(Thanks to guitardee for reviewing the last chapter! I'm glad you're looking forward to more!)
"Ya know… you were much cooler before. None of this interrogation shit."
He wishes he could be more like a friend to his callers, sometimes. There's only so far you can go with compassion whilst asking them personal questions and trying to get to the bottom of their depression.
He puts the elusive Dean out of his mind the next day. It's just past noon when he wakes up and trudges over to the bathroom, muscles aching and stomach growling. He jumps in the shower, shaves and stumbles out into the hallway, clutching the towel fastened around his waist.
The fridge is a depressing site; the shelves are practically empty save a quarter-full carton of milk and a packet of sliced ham. He has more luck with the bread bin, managing to scavenge a few stale slices and burning them to a crisp in the toaster – just how he likes it. The cubes of butter melt at first contact, dissolving to yellow puddles that moisten the bread; he can feel his stomach clenching with impatience at the mere sight of it all. He eats it too fast and ends up hiccupping on his return journey to the bathroom, where he brushes his teeth and gets changed into his pants, white shirt and blue vest. Then off to the Gas-N-Sip it is!
It's another long day of stacking boxes and signing off packages before he gets to crawl back to his apartment. Now, with no distraction to keep his mind focussed, his thoughts drift to Michael's Angels. He wonders if he should show his face this evening; he's not on the rota for today, but it's not like Michael turns away eager volunteers. In fact, most of his shifts start with him turning up out of the blue.
When the silent walls and lack of decent television get to his head, Castiel heads out after eight and takes the bus. Balthazar is back on shift and greets him with a hardy slap on the back.
"Ah, I missed you yesterday, Cas!" He smiles "Sorry about that. I just got to work without saying hello to anyone."
"It's fine, Balthazar. How were your calls?"
"Oh, good, good… yeah. Just a couple of nuisances, but mostly okay."
"That's good."
"And how about you? I heard you had quite the call yesterday."
Castiel feels his heart beat quicken; does he know about Dean? Had someone caught on that Castiel had been chatting with a caller and investigated? It's not like he did anything wrong; he didn't give out his real name or ask anything unprofessional. Then why is he worrying?
"Those blasted teenagers," Balthazar clarifies "What a couple of horrid little brats, ay?"
His muscles unclench slowly "Oh… yes. Yes, they were… quite unpleasant."
"I can imagine."
"Well," Castiel claps his hands together and offers a meek smile "I should get to work."
"Don't run yourself ragged, Cas." Balthazar rolls his eyes "I know you're not meant to be on shift today, don't lie…"
"I never said I was! I'm just… passing the time."
He hums unconvincingly "That's a dangerous hobby you've got there, old pal."
Castiel doesn't breath another word, just watches Balthazar turn down the corridor and slip into his own office. Maybe he does have a point; isn't opting to talk to suicidal callers because you have nothing else to do quite sick? That's something he'll have to consider in more depth later on.
Five days later, that familiar voice tickles his ear as he picks up the phone. It's rougher than last time – groggy and just a touch more slurred – but it's definitely him.
"Dean?" He feels silly addressing him in that way, like he might sound a little obsessive by remembering not only his name but his voice, too.
Luckily, Dean just laughs loud and clear before replying with "Jimmy? S'at you? Oh, man! What a… what a… fuck. Whadda surprise!"
Stick to the rules, this time. Remain professional.
"I think we need to discuss alcohol."
"Ya think?"
"You're intoxicated –"
"No shirt, Sherlock."
"– And I know that you think that that will help, but it won't."
Dean burps "'Scuse me… What the fuck you think you know about me, Jimmy?"
"Next to nothing. But that's beside the point. I know that drinking yourself stupid might seem like the only way to stop the pain, but that's only because you haven't tried looking anywhere else."
"Like?"
"Some people find a hobby can distract them from feeling down, but I don't recommend that here. I think you've got some issues you need to face head on, Dean."
"Like?"
A quick glance out the window tells him it's at least past nine, meaning that Dean's called twice at night. Why would that be?
"Do you work?"
"The fuck?"
"Do you work?"
"Alright, alright… Yes, I work. 'M not some, some… hobo or whatever."
"Okay, good. What does your job include?"
