Chapter Text
Castiel was born with a gift. A gift that divided people straight down the middle between belief and ‘Get outta here! Ghosts aren’t real’ . But they were, and he could see all of them. The ones that met the most gruesome and horrible ends, the ones that couldn’t move on, the ones that were still looking for their unfinished business. Toeing the line of the veil between our world and what lay beyond.
He was 6 years old when he met his first spirit, an elderly woman named Margaret. She was the previous resident of their family home. At first, he was terrified, frightened that there was this strange woman in his room watching him sleep at night. He told his parents, who were non-believers, of course. Being raised in a God-fearing home had led him to believe that he was cursed by the devil himself if he had such abilities. He was told he should suppress his dumb ideals for fear of being cast out, told that no righteous man should be able to commune with such evil.
But Margaret wasn’t evil. She was a sweet old lady. She would ask him about his day when his parents flat-out ignored him. She was a shoulder to cry on when his brothers were mean. She would guide him with his power, telling him to always trust his gut instinct and helping him shape and hone his talent as much as he could. Margret taught him to not be afraid of his gift but to embrace it.
As he grew older, he learned everything he could about the paranormal, witchcraft, and monsters that went bump in the night. He was completely enthralled and fascinated by all of it. His parents were convinced it was some rebellious phase, simply done to spite them. But it’s not like he was disrespectful to them, he was just a high schooler with a hobby… A strange and unusual hobby that Castiel eventually learned to keep to himself. After all, he was already a bit of an “odd duck”—Margaret’s words.
But his talent extended further than just communing with the dead. He learned how to help spirits on their way to the other side. Margaret had been his first. All she wanted was to see her husband again, and as tearful as their goodbye was, Castiel was proud and happy in the knowledge that she was in a better place with her beloved Frank. He learned how to rid a home of vengeful and troublesome spirits and the importance of keeping sage and salt stocked up in the pantry, while also making sure that every room in his home housed at least one piece of iron within its walls. He had never gone as far as grave desecration to salt and burn a spirit’s remains, but at least he knew how to if it was ever needed.
But sadly, ghost hunting didn’t pay the bills.
Castiel disliked his job. It was the same shit every day. Paperwork: reams upon reams of filing, sorting, notarizing, organizing, copying and printing, along with taking calls, making coffee and fetching lunch. If someone had told his fresh-faced college self that five years from now he’d be back in his hometown working for his father’s real estate company as a glorified secretary, Castiel would have laughed and asked them to share whatever they were smoking.
To Castiel, this was only supposed to be a temporary gig. Just something to help pull a little money together after he left college so he could give this life thing a real try, but his mother had been so pleased when he said he wanted to help out. She loved the idea that her rebellious, gay, pagan-devil-worshipping son who tarnished their good Christian name had finally seen the light and was settling down into a ‘proper job’. Now, five years later, he still can’t bring himself to tell her or his dad that the family business is not where he saw himself in the long run.
And nor did his older brothers want him there.
Being the youngest of three meant he was at the bottom of the pecking order. Anything remotely interesting or seen as an easy sell always went through their father first, then would trickle down through each of the brothers. First to Michael (the oldest, who was earmarked to take over when their father retired and who was as strait-laced and god-fearing as they came). Then to Gabriel, the troublemaker of the family, with enough charisma to charm his way out of any situation. And then, finally, to Castiel. It had been a long while since Castiel had even stepped foot inside a property. Instead, they just left him to contend with the paperwork that nobody else enjoyed doing. Including Castiel.
The large gray filing cabinet rattled as he pulled open the top drawer, sifting through and organizing the latest crop of properties into folders. It would be so much easier to digitalize all of this, but his father was very much stuck in his old-fashioned ways. In more ways than one…
Castiel was vaguely aware of a shifting movement beside him, the light fabric scrape of an expensive loafer across the scratchy polyester carpet, and was unsurprised when a large hand smacked the top of the cabinet. A gesture that was done to shock him, but Castiel had 30 years of putting up with Gabriel’s tricks, and nothing about his brother’s antics came as a surprise anymore.
“Today’s your lucky day, Bucko!” he announced, tossing a set of keys across the surface of the cabinet with a harsh, scraping rattle. Castiel looked up from the papers in his hand, his brow furrowing and his head tilting in confusion. He recognized those keys. Three simple golden keys, each one looking almost identical to the last, secured together by a flimsy bit of cable tie and a paper tag. The same set of keys that had been kept in their “Properties for Sale” lock box for the better part of two years. The same set of keys had been passed from his father to each of his brothers, all of them unsuccessful in selling the house.
