Chapter Text
Sunday truly was a blessed day. The afternoon especially held a softness which couldn't be felt at any other time. With sunlight slanting through the trees, city traffic humming low and lazy through the mild early autumn air, Cas walked hand in hand with his partner, Dean, both of them free and unbothered.
Their morning has, so far, been relaxed. They’d slept in, shared pancakes in their tiny kitchen with the window cracked open— to let out the smoke from the first burnt stack— and now they were meandering through the old cobbled streets of New Jersey with no destination in mind.
Cas wore Dean’s flannel, the sleeves slightly too long and rolled to the elbows. He liked wearing Dean’s clothes. He did it often. It felt like he was anchoring himself in the here and now. Making a tangible connection, something he could hold on to even if everything around him was falling apart. The flannel was soft from years of use, frayed at the cuffs, and smelled faintly of motor oil. It wasn't about how it looked, but it wasn’t just comfort either. It was a way to stay close whenever Dean wasn't near.
Dean never minded. Never said a word. And that mattered more than Cas could ever explain.
Today they were exploring the old industrial district. They’d lived in Paterson nearly a year now, and were still uncovering new corners of the city. Much to the chagrin of Cas’s family, who would’ve preferred they spend Sundays visiting them. But Cas wasn’t one for family dinners — too much drama. His older brothers were guaranteed to start a fight before dessert, and their dad—who would inevitably be the one to provoke it—had no intention of stepping in.
Cas had been born to wife number two, raised by wife number three. He loved his father, but the man wasn’t easy to get along with. A writer, prone to turning their lives into fiction. Cas had spent years trying to keep Dean out of those pages. There was no line his father wasn't willing to cross in the name of entertainment.
When they first started seeing each other, his dad had been ecstatic. Dean had his own family tragedies—two dead parents, albeit decades apart, and an unconventional upbringing, living out of motel rooms in as many towns as Cas had hot dinners. "Book deal," his dad had said, practically after their first hello.
Some might say it was a mistake moving closer to that chaos, and away from the few friends they'd forged their relationship around. But the change was necessary, they needed to move on with their lives, not stay rooted in a past that held nothing but tragedy, and besides, they were still a good two hundred miles east of his family home. It wasn't like they were on the doorstep.
Dean's brother was working in Boston now, and they'd visit him as often as his work allowed. But Sunday — it was their special day. They spent their Sunday's just the two of them. Enjoying each other's company, like they were the only two people in the world. Exactly how they liked it.
They passed a weathered brick building nestled beside the Passaic, so close they could hear the river rushing beneath the warped boards where they trod. The discoloured brick in the shape of a water wheel showed what the building once was — its sash windows had been painted over, not replaced. In fact many of The Mills’ original features had been maintained. As they moved around to the front, a faded wooden sign, hung crooked above the door, came into view: The Mill & Manticore – Antiques, Oddities, and Forgotten Things.
"Hey, check this out," Dean said, nodding toward the sign with a grin that already spelled trouble.
Cas tilted his head, intrigued. "It's most certainly haunted."
"Even better," Dean grinned wide, tugging Cas gently toward the entrance.
Cas wasn't fond of anything that defied logic. Not because he didn't believe in things like that, like ghosts and monsters could exist — on the contrary, he'd seen his fair share of monsters over the years — it's because the danger they presented, messing with powers out of one’s control, never ended well.
That being said, Cas also was never one to say no to anything Dean requested. So, squeezing his hand tight, he allowed Dean to pull him through the door.
It smelled musty inside. The kind of smell that comes from stagnant air, old things left untouched, like time and life had moved on around this place, leaving behind nothing but layers of dust and the memory of things, of people who were long gone.
A chill crept up Cas’s spine as he wandered the aisle of lost and abandoned treasures. The store was, as its sign suggested, a collection of oddities. Divided into sections, each open unit seemed to belong to a different seller. A market stall without the barter—or the stall. The items ranged from furniture to clothing, from collectors’ pieces to general household junk.
They strolled the mill floor together, their footsteps muffled by the worn carpet under their boots. A bold, misguided choice for a building this old. The floorboards creaked beneath the synthetic weave, and Cas could see the wooden veneer peeking through in places. Original Pine, if he was right about the age of the mill itself. That made the itchy, cheap carpet even more of a travesty. Just imagining the tack holes filled him with irrational rage.
He distracted himself with a nearby unit that looked like someone’s living room had been reassembled for display, like an exhibit in a museum.
China was stacked on a 19th-century dresser. An oil painting of a horse mid-gallop hung on the far wall. A clay bowl sat nearby, a hairline crack visible down one side. In the centre stood a dented butcher’s table, crowded with baskets of mismatched knickknacks: letter openers, a box of used stamps, assorted cotton reels with the needles still nestled between the threads, like the owner had every intention of using them again.
It was humbling. A reminder that no matter how a life is lived, there will always be something left undone in the end.
Cas was turning to move on to the next unit when a lamp, perched atop a small chest of drawers, caught his eye. White porcelain, shaped into a creature that seemed uncertain whether it was meant to be a horse or a goat. Its back hosted the oil reservoir, awkward and proud.
Cas had never seen anything quite like it.
It was hideous.
He had to have it.
"Dean!"
Dean stopped mid-flick through a crate of 70s vinyl and came over without hesitation.
Cas pointed at the lamp and gave him one of his best smiles.
"Oh, you’re subtle," Dean laughed, picking it up. "What the hell is it?"
"I don’t know."
"Which is why we have to have it." Dean read him perfectly.
