#psychologist!reader

It’s subtle at first.

Your half-finished psychology doctorate flickering in the back of your mind as you observe the Winchester brothers, you always had to remind yourself that not everybody wanted to be analysed. You think it’s the reason why it’s so subtle at first, because you specifically aren’t looking for it. 

But then it isn’t so subtle.

It’s in the way Sam flinches when you and Dean slam doors. It’s in the way Dean yells at you and Sam for going places without telling him. It’s in the way Sam shuts down, tears threatening to spill when Dean yells at him, in the way Dean refuses to cry, yelling at you to get out when you catch him crying in the bathroom one night.

Sam and Dean both have PTSD.

The realisation hits you one night, alone in your room after Dean had yelled at you and Sam for being back late. Sam had practically bolted to his room, and Dean had stomped off angrily after him, likely to his own room. You’d been left there, wondering what the problem was as you went to your own room, and as you’d sat down on your bed, it had hit you.

It seemed so obvious now that the thought had occurred to you. The boys had experienced plenty of traumatising things, the only thing you really questioned about it was what had pushed the boys over the edge.

You’d spent the night on your laptop, making sure that you weren’t over analyzing what seemed to be an easy diagnosis. You didn’t want to be wrong about this. This was your friend's life. Your boyfriend’s life.

Sam found you, half asleep, a PTSD website still open on your laptop, sometime mid afternoon the next day. Despite your lack of sleep, the tiredness in your bones, you had the bright idea to close your laptop, keeping your findings from your lover until you were absolutely sure.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” Sam asked, a small, fond smile on his face as he stared at you from the doorway of your room. When the two of you had moved into the bunker, you’d decided to have your own room, somewhere you could go to take some time for yourself, the same thing going for Sam and his room two doors down. In the middle of the rooms was your shared room, where the two of you spent most nights.

“I just needed to do something.” You replied vaguely, yawning and stretching your arms up and over your head. He smiled, nodding as you stood and walked over to him, his arms wrapping gently around you. You leaned into him, soaking up his warmth. “Is there coffee?”

He laughed, a bright and happy thing, something that had you almost regretting ever thinking that he and his brother had PTSD.

Almost.

“Yeah, Dean made some as a peace offering.” Sam told you, an amused huff leaving his nose as you pulled away and hurried to the kitchen, seeking the gift from the older Winchester brother.

Later that night, you retreated to your room once more, pulling out your laptop to continue your research. It continued like that for a week, until Sam confronted you in the library.

“Did I do something wrong?” He asked, arms crossed in front of himself. Dean looked up from the book he was reading, some lore book that he had barely been paying attention to. You looked up from your own book, the one you’d picked up from the local library, the one about PTSD that you’d swapped out the cover for.

“What? Why would you think that?” You asked, putting down the book, your bookmark slipping between the pages to the place you were at. Sam eyed the book, the pink sticky notes poking out from the first half of the book a blaring difference. It was different, because you hated analysing books.

“You haven’t slept in our room in a week.” Sam frowned. You frowned too, looking over at Dean. He was looking between the two of you.

“I… I’ve just been doing something. I didn’t want to keep you up.” You explained, but it was weak. You knew the real reason you hadn’t slept in your shared room. You didn’t want him to see what you’d been researching. Sam knew it was a weak excuse too.

“What? What have you been doing for a week?” Sam asked.

“Sam…” You said softly. You glanced over to Dean again, looking for some support. He didn’t speak up.

“No. I want to know what’s had your attention for the last week.”

You sighed. “Sam, I just… I realised something, okay? I just needed to make sure what I realised was right and that I wasn’t just making it up, okay?”

“What did you realise?” Sam wasn’t letting go of this, and you could tell just from his tone of voice that he wasn’t going to anytime soon. You sighed again, looking around for the book you hadn’t realised that you’d put down. You pass it to him, and then you’re gone, disappearing into your room.

Sam looks down at the book in his hands. It was a thick hardcover book, with a plastic-y cover protector on it. He smiled at the cover protector faintly, it was bright purple, clearly something you had bought and added to the book. It was so utterly you, and even if the two of you were maybe-fighting, it still made him smile.

