#some... haunting... maybe

“So, Cas.” Dean raps his knuckles on the tabletop impatiently. “You made your decision?”

“Yes.” Castiel brushes his hands of french fry grease and folds them in front of him. “I’ve decided I want to renovate the house. But I have terms.” 

Dean raises a hand. “Look, buddy, hand-to-heart, I won’t charge you for labor. Just a cut of the profits. And supplies, I think that—”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Castiel inhales and rubs his fingers together. He really wants a cigarette. “There’s… things in the house. Things that may be confusing or… surprising.” 

An interest sparks in Dean’s eyes. He leans forward. “Like what?” 

“Like—” Castiel pauses when he sees the waitress walking back toward their table. He watches awkwardly as she deposits the mug of coffee on the table, his eyes flickering away when she glares at him before walking away. 

“Like what, Cas?” Dean prompts again. He tears two pink sugar packets at once and pours them into the black steaming liquid. 

“Like things that my family left behind. Or odd remnants of things.” 

“What, is it haunted or something?” Dean stirs his spoon in the coffee, metal tapping against the porcelain. 

“I have my suspicions.” 

Dean looks up and gapes. “What? Seriously?”

“I have no evidence. But it’s possible.” 

Slurping at his coffee, Dean asks over the rim, “Do you see ghosts? Things falling off the walls inexplicably?” 

Castiel rolls his eyes impatiently. “It’s not important. But this right here, this is my only condition: that you don’t talk about it.” 

“But a haunted house is cool,” Dean whines. “How can I not talk about it?”

“Whatever you see, or discover,” Castiel reiterates, “don’t ask about it. Just accept it and move on. All right?” 

Dean pushes out his lower lip in a pout before he takes a thoughtful sip of coffee. “Okay. But just one thing—before the conditions are set up and set in stone. Can I ask a question?” 

Castiel shifts in his seat uncomfortably. His hands tighten around each other. “Fine.”

“I was back in Ellen’s bar last night, after we met up at your house,” Dean says, “and I was talking to a guy about renovating your house. He was asking me what I was doing in town. And once I said it was your house I was renovating, and what your name was, he was practically blue in the face trying to convince me to not go anywhere near you again. He called you dangerous.” 

Castiel shifts uncomfortably. 

Crossing his arms, Dean stares Castiel down with serious green eyes “Now, I don’t scare easily. And he was kind of drunk off his ass, so I didn’t take him very seriously. But now that you’re mentioning this stuff, I gotta ask: is there any truth to what he was sayin’?” 

Castiel’s eyes travel over Dean’s shoulder, to the cash register where two of the waitresses are huddled together and talking in low tones, all the while glaring in Castiel’s direction. He focuses back on Dean. “People in this town don’t like me very much.”

“Gathered that. How come?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

Dean purses his lips. “Is it going to affect whether or not this renovation gets done?”

“I can’t foresee it doing so. As long as you stick to my conditions.” 

Castiel can feel his breath holding in his chest as Dean stares at him, considering. He finally feels his breath pass through his lungs again when Dean holds out a hand. 

“Okay. Deal.” 

Castiel takes Dean’s hand and shakes it. His hand is coarse and warm. 

“Now.” Dean drums his hands on the tabletop. “You gonna finish those fries?”