Cas turned the lamp over in his hands, inspecting it like an artefact. The features were vaguely demonic—hooves, a horse-like body, and a head that flirted with goatish horns. If he had to hazard a guess, it was meant to depict the devil. He searched for a maker’s mark, anything to hint at its origin.
A sudden clunk filled the air and a flash of light blinded him.
A mechanical whir followed.
Cas blinked away the spots just in time to see Dean grinning, a Polaroid camera held in his grip.
"Did you just take a photo?"
Still smiling, Dean wafted the wet print in the air, before slipping it into his jean pocket.
"You use it, you buy it," came a gruff voice from behind them.
They both jumped.
It was an old man. His beard was long and pointed, eyes like steel, staring straight at them. He shuffled past, short and scowling, his expression as weathered and unforgiving as the building itself.
Once he was gone, Dean and Cas looked at each other—and burst out laughing.
At the till, Cas set the lamp down with reverence, Dean still held the old camera in his hands.
The store clerk—who looked eerily similar to the old man they'd just encountered, only much taller—looked down at them with a calm, friendly smile. "Excellent choice," he said, his gaze lingering on the lamp, then moved over to Dean. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—recognition, maybe nostalgia—as he nodded toward the camera. "That’s a Supercolour X-600. They don’t make cameras like these anymore, but a few places still sell the film." He paused, his smile softening. "I can give you a good deal."
"Not many folks use film these days." Dean agreed, musing over the possible purchase.
Cas grabbed the machine and placed it down on the counter, beside the lamp,
"I like the feel of the paper," he replied. "It feels real."
"Yes, digital does have a certain element of soullessness to it," the clerk mused. "There’s nothing more satisfying than the smell of developing film."
"The burning sensation of corrosive substances," Dean quipped.
"Developing solutions are acidic and damaging to health if mishandled," Cas agreed, deadpan.
The clerk stared at them, visibly uncertain, but quickly shook it off and bagged the items with care. He wrapped the camera in crinkled brown paper as if it were something sacred. Cas handed over the money, and prepared to leave when the clerk’s gaze drifted once again toward Dean, who had wandered to take in the display on the back wall.
"You take these?" Dean asked, pointing at a cluster of framed photographs. A mix of landscape and portrait, all black and white, squared and faded at the edges. All featuring the same face.
The clerk nodded. "My wife, Collette." he paused, voice taking on a wistful tone. "She's no longer with us."
Dean’s expression shifted. "Ah. I’m sorry."
The man smiled, not sadly, but with something undefined. "Don't be. I see her every day," he nodded at the collection. "After all, it’s not the photo that’s precious. It’s the person in them."
Cas froze in place, felt something tighten in his chest. The, by now, familiar chill crept over him, slow and invasive, spreading through his body like a virus. Dean glanced back at him, as if sensing his sudden unease.
They smiled their goodbyes, stepped out into the fading afternoon light, and headed home.
It was Monday before they knew it. Dean was out at work, and Cas had the apartment to himself. He stood at the kitchen counter, swatches spread out like puzzle pieces—linen, velvet, organic cotton, one in a bold ochre he wasn’t sure he could justify even though it was his favourite for the new drapes and matching cushion covers. The doorbell rang.
It was their neighbour, a kindly older woman who wore a straw sun hat whatever the weather. She was heading out of town for a few days and needed someone to watch her cat. Cas agreed immediately. He loved animals. One day, when they could afford more than a studio apartment, he’d get Dean proper allergy meds and they’d adopt something ridiculous and fluffy.
As she stepped inside to hand over the keys, her gaze landed on the lamp standing proudly on the already cluttered and markedly out of place oak credenza.
"Oh," she said, blinking. "That’s... quite something."
Cas smiled. "It’s a horse. Or a goat. Or possibly the devil."
She laughed nervously, then handed him a plastic sleeve filled with instructions on the proper feeding of Mrs. Purrignon—named, she’d once told him with a wink, after her favourite champagne. With a final wave, she turned and left.
Cas wandered back in, deciding to take a break from fabrics and tidy up. He gathered Dean’s dirty clothes from the floor, and as he picked up a pair of jeans to launder, something crinkled in the pocket.
A Polaroid.
It was the photo Dean had taken of him in the antique store. Cas studied it, amused. His own face was caught mid-blink, startled by the flash. But the background was strange—there wasn’t one. Just a black void, like the photo had been taken in a vacuum.
Cas smiled, bemused, and set it aside.
He went looking for the camera, eventually finding it dumped in a basket with some of Dean’s other odds and ends. It was definitely old. The casing rattled, the plastic felt brittle with age.
He flicked the switch to charge it, aimed vaguely at the wall, and pressed the shutter. The camera whirred and spat out a photo. Cas waved it through the air like he’d seen in old movies, then waited.
When the image developed, he frowned.
There was a person in the photo. But he hadn’t taken a picture of himself. Had he held it the wrong way around?
The background was the same as in the store—black, endless.
He took another.
This time, the figure was clearer. Not him. Not Dean. A stranger. A woman. Pale eyes. Dark hair. Her mouth slightly open—rounded, like she’d been caught mid-scream.
Cas felt a sharp prickle across his skin. A cold creeping through him. The same sensation he’d felt back at the mill.
He stood frozen. He didn’t know for how long. Only came back to himself when the photo in his hand burst into flames.
Cas yelped and shook his hand instinctively, but the camera slipped from his grip. It hit the floor with a dull clunk, flashed, and snapped another photo on its own. The gears whirred. A blank square spat out.
The photo he’d been holding fluttered through the air, landing face-up on the floor, flame still licking its edge.