He flipped open the book to the first pink sticky note, careful not to let your bookmark slip from between the pages. He notes that the pink ones are simply to show where you marked something you want to go back to. The real notes are stuck inside the pages, in blue. The first one only says one word: Sam

Confused, he flips to the next pink marker. The blue once more showcases his name. The next one says Dean, and the one after that says Sam again. After thorough inspection, all of the notes have either Sam or Dean written on them. He flips back to the first one, one that has his name on it, and he begins to read the words on the page.

While flinching is a natural human response designed to protect the body from harm, excessive flinching could indicate that a person is living with unresolved trauma. Individuals who have experienced trauma, particularly physical or emotional abuse, may flinch in response to specific triggers that remind them of the traumatic event.

Sam.

He flicks to the next one, eyebrows furrowed.

Moreover, triggers associated with past traumatic experiences can cause a physical response in the body. For example, a sudden loud noise or a raised hand can trigger a flinch in someone who has experienced trauma, as their body is anticipating a threat based on past experiences.

Sam.

The next one.

Often the best response to extreme threat is to act aggressively to protect yourself. Many trauma survivors, especially those who went through trauma at a young age, never learn any other way of handling threat. They tend to become stuck in their ways of reacting when they feel threatened. They may be impulsive, acting before they think.

Dean.

When an individual is subjected to yelling, their body enters a state of heightened stress. The adrenaline and cortisol levels in their system rise, leading to a fight-or-flight response. This response, although a natural defense mechanism, can be particularly overwhelming for individuals with PTSD. It can exacerbate their symptoms, intensify feelings of anxiety, and magnify their emotional distress, potentially causing them to relive their traumatic experiences.

Sam.

Volatile anger: This kind of anger is characterized by spontaneous bouts of excessive/violent anger. Volatile anger/rage is the most recognizable form of anger and often is a surprise to the survivor and those around them. Most commonly found in males with substance abuse problems, anyone can experience volatile anger that includes verbal outbursts, property damage, physical violence, and emotional abuse.

Dean.

And on, and on, and on. For pages and pages, you’ve put post it notes on different behaviours that he and Dean display, different behaviours that indicate… PTSD.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It feels funny in his mind as he turns it over. It’s heavy, something he’s never really thought about. Something that he’s pushed to the side. He’d known that you had some sort of psychology degree, but he’d never thought that you would use it on him, on Dean.

He sets the book into Dean’s hands harshly as he storms out.

“You’ve been studying us?” He yells as he bangs on the door to your room. Sam knows you’re in there, there was no doubt about it. “Come on! Open up!”

And then you’re there, the door open, standing in front of him. “No. I haven’t. I noticed it last week, when Dean yelled at us for being out late. I’ve been making sure I wasn’t making something out of nothing. I wanted to be sure.”

And then Dean’s there, the book raised in his hand, with the purple cover protector pulled off, his face angry. “PTSD? Are you friggin’ joking?”

You glance over to Sam, and he realises that he’s curled in on himself. He stands up straight, looking between you and Dean expectantly.

“C-PTSD, actually.” You said, calmly.

“Oh, and that makes it better? What the hell is C-PTSD?” Dean snaps.

“Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It’s a ‘sibling’ condition of PTSD. It’s usually found in kids, people who experience longer lasting trauma.” You look between the brothers. Your face is still calm, even as the Winchesters tower over you. They’re bigger than you, in every sense of the word. But you’re not afraid of them. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Oh, really? You’re just saying that. We’re not traumatised.” Dean practically spat. You look over at Sam, raising your eyebrow as if to ask him if he agreed with what Dean was saying. Dean looked over to his brother as well. “Right, Sammy?”

Sam thought about the parts that you’d noted in the book. All of them had fit. And, well, you were most of the way through a psychology doctorate when you’d join them to begin hunting. You had the most knowledge about any of this, more than him, more than Dean.

“Right, Sammy?” Dean snapped loudly, pulling Sam out of his thoughts with a flinch. You glared at Dean, who pulled back as if he’d been burnt. His tone dropped the anger, turning into a whisper. “Sammy?”

“Just try not to yell at him.” Your voice was soft, soothing, as you talked to Dean. Sam’s hand reached for yours instinctively, and you let him take it.

