At 11:00 a.m., Castiel meets his first patient.
Heâs been working at his new job for five weeks, and finally, finally, he gets to start seeing patients. This â this is the part heâs been waiting for. This is the reason he went to school for eight years to get his doctorate, barely had a social life, slaved over a dissertation, completed a year-long internship at an inpatient hospital, and finally moved halfway across the country to â of all places â Larned, Kansas. Needless to say, it definitely wasnât for the Kansas scenery⌠which isnât terrible, heâll admit. Itâs even kind of charming in a rustic, open-sky-and-wheat-fields kind of way. But it certainly isnât exciting.
No, Castiel is here because the facets of the human mind have always fascinated him, especially the abnormal facets. It never fails to fascinate him what humans are capable of, and Larned? Well, Larned State Hospital has a state security program with a forensic psychiatric population.
His first five weeks had been the basic monotony that comes with starting any new job â filling out new hire and HR paperwork, completing specific certifications required by the hospital, learning the hospitalâs policies and procedures, becoming familiar with his coworkers and the hospital hierarchy â but today he is finally starting to see patients for individualized therapy, and heâs itching to start. Next week, heâll start leading some of his own group therapy sessions as well.
Castiel is in the middle of reviewing the file for his patient â a 26 year old male, admitted to Larned six years ago after an incident involving a double homicide â when a knock comes on the door and he straightens up in his seat, looking at the door.
âCome in, itâs open,â he calls.
The young man who enters â Winchester, Dean, says the label on the open file in front of him â is tall, perhaps a bit taller than Castiel himself, although itâs hard to tell while Castiel is sitting down. Dean is wearing gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt, but the colored band around his wrist marks him as an inpatient. Heâs fidgeting with it, spinning it with the fingers of his other hand, obviously uncomfortable. He has short brown hair and the greenest eyes that Castiel has ever seen as Dean fixes him with a questioning look, standing uneasily in the doorway.
Heâs also incredibly attractive, Castiel canât help but notice, because heâs not blind. But heâs also a professional, and he learned a long time ago that mental illness makes no distinctions between shapes, sizes, or attractiveness.
âDean? Please come in and sit down. Iâm Dr. Novak.â He stands and reaches a hand across his desk, offering it to Dean.
Dean crosses the office and takes it. His grip is surprisingly firm and warm, released a moment later as he sits down in the armchair in front of Castielâs desk.
âYou seem pretty young for a doctor,â Dean says lightly, settling in the chair and fixing Castiel with his gaze. Itâs keen and intelligent, and Castiel gets the feeling that Dean is evaluating Castiel, just as Castiel is evaluating Dean.Â
âPerhaps compared to some. I can assure you that I do indeed have my doctorate -â
Dean shrugs, a loose and easy roll of his shoulders. âNah, itâs cool. Youâve gotta be better than Dr. Adler, right?â
Castielâs lips twitch slightly, but he carefully keeps the rest of his expression blank and polite. Zachariah Adler is another psychologist working in the program, and Castiel had worked closely with him over the past five weeks as he tried to get his bearings and learn his new job. He hadnât beenâŚoverly impressed, to say the least. Something about Adler always seemed to leave him with a strange, oily feeling of distaste in his mouth after every interaction.
Not that his patients needed to know that.
âSo, Dean.â He pushes the file to the side of his desk and pulls a notebook closer, pen at the ready. âThis is our first time meeting, but Iâll be taking over your individualized sessions. Why donât you tell me a little about yourself?â
Dean nods once and starts talking, voice suddenly flat as if reciting a memorized speech. âMy name is Dean Winchester. My diagnoses are paranoid schizophrenia with religious psychosis. Iâve had individualized CBT therapy once a week for the past couple of years, and I have group sessions on Fridays. I take 200mg of Clozapine and 100mg of Sertraline in the mornings, and in the evenings ââ
âDean, thatâs great, but I can find all of that information in your file,â Castiel interjects, cutting him off. âWhat else can you tell me about yourself? What should I know about you? In your own words?â
Dean looks unsure. âUhâŚwell, my name is Dean. Iâm 26. This place is okay, but some of the staff and other inpatients are dicks.â Dean seems to be warming up now, a small smile tugging at his mouth and his green eyes brightening. âIâm an Aquarius. I like long walks on the beach and frisky men and women. Oh, and I see dead people.â Dean drops his voice to a theatric whisper for this last sentence, widening his eyes meaningfully and leaning forward in his chair.
Castiel is scribbling on his notepad, trying to make annotations in Deanâs own words, when Dean starts laughing.
âDude, donât write that last part down, it was a joke.â
Castiel looks up, pen halting and head tilting. âA joke?â
âYeah, itâs â you havenât seen that movie? âI see dead peopleââ, he repeats again, using the same dramatic whisper and gesturing with his hands.
âIâŚdonât understand that reference.â
âWhat? Itâs The Sixth Sense!â At Castielâs blank face, Dean continues, becoming more animated and gestures becoming wider. Thereâs a strange charisma and exuberance to Dean that has Castielâs eyes fixed, following every sweeping gesture and movement of his hands. âHow do you not know The Six Sense? Bruce Willis? That weird little kid from Forrest Gump?â
Castiel stares at him blankly, and Dean looks flabbergasted.
âYou havenât seen Forrest Gump either? Where the hell have you been, living under a rock?â
âSomething like that,â Castiel says dryly, and taps his pen against the notepad. âSo â to clarify - you donât see dead people?â
Dean grins at him, a sudden wide smile that crinkles the corners of his green eyes, and itâs so dynamic and startling that Castiel canât help but think, for the briefest moment, that he might be in very big trouble.
âNo, I donât see dead people,â Dean assures him. But then, just as suddenly as the grin appeared, it slides away and Dean seems to sober, leaning back in the chair and huffing a resigned high. âNo, not dead people, Doc. Just angels, demons, and monsters.â
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