aggressive to anyone other than a long time friend and academic colleague: "the same introduction that results in a twenty percent drop out rate?"

Castiel blinked: "The class is always oversubscribed – cruelty is an administrative necessity. Aside from the fact that such fickleness is only demonstrative that those students are not ready to engage in the perils of the major."

Meg hummed out a single note of amusement, before inclining her head towards Castiel with a grin. "That's not what they say in the coffee lounge."

Castiel shrugged, unfazed, and raised a hand to brush at his nose lightly. "My graduate class is still the most popular and competitive programme. My colleagues' concerns are unwarranted."

"They're not concerns, Clarence."

They arrived at the door to Castiel's office, where his name was adorned atop the mahogany in a golden font. It was a pretentious affectation he knew well the University could not afford, but maintained in the vain hope that students might confuse interior grandeur with the academic prominence of the institution. As he reached for the doorknob, Meg slid across the wood, and crossed her leather-jacketed arms across her chest (a dress code oversight that no one in the department had had the nerve to correct).

"Dinner tonight? I have a ten year old whiskey I fancy a shot at?"

Castiel adjusted the satchel against his shoulder again, and shook his head lightly. Meg rolled her eyes before he even pronounced the answer. "Not tonight, I'm taking a grad class to a performance."

When he reached for the doorknob again, Meg was kind enough to move away, but she leaned into Castiel with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. "Performance, huh? So much for academic impartiality."

She winked as she turned, without waiting for an answer, and sauntered down the corridor. Castiel watched blithely as her gaze attracted the impudent attention of the majority of the male student populace. As more students turned to watch her exit, the sway of her hips became more significant. And when she turned a challenging glare on her nearest victim, he dropped the massive pile of textbooks he had been carrying on the floor.

Castiel smiled slightly and shook his head to himself, pushing his door open as far as it would go (battling on the other side a poorly placed bookcase which he had crammed into the office, despite Meg's recommendation to the contrary). He promptly shut it behind him, demonstrating for any waiting students that he was not yet in the mood for office hour and taking solace in the mercy of a quiet, empty space.

Castiel settled himself at his desk, only stopping to shrug off his trenchcoat and hang it on the chair behind him. With a sigh, he reclined back in his chair, and waited while his laptop loaded the homepage of the University's learning portal with a light, effortful buzz that marked its age. When it eventually conceded to his whims, he made his way to the appropriate course folder, where his graduate students for PSCH786 had diligently uploaded their preliminary literature reviews for the semester. He twisted his neck once, letting loose a small pop near the base, before downloading the bundle and proceeding through each with the ruthless marking efficiency that characterized his teaching and, his colleagues said, his academic work. He worked for two hours straight, until the documents were a sufficient blur of red corrections (barring one or two favorites, in which he declared his pleasure with an abrupt "Well Done" and a mark in the low nineties).

The corridors were still full of students departing their 5pm-6pm lectures when he left his office and made his way to the exit. The light of the day was fading, however, as he crossed the footpaths and grassy parcels that made up the campus, and settled himself in the lone open coffee shop on its periphery. A few students stared as he ordered a toasted sandwich for his meal, and seated himself in the couches beside a group who were carrying out some kind of study session regarding the German language. They lowered their voices for the duration of his visit, during which time he stared mindlessly at a tattered magazine in which Kate Middleton's wedding dress was still the subject of speculation, and bolted down his dinner in silence.

At 6.45pm he commenced the short ten minute walk to a small community theatre, beside a bustling Greek restaurant adorned with blue and white checkered curtains. The sign at the theatre proclaimed the opportunity for bypassers to: "Converse with your spirit guide: an educational and spiritual seminar for the new age believer". A few of his graduate students were already gathered at the entrance, and they greeted him with waves and warm calls of "Hey Professor!"

Castiel and his students made uncomfortable small talk while they waited out the arrival of the latecomers: "Did you see the game last weekend, Professor Novak?"

"No, I did not."

"Aw shame, it was a doozy."

The final latecomers arrived clutching textbooks to their chests, and sweating slightly. "So sorry, Professor. A tutorial ran overtime." Castiel gave a brief nod of acceptance for the explanation, and inclined his head to direct his students to the entrance hall of the theatre. They joined a line leading to a cardiganed old woman, with chronically trembling fingers, who painstakingly added each payment of $30 cash to a small plastic box and passed each guest a raffle ticket torn from a small green book as a token of admission.

Behind him, Castiel's students shuffled, and remained in relative silence. The rest of the crowd though was fairly animated, and obviously well-acquainted with one another.

"Dolores! It's lovely to see you again."

Two middle-aged woman pushed in front of Castiel to exchange a hug and a quick smile.

"It's been so long! Wonderful to see you."

