Sorry for the break in posting! We are back at it!

Kevin looks at him over the top of the table and says, "You seriously don't see any problem with this?"

Castiel looks up at him. Raises an eyebrow. He takes the thick, red chopsticks in one hand and the spoon in another, pokes around in the soup. "Kevin, I like Vietnamese food," he says. "Pho, specifically. I know that you and your family are not connected to this restaurant. We're not here for your comfort. Calm down."

Kevin Tran doesn't look impressed, but it's better than Kevin looking panicked. "So what was it?" He asks.

Castiel slurps a mouthful of noodles and broth. "Black eyes," he says. "Demon. Gabriel's lead was right- you two did good letting me know." He fishes around for a piece of tendon and he chews on it, contemplatively.

"Is the guy okay?" Kevin asks, his brown eyes going wide. Concerned.

Castiel nods. "Ambulance came and took him to a hospital. He'll wake up in six or seven hours and Anna will slip him Gabriel's card. Same as it ever was, Kevin." He looks down at the plate of garnishes and add ons for a moment, and then dumps a handful of cilantro and chilis in. Lime quarter gets squirted over the top. "You didn't tell the police, did you?"
Kevin looks at him like he just grew a second head.

"Two cops," Castiel says, messily. "One got fucked up. Other wanted to rumble with the demon."

"I thought you said everyone was alright!" Kevin hisses from across the table. He's not stuttering, which is good. Still not panicked or anxious, just irate.

"She's going to be fine," Castiel says. "She got to a hospital; the fucker didn't get any arteries. Her partner seemed concerned once he put the testosterone away, which means he probably applied pressure. She'll probably get a nice scar out of it; pick up young guns at bars with it."

Kevin looks neither amused nor comforted, just kind upset. "Cas," he says, "what if-"

"Nothing did, though," Castiel says, his mouth full of top round. "Dwell on those what-ifs and you'll need to graduate to someone more competent than Gabriel."

Kevin rolls his eyes. "Next time, we're meeting at the pub down the block," he murmurs darkly.

"I'm not Irish, you racist fuck," Castiel laughs, and Kevin flips him off.

Kid will be fine.

The waitress brings a plate of spring rolls, wrapped in rice paper. Castiel smiles at her, and she smiles back. He's damn near regular here. Not enough that they know his name, but enough that they know he always pays in cash and he wants an order of spring rolls midway through his soup, if for no other reason than Kevin inevitably steals two of them, and that kid needs to eat more than he does. God knows, Linda's trying.

Sure enough, Kevin steals a spring roll and takes a bite, the bean sprouts crunching under his teeth. Castiel wishes he could get him to eat some of the beef- since it all happened, kid's been put off meat in a big way.

"Don't you have school tomorrow?" Castiel asks.

The blood drains from Kevin's face. "Shit," he hisses. "I need to get home. I've got calculus to do."

Castiel fishes his wallet out of his pocket and lays a twenty down on the table. His check is only going to be thirteen dollars or so, but he likes to tip. It makes him feel good.

A twitch ghosts over Kevin's face, and he fishes his phone out of pocket.

"You got bus fare?" Castiel ask, and Kevin nods vigorously. He takes another spring roll. Castiel grabs the last two, and they walk out of the restaurant.

Dean's just out. Downtown, in the dark, near where it happened but maybe eight to ten blocks away. There are a couple of alright bars in the area, and there's nothing Dean wants as much as a drink. Cheap whiskey, preferably, and then maybe a stranger whose name he won't remember and whose face he'll barely recall. He's even considering tucking his badge away, invisible, so he can cheat at pool .

That's when he sees them.

It's that asshole. He's in a little hole-in-the-wall pho joint with a kid, and he looks a little relaxed, but it's definitely the same guy. Same dark, messy hair and studied, intense features. Even relaxed, he holds himself in the same way- same curve to his shoulders, straightness to his spine. He's wearing the same clothes.