“The old Singer place?” Castiel asked, looking from the keys to his brother’s smirking half smile.
“The old owner called yesterday. Said they didn’t care how much it sold for, just that they needed it to sell. Plus, Dad wants the place off the books, finally.” He tapped the top of the filing cabinet with a bright smile. “Look sharp, you’ve got your first viewing at 11.”
“Me?! Today ?” Castiel blanched.
“Why not?” Gabriel shrugged. “You’re a big boy now, Cassie. Thought it about time you should handle a big boy’s house.”
Castiel smirked, pushing the drawer to the cabinet closed and resting his hip against the metal, smoothing down his tie and crossing his arms. “But I thought you were the one to— how did you put it— show that place who’s boss?”
Gabriel rocked his head back and forth, considering the remark. “There may have been some over-exaggeration on my part, yes.” Gabriel snatched the keys from the top of the cabinet, tossing them in the air and catching them repeatedly. “Do you want the place, or shall I give it back to Michael?”
“No… I’ll do it,” Castiel groused, his hand snapping out to catch the keys mid-flight before they dropped back into Gabriel’s hand. “I suppose it gets me out of the office.”
“That’s the spirit!” Gabriel barked, slapping his palm between Castiel’s shoulder blades and jolting him forward. “And if you hit them with that positive can-do attitude of yours. I’m sure the place will be sold within a week.” Castiel could practically taste the sarcasm dripping from his comment.
It wasn’t the first time Castiel had visited this property, though it had been some time. His first car, a golden Lincoln Continental, was practically a regular at Bobby’s Auto Repairs when Mr. Singer was alive. Nobody knew their way around a car quite like he did, but when it started costing more in repairs and maintenance than it did to drive the thing, Castiel was forced to sell and opt for the much more reliable pickup truck that he still proudly drove.
His brothers would mock him for it, of course. They all lived that flashy lifestyle with fast sports cars and state-of-the-art homes, but Castiel wasn’t into materialism. His apartment was small and cheap, and his truck (while it had seen better days) still ran like clockwork. He was content with what he had.
The arch made out of old twisted metal and car parts welcoming him to “Singer’s Salvage Yard” still sat prominently at the top of the driveway, but the mountains of scrap cars and rundown machinery had been long cleared away. Castiel was only now realizing how big the land that came with the property was.
He followed the old dirt road up to the front porch of the large old farmhouse, parking his truck and gazing out through the windshield. He sighed heavily, he could now see why the place had been on the market for so long. To say this place was a ‘fixer-upper’ was an understatement. Everything about its aesthetic screamed neglect.
The house sat alone in a large plot of dead grass and dirt, slap bang in the middle of the large clearing of forgotten trees of the neighbouring forest. Its blue wooden exterior walls look weather-worn, the paint peeling in places. The awning of the wooden porch stretched across the front of the building, flecked with old peeling paint and moss-ridden shingles, green furry masses that clung to the tiles where the whole thing sagged dangerously in the middle. Even the wooden beams holding up the covering looked like they were on their last legs, weather-worn and thinner than they probably should be to hold up such a weight.
A few of the windows on the first floor had been boarded up, the bland and weather-damaged plywood obvious against the white frames and sky-blue paint job. However, the roof and gray concrete chimney place looked stable enough. Silver linings, Castiel thought.
Flipping down his visor, he gave himself one last look over in the tiny rectangular mirror. Bright blue eyes stared back at him, and he roughly ran his hand over the day-old stubble that covered his jaw (he knew he should have shaved this morning) before running his fingers through his mass of dark brown waves, teasing them into some style and shape before the potential buyers arrived. Finally, after straightening his navy tie and smoothing down his suit jacket sleeves, he opened the door and slid out of his truck, stepping out onto the weed-ridden driveway.
The first thing he noticed was just how peaceful it was here. The Singer place was just outside of town, isolated and far away from the bustle and noise of everyday life. The wind caught in the treetops of the bordering forest, shading the place from onlookers and giving it that little extra bit of seclusion.
He followed an old forgotten trail around the side of the house where the old auto repair shop used to sit. The tunnelled corrugated steel shelter was long gone, but the metal barn-looking shelter it had been attached to still stood proudly… just about. Truthfully, it looked like one harsh gust of wind would bring the thing tumbling down. Beside that was a large garage, something that looked fairly new (in the sense that Castiel couldn’t remember seeing it before today).