One woman fanned herself with a programme, across the front of which the face of a moustached man with gold rimmed glasses was emblazoned. He was leaning against his hand, staring contemplatively at the camera, while the title below his name proclaimed: "Michael Spyve. Psychic Medium."

"I was wondering if I might see you here."

"Well you know I wouldn't miss Michael! I saw him two years ago and he was just... oh just wonderful."

One of Castiel's students sidled up beside him. "Professor, are we allowed to take notes?"

The women's gazes turned to Castiel and their conversation was broken momentarily by a quick survey. Castiel shook his head and fiddled with his wallet. "I think it best if we just observe, Hester. I won't be expecting any great amount of detail in your reflections essay on this."

Hester accepted the answer without challenge, and quickly moved to pass the message down the line of students, some of whom quickly slid notebooks and tablets back into their bags.

The cardiganed woman took a grand total of five minutes to process their individual payments for the session, and seemed almost exhausted when the final student – Bartholemew – was processed. With a finger to his lips and a raised eyebrow, Castiel lead the group into the hall and to a set of seats situated comfortably near the back. The theatre was only a quarter-full, and so their arrival en masse attracted a few interested gazes.

The class observed quietly as the audience tittered through a few watchful minutes while the stage remained vacant. Eventually, the cardiganed woman proceeded from the back of the theatre, tapping at the top of a cordless microphone. She made her way to the front, before moving into the wings of the stage curtains and calling out: "Fred, can you help me please?"

There were a few awkward moments as the contraption was decoded, turned on, and the conversation behind the curtains became audible:

"Are we ready to go? Michael?"

"Oh hold on, he's just got to turn off his mobile phone."

There was the sound of a few shuffles, and weak older woman's voice: "Can I get you anything, dear?"

A lower, male voice rumbled an answer: "...a glass of water? If that's alright?"

The woman holding the microphone shuffled again, and there were a few footsteps. "I'll just get Michael on stage and then I'll be right with you."

The sound of the microphone changing hands clattered through the auditorium, and there was a bated pause. A man's voice echoed throughout the theatre. "Are we ready to go?"

"Yes, yes. Off you go."

There was a shuffle, and then a clearing of the throat. And then, with a bright smile, the moustached man from the programme took his place before the auditorium, with a wave. "Good evening everybody! Thank you so much for being here tonight."

The audience clapped enthusiastically and the man before them took several bows, grinning and chortling at the audience. A few of Castiel's students rolled their eyes and leaned back in their seats, arms crossed. Castiel himself sat ramrod straight, and kept his own derision circumspect. Though, that said, it was a tough thing.

...

"He's talking to someone in this area... he's saying something about a car... needing a service... or a warrant that's coming up. Something like that?... is that you? Someone recently passed away, left you a car and you're worried about it...?"

A woman wearing a tough looking knitted sweater, seated just in front of Castiel, raised her hand. As she did so, her spine straightened, and she adjusted hastily in the seat.

"Sell it, he says. Get the worry of your chest. Now..."

The moustached man paused for a moment before wandering to the other side of the stage with a bright smile: "Someone here, in this area, there's a man here who wants to speak with you. He... passed away from an illness recently."

The man grinned a row of wide yellow teeth as another middle-aged woman, dabbing at her eyes, raised her hand and nodded softly.

"He's saying it was quite a short illness, wasn't it?"

There was a pause, and then the woman shook her head. "N-no... six months."

The man immediately followed her statement with an enthusiastic nod and a wide arcing gesture of his hand. "Of course, of course. Yes, yes he's saying that. Of course, time means so little on the Other Side. He's saying it felt fast."

Beside Castiel, a student – Inias – snorted, and while Castiel turned his gaze to offer a brief reprimand, Inias only shrugged and rolled his eyes, mouthing "come on". A few other students smirked at that, and Castiel inclined his head meaningfully towards the front of the theatre – expression implacable.

"He's saying he's no longer suffering, and he needs you to let go, my love, he's at peace now."

The woman nodded again and her shoulders started to shake lightly with the effort of repressed emotion. The man stepped backwards on the stage and closed his eyes, sighing a few times before smacking his lips. "Well... I'm afraid that's all I have for you tonight."

The crowd burst into applause and beside him, Castiel's students unenthusiastically tapped the tips of their fingers against their palms, while a few took to the opportunity to check their mobile phones, or apply lip balms. Castiel only sniffed lightly, and readied himself for the next performer, adjusting himself in his seat and pulling at his tie to loosen it a little around his neck.

The moustached man gave a few bows and thankful nods, before he raised his hand and gestured for silence.

"Now, the next medium is new to this event, and he's not so well-known to you as I am. But he's certainly very promising, and he's made some waves in our little community recently."

The man looked to the side of the stage, before nodding and turning back to the audience, with a beaming smile.