Dean stands in front of the restaurant and watches the guy as he says his quick good-byes to the kid, who is pretty enthralled with his phone and seems to mutter something without looking up. The guy looks about as amused as Dean would be, and he ducks back behind the restaurant.

Dean curses and tries to follow, but the asshole slips out of his sight. Of fucking course he'd lose him-of course he'd melt into the darkness like some kind of goddamned poor man's Houdini.

But the kid sticks around.

Calling an Uber or something, probably. He looks about seventeen, stick-skinny with a messy mop of dark hair. Full of twitchy, anxious little movements, checking over his shoulder like he knows he's being watched, or like he's worried he might be. And yeah, not a bad idea at this time of night, even if Seattle's a pretty safe city on the whole. And after all, the kid is being watched. But there's something timid in it, something once-bitten-twice-shy. Something that makes Dean a little sad.

His fingers race over his phone. A shiver wracks his frame. It's getting chilly but it's not that cold. Still, the kid's wearing skinny jeans and a hoodie. It's not like he's got much insulation.

Kind of reminds Dean of Sam in high school.

That's a thought that he shoves aside real quick, and he shakes off the ensuing pang of loneliness as he walks up to the kid. His badge is nice and visible, and he's wearing an SPD jacket. He couldn't be more conspicuously a cop if he was wearing his uniform. Which he might have still been wearing, if the kid's asshole friend hadn't torn it.

He pastes on a smile he knows for a fact is convincing, and his hands are open and carefully displayed when he walks up. No need to escalate a situation needlessly. Benny will have his ass gorilla-glued to a desk for eternity if he fucks up again, whether or not there was a body (or hell, even a complainant) connected to his last screw-up. So with this kid, he is going to be the definition of solicitous.

Which is why he's a little surprised as the kid's expression becomes one of dawning horror when he calls out, "Hey, pal, you got a minute?"

The phone disappears into the kid's pocket, and he sticks his hands in, too, then draws them out quickly. Then he shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets before pulling them out of those, too.

The whole thing is mildly comical, but Dean puts his hands up. "Woah, didn't mean to startle you. No trouble, man. Just wondering if you could give me a hand."

The kid peers at his badge, and looks really pale.

"You p-police?" he asks.

Dean nods. "Yeah. Name's Winchester. You got a sec?"

There's a moment where the kid obviously considers lying, but while his lips move for a while, they don't form around anything useful and eventually he shrugs and nods.

He looks so crestfallen that Dean just wants to pat him on the head. Instead, he grins and peers into the little Vietnamese place they're standing outside of.

"I guess you just ate, but can I buy you a cup of coffee or something?"

"I thought this would j-just take a s-second," the kid stutters, his shoulders bunching.

"Yeah," Dean says, easy, shrugging. "But you know, a second of your time and free coffee for your trouble? Sounds like a better deal to me."

"C-coffee m-makes me anxious," the kid mutters.

Dean doesn't snort.

It's close.

"Then some chamomile tea," Dean says. "Let me do you a favor, man, it's cold out. You looking for a ride? Or need bus fare?"

"What the hell," the kid mumbles, barely loud enough for Dean to hear, and he shoots a pained glance over Dean's shoulder. Dean looks, too. Nothing there.

Dean waits.

The kid gives him a despairing look and says "Y-yeah, okay, fine. T-tea. I don't need a r-ride."

Dean grins and gestures expansively. "Hey, no problem. There's a place I know a few blocks from here. Let's head out."

The kid follows dejectedly behind him as he takes the lead.

"What's your name?" Dean asks.

It takes a while-the K proves difficult-but Dean is patient and the kid eventually says "Kevin."

"Kevin," Dean echoes. "Nice to meet you."

Kevin does not return the sentiment.

