Jessica Moore's seventeenth birthday party was in full swing by the time he got there. Somebody had already upchucked nachos into the yard and the lights in the living room were epileptic. Dean brushed past the crowd - everyone was dressed in their finest, but by then they certainly weren't at their finest. A couple that was so drunk was failing miserably in their endeavors in the hydrangea as Dean walked by. Inside, the throng of senior years students was gyrating to a US Top 100 hit that he hadn't bothered to familiarize himself with. A small group, some whiskey and chicken wings, good ol' Lynyrd Skynyrd on the radio, now that's what he called a party.

He spotted Jess and Sam some way off, enveloped by a bunch of their friends. He knew he was only here as a gesture of goodwill to his own brother. When Jess saw him, she pranced up to him with a slightly uncoordinated one-armed hug.

"You made it!" She said, spilling a little beer onto the carpet.

"Whoa, there," he grinned, steadying her. "Maybe grab yourself a coffee, Jess, you don't want to pass out before cutting cake, do you?"

"Dude, what happened?" Sam asked, gesturing to his jaw.

"Oh that little thing? It's nothing."

"Thanks for coming Dean, it means a lot."

He nodded brusquely. Jessica was nice girl, he thought to himself. She probably could've done better than Sam. He glanced at his brother. Maybe not. But she was a decent kid. She had even moved her party up by two days because she shared a birthday with him. Everyone knew how Dean would be celebrating his nineteenth birthday on Sunday - under the covers with a blank look on his face.

At least Jess was considerate.

He had settled himself into a couch with a beer bottle when he felt a weight drop down next to him.

"You can't avoid me forever."

"Dammit, Cas," Dean frowned. "What are you even doing here?"

"It's Jessica's birthday, Dean. I was invited."

Dean groaned.

"Why are you making that noise?"

For a straight-A student with a spotless record, he sure was slow on the uptake. "If you're here to grill me about what happened earlier, I'm not t-"

"Dean, I know you saw it."

"Not again."

"You know how I know? Because I saw her look at you."

"That proves nothing except that you're still delusional."

Castiel took a shot from a small silver flask.

"What's that?" Dean asked, mildly interested.

"A concontion of my own. Would you like some?"

Dean grabbed the flask and took a swig, wincing as it burned its way down, "That's some strong stuff."

"Absinthe."

Dean spluttered and wiped his mouth, "What do you want, Cas?"

"I want to know what you know."

"I don't know what you need to know."

"Oh, I think you know."

Silence.

Cas piped up once more, "Look, Dean. You can call me what you like, but I've been doing this for a while now. I've seen a lot of things in my time so don't think for a minute you can't convince me otherwise. I've been seeing them since before you could talk in coherent sentences and I know a spirit when I see one. What I want to know is why this spirit is still here when ideally it should be on it's way to Our Lord or to Hell."

Dean felt that magnetic pull again. He had to study the side of Castiel's face. It was entirely possible he was drunk, but his eyes weren't out of focus or red. Cas looked like he meant business.

"You're crazy," Dean attempted at keeping the charade up.

"I have a suspicion you know more than you're letting on, which leads me to believe that you have something to do with the girl who haunts the shoe factory. Believe me, I will find out."

"Okay, look here, Bill Murray," Dean said testily, "you don't know the first thing about Jo."

"So that's her name?"

Dean nearly punched him in the face. He wouldn't been equally satisfied punching himself in the face, but he was considerably sore form the afternoon. How had he let that slip? He was getting rusty.

"You knew Jo in life, then?"

"This conversation is over."

Dean was getting up to leave, but Castiel simply slumped back into the couch, "I'm afraid I've revealed much more about myself than I intended, but rest assured you will too."

He decided it was time to go. There was no point hanging around the party with freaking Sixth Sense and his absinthe any more. Whatever trouble he wanted to get up to, Jess and Sam could deal with it. As far as Dean was concerned he had done his bit - he had showed up, he had smiled, and he had saved that weirdo's hide twice in a week. It was the weekend. Principal Hannigan's deal didn't hold over the weekend.