"Will you welcome please, Dean Winchester."

The applause for the new medium was much more polite and petered out quickly, so that "Dean Winchester", when he emerged from behind the curtains of the stage was forced to walk in silence its centre. As he took the microphone from the moustached man, the transfer was audible throughout the theatre, and Dean briefly looked out the audience with a slight trembling smile, before dropping his gaze back to the floor and rubbing at his nose absently.

He wasn't at all the usual kind of recruit to these events, and that was enough to stir Castiel's interest from an otherwise bored state. In particular, his youth was entirely unexpected – late twenties at most. Most "mediums" that Castiel had come across were well into middle age, and often retirees with plenty of time to amuse themselves. In fact, he didn't believe he had ever seen one so young. His costuming was an oddity too. While most mediums tended to dress in loose-fitting and wildly patterned clothing, his clothing was something that would be more fitting in a southern bar – tattered (seemingly not for the purposes of fashion) jeans and sturdy walking shoes, a plaid shirt over a tight t-shirt and a slightly oversized and painfully well-worn leather jacket. Around the man's neck was the only accessory slightly symptomatic of his profession – a leather thong which suspended a bronze god-like head.

Perhaps most interesting to Castiel was that Dean Winchester was, objectively speaking, rather beautiful. Homeliness, Castiel had come to find, had generally trounced comeliness in the medium profession. He had hypothesized as to why, though there was no obvious reason except the possibility that the profession's audience associated motherliness with trustworthiness.

There was nothing homely about Dean's face, however – with high cheekbones, large eyes and a remarkably defined mouth, he might have appeared better at home fronting a watch campaign. Beside him, Inias stirred again, and batted another student – Anna Milton – lightly on the arm. She didn't appear to notice Castiel's gaze upon her when she giggled and whispered provocatively: "Just because he's a nutcase, doesn't mean I can't think he's hot."

Before them, the man shuffled, adjusted broad shoulders and stuffing a free hand into his pocket. Raising the microphone to his mouth, he cleared his throat, and jumped when the sound was projected into the room. A few titters echoed around the empty space, and Dean sniffed once, rubbing the back of his neck (with the microphone in hand) before breathing deeply and looking up to meet the gaze of the room – a suddenly concerted and flirtatious grin creeping across his face.

At the wave of confidence, the crowed relaxed, and Dean's grin grew so that his right eye crinkled at its edges.

"Hi everyone... I'm Dean. I'm... an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach, and frisky women."

He eyeballed a woman in the front row and the crowd laughed a little louder. Ice broken, Dean bit his lip and maneuvered his face back into a serious expression.

"I'm, uh, never really sure how to start these except to just kind of... stand here, until something happens. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn't. I'm just... I'm not in control in this kind of thing. They are..."

While he spoke, Dean turned his gaze back to the floor and began to pace – scratching lightly at his ear. Despite his temporarily confident demeanor, he rushed his words out in an uncertain hurry and he bounced on the balls of his feet. He looked up once as he strolled, gaze moving out across the audience: "Can't guarantee I'm not going to disappoint you tonight, I-"

He stopped suddenly and his gaze caught on a spot directly in front of him. Curious, a few audience members turned to study the space, but yielded when there was nothing to see there.

Dean – still fixed on the spot and moving as though through custard - raised a hand to his head and began to run his fingers through his hair.

The first few times, he kept his fingers tight to his scalp, but as he continued the strokes become longer, until he was pulling at invisible strands that reached down past his shoulders and twirling them at the ends. His mouth hung open and his eyes were wide and focused, until eventually an expression of recognition passed across his face and he nodded imperceptibly. At once, he was broken from the spell and he looked to the audience, where his gaze zoned in on a blonde ponytailed woman, who clutched anxiously at her purse and stiffened when Dean's eyes fell upon her.

Dean smiled, and repeated the gesture enthusiastically, a small open mouthed grin adorning his face in a crooked kind of way. His eyebrows raised meaningfully as he gestured, turning his head a little to the right so that the woman could better see the action he repeated – moving his fingers down over his ears and running them through mid-air till they ceased midway down his chest.

Suddenly, the route of his fingers changed and Dean's eyes followed them with an expression of confusion, as they begin writing out a word in the face of the woman.

"Mm- Ma- May 15. That's... it's written over your head. Does that, does that make sense to you, m'am?"

The woman at once shuddered and commenced hyperventilating. Dean's expression dropped and he nodded once, keeping his eyes fixed on the same spot.

"There's a little girl here, m'am. She's uh-" Dean hurried out his next words, as though there were a time limit: "She's stroking her hair for me and..."

He started pulling at his imaginary strands more urgently and smiling in a way that made the corner of his mouth twitch."It's long and blonde… yes, very beautiful... and she's saying she wanted to show you that it got better and you don't need to worry. She's... uh, she's clipping some things in it. They're glittery, kind of pink... I don't know what you call them, uh..."

