"I don't like him."

"No arguments here."

They'd sent Castiel away after it was clear that they'd gotten all they could from their pre-show interview (and it was going to be a hell of a thing to edit as it was). Dean now watched him from the window of their motel room. Castiel hadn't come in a car or with anyone else, he was just walking.

"No really, I don't like him," Dean repeated, turning around and ticking off on his fingers as he spoke, "I don't like his story, I don't like his weird way of talking, I don't like his fucking straight-backed posture, and I don't get what his angle is."

"He is pretty intense," Sam half-agreed, "But maybe he doesn't have an angle."

"Everyone's got an angle, Sammy," Dean countered.

"Not necessarily," Sam argued, "Whether it's really true or not, I think he actually believes what he was telling us."

"So either he's a good actor or he's schizophrenic with a few lucky coincidences," Kevin added from the other side of the room.

"Well," said Bobby, shrugging, "If it makes for good television, I guess we're stuck with him for now.

Dean didn't particularly want to spend another minute with Castiel. The so-called psychic creeped him out in ways that the others didn't even seem to have picked up on. It was his eyes mostly. They were magnetic, and they stared through Dean while Dean stood paralyzed. It was as though he could feel them rubbing up against the thoughts and secrets that lived in the darkest parts of his mind, the things he would never imagine saying aloud. That was, of course, a ridiculous idea, but it added to Dean's overall mistrust of the strange man. At least, he reasoned to himself, Castiel would only be with them for a few days at the most.

"So, all we need you to do is walk through a couple rooms and tell us what you're feeling," Dean explained, his arms crossed and his chest puffed out. So far, Castiel hadn't been great at following directions (considering most of those directions involved pretending to see and talk to spirits that, he vehemently insisted, weren't there at the time and that he wouldn't fake his abilities). Dean tried staring the other man down. How the hell were they supposed to get anything done with this nut job around? Had anyone even screened this guy before they tried putting him on the show? Castiel stared back mildly.

"That sounds quite reasonable," Castiel agreed. Dean half wanted to give him a good shove to his trench coat-covered chest to see if he would react with anything other than monotonous neutrality.

And so they wandered through the many rooms of a two-story colonial as Castiel looked at walls and objects with a look of deep concentration. The property, which lay hidden in the back woods of some backwater town (of-fucking-course), was reportedly one of the most haunted in the area, having passed from terrified owner to terrified owner. It had settled in the hands of an interior decorator who had hoped that all that was needed was some dedication and some fresh paint before the place was sellable again. But after having spent a few nights in the house herself, she found that that wasn't the case. Sam and Dean were fairly certain that the house's reputation was creating a circular effect of fear that had made its way back to this freaked out woman, but a job was a job.

Castiel stopped in the center of the living room, looking down at his feet. It was the first thing he'd done besides look constipated since they'd started their tour.

"Here," he said, turning to where Bobby was holding the camera. Dean stepped forward to join him.

"Here?" Dean asked, his well-trained on-camera demeanor letting none of his skepticism leak through. "What's here?"

"This is where Joe Fletcher spirit is strongest," Castiel replied. He was squinting at the ornate carpet beneath his feet with intense interest.

Dean's eyebrows shot up before he had a chance to stop them. "You have a name already?" Usually their guest psychics waited until the very last minute, if ever, to reveal names. Usually they went with a lot of hand waving and spoke of vague presences first.

"According to county records," Sam said, flipping through some papers in his hands, "Joe Fletcher was the original owner of the property. He died in 1957 of an-"

"An aneurism," Castiel concluded, still staring at the rug. "Here."

The conviction in Castiel's voice made that strange chill settle over Dean again. Okay, so the guy had done some research. And he was convincing. Didn't change the fact that he was just working some angle.

Castiel looked up and Dean expected another impromptu staring contest, but Castiel was looking through him and just over his shoulder instead. Kevin was there with the second camera, but Castiel didn't keep his eyes on him for long. He turned his head slowly, as if tracking something making a path through the room, and then stood with his eyes focused on the air to his left. And he stilled.

"Well?" Dean prompted. Castiel blinked out of his momentary trance and turned to Dean with a sharp, neck-cracking motion.

"We need to leave. All of us," he said. He took a few careful steps off the rug. "Now!" he growled when the others didn't follow suit. And then he disappeared into the hall with Bobby behind struggling to keep him in frame.

Outside, Castiel didn't stop his long strides until they were out of the long shadow of the house in the late afternoon sun. He was hunched slightly, taking in long breaths and letting them out slowly. His face looked pained. Dean watched the cracks in his demeanor grow and felt a stab of sympathy; maybe there was something to Sam's theory after all, and Castiel really believed that he'd seen something. And that something had pushed him to the edge of a panic attack, apparently. Dean placed a hand on Castiel's shoulder.

"Hey, you okay, man?" Dean asked. There was no response. "Castiel? ...Cas?" Castiel shivered, despite his many weather-inappropriate layers. Dean made a cutting motion to Bobby and Kevin. They didn't need this to be on camera.

