"So answer me this," There's a rustling noise like someone moving around "How come I was a stone throw's away from offing myself five minutes ago and now I'm frickin' laughing?"

Castiel relaxes slightly "That's a good thing."

"Yeah, it is. But it doesn't make much sense."

Castiel isn't lonely. No, he's simply… reserved. That's all! Nothing wrong with that now, is there? It's not like he spends his time cooped up indoors watching daytime television and muttering to himself like an old kook. He goes out – all the time, in fact. He has – what? – four, five, six good friends who he sees on a regular basis. That's more than enough, he's positive.

"You spend more time talking to mentally insufficient nutjobs than you do normal people!" His brother's always telling him.

"They're not mentally insufficient, Gabriel." Is always his response "They're confused and lonely and often suffering from depression. There's a difference."

And of course there's a difference. Castiel's seen hard times himself; he's laid back in bed, staring at the ceiling and wondered what the real purpose of his petty existence is. To crave something more – answers, clarity – is far from insane. The people he talks to all have different stories and different takes on life; some of them cry down the line and ask him why they should choose to stay when there's nothing and no one holding them back. Others point out that suffering through life for eighty odd years is just delaying the inevitable – that they should be able to decide when and how they leave this earth. He listens to all of them and tries to help where he can. It can be difficult, feeling helpless to those who are so desperately seeking advice that Castiel knows he can't possibly provide. Usually, they hang up before he gets to find out how it all ends. Sometimes, they thank him and say that their conversation has made them see sense. Those are his favourite kind of calls, of course. Rarely does it end with a strangled apology, followed by a newspaper article the next week, but he's always prepared for those situations.

"There was nothing you could have done," Balthazar had soothed him after his first bad call two years ago "Some people just can't be saved, Cas."

But he knew that was a lie. If there's a will, there's a way, after all. And if someone calls a suicide hotline, there must be a single shred of will to live burrowed deep beneath the anguish and regret. It was all on him. He understood this; he used that piece of knowledge to better himself and prevent similar incidences from happening in the future.

There's been just five similar calls since that dreaded day.

"You planning on taking some time off anytime soon?" Anna asks him as he's busying himself in the office.

Just nine volunteers have been listed as official staff in the past year, Castiel being one of them. It doesn't mean he earns money, just that he gets his own room and turns up at least three times a week to take calls. It also gives him the right to work from home; Michael trusts him to act professionally outside his office at all times. That respect keeps him glowing with importance.

"I may take the week off Christmas. I haven't decided, yet."

Anna wraps herself around the door and sighs "You may take it off? Try definitely will take it off."

He can feel his patience wearing thin, but resists the urge to shoot her one of his signature glares "I meant what I said, Anna. I may take the time off."

"You've worked Christmas the past two years, Castiel. Give yourself a break, for once!"

"I appreciate the concern, but I'm okay. I promise."

Her red hair is swept across her face this morning, shielding her wide, hazel eyes from view. It's a trick she's learnt since befriending Castiel; if he can see her eyes, he can read her expression "How are you and Gabriel doing?"

"Fine." He says "We're fine, thank you."

"Everything good since…" Castiel doesn't need to see her eyes to know what she's implying.

"Since?"

She straightens against the doorframe "Since everything. Kali, your father…"

The mention of his father is something that still strikes a bad chord in Castiel; he can feel his skin prickling at the memories of last Easter, when his brother had tried to take his own life. The kind of job – service – that Castiel surrounds himself in unsurprisingly got people talking. If he deals with these kinds of people on a weekly basis, how did he not spot the signs with his own brother?

"I… I'm sorry, Castiel." Anna dips her head slightly "That was stupid of me to bring up. It hasn't be long, you must still be –"

"It's fine." It's not, but okay – why make this more awkward? "I'm about to take calls, now. So…"

A small smile slips into place, just to ease the tension. It's a gesture Anna thankfully returns before slipping out the office "I'll see you at lunch, then."