He commenced stroking his head again, although slowing this time, and his expression twisted so he was beaming at the empty space.

"She's not alone. Don't worry. She's very loved... yes, yes... thank you... yes, alright."

He smiled as though in farewell, and his eyes left the space, without even returning to the crying woman and zoned in on another woman, this time sitting in front of him. He moved forward into her space quickly, dropping lower to that they were eye to eye, and staring.

"Joo... no, Jame-... no, no it is Judah... Judah. Does that make sense?"

As with the first woman, the woman in front of him started in recognition and froze before Dean, her shaky breaths audible to the entire auditorium as a result of her proximity to the microphone. Dean continued unperturbed, a slow smile creeping across his face again, this one sitting more naturally: "He's... sitting beside you, m'am, and his hand on yours... he's squeezing really really tight, uh... he's saying thank you for what you did... in the hospital... really loved that... thank you...and he was... yes, look- look- under the house. You've been looking for it, he says. You'll find it – don't worry... he's kept it safe..."

Castiel watched the way, through the small sliver of his sightline behind the other audience member's heads, the woman tensed her hand around a phantom touch and nodded urgently.

"Yes. Thank you. Thank you." Dean's voice became suddenly harried and breathy, and his gaze moved to the aisle beside Castiel. They fixated on a point right beside him, and dropped, before shifting to Castiel. Castiel quickly looked away, and swallowed, reaching into his trenchcoat and pulling out a mobile phone to type out a nonsense message against its keys. When he looked up, Dean had moved on and was surveying the faces of the audience carefully. His gaze passed across Castiel again, but unlike previously there was no fixation, and he continued across several more faces before his attention fell upon Anna.

"You there... with the red hair..." Anna jumped as she suddenly bore the brunt of Dean's attention, having been otherwise occupied with her cuticles. At her wide eyes and sudden stiffness, Dean quickly hurried into his explanation, as though sensing her reluctance to hear it: "There's a woman here, asking me to talk to 'the one that looks like an angel'... She's, uh, wearing a long white coat and she's got sort of... shoulder length brown hair..."

He moved his hands to his neck to mark the length with a cutting motion, just as Anna shook her head. Dean's brow furrowed momentarily and his eyes seemed to go in and out of focus as he stared at her, while she bit her lip and crossed her arms.

"No? Uh... she's standing behind you... there's a strong smell, really strong... it's some sort of flower... lavender, I think? Really really strong..."

Anna shook her head again firmly, rolling her shoulders back and sitting up a little straighter.

"No?... Uh, she's nodding though... her hand is on your shoulder and... she's sad. Just... so much... sadness. I can't quite... no, sorry."

When Anna pursed her lips, Dean held up his hand in apology. He quickly moved to scanning the audience again, and eventually his gaze fell and he inclined his head to the side – as though listening to a person positioned there. After a few seconds, he raised a slightly trembling hand, pointing to a man in the audience: "Yes, uh... you, sir-"

Sparing the performance momentarily, Castiel turned to glance at Anna, who hastily removed a scarf she had draped artfully around her neck and wrapped it around herself. When she failed to feel the force of his gaze, Castiel tapped Inias on the shoulder, and inclined his head to Anna. Inias quickly shook her, and pointed to Castiel. Anna, blushing, turned to them both.

"Are you alright?" Castiel mouthed at her. She gave him a quick smile and a shrug, before turning quickly back to watch Dean. She hunched slightly, and a curtain of red hair fell between them. Castiel watched for a few moments, before Inias' gaze turned to his in question. Quickly, he refocused on the stage where Dean, having temporarily fallen silent, stood with a finger hanging off his lips. His gaze was focused and determined, and he seemed almost ignorant of the fact that, after several moments of silence, his hand moved from his mouth to his scalp and recommenced stroking through imaginary strands of hair.

...

"He was novel, certainly, in his demeanor. But beneath it all, it was the same old routine. Take 'look under the house' as an example. What family doesn't have an heirloom or treasure that has somehow been lost? It sounds so specific it must be real. But under the house could be applied generally – under stairs, a basement, in a low-lying shelf, where any manner of long-forgotten object might be found. The failure to particularize what it might be is key."

The day following the graduate field trip, the class was assembled in a small tutorial room, staring enraptured at their professor, as he summarized the previous night's events.

"When a person is affected by desperation, whether that be one of grief of a generalized existential worry, it's easy to excuse the lack of specificity in a 'spirit's' message if it offers temporary solace. Any medium relies on this kind of ready emotional availability – their subjects are carefully chosen to ensure their susceptibility. You may have noticed the fact that many of Dean's targets were already emotional, before he even identified them."