Castiel tilted his chin back and put his face towards the sky and his breathing steadily, gradually, returned to normal. "I'm sorry, Dean," he said quietly. His voice sounded almost like it usually did, but it had ragged edges that Dean hadn't expected from him. He sounded exhausted. Castiel shook himself a little, and then straightened out and addressed the Ghost Brothers crew levelly. "You may continue filming," he said, and his voice was normal again. Bobby and Kevin exchanged looks, and then went about setting up their shots again.

"You sure?" Sam asked. He was standing beside Dean, who had just noticed that his hand was still resting on Castiel's shoulder. He dropped it to his side and took a step back. Castiel paused, and then nodded once.

"I am," he said simply.

"Can you tell us what happened in there?" Dean asked, going into on-camera mode again.

"Joe Fletcher has spent a long time in this house," Castiel replied. He spoke to Dean directly, not Sam or the camera. "He is… confused. There are always strangers here. He doesn't like them touching his belongings, many of which are still in the house, and they ignore him when he tells them to leave. So he becomes violent."

"So, then, it's a matter of communicating with him, right?" Sam asked. "Getting him to understand that he's died?"

"No," said Castiel, now turning to Sam. "It's too late for that. I have never been around a soul that holds such a grudge. He was not a kind man to begin with, and he has had a long, long time for this anger to build. Anything that could have once been good or understanding in Joe Fletcher's spirit has been stripped away." He looked down and away from either brother. "I haven't been doing this for long," his voice dropped to just above a murmur, "But I have never felt this kind of rage. This kind of… evil."

Castiel's words were impressively ominous and, good television aside, Dean found himself very nearly wanting to believe that Castiel was actually speaking the truth.

Evening stretched the long shadows to the point of breaking, and night settled over the two-story colonial as the group made their projected plan for the night. Castiel had insisted that there was no difference between night and day when it came to the prevalence of spirits and that there was no magical barrier of daytime that protected anyone. It was quickly explained to him that the whole point of making this show was to give people their desired fill of fear, and that no one would be particularly scared of two tall, handsome men in plaid traipsing through a nicely furnished family home in broad daylight. And so the crew set up their equipment and waited until any surrounding lights had vanished. Castiel remained outside.

"Okay." Dean stood in front of Castiel again and tried to ignore that thing he was doing with the not blinking and the standing just a little too close for Dean's comfort. "Sam's in there now doing a general sweep of the house for EMF." With their fake EMF detector, Dean didn't say. The best way to deal with Cas, Dean decided, was to try to go along with his delusions. "And Bobby and Kevin are monitoring the night vision cameras from the van. You and me are gonna do a question session in the living room, we're just going to ask some general questions and see if we can get a response. Don't worry, though, even if we don't get anything that shows up on video or sound. You can do a little psychic translating, alright?"

"You still do not believe me," Castiel said. "And your pity is misplaced.

"Well fine then." Dean threw his hands up in defeat. "Whether I believe you or not, we still need to get footage ofsomething."

Castiel nodded after a moment. "Do you have salt?" he asked.

"Salt? You want to do the salt trick?"

"Trapping spirits within salt boundaries is one of the few methods you employ that has some basis in reality." Dean decided to let the comment slide.

"We can grab some from the trunk," he said, nodding to where his Impala was parked by the side of the road. "Try not to make too much of a mess in there, though. I don't want some crazy interior decorator coming at me with throw pillows because we messed up her antiques."

Soon he and Castiel were back inside the house. Dean aimed a handheld camera towards the living room carpet where Castiel was putting the finishing touches on a neat salt circle. They were in almost total darkness and Dean could only see Castiel's actions through the green glow of the tiny camera screen. Otherwise, there were only shadowy outlines. Dean swung the camera around to point to his own face.

"Castiel is now setting up a salt ring to restrain the spirit of Joe Fletcher in the exact spot where he died," Dean explained. "Hopefully this will concentrate the spirit enough so we can try to make contact."

"His soul has spread throughout this house." Dean turned the camera back to Castiel, who now stood stiffly beside his circle. "That is how he has been able to move objects and cause terror throughout this space." He looked around the room. "I can feel him fighting it, but I believe he will manifest here soon."

As they waited, Dean swept his camera around the room. His heart pounded in anticipation. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he was really getting into this one. It actually felt like something was about to happen.

Thunk.

Dean jumped, genuinely startled by the dull noise. He focused on Castiel again, as if he had been the one that had made the sound. Castiel was looking towards one wall with his eyes wide. There was a bookcase there, and one book now lay on the floor in front of it.

"Holy shit," Dean hissed. They were alone in the house. How had Castiel done that? Was it just the luckiest of coincidences?

Even as he watched through the tiny screen, another book slid from its shelf and fell to the floor with a thud. And then another. On an end table nearby, a glass figurine of an elephant flew to the wall and shattered.

"What the fuck," Dean breathed, just as urgently. His brain felt like it was unhinging. Sam had to be playing a prank on him. There was just no other explanation.

He heard ragged breathing and turned quickly back to Castiel. Only they weren't alone any longer, and Castiel wasn't the one doing the breathing.