The coffee house is really mislabeled as such. It's more of a coffee closet, in fairness. A handful of seats around a big, clunky espresso machine, a few more on what passes for a patio but is really just the parking lot fenced in by some rope. Klezmer music blasts out of the tiny window where orders are given and delivered, and the woman working the register and machines has a way of glaring at everything that puts Dean on edge. But their coffee is strong and hot, there's an evil eye hanging over the window, and they have a couple of teas that Sammy-

Well. Their tea is okay. So Dean hears, anyway. He doesn't know much about tea.

Kevin is huddled around his steaming mug of actual chamomile tea (Dean had been joking), peering up at Dean like he thinks he's going to get eaten.

"Look," Dean says, "I just need your help with one thing. Easy. It's about the guy you were with at that restaurant."

Kevin freezes. Dean notes that with some interest, but plows on.

"I think he might've witnessed a crime." Dean keeps his voice real casual. "Might be able to help us ID a suspect. If he did, he could really help the investigation."

Kevin is already shaking his head by the time Dean finishes talking.

"I d-don't-I don't-don't know him, not really, w-we were there with another friend. Mu-mutual friend. He-I don't know him."

Dean doesn't say anything, just takes a swig of his coffee and stares the kid down.

Kevin swallows hard, then drops his eyes. But he doesn't talk.

"Your friend-sorry, your mutual friend isn't in trouble, Kevin. I'm looking for his help. I'm pretty sure I saw him, I just need you to help me get in touch with him. You're not pointing the finger at him, nothing like that. I just need him to help me find a bad guy, all right?"

Kevin snorts, and Dean grants him that. Bad guy was perhaps laying it on thick. But it got a reaction out of him, so maybe not a total loss.

Kevin twists his napkin in his fingers. There's a lot of force behind that motion.

"I w-wish I could help you," he says. His voice is low and worried. Hell, worry oozes out of every word and action and gesture of this kid. Not that kind of worry that's unwarranted, though. Experienced worry.

Dean sits back in his seat, holds the paper coffee cup between his hands.

"I do," Kevin says.

Dean takes another sip of coffee, while Kevin squirms. After a while, Dean sighs.

"This guy I'm looking for. Not your buddy-the guy he can help me find. He hurt my partner, Kevin. Hurt her real bad. She's in the hospital. Her leg's all fucked up. This guy assaulted a police officer. And my partner, she's a good cop. The kind you don't read about, you know? Helps old ladies across the street. He tried to kill her. You help me find your friend, your friend helps me find the perp, boom. Justice is served. Think you can do that for me, Kevin?"

Kevin sinks further into his seat.

Dean leans forward. "Kevin. Can you help me find the man who tried to kill my partner?"

Kevin takes in a breath, and Dean does the same.

And then the kid's jaw sets.

"Am I under arrest, officer?" Kevin asks, his voice barely audible, but firm and careful and absolute. His eyes are fixed firmly on the cooling mug of tea in front of him.

Dean stares at him for a long time.

"No," he bites out. "You're not under fucking arrest."

Kevin abandons his tea and flees, leaving Dean sitting on the shitty little fake patio, wondering what in every possible fuck just happened.

Sam sits in his room and looks at the blank white walls and he feels strange.

Sam feeling "strange" isn't anything new or unusual, really. It's a different kind of strange, though. He feels his guts clenching, he feels tightly wound and unsteady. He stands up, and goes before the door of his room. He's not sure why he's standing there, what he's doing there.

It opens suddenly, and he jumps.

"C'mon, Sammy, you're gonna be late for school," Dean says.

Dean is his older brother; dirty blonde hair and green eyes and an open, teasing face. Never taking anything seriously except he's taking everything seriously. Deadly seriously. Painfully seriously.

Sam looks behind him.

White walls, cot bed. Empty bookshelf, screwed to the wall. Blinds drawn on high windows.

He looks in front of him. Dean, about twenty, stands in the doorway. The institution hallway stretches forward.

Sam looks at his brother.

"Sammy?" Dean asks.

Sam wakes up in his bed, sheets sticking to his body with sweat.