A few students nodded dutifully and continued their writing. Castiel's gaze flickered to Anna, who kept her head down, and he cleared his throat.

"It is not uncommon for those having recently been bereaved to believe they have had ... experiences. Smells, sounds, movements out of the corner of their eye. I'm sure we have all partaken in such confusion at one time or another."

A few more of the class nodded.

"The fact is that it's certainly easier for any manner of person to attribute that experience to something divine or supernatural – however you would prefer to think of it – rather than fallible human experience through sensory perception. For recognizing the latter reminds us of the fallibility of our bodies themselves, which leads to death, which is obviously a reality we would all prefer to forget."

The class hummed in agreement at Castiel's frankness. His gaze flickered up to the back of the class where the minutes hand ticked closer to the end of the lesson – 2pm – and he stood from where he had been leaning on his desk and surveyed the group.

"Your first critical essay is due next week. I'd like you to use last nights' experiences as a case study in a critical examination of Hosking's chapter in The Cognition of Deception. The word limit is 3,000. You can provide them to me at the end of next Friday's tutorial."

His students pulled out various diaries or tablets to note his requirements, before hurrying to pack their belongings. While most stopped to thank him, or at least offer a smile, they were quick to leave and depart from whatever activity they had chosen to unwind after Castiel's vigorous tutorial.

"Anna?"

Castiel called out lightly above the din as his students shuffled out. Anna looked up, from where she was still sitting, making a few notes in the margin of an already full page. "One moment, please?"

Anna paused for a moment, then nodded quickly, pulling together her books and cramming them into a large black leather handbag. As the door clicked shut with the last departing student (although Inias hovered beyond it, clearly waiting for Anna), she made her way to his desk and stood, bouncing on her toes.

Castiel considered her for a moment, before asking mildly: "I hope you were not too distressed by last night's events."

Anna laughed, but hastily moved to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

"No, no. It's all fake, right? Just a good act..."

Castiel nodded and gave her a light smile. "Exactly. I apologize that you were subject to the experience nonetheless – I had hoped that our being positioned so far back might have excused involvement."

"No, no, it was fine." Anna's voice was light, but unusually high, as she dropped her gaze to a few plaited leather braids on her wrist, which she began to rub at absently.

Castiel's brow furrowed as he waited out the pregnant pause and for Anna to stop in her aggravated fiddling. However, she didn't move to meet his gaze again and her silence was quickly enough to press him further.

"Forgive me, but it appears to me that things are not necessarily 'fine'. I would hope, if the experience made you uncomfortable, you would share with me. If that is the case, I would unlikely be inclined take any further classes to such an event."

Anna's shoulders rolled forward into a hunch, and she shook her head quickly.

"No, I mean... it wasn't that. That you took us, I mean. I just..."

She brought her hand to her mouth and sniffed, turning away from him again as her lips twisted into a grimace.

"Anna?"

Castiel leaned forward from his desk – torn between moving to comfort her, and overstepping any boundaries in the enclosed space of his classroom. Anna waved him off in any event, and looked up quickly to meet his eyes. "It's just... I know who he was talking about."

Castiel felt his mouth drop open in surprise and a light burst of adrenalin pulse up his arms. Anna's eyes quickly tracked the expression of his face. She was quick.

"What do you mean?" Castiel kept his voice carefully even. Anna bit her lip, before she dropped her gaze to her leather handbag, where her bedazzled nails clawed through a mess of disorganized items. Eventually, she extracted a wallet and from it, pulled a tattered photograph.

"May I?"

Anna nodded and extended the photograph to Castiel, which he took and examined carefully.

"She's my mother," she added softly, as he fingered at the rumpled thing. The woman depicted in the image was of the medium's description from the previous night. Pale and poised, with a short brown bob cut and garbed in a luxuriant white coat.

"She is?"

Anna blushed and looked away quickly, bringing her fingers to her mouth and gnawing at a cuticle. "No. I mean, she was. She's dead."

Castiel raised his eyes from the photograph to look at Anna, who hurriedly dropped her hand from her mouth and instead looked to her wrist, recommencing her worrying at her collection of bracelets.

"I apologize."

Anna shrugged and stared at her jewellery."When I was six, she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. She didn't want to suffer. And my father... he didn't want to live without her. On Christmas Eve, they took us to the car. They said we were going to go see the carol singers."

She made a small noise in her throat and moved her hand to rub at the tip of her nose.

"My father started the car, but we stayed put. There were carolers walking up and down the street – literally past us."

She sighed and looked up to meet Castiel's eyes.

"They'd... connected the exhaust pipe to the window and... everyone just kind of... fell asleep. When my mother stopped answering me, I started screaming and beating the windows."

"Anna."