Within the confines on the salt ring, there stood a man that Dean was able to see with his naked eye. He wore a dark suit and a round-brimmed hat and look of pure anger. He was also pale and glowing a faint blue. Looking at him was like trying to look through a haze of heat, though the room had dropped considerably in temperature, and Dean found that his eyes were having a hard time focusing. Castiel stood nearly behind the man, and yet Dean could still see him, as if each of his eyes were looking at two different images at once.

Anything he had been about to say— every curse word he had ever learned— left Dean's head immediately as he stood frozen in the wake of something that couldn't possibly be real.

"Leave," the man said, his voice was as clear as any human's.

"Joe Fletcher," Castiel said, and his voice was calm and even. "You are the one who no longer belongs here."

"Leave!" he repeated, turning to Castiel. Objects around the room shook, but nothing fell or broke. Castiel frowned and reached an arm over the salt line.

"Cas, don't!" Dean whispered, concern for the other man's safety overriding his temporary immobility. Castiel, however, disregarded his warning.

"I'm sorry for this," he said as he reached forward. He placed his hand onto the ghost's forehead, a surface that was, apparently, solid enough for him to touch. There was a flash of white light that blinded Dean's dark-adjusted eyes for a few seconds, and when he could see again, the screen on the night vision camera revealed only air between him and Castiel again. He stopped recording and dropped his arm limply to his side and then stumbled sideways until he found the wall, where he groped about for the light switch.

Castiel stood beside the salt ring as he had before, as mild looking as ever. In the light, the living room, though messy now, looked unnervingly— unbearably— normal. Dean ran from the house.

He reached the Impala and leaned heavily against it. He put the handheld on top of the roof and then ran both his hands through his hair. He kicked at one of the Impala's tires just to be doing something, anything, in response to the thoughts running through his head. He felt a scream bubbling into his throat and channeled it into a loud, voice-cracking "FUCK!"

Behind the Dean's muscle car, they'd parked their large equipment van. They often set up their monitors inside the van to look over earlier footage and decide what more they needed, which was where the majority of the Ghost Brothers crew was at the moment. Sam was the first to emerge at the sound of his brother's scream. He rushed to Dean's side.

"Dean, what's going on?" Sam's voice was filled with concern. Dean didn't like Sam seeing him this vulnerable.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Castiel was there now, too, "I should have prepared you better for what was about to happen."

Sam looked between the two of them in confusion. "Did something happen?" And Dean laughed. He laughed, bitter and disbelieving and borderline hysterical.

"Yes, something happened," he said, looking Sam square in the face. "It's real. It's all real. He—" He gestured towards Castiel. "—is real."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Bobby was looking at him like he'd grown a second head. Dean rubbed a shaky hand over his face and grabbed the camera from the roof of his car. Wordlessly, he tracked to the right spot and handed it to Sam to play.

The three men crowded around the tiny screen and watched, confused and skeptical at first. But as the video played, they slowly transitioned to horrified shock. When it had finished, all three looked up at Dean again.

"It's real," he confirmed grimly. Castiel stood nearby, shuffling awkwardly.

"I should not have brought you in there for that," Castiel apologized again. "I wanted to show you the truth, but I was overzealous. Something could have gone wrong." He placed a hand on Dean's shoulder in imitation of Dean's earlier gesture and Dean felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. A tiny voice at the back of Dean's head told him that everything would be okay because Castiel was there and Castiel would make sure that nothing else would happen. His chest deflated with sudden relief, though he couldn't quite figure out why.

"So where did you send him?" Kevin, sounding like the kid that Dean tended to forget he was, broke them from their strange moment. "He's gone, right? Well where did he go?"

"Truthfully, I do not know," Castiel replied, "But I know that it is where he belongs and that he can't come back."

"Well that's all fine and dandy," Bobby interjected, "But what the hell are we going to do about this?" He pointed a stiff hand towards the camera that he now held. "We can't show anyone."

"He's right," Sam agreed, "We show one object moving on its own and we get angry letters calling us frauds. They'll think we faked it." He shook his head. "Even though this time we didn't. And Crowley will have our asses if we try to pass this off."

Dean pressed his lips into a hard line. "We'll say the camera cut out mysteriously," he said, "Right after the first book fell. It's boring, but it'll have to do."

"Do you want to film an explanation now?" Bobby asked. Dean nodded at him, and then at Castiel, indicating that the latter was free to remove his hand from Dean's shoulder any time. He did, and most of the calming feeling left with it. Ignoring the cold spot of absence on his shoulder, Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and then looked into the camera lens.

"You got it working again?" he asked, already acting as soon as the cameras started to roll. He paused, then continued. "So we've just checked all of our equipment and we're back online, but we lost everything—and I meaneverything— for a while in that house. I can't describe the things that I just saw, but unfortunately we couldn't get it on tape. I've been doing this for a long time, and I've never seen a spirit so powerful." That, at least, was the truth. "He was strong enough to knock books from the shelves and drain our camera's battery. Thanks to Castiel's intervention, though, he won't be coming back to this house." He looked to Castiel briefly, then back to the future audience. "And hopefully neither will we. After tonight," Dean's voice was heavy and tired and worn, "I can honestly tell you that I have never been more scared in my life."