"I fix cars, sell scrap metal, flirt with the customers…"
Castiel smirks "That's lovely, but let's keep on task. It can be good to explore your kind of lifestyle."
"Well, that kinda is my lifestyle, Jimmy! I fuck people. I fuck 'em here and there and everywhere."
"And why is that, Dean?"
"Cos sex is good? I dunno! Fuck…"
"Have you ever been in a stable relationship?"
"Once. If by stable you mean fucking more than once a week and going out to the cinema and shit."
Castiel cringes slightly; he really isn't experienced in this area "That's not what I mean by stable, Dean. Which tells me that you haven't been in that kind of relationship before."
"So?"
"So, you may be lonely."
"Fuck you, Jimmy! I'm not lonely."
"We touched on the subject of your brother last time, but you felt uncomfortable. Why is that?"
"Ya know… you were much cooler before. None of this interrogation shit."
He wishes he could be more like a friend to his callers, sometimes. There's only so far you can go with compassion whilst asking them personal questions and trying to get to the bottom of their depression.
"Sorry, Dean. Sam means a lot to you?"
"Course… He's ma brother, after all. That kid means the goddamn world to me…"
"Have you ever told him this?"
"Shit, no! He hates my guts, Jimmy. Wants me fucking dead, probably."
"How come?"
"Said I didn't wanna talk about that crap!"
"Then what do you want to talk about, Dean? Because sooner or later you're going to have to face the fact that such trivial matters as which name best suits your voice is not going to help you feel any better. You're hurting; everyone who calls is hurting. Tell me why you're hurting and maybe I can help you."
He breathes out shakily, awaiting Dean's response. He doesn't get one; the line cuts dead.
This isn't right; he shouldn't feel this awful. People have hung up on him more times that he can count and yet now… he wants to curl up in a ball and cry. Okay, maybe not. But he wants to punish himself. No, no, no! That's not the solution, either. He wants to apologise. That's it. But that would involve Dean calling again and somehow, he doubts he'll be so lucky.
Balthazar catches on almost immediately and pounces on him in the corridor "What's rattled your chain?"
"E-Excuse me?" He manages to stammer.
"You've been acting cold all week. Did you have a bad call?"
He swallows "No. No, I'm fine. Just –"
"Ah, ah, ah…" Hands bring him back against the wall as he tries to escape "Nice try. Now tell me the truth."
"I didn't have a bad call!"
"Liar."
"I swear –"
"Cas, please." His face is suddenly etched with concern – something of a surprise when it comes to Balthazar "We're friends. I know you. Tell me the truth."
"I…" Balthazar's a friend; he'll understand "I think I may have been rude to a caller because I said some bad things and then they hung up on me which means anything could have happened and that is much worse than a bad call because I know for a fact that it really was my fault this time!" And breathe…
Balthazar blinks "What did you say?"
"I just… I told him that he was avoiding the problem. I said I couldn't possibly help things change if he didn't confide in me."
"And what's wrong with that?"
"It was a very direct approach."
"How many times have you had this caller?"
"Just twice… but there's something about him, Balthazar. He sounds so… broken."
"Perks of the job, Cas. We get to meet lovely people."
Castiel frowns "What if Dean hurt himself because of me?"
"Dean?"
"Oh!" There goes the blush "H-He gave me his name, that's all."
"So you're on a first name basis?"
"You know I never give out my true identity…"
"Jimmy again?"
"Of course."
"Huh. Well… what can I say, Cas? You didn't say anything unprofessional; who were you to know it would go that way?"
He sighs irritably "It's my responsibility to read people and assess that kind of thing! I should have been able to see what kind of caller Dean was. I should have been more sensitive."
"Well, sometimes they just need a good kick up as the arse. There's no point in blaming yourself."
"But I do… I can't help it, I just do."
Balthazar rakes his fingers through a tuft of grey-blonde hair and tuts "It wasn't your fault, you know."
"Yes, you've said, but –"
"I don't mean Dean," He interjects "It wasn't your fault, Cas."
Balthazar smiles sadly before retreating down the hallway, releasing his grip on Castiel's shoulders so that he slips down the wall slowly.