The next few hours ultimate between dragging on and flying by; he gets three calls he's able to resolve within half an hour – mostly drunk and/or high but fairly easy to get through to. One lasts a little over an hour; the conversation consists of first coaxing a middle aged woman away from the drugs cabinet in her kitchen before discussing the topic of her children. She bursts into tears and goes onto describe her five year old daughter that just yesterday had made her a macaroni portrait including her dead husband. She thanks him profoundly before hanging up; Castiel's particularly satisfied at the end of that call.

Just before lunch, he has to go on a vicious rant to a couple of snivelling teenagers who turn out to be prank-calling. It makes him feel sick when people play such cruel jokes; they clearly don't understand the severity of suicide. It takes him 10 minutes to realize that the call has ended and that he's been wasting time talking to thin air.

"It's so disappointing," Alfie comments on Castiel's little story at lunch "How can people be so small-minded?"

He's a new recruit – just a kid who started volunteering about a month ago and scarcely leaves the building. Michael overlooks him as being someone who's bound to up sticks and leave after his first bad call, but Castiel has higher hopes.

There's suddenly a pair of legs sprawled across Castiel's lap, one he soon identifies as being Meg Master's "Some right sickos out there, I'll tell ya now. If I ever get a call like that, there'll be hell to pay…"

"Unfortunately, we still have to be professional." Castiel sighs.

"So, you're telling me you didn't give them shit for being a couple of jerk wads?" Jo intercepts.

"Well…"

Meg is now grinning "Oh, Clarence! That's my boy."

He shoves her legs away, but can't help the small smile playing on his lips as he gets up to leave "Like I said, I talked to them about respect and understanding. And their lack of either…"

The small cafeteria bursts into laughter and Castiel can't help but beam at the reassurance that he really does have friends.

Yeah, he should have left about three hours ago, but Castiel never feels right about leaving the rest of them to the night shift. He could always tell Michael he's going to keep taking calls at home this evening and leave, but that would mean he'd have to work from his lounge at night. It's something he's never felt comfortable with; late night calls are always the trickiest. It's then that the callers become hysterical and angrier. Castiel hates the silence of his lonely apartment, with nothing but the drunken ramblings of despondent callers to keep him company.

So he'll stay – that's decided. Maybe just a few more hours; when Balthazar comes in (as he usually arrives early morning) he'll slip off unnoticed. It's not like he has an early shift at the Gas-N-Sip tomorrow. He'll get home, go to sleep and probably wake up in time to have a shower and make some food before going to work at three.

The phone rings, snapping him out of his head. His hand flies to receive the call before he has time to supress the oncoming yawn.

"He-e-loow…" He stifles the sound with the back of his hand "Oh, s-so sorry!"

There's a beat of terrible silence before someone chuckles down the line "Not keeping you up, am I?"

The voice sounds cynical, tired, wrecked. Castiel can picture the man now – probably hauled up in the corner of some dusty bar, just finishing his tenth or so beer of the night.

"No… no! Apologies," He quickly mumbles "H-How can I help you, sir?"

"First," The voice sighs "Don't call me sir. Shouldn't you already know how to help me, anyway?"

"Every person is different," He can feel himself frowning, but tries to keep the confusion out of his tone "I'm not going to say the same thing to a stressed single mother as I am to a depressed teenager, now am I?"

Another chuckle "Touché, touché…"

"So, explain your situation to me. Why are you calling?"

"Do I really have to answer that?"

"Specifically, yes. Well, no… You don't have to say anything, but it does help."

"You wanna know why I want to die?"

Castiel stiffens "Yes. Yes, I do."

"Kinky bastard, aren't you?" The voice sounds lighter, more relaxed – the words mingled with a soft smile.

"Um… I don't –"

"Forget it, dude. Just hit me!"

"Why would I want to hit you?" He frowns once more "It's physically impossible for me to do so over the phone, anyway."

Silence. Heavy, deafening silence "Are you for real?"

"E-Excuse me?"

"Are you a little slow, or something?"

Castiel sits up, clearing his throat and preparing for a difficult conversation "I hardly see how my physical capabilities have anything to do with –"

"In the head, you idiot!" The voice is full-on laughing now "Are you slow in the head? Geez…"

"My brain is functioning at the average rate, I can assure you."