Four harsh gray concrete walls held aloft a solid corrugated roof and looked like the sturdiest thing on the property. Two weather-worn wooden barn doors were the obvious entry into the garage, but a heavy-looking padlock was the only thing keeping them closed. It was attached to a latch that would probably take one solid swing of a hammer to get at what was inside. As he moved closer to the garage, his mind drifted to the small collection of keys that currently sat heavy in his pocket. But nothing he was given looked like it would even come close to fitting.
His hand reached out, tugging at the padlock. The large doors rattled with the motion, but the latch (as flimsy as it looked) did not budge.
Something in his subconscious grabbed his attention as he reached for the padlock. His hair stood on end as he felt an unmistakable pull directing him to the back porch of the property, like a magnet dragging to reach its counterpart.
Someone was watching him.
His attention darted behind, dropping the padlock with the motion, expecting to see someone standing on the old wooden rickety steps. But there was nothing, even if the hairs on the back of his neck still prickled at the unwanted interruption. He had heard no footsteps, no rumble of a car engine announcing the potential buyer’s arrival—they weren’t due for another 15 minutes or so. But yet, he could still feel eyes on him, eyes coming from the house.
Castiel shook it off as he headed back to the front of the property, unsurprised to see his lone truck sitting out front and with only one set of dusty footprints. He fumbled in his smart slacks' pocket for the ring of keys as he made his way up the few steps to the front door. The wooden panels beneath him creaked and groaned in protest.
Hubcaps still lined the outer wooden walls like gaudy bits of modern art, a pleasant reminder of what this place once was. It took him two attempts to find the right key, the thing sliding into the lock with surprising ease and giving a welcoming click as it unlocked.
Even when he’s on the job, there’s always a little thrill to be had for going into places that are unusual to him. He got to experience it on his first-ever tour of showing clients around with his father, and it was nice to know that it didn’t weaken with each rare visit he was allowed to take.
He was greeted instantly by a deep musty smell, the kind of scent that you would associate with old books in the deserted part of a library, tinged with the hint of mouldy dust. The hallway was half and half. Dark wooden panels lined the lower half of the walls, with the upper covered in a dark crimson wallpaper, peeling off at the corners and cobwebs hanging from the paper. The motif stretched into the neighbouring lounge.
As Castiel moved further into the house, he stepped through a large archway that separated the two spaces. To his left, a large rectangular structure hidden beneath a dust sheet (a desk perhaps) sat in front of what looked like a beautiful, but grubby-looking ornate fireplace. An original iron grate was surrounded by beautiful handcrafted floral tiles. Opposite him, in front of the large bay window—that still had long floor-length, dusty mustard-coloured drapes hanging there—was what Castiel assumed to be a sofa hidden beneath another old dust sheet. It sat nestled beside an old, empty bookshelf built into the wall that stretched from floor to ceiling. In fact, there were three more bookshelves of similar size and style in this room, all built within the walls of the room. Castiel wondered if Mr. Singer had a large enough book collection to rival his own.
He moved further in, taking in the sounds of the floorboards as they creaked in protest and moving into the kitchen, separated from the lounge by a set of sliding double doors. This room had no additional furniture, unlike the lounge, but still came with all the original amenities that you would expect to find. Wooden-fronted cabinets lined the wall above the incredibly dated oven. The countertop was dark oak, contrasting nicely with the pale-yellow cupboards beneath. Pale green shutters covered both windows, drawn shut to keep out the light. The same green tones mixed with the floral wallpaper that (much like the rest of the place) was hanging on to the walls for dear life. It was a decent-enough sized space, enough to fit a family-sized dining table inside with room to spare.
Castiel made a move towards the adjoining room, what he imagined would be the laundry room and stairs leading down to the cellar, but in doing so had to bypass the back door. It was the exact same location where he felt that weird “being watched” energy earlier, but he was unsurprised to find nothing but a haggard-looking door and dirty window pane that was attempting to let in the daylight.
A floorboard creaked in the lounge behind him.
Castiel halted his movement, turning sharply on his heel to see what had caused the disturbance, but once again there was nothing. His eyes, however, were drawn to the corner of the room. The bookcase that stood there was now doused in a shadow. A shadow that, moments ago, wasn’t present. Once again, the hairs on the back of his neck started to rise, a feeling that he had gotten used to over the years, a feeling that had once filled him with utter terror but now seemed as normal to him as dressing in the morning.
He wasn’t alone.