Sometimes, he strongly dislikes this whole friendship malarkey; you get too close to people and they end up reading you like a book. Of course, they all know why Castiel suddenly started picking up twice the amount of shifts last year, working himself like a dog as if he's obligated to do so. They can see the guilt thick and heavy, following him like a raincloud above his head. This job… it's his way of making up for his own carelessness; if he can save one life with each call, he might just be forgiven for his selfish ways.
It's not your fault. It's not your fault. It's not your fault.
He pushes those thoughts away – the ultimate step to absolution is first knowing you've done wrong.
"Castiel?"
He looks up from his paper; it's always quiet around this hour, just before noon when the sky is still pale but the air is warm. It gives him time to indulge in the little things, such as reading the local paper (something he should really pay more attention to).
"Yes, Michael?"
The founder of Michael's Angels – Michael himself – is a strange man. Castiel certainly wouldn't call him cruel, but kind is also too flattering a term to describe him with. He's young – latish twenties at the most – with dark, brown hair and grey-green eyes. Handsome, Castiel thinks. Though he'd never mention it… He's the kind of man who's laughter lines just seem like wrinkles nowadays; a personal ambition that too-soon became a business that weighed him down along the way. He'll smile to his fellow volunteers (not that he really has the time to take calls himself anymore) and say things like 'good job' and 'merry Christmas' when appropriate, but it all seems forced – strained. Castiel has the right mind to pity him, but thinks against it; no matter how distant or cold Michael may seem now and again, he's still the man who singlehandedly built this centre up from the ground from his own pocket. His years of hard work and undying passion for the cause have a lit a flame that is sure to burn into the distant future; he's given people who are scared and alone a chance to find comfort with the angels, even if they lack the fluffy wings and halos depicted in the movies.
"My office, please." He taps his chin once "Soon as you can."
Castiel scrapes back his chair but follows a good few steps behind. Something isn't right. Something is very, very wrong. Michael never brings people into his office, only ever taps his chin like that when deep in thought and scarcely says please so sparingly anymore.
He waves a hand at the wooden bench fixed to the far wall – one that looks far too much like a naughty step for Castiel's liking "Uh, take a seat, Castiel."
He complies with a small, submissive nod.
"Right," Michael's crossed hands remind him of his Middle School Head Master "I think we need to talk about this Dean fellow."
Castiel can feel his blood chill instantly, like cold water to the skin "Who?"
"Don't try me, Novak. I got a direct call yesterday afternoon by some man named Dean specifically asking for someone called Jimmy."
He scratches at his wrists nervously "O-Oh?"
"And please don't deny the fact that your little alias is Jimmy because I already know."
"What?! I mean… How?"
"You think I don't get enough letters addressing the anonymous Jimmy from people who've been 'saved'?" Michael scoffs "And considering these letters date back to 2 years ago and you and Balthazar are the only male permanent staff who've been around that long, the rest wasn't too difficult to work out."
Castiel dips his head "Well… then why are you so upset about Dean?"
"I'm upset about Dean, Castiel because not only did he somehow find my personal number and actually ring me, but he also asked to speak to Jimmy because he wanted to say sorry."
"S-Sorry?"
"Why exactly am I getting calls like this, Castiel? What has this Dean got to be sorry for? Did you go off task during his call? Did you flirt with him?"
He can feel his cheeks burning "Wh-Wha –? No! Why would you –? I would never…"
"Everyone knows of your… preferences, Castiel." Michael says with a sigh "But if you want to get emotionally attached to your callers, do it in your own time."
"We've only spoken twice! For no longer than ten minutes at a time… I promise, Michael. I-I'll transfer the call to someone else if he rings again, I'll –"
He stops at the raised hand of interjection "Please, don't bore me with your blabber. Just get this sorted. If he calls again, tell him there's nothing to be sorry about. And for God's sake, remain professional!"
"Yes, Michael. I'm sorry… I shouldn't be so careless."
"It happens to the best of us, Castiel. So, I can only imagine what happens to you."
Castiel clears his throat, raises from the bench and nods once – curt and stiff. Perhaps he takes back his earlier judgement; Michael is cruel. He's cold-hearted and malicious and cruel.
Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed this chapter. All reviewers will be featured in future chapters - faves and follows are also very much appreciated :)