He's in his real room, not in that white one that's arranged all wrong. And he's late for school.

Dean opens his door and says, "Sammy! C'mon, get dressed!"

Sam frowns. "It's Sam," he says.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Whatever. I'll give you a ride, you've already missed the bus."

Sam rolls out of bed and puts on his clothes and runs his hands through his hair and grabs a bagel from on top of the fridge and climbs into Dean's car.

Dean loves his car. It was Dad's once, when Dad was still alive. Dean repaired it himself, though, and she runs better than Sam ever remembers her running under Dad's stewardship. A song comes on the radio and Dean turns it up- something long and hard to hear. He doesn't know the name of it, but he's never been interested in the music that Dean likes. Dean learned music from Dad, and thinking about Dad, it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Dean's driving, the song playing. Sam takes a bite of the bagel and he looks over at his brother.

His brother's eyes turn black, and he smiles.

Sam wakes up again, this time in the institution again.

"Cas," he says, "Cas- Cas-Cassie-Cas- Cas, it's not that I don't treasure these talks but I have to go, I have work, you irritable fuck." He pauses, Castiel berating him further on the other end of the line. "Okay. Okay. I'll-I'll-" He hangs up. Castiel's invested in yelling at him more on the other line, but he really is running late. The agency has him set up with a new hospital and he's meeting up with a couple of new patients today and he can't be far off schedule. Schedules make these places, run them from dusk until dawn and if he's off schedule he's fucking up everything for everyone and he-

He dashes through the door, out of breath. Shows his ID to the security desk and walks quickly to the little multi-use office they have him in.

The patient is already in there.

Gabriel's already had a chance to look at the file for the guy. Paranoid schizophrenia with religious delusions. It's what Gabriel's good at, even without all the freaky rigamarole, and hey, everyone's got talents. Been here for a few years now but generally doesn't participate in group or solo therapy. Barely leaves his room, and getting him to talk is a miracle in and of itself.

On the couch, in the faded blue clothes of the hospital, he looks tired. His hair is overlong, like it hasn't even been trimmed in years. Four of them, if the file is right. His head is crooked downward. No eye contact.

"Hi," Gabriel says. "Sorry. Late. Never been on time for anything a day in my life. It's one of my special talents."

The guy doesn't say anything. The guy doesn't move.

The nurse who's been waiting with him nods to Gabriel, and then slips out of the room, leaving him alone with his patient.

Yeah, all right.

"I'm Gabriel," he says, settling into the seat across from the patient. "Just Gabriel. Some of the other guys, the like the titles and shit but I'm uh...I'm just Gabriel. And you're Sammy, right?"

"Sam," the guy answers. His voice is hoarse. His eyes don't quite make it up to Gabriel's face, but there's a shift in them-a break in that flat affect.

Gabriel raises an eyebrow, jotting that down.

"Just Sam and Just Gabriel, then," he says. "What's up, Sam?"

Sam's eyes shutter again, and his shoulders relax. He draws inward, and Gabriel can see the walls come up. It's nothing that surprises him. Four years, barely a word, he knows he's not going to make any kind of radical breakthrough today. He's here to observe. To poke and prod, maybe, and see what reactions he can get.

This guy, this Sam, he's a career-killer. Gabriel has seen the file. He's seen the number of therapists who gave up, who left, left the field after working with Sam. Which doesn't mesh, it doesn't, with this quiet, withdrawn kid (and does Gabriel mean kid- he just turned 26 in May). Because Gabriel gets frustration, sure. But not being able to crack a patient-even a fascinating one like Sam-that doesn't make you retire to Hawaii to teach middle schoolers. So there's something beneath this veneer, despite the fact that all of his caregivers say that he's a model patient. He's not violent (anymore), he's polite (in the rare moments where he talks), he's compliant (for the most part). He doesn't request anything other than the occasional textbook or addition to his room- opaque blinds and mirrors removed. Kid wants to be there. Wants to take his meds, wants to be allowed to stay.