He took a deep breath and calmed his mind, trying to gauge what—or who—was there. He expected to see a grizzled old-timer in a battered trucker hat with a greying beard, but that’s not who Castiel felt was watching him from the corner of the room. Their energy was weak, though. He could sense it fraying at the edges, not strong enough to penetrate through fully.
The front door creaked open as a set of footsteps walked into the hall, a female voice calling, “Hello?” and startling Castiel more than the presents in the room with him.
“Sorry, we’re a little early.”
With his professional mode activated, Castiel plastered on a warm, inviting smile as a woman’s face peeked around the archway into the lounge. He tightened the knot of his navy-blue tie and walked confidently forward.
The woman smiled at him, noticing his arrival. She was accompanied by a much taller man, his eyes scanning the place with a mixed look of horror and disgust.
“That’s alright. You must be the Burkheads?” Castiel greeted warmly, extending his hand. “I’m Castiel. I’ll be showing you around today.”
Mrs. Burkhead offered him a handshake first, then Mr. Burkhead. Leading with his open palm and outstretched arm, Castiel indicated towards the lounge.
“If you’d like to follow me, we can start down here and then I’ll take you upstairs.”
Leading the way, Mrs. Burkhead walked past Castiel into the lounge, her head swivelling from one direction to the next, taking in all the sights. However, Castiel’s attention drifted to the corner of the room once more. The shadow was gone, and the bookcase was now bathed in the natural light flooding from the bay window.
Castiel offered what best he could with such short notice of prep time he had, giving his best sales pitch, making sure to point out features that he found endearing. They even ventured tentatively down into the basement, which, by the looks of things, offered nothing of importance. Just some old workman’s bench along the nearest wall and a dusty old furnace in the far corner that looked like it should really be condemned. But their tour of the downstairs was over fairly quickly, which just left the upper floor.
He had been made aware earlier that there were three bedrooms and a bathroom, but stepping up here was brand-new territory for him.
The three of them headed up the creaking stairs onto the first floor, and what he noticed first was a beautiful stained-glass window at the end of the hallway. The sun shone through the glass, casting beautiful patterns across the wooden floor. All things considered, this place was turning out to be a pleasant surprise to him. Mr. Singer had a rustic taste in décor for sure, but nothing seemed out of place or too over the top, even with something as flashy as a stained-glass window.
While the Burkheads wandered in and out of the rooms, Castiel took a moment to examine the place himself. The first two rooms were bare—empty four-walled shells with more peeling wallpaper. However, the bathroom was larger than he expected, with a large rolltop bath sitting under a frosted window, and a lime-scaled showerhead above. Even the toilet and sink still looked functional, if a little dated.
There was a creak on the landing beyond the door. Castiel turned, expecting to see one of his viewers behind him, but was surprised when he saw the doorway empty.
“Is it me, or did it just get really cold all of a sudden?”
Intrigued, Castiel stepped out of the bathroom to find Mr. and Mrs. Burkhead on the landing a few feet away from him.
“Come on Richard, cut it out,” his wife replied, looking unamused.
“I’m serious! I swear I can see my breath. Look!” As if to prove his point, he opened his mouth and blew out a lungful of air. His breath misted around them before disappearing into the atmosphere. That wasn’t a good sign.
As soon as Castiel’s foot landed on the mottled dusty rug that ran the full length of the landing, the door behind him slammed shut, startling all three of them. He reached for the door handle to try to reopen it. It was locked, the handle refusing to budge. Which was even more curious, considering there were no physical locks on this door.
There was another series of creaks and knocks from the floorboards, this time behind the couple. It started them both, but when they turned, there was nothing but the stained-glass window behind them.
“Ok, I’m done. This place is giving me the creeps,” Richard announced, walking hurriedly past Castiel and towards the stairs. His wife called after him and then followed, the pair disappearing down the stairs.
Castiel stood there, unsure of what to do with himself, blinking back his surprise when the front door slammed shut behind them.
“...Bye then,” he called out sarcastically into the empty house. “Ass butts.”
There was a flicker of something in the periphery of his vision, a movement that drew Castiel’s attention back down the landing. The shadow was back.
Unlike the huddled black mass he had seen downstairs, this shadow had a form to it. It was a person. Standing tall against the stained glassed window, the colours and light pass through the translucent dark shape, a head with no distinguishable features sitting atop broad shoulders. A long lean body tapered off into a pair of legs that bowed outwards and narrowed towards a smokey dark wisp that seemed to phase through the floor. But as quickly as Castiel had gazed upon the figure, it flickered and vanished out of existence.
Castiel now realized why this place hadn’t been sold yet.
And why Gabriel had gifted it to him.