Castiel ignored propriety in quickly crossing the room, letting his hand drop lightly onto Anna's shoulder. She was thin, and the end of her collarbone jutted out from her shoulder; Castiel could feel it, even beneath the thick knit she wore.

Anna's eyes shone, but she held back the tears well.

"I am sorry that memory was summoned for you, Anna. If I had known..."

"No. No. It's fine. I mean, it was my fault. When he started talking...I thought...you can see her picture in my wallet when I open it. I opened it at the entrance, to pay. I figured there had been a plant."

Castiel nodded, sighing, and moved his hand away from her.

"Exactly, it was merely an-"

"But that's not all."

Her eyes widened as she turned to Castiel, gritting her teeth.

"The lavender... I-"

She dropped her head and stared at the ground, breathing out carefully before continuing: "She loved it. Like... there were bottles of it just all over the house. She'd spray it on our pillows, and she had this perfume... I mean, I get that he saw the photograph, but... how could he have known..."

Castiel stepped backwards, and shook his head.

"It's impossible to say exactly. There are ways and means. Maybe he-"

"I'm going to see him. Tomorrow."

She stole a look at Castiel before turning away.

"Anna, I'm not sure..."

She raised a hand to stop him and rubbed her lips together.

"I don't care. I just need to. I need to understand what's happening. How he knew that. It's not... I just have to know." Her tone was firm, and she crossed her arms before looking back at Castiel with a determined glare.

Castiel withdrew carefully, with an acquiescent nod. "Please. Just... exercise caution."

She breathed out a laugh, as though relieved, and rolled her eyes – suddenly elated. "I will, I'm not a complete quack, you know."

...

Despite Anna's reluctance, Castiel managed to wrangle the medium's address from her, and he made his way to that same residence first thing the next morning. The house was in the centre of the suburbs – a terrace block sandwiched between identical structures. And claustrophobic looking, even from the street. The front yard was little more than an unkempt patch of grass, though those around the house had done better with small rose bushes or hedges. In its centre an old decrepit bird fountain filled to the brim with the winter's rainwater and tarnished green with algae.

Castiel knocked at the peeling door softly at first. But when there was no answer, he was more vigorous, ceasing only when he eventually detected movement from the second storey behind the curtains.

Eventually, he heard the pad of feet up the hallway of the house, and stepped back to allow space on the miniscule porch for the door to swing open. There was a delay of half a minute or so, however, as the man inside within fiddled with safety locks. When the door eventually opened, Castiel breathed a sigh of relief to see Dean Winchester on the other side – garbed in nothing more than a grey T-shirt and a pair of rather overloved briefs that hung loose around his thighs. The explanation for the delay was obvious, as Castiel saw four separate locks that were installed on the door and in the doorway.

He summoned up a smile, even though he was met with a steely frown and a cool stare.

"Hello Dean."

Dean Winchester only squinted in response and pursed his lips.

"I know you."

There was something vaguely scathing to the Dean's voice, but it was hidden beneath and emotionless layer of gravel and a carefully metered cadence.

"How is that?"

Dean ignored Castiel in favor of turning and walking up the corridor back to his kitchen, leaving the door wide open. Castiel paused at the threshold, watching Dean's passage with curiosity. Dean disappeared into another room, and for a moment Castiel contemplated that the conversation was done, before he heard Dean's call: "You were at my reading on Thursday."

That seemed invitation enough, and Castiel quickly shucked off his shoes and trenchcoat, hanging it awkwardly over his arm when he noted the absence of a coat rack. Instead, the entrance hall was utterly bare and bereft of occupation, aside from two broken umbrellas that had fallen from their perch in the corner, and a musty looking set of boots stuffed with clearly used socks.

By the time he had shuffled to the kitchen, Dean had commenced boiling the kettle. Castiel hovered awkwardly in the doorway arms folded, while Dean bustled, not looking at him. He had not bothered to add any trousers to his ensemble.

"Felt quite hostile, in that part of the room."

The gap in conversation made the phrase seem out of place at first, and it was only with a squint and a held breath that Castiel's mind quickly supplied the connection for him. His fingers twitched from where they were tucked at his arm, and he cleared his throat, before continuing lightly: "I understand you have arranged a meeting with Anna Milton."

"Yeah." Dean turned upon Castiel quite unexpectedly, and surveyed his face quickly. Whatever expression he found there seemed to displease him, for his jaw twitched with a grit of his teeth. "What are you – her father?" And then, his voice abruptly changed to a polite tone: "Milk?"

When Castiel paused – confused by the quick change of temperament – Dean sighed with aggravation and held up a carton, wiggling its base for Castiel's benefit. At his raised eyebrow and irritated manner, Castiel stuttered in his answer: "For what.?"