"Man, man…" The laughter is now breathless "Tell me, are you a fucking wizard?"

That's a trick question, surely. Perhaps it's a pop culture reference? Usually, Castiel's lack of knowledge when it comes to celebrities and TV shows is never an issue when taking a call. People normally just get straight to it and tell him their life story.

"I don't understand that reference," He treads lightly "I'm just a human being baring no magical powers."

"So answer me this," There's a rustling noise like someone moving around "How come I was a stone throw's away from offing myself five minutes ago and now I'm frickin' laughing?"

Castiel relaxes slightly "That's a good thing."

"Yeah, it is. But it doesn't make much sense."

"Sometimes, all a person needs is to feel normal. Laughter is the best medicine, after all."

"Loada crap, but alright. What's next?"

"Well, like I said, it would be best if we discussed why you were having these thoughts."

"Thoughts?"

"Suicidal thoughts… It's okay to admit –"

"I'm not a whiny bitch!" The voice growls "I know what I am… how I feel – I don't give a damn what you think about me! So why the hell would I not admit it?"

Castiel closes his eyes for a moment "And what are we admitting to?"

"You know what."

"Tell me."

The line crackles and his pulse flutters; something about this one is both parts frustrating and intriguing. He wants – needs – to help this man.

"I feel like shit." Simple, to the point. That's good "Every. Single. Fucking. Day."

"Why do you think that is?"

"I dunno."

"You must have an idea, maybe –"

"I was laughing before and now you want to get me all depressed again?!"

He smiles a little "As promising as moments like that are, it's simply not enough to stop an ongoing problem. What happens when you stop laughing and you remember why you called?"

"Guess I'll overdose…" He sounds bitter "That'll teach Sammy a lesson."

"Who's Sammy?"

A moment's hesitation "Uh… Sam. Doesn't like being called Sammy; he'd string me up by my balls if he heard me saying that."

Castiel laughs once, more out of politeness "Is he a relative? A friend?"

"Brother. Yeah… uh, younger brother."

"And why do you think overdosing would teach Sam a lesson, exactly?"

"Uh… don't… don't wanna talk about that anymore, sorry."

"There's no need to say sorry."

"What's your name, then?" The voice asks after a beat.

He gets that a lot; it seems people feel more comfortable when they can connect a voice to a name. Thought it's against company policy to give out personal information, Castiel is well-prepared for these moments.

"James. Jimmy. Call me whichever."

"Huh… you don't sound like a James, if you ask me."

"What do I sound like?"

"More of a… Tom, kinda guy."

Castiel shakes his head a little "I sound nothing like a Tom."

"Well, whaddya make of my voice? Go on, take a wild guess, Jimmy."

He sits back, spare hand clenched tightly in his lap "Paul."

"Paul?!"

"Yes…"

"Paul's a family man, an office worker… Paul does the cooking on a Thursday and goes bowling with his mates every last Friday of the month, for Pete's sake!"

"W-Who's Pete?"

There's a sigh "It's Dean. If you really were wondering, my name is actually Dean."

Castiel unclenches his fist and tries to picture Dean. He's tough, defensive, stubborn… He probably wears jeans and ratty t-shirts. Maybe he has facial hair? That seems likely. And cold, dark eyes. Maybe he needs glasses but refuses to wear them and constantly squints…

"Tell me about how you're feeling, Dean."

There's a distant crash somewhere on the other line, following by the muffled sound of raised voices. Someone shouting "Again?!" and another voice answering "Fuck you!"

Dean curses under his breath "Damn… I gotta go, Jimmy. Thanks for the weird-ass conversation."

"Dean, wait –" The line cuts off before he can finish.

It's not until he gets home early morning that he realizes how strange that call had been – verging on unprofessional considering it mostly consisted of idle chatter. Castiel can't help but wonder how things turned out for Dean; perhaps it's the natural carer in him. Questions like who came crashing into the room? and why was his brother such a sensitive topic? float around his mind. A constant, nagging worry.

But, it's not like that kept him up all night or anything... right? Right.

Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed the first chapter. All reviewers will be featured in future chapters - faves and follows are also very much appreciated :)