“I think you’re right.” Sam said, his voice low, barely heard even in the quiet of the hall. You looked over to him, a small, encouraging smile on your face. Sam looked over to Dean. “All of the notes, they fit. They fit us to a ‘T’, Dean.”

Dean looks between you two, opening the book. He reads them all as the three of you stand in the silent hallway. You and Sam watch as his shoulders sink, the fight leaving him entirely. When he looks up, his face is blank.

“Okay. What do we do about this?”

You look between the brothers, a solemn look on your face as you answer. “We work through it. One day at a time. And it will take time. But we’ll get through this. The three of us. Together.”

“No way am I missing out on this.” Charlie wiggled between Dean and you, and the four of you stood in a group hug in the middle of the bar.

A minute later, the hug unraveled and the four of you sat at the table. Dean asked what was new in your lives, so you caught him up on your crazy work schedule, Charlie’s never-ending dating life, and the new dog that your other roommate had adopted. Sam perked up at that last part and you promised to introduce him to the fuzzy, furry hairball of a puppy before they left town.

“So, where’s this friend you wanted to introduce us to?” You asked, sipping on the soda you’d ordered. “The newest member of your super elite Impala Squad?”

“Impala Squad?” Sam choked out, laughing. “Do you realize what you’ve just done?”

Dean nodded thoughtfully, ignoring his brother. “I like that. The Impala Squad.” He smacked Sam’s shoulder excitedly with the back of his hand. “Dude! We should start a band and name it The Impala Squad!”

“Thanks, Y/N,” Sam sneered jokingly, giving you his best bitch face. “He’s never going to let this go.”

“Really though, where is this new guy?” Charlie redirected the conversation back onto track. “I was excited to meet him. You two made it seem like we’d all be great friends.”

Dean sobered up slightly and glanced over at the bar. “He’s had a rough few days and wasn’t feeling up to socializing.”

“Cas isn’t usually up to socializing anyway,” Sam butts in. “Great guy, but he definitely needs to work on his people skills.”

You follow Dean’s eyes to where a man sits at the end of the bar. A light tan coat was thrown over the back of the barstool and his white shirt was slightly rumbled. Even from this far away, you could see that the deep blue tie he wore loosely around his neck matched his eyes. As you were taking stock of him, he glanced over and caught your gaze for a brief moment. In those few seconds, you could have sworn that you saw straight through to his soul.

“He’s usually a pretty happy dude,” Dean was saying when you came back to yourself.

“Yet in his eyes, all the sadness in the world,” you mumbled, unaware that you were even speaking.

“Huh?”

You turned your attention back to your friends, catching Charlie’s understanding look. You’d watched Phantom of the Opera so many times together, that she immediately knew exactly what you meant. Castiel might be a pretty happy dude most of the time, but there was something in his past that left him a tortured soul.

“I’m going to go talk to him.”

“Y/N,” Dean reached out for you when you stood up, grabbing your hand. “He really has had a bad few days.”

“I know. But Dean, this is what I do. You guys are recruiters who talk college graduates into working for your firm, and I’m a psychologist who talks people into talking who don’t want to talk. And you know what? They usually feel better after talking to me.” You glanced over at Cas again and felt a pull towards him. “Besides, he needs someone to talk to.”

You squeezed Dean’s fingers once and pulled away, walking over to the figure hunched over the bar, nursing his drink.

He caught sight of you coming closer and a slight scowl. “I don’t know what the Winchesters told you, but I don’t really want to meet anyone new tonight.”

So, it wasn’t just socializing tonight, then. There was a hang up on meeting other people. Bringing new people into his life.

“Oh, I know. They told me.” You slid onto the barstool next to him and signaled for the bartender. “Hi, I’d like a virgin strawberry daiquiri for myself, and whatever he wants next.”

“You don’t have to—”

“What do you want, Cas?” You weren’t about to take no for an answer.

He held your eyes for a moment longer before giving in and tapping the rim of his glass. The cute bartender nodded her understanding and set to work. In no time at all, she set your glasses down in front of you and you slid her some cash. “Thank you… sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Chantelle.”

“Thank you, Chantelle,” you said with a genuine smile.

A minute passed in silence before Cas broke it. “Do you always do that? Get people’s names?”

