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The low hum of Metallica is interrupted by the soft, tentative knocking on his workshop door. “Come in!” Sam calls, stretching his shoulders out of the slump he’d curled himself into, hunched over an unsanded neck.
With great trepidation, Joanna, the new hire, pokes her head into