Dean shrugged and murmured to himself, before turning back and busying himself in two messy cupboards. He completed his search quickly, and extracted a dusty pot labeled "Coffee" and an even dustier box of teabags. He held both up, and Castiel pointed to the tea awkwardly. Dean tutted at that, and turned to deposit one in a chipped mug.

Castiel swallowed quickly, and followed up Dean's silence with a barely contained jibe: "I might have thought you would have known my relation to her."

Dean rolled his eyes again within Castiel's vision, and pulled the kettle off the element (before it had commenced whistling) and poured Castiel's drink.

"That's not how it works, man."

"I see."

Dean reached for the milk again, and held it up to Castiel's gaze. Castiel shook his head, and Dean deposited it back on the counter, before advancing towards him – mug in hand. He passed it to Castiel roughly, before inclining his head to a messy table in the centre of the room, heaped mountainously with old newspapers and rough-looking magazines.

Castiel sat down slowly, testing the strength of the chair before him before committing to it. Dean, on the other hand, thumped down confidently and sighed in relief.

Castiel held onto his mug, with nowhere on the table clear to deposit it. There was a pause before Dean, with his eyes cast downward, he reached across the table and swiped a few unwashed dishes to the side, leaving Castiel a free patch. Castiel quickly placed the mug there and twirled the teaspoon dropped inside it, watching as the tea bag leaked amber coloring into the water.

When Castiel looked to Dean for a further comment, Dean only arched an eyebrow and leaned back obnoxiously in his seat, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. Castiel cleared his throat, and kept his face blank.

"My name is Castiel Novak. I am a Professor of Psychology at Carmel University. I am supervising Anna in her postgraduate studies."

Dean whistled a low note and jiggled his shoulders. Castiel's brow furrowed in response and he ceased in his stirring momentarily, but Dean made no move to continue.

"Anna is a very talented student. Perhaps my brightest."

"Good for her."

Castiel pursed his lips.

"She has also suffered a great deal in her life so far. Your comments last night rather awoke some difficult memories for her. After speaking with her, I am sure these are memories which merit some treatment. She is not properly resolved for your influence at this time."

Dean titled his head to the side, and lets an unpleasant glower rush across his face: "Now, I may be wrong here, but beneath all the pretension and douchebaggery, I think you just told me to kindly fuck off."

Castiel started at the sharp change in tone, but kept his face careful and relaxed, even though it felt as though tension had flashflooded the room: "I am merely speaking out of concern for her. She is not in a position to properly process whatever you say to her. I don't mean to-"

"Whatever I say to her?"

Castiel chose to ignore the quick rising in Dean's voice, and was careful to answer evenly and slowly, with full, convincing eye contact: "She is convinced you saw the ghost of her mother."

Dean snorted and shuffled through the piles of papers in front of him, extracting a small and beaten hip flask and giving it a small shake. He grinned inanely at Castiel when he heard the satisfying slosh of liquid awaiting him. "Oh, is that all? I thought it would have been worse."

"In her current state, she cannot possibly entertain delusions like that such that-"

Dean shrugged and unscrewed the cap of the bottle.

"Well, that would be terrible. But it wasn't a delusion. I saw her."

Castiel's mouth snapped shut, and for one uncontrolled moment, he felt a flash of fury in his core. It was smothered quickly, beneath decades of academic impartial expertise and careful performance fine-tuning. In the moment though, Dean was quick to seize on the silence, and he filled it at once with a vigorous defense: "I saw her, as clearly as I'm seeing you now. She was standing there."

Dean indicated with a swing of his flask to the offending spot. "Behind Anna. With her hand on her shoulder. And I could smell lavender so strongly I thought I'd choke on it." With a challenging look, he took the flask and tilted his head back, imbibing a generous helping of (what Castiel realised, as the scent made its way to him) whiskey.

Castiel cleared his throat carefully, and once again rearranged his face so that it is entirely devoid of feeling. "Regardless, Dean..."

"Look she's a grown up... she can make her own decisions."

"She is-"

"Does she even know you're here?"

"She gave me the address."

Dean's mouth clamped shut and he crossed his arms.

"Look, if she's changed her mind, that's fine. But if she comes here, I'm not gonna turn her away."

Castiel sighed and leaned forward. "Dean, please reconsider. I appreciate that this is your livelihood, but Anna is not in a condition-"

There was a thunk as Dean's flask dropped to the table, and his face twisted with aggravation.

"I'm not... I'm not fucking charging her. This isn't some game of exploiting her dead mother. I saw her."

"I am sure that you-"

Dean's right eyelid twitched. "You think I just go around extorting people?"

Castiel paused, and slid back in his seat, shaking his head. "No."

The answer was not convincing enough for Dean, however, whose face flushed red. "You think I'm crazy? That I do this for kicks?"