“Yeah.” You kept your answers light and casual, with just the right amount of teasing. “I typically always want to meet new people. But it’s not for everyone,” you shrugged. Cas just grunted and turned back to his drink.

Twisting the barstool around, you watched the few people on the dance floor for a few more minutes, sipping at your drink. Your silence would pull Cas out of his shell. You were sure of it. People who told their friends they didn’t want to talk, typically just didn’t want to talk to them. Complete strangers, however…

“Virgin daiquiri?” He finally asked.

You bit down a grin, glanced at him briefly, then turned your attention back to the dance floor. “Yeah. I’m on call this week.”

“On call? What do you do?”

“I’m a psychologist. If the hospital gets an emergency tonight that requires my special set of skills, I need to be ready to go.”

He nodded lightly. “Does that happen often here?”

“It seems to happen more and more often,” you whisper, a pang of sorrow hitting your heart.

If you one day found yourself out of a job because your services were no longer needed and everyone was mentally, psychologically, and spiritually healthy, you would be the happiest unemployed person ever. Unfortunately, it seemed like your workload just kept building as more and more people needed you.

“That can’t be easy,” he mused.

You downed the last of your drink and shook your head. “It’s not. But you see it too. I mean, you recruit college kids with Sam and Dean. You see the colossal amount of stress they’re under. The impossible standards they’re held to. Of course, you see them at their best when they’re dressed to impress, but I’m sure you can’t miss the agony and loss in their eyes.”

He shook his head in understanding and cast his eyes down to his glass. The eyes that had the same tortured look you had just been describing.

I bet you see that look every time you look in the mirror.

“But you also get to see them grow,” you continued. “You see these young adults, fresh out of college, stumbling along as they try and figure out the real world. You see their triumphs when they figure out the smallest of details. I bet that’s a pretty great job.”

The corner of his lip twitched, nearly a smile. “Yeah. It’s not too bad.”

“I just feel sorry that you have to ruin that great job by traveling around the country with those two idiots over there. I can’t imagine how many times they’ve dragged you into one of their stupid prank wars.”

At that slight ribbing, Cas actually chuckled, shaking his head fondly. “You’re telling me. I’ve learned how to sleep with one eye open. Did you know they can pick locks? Nowhere is safe.”

“Back in college, I woke up to my entire room covered in shaving cream. Yeah, I know all about their lock-picking shit.”

Cas took another sip of his drink and looked at you head on. “Does it ever get better? Do they ever let up?”

“Sorry, bud. It only gets worse the more you get to know them. Though, I guess you do get to team up with them every once in a while to prank someone else, but… other than that… I suggest you sleep with both eyes open.”

As the night wore on, Cas’s walls broke down even quicker than you had expected. You went from planning pranks for him to pull on the Winchesters, to talking about work, to talking about his dark past with his family. He loved them so much, but they had impossibly high standards that he couldn’t live up to. That he didn’t want to live up to. He didn’t want to be a cookie cutter Novak. He wanted to be his own person, as well he should be.

“Last call!” Chantelle yelled to the patrons who were still lingering. You looked up in shock, surprised that so much time had passed. Charlie and the Winchesters were gone. Normally they would have told you they were leaving, but a text on your phone alerted you that they hadn’t wanted to interrupt your conversation and risk Cas clamming up again.

“Looks like I’m your ride back to your hotel, Cas.”

He stood on unsteady feet and you helped him into his coat. After thanking Chantelle again, you headed out to your car. Dean texted you the hotel name and Cas’s room number when he left, so you knew exactly where to head. The conversation between you two headed into shallower waters on the drive and, before long, you found yourself in front of his hotel room door.

“You call me if you ever want to talk, kay? Or if you need help dealing with the Winchesters.”

He smiled at you as he pulled out his keycard. “Thank you for tonight, Y/N.”

“You’re welcome, Cas.” You hesitated only a moment before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Now go get some sleep so you’re ready to deal with the Winchesters tomorrow. Ten hours in a car with them… I do not envy you at all.”

“Don’t remind me,” he fake-groaned as he opened his door. Just before entering, he looked back at you. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

After the door closed between you, you whispered, “I sure hope so.”

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