What he doesn't seem to want, though, is to get better. He's stubbornly silent in talk therapy, and unless he's drug-seeking, which would be odd given that the kid isn't being given the fun stuff, Gabriel can't figure why he'd prefer to be drugged to the gills rather than seeing if maybe talking through his problems could help.

Except that his current program is really best maintained in an inpatient setting. Sam's never been cleared to go home.

Which maybe says more about home than it does about the quality room service at PPH.

"They still serve that butterscotch pudding here?" he asks.

Sam looks up at him, raises an eyebrow.

"The really dark kind? You can't really call that color brown and it's not really yellow either," he says. "When I was here, they served it maybe once or twice a week. I don't really miss the food here or anything, but I tell you what, that pudding's good shit."

Sam looks back down.

He's curious, Gabriel can tell. It's a good anecdote for places like this, even if it's not always true in the strictest sense. Sure, he spent a few weeks here but not at every institution in King county. But nothing makes them want to know more about you than thinking that you were one of them.

And it really was excellent pudding.

Sam shakes his head. "Haven't seen it," he answers.

Gabriel shakes his own head. "Damn," he murmurs. "I was hoping I could swing by the kitchen and see if I could sweet talk a cook after this."

Sam doesn't say anything to that. He doesn't look up. He doesn't really move. He just sits there, leaning so that his elbows rest on his knees and his lower body points downward. Hidden. And the thing is, he's a big guy. Six four and broad through the shoulders. He's not bulky, though, not like his frame is shaped to be. He's lean in an uncanny way. Makes him look fragile. And with the way he holds himself, it looks intentional. The whole thing screams not a threat not a threat not a threat.

Kid stays quiet for fifteen minutes before saying, "I didn't think they'd let former patients work here."

Baited.

"They're all about the people coming back, trying to help," he answers. "Granted, I'm unorthodox, but my own therapist was very encouraging."

"Therapist seeks therapist," Sam murmurs.

Gabriel huffs a short laugh. "It's less uncommon than you think it might be. And I don't talk about the job during my sessions." He pauses, a long moment. "Even therapists need someone to talk to sometimes."

Sam looks at him.

God, he looks weary.

"Try hard," he says, his voice flat-toned.

Gabriel shrugs. "Way I see it, I get paid for being here whether you talk to me or not. Might be more interesting for the two of us if you do talk to me."

The kid doesn't say anything for the rest of the hour- the remaining forty minutes of it. But it finishes and Gabriel says, "I'll see you, same time, same place in a week, kiddo."

A nurse comes in and takes Sam by the arm, and the kid unfolds meekly and walks out of the room, leaving Gabriel sitting in the armchair under the lamp, looking at the door.

He sighs heavily and runs his hand over his face. He grabs his travel mug and takes a deep drink of his coffee. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep, steadying breaths. Something feels weird here, and he's probably just still on edge from what happened yesterday. He hates when his brother gets caught up in the demon shit. There's not much choice there, granted, but it puts him on edge. He hates the fact that one day, SPD will call him and tell him that his brother is dead in an alleyway. He hates the fact that he knows this with such certainty. And he hates knowing that there's something out there. That there's always something out there, something wrong, that he can't explain.

It's hard to tell sometimes whether or not what he's experiencing is him or that other thing. Castiel calls it ESP, but Gabriel hates putting a label to it. He hates calling it anything. Calling it something makes it real makes it a part of him like one of his arms or the anxiety disorder.

There's an oily sensation to the air here. It's more than just how this place reminds him of the breakdown; it's the color of things here. Muted and dull pastels, low florescent lights and daytime tv.

There's a knock on the door, and then a man in a suit steps into the room. He's got short, dark hair, beginning to thin at the temples. Wide, slightly bulging eyes. His suit is well tailored, dark with a red tie. He has a clipboard and pen in his hands and slightly expectant, giddy look on his face. There's something greasy to the guy- maybe it's the suit, maybe it's the used-car-salesman smile.