As discreetly as he could, he slid out the back and into the drive. Jess and Sam wouldn't miss him and if they did, he could say he hadn't felt well. He walked four blocks back down to his house, prepping himself for the questions his mother would ask him.

What happened at the party?

Didn't you have a good time?

Didn't you eat?

Is something wrong Dean?

The feeling of the covers, the detergent smell on his pillow, the slanting bars of yellow coming in from the blinds - Dean realized he had been waiting for this moment all day as he flopped down on his bed after dinner. He had been perfectly civil, even offered to do the dishes, and finished his trig problems before hitting the sack. He heard Mary pausing outside his door and lay still on his pillows. Jo, who had been swinging her legs over the broken room heater, seated on the window sill, had remained silent too.

"He saw you today," Dean said after he was sure his mother had gone to bed. "He saw you go through a wall."

"What was I supposed to do? Shake his hand and pour him coffee?"

Dean rolled over onto his side, facing the wall. He didn't want to talk to Jo today. He didn't want her to see him. He wanted her t go away for good. There were days when he thanked his stars that he could still see her, but on most days, he was convinced Jo shouldn't be down here.

"Why are you still hanging around Jo?"

"I thought you looked lonely."

He thought about what Castiel had said. They were out there. Jo wasn't the first. Who knows how many ghosts were drifting about town, looking at portraits of their sons or fathers, staring down at their wives at night, playing with their mothers' hair. They were out there.

"What's keeping you here?"

"I haven't figured it out yet," Jo responded. "Are you worried about Castiel?"

"There's something not right 'bout that fella."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. He seems a little off."

"Maybe he's one of those clairvoyants."

"Clairwhats?"

"Mama was always reading about those things on the back of old occult mags, you know, during slow days in the bar?"

"And?"

"Well, they're seers."

"They can see ghosts?"

"And a lot of other things; fortunes, pasts, secrets. Mama used to know a medium who worked up in Nebraska before we moved here. She always warned me not to get tangled up with those folk."

"Should've listened to Ellen."

"I was fifteen, I was curious."

"And you still went ahead and-" he stopped himself short. It wasn't even her fault.

"Got myself axed? I know."

He winced and rolled onto his back. This was the last thing he wanted to talk to her about. In death, Jo had become more and more descriptive of the details. It would give him nightmares.

"So you think Castiel is a clairvoyant."

"Could be. I personally don't believe in the stuff."

"Well, I didn't believe in ghosts two summers ago, and yet here we are."

Sam was walking up the staircase, crossing his bedroom door outside. Dean heard him pausing outside the door, just like their mother. Pausing and listening. Or pausing and deliberating how to strike up a conversation.

"That boy tries too damn hard," Jo observed. "You should give your family some credit, Dean."

"Jo, are there more like you?"

"In Kansas?"

"In Kansas."

"None that I've run across. O'course I don't get out much."

Dean ran his fingers through his hair and thought long and hard about what he was going to ask her: "Jo, did you try to kill Big Ricky?"

There was a stifling silence in his dark bedroom. He raised his head to look over at the window sill. Empty.

"Jo?"

She had been doing this an awful lot recently. Disappearing in the middle. And she never apologized for it. He supposed the dead had nothing more to be sorry about. Falling back onto his pillows, he fell into an uneasy sleep, waking up almost every two hours because he felt something around his throat. But it was just a feeling. Dean woke up the next morning feeling more tired than ever, but he forced himself up. He had chores to take care of before breakfast.

Okay time to respond to some anon reviews:

1. I am doing this because Season 8 just got over and if I don't vent about it in some form, I will lose my mind. Also, Destiel has been ruining my life for many summers

2. I'm so glad some of you reviewed! I'd really like to know what the rest of you think! I wasn't sure if I should complete this story, but judging from the views I'm getting, you will kill me if I don't. Haha. NEED DESTIEL MOAR.

3. Glad to hear about characterization. I'm doing my best here. I hope you continue reading.

Pie and Burgers x