Castiel didn't answer immediately, instead dropping his gaze to his tea and staring at his vague reflection within it. "I am only asking that in Anna's circumstance, you-"

"And what would you say if I told you there was a child here in this room with us right now, calling you Daddy?"

Castiel looked up sharply, just in time to see Dean's eyes slide from Castiel's right to his face, and despite the rumbling physical anger in his stature, there was a flash of something behind his eyes that seemed like immediate regret.

Even then, the words hit Castiel with the force of a freight train. Despite his experience with mediums who wanted to "prove themselves", the way Dean pronounced the word "Daddy" – with venom – caused a vile horror to rise in his chest. At once, a hand raised to his mouth and stroked an expression of anger off his face. Despite the effort of control, he could feel his eyes darkening and the lowness of his own voice startled him, as he squeezed out his retort: "Very good. You've done your homework. Did Anna tell you I might stop by, then?"

Dean's entire expression dropped, suddenly, and his eyes flickered to Castiel's right again.

"What?"

"Boy or girl. Go on, you've got a 50% chance of getting it right."

Dean's mouth fell open, and his lower lip stumbled around multiple attempts at an answer. Abruptly, his expression changed, and a thin sheen of tears gathered across his irises.

"How could you... you know she's a little girl."

The earnestness of the emotion – so wonderfully contrived – had Castiel's heart thud at his chest with one brutal angry pulse. Quickly, and before he could betray the integrity he was determined to protect, he stood sharply. So quickly, in fact, that the force of his movement propelled the table forwards and hemmed Dean into his chair.

"You don't... you have no right to say those... excuse me."

Castiel's words were only a breath away from a snarl, and before Dean could protest, he wrenched his trenchcoat from their chair behind him and stumbled from the room, colliding partially with the door frame on his way out.

If Dean followed, Castiel didn't hear him, and despite his intended temperance, the door slammed behind him as he hurried down the stairs at Dean's doorway, lip curling around responses that remained unuttered, and a rising emotion that Castiel was loathe to encounter.

...

Castiel drove furiously back to the University, narrowly avoiding passing motorists as he wove between cars without care to check his blind spot. After one motorist caught sight of him, fists clenched around the wheel, he yelled at him to "get the fuck off the road" and blasted his horn even as Castiel careered down the street in front of him.

The violence of the man's gesture was enough to have Castiel eventually find the presence of mind to pull over. He left his window wipers on and the engine running as he leaned over the steering wheel, pressing his forehead against it for support. His breaths came in short gasps, as he wrenched his wallet from his pocket.

Where his driver's license was intended to go – behind a tacky plastic pocket with sticky covering – Castiel's gaze fixated on the image of a three year old girl, with bright blonde hair and a cripplingly beautiful smile stained red with a lipstick of summer strawberries. She was on Castiel's lap in the picture, and his arm supported her back as she looked up to him with a manic grin, pushing a strawberry into his waiting mouth. He was laughing, and his eyes were in love.

Castiel stared at the image, fingers clenched tight around its edges, as his breathing rose and his face commenced the twitchy choreography of grief. As long as he could bear it, he looked upon the picture, until new notes of anguish rang in his returning frantic breaths. With a curse that could scarcely do justice to one-hundredth of his regret, he threw his wallet face down in the passenger seat, and covered his face with his hands - squeezing his eyes shut desperately trying to drown out the sound of his own pitiful despair as his body ground out the gasping language of desolation.

...

AN: Greetings, beauteous reader, and thank you for trawling through to the end of this chapter. If you find yourself interested in this work, please take note that it will be updated weekly from now until completion!

I cannot recommend enough the TV Series that this work is inspired by/borrows from/basically is a retelling of: the ITV series "Afterlife". If you were a fan of that eerie, suspenseful horror of Supernatural's earlier seasons, then I can most earnestly assure you that this series is absolutely for you. In addition, if you needed another incentive, it stars a (very attractive) younger Andrew Lincoln, before he was Rick Grimes on "The Walking Dead". However, and I make this warning emphatically, DO NOT watch it by yourself, at home, late at night (ESPECIALLY episode 1x03, Rookie mistake, you won't sleep for a week). Even if it spoils this story for you (I'll be following the main plot points fairly closely), you should watch it anyway. It is an absolutely outstanding series and this fic is a paltry substitute. Seriously, watch it.

Also, I want to make a note before anyone gets too invested (and I disappoint them with this): Sam is very scarcely mentioned in this fic. There is a REASON for this (and it is in no way anything to do with this author's preference for Dean and Cas, or Destiel). I have missed him very much when writing, in all his moose-y glory. I mention this because I know some people love Sam too dearly to get through a fic without him (and I totes understand). So, fair warning. You won't be seeing him for some time.

That said, onward! I hope you liked! Constructive feedback always welcome :)