"Mr. Novak, I presume?" He says. He has an British accent, and it makes his voice husky and dark. "A pleasure to meet you- I'm Dr. Fergus Crowley, the director of this particular institution. We've not yet had the pleasure of meeting, as you were hired by my predecessor-"
"Raphael left the game?" Gabriel asks, standing to shake his hand. "I had no idea- I figured he'd be here until the end of days."
He has a firm handshake. "He transferred to an institution in Florida, I'm told. He grew quite ill of the winters here."

Gabriel frowns. He'd known Raphael for a long time, and humorless dick that he was, it had never occurred to Gabriel he might have seasonal affective disorder. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he says. "I was just going to go, actually, I have another appointment across town in an hour or so and traffic is going to be a bitch."

Dr. Crowley frowns, his face wrinkling ever so slightly downwards. "Please," he says, "let me at least tell you that I saw your work with the patient, Sam Winchester? On the surveillance screen."

Gabriel frowns. He knows that these offices are bugged and monitored- it only makes sense for both the patients and the therapists involved- but something about knowing that someone is watching and listening is unsettling and makes him feel wrong.

"Interesting file," Gabriel says. "Seems like a strange guy."
"Please, do not misunderstand my intentions with watching your interaction," Dr. Crowley says. "You saw that you are the fifth therapist he's had? We were quite concerned he was going to become violent."

Gabriel frowns. "There was nothing in his file to indicate that he would be-"
The doctor smiles, and his grin is knavish and unkind. "Of course there isn't," he says. Practically hisses. There's a mad little glint to his eye. It's nitrogen-burn cold, the kind of cold so intense it burns. "We've run into similar issues, with other files. There are some rather glaring omissions among the violent offend- patients. We should have an amended file to you by next week."

Gabriel nods, but there's something wrong here. Kid didn't seem violent; the kid seemed the furthest thing from violent.

"At any rate," Dr. Crowley says, "your work is impressive. Do keep it up."

And he smiles again, and slips out of the office, leaving that uncomfortable, greasy feeling in the air, leaving Gabriel standing there, feeling wrong.

It's too early, because Castiel went to bed and the sun is still down but here he is, awake in his bed, because his phone is ringing like it's full of three dozen incredibly irate bees.

He squints at the over-bright screen, trying to discern what it says, before he answers and murmurs, "What?"

"C-C-Cas?" Kevin stutters out on the other line.

Stuttering's back.

"What's up, Kevin?" Castiel asks.

"P-p-police o-o-o-," his voice cuts off. He inhales, he exhales. "Police," he repeats. "Found me. Asked about y-yuh-yuh-you."

"Kevin," Castiel says, "Kevin, take a deep breath for me, okay? Don't rush."

There's a pause.

"Outside the restaurant, he a-a-approached me," he replies. There's another pause. "He asked about you. He wants to t-talk to you. About what hhhappened." Another, longer pause. "He's going to look for the guy, who got pppossessed."

"Fuck," Castiel sighs. "Shit. Thank you, Kevin."

"His name." Kevin swallows hard enough that Castiel hears it over the line. "His n-name. It's W-Win. Winnnn. W-"

"Breathe. I have time, Kevin."

"W-shit. Shit, Cas. The cops."

Castiel grips the phone tight, and he suddenly, fervently wishes that he'd managed to fuck up that jackass cop back at the scene because it's one hundred percent that guy who made Kevin sound like this.

"Winchester. Fuck," Kevin blurts finally.

Winchester. All right. So Jackass has a name.

"Thank you, Kevin. You did good."

Kevin makes a noise, kind of low and strange.

"It's okay," Castiel says. "It's okay. I'll take care of it."

And he hangs up, and he gets out of bed, and he looks around his room.

It's going to be a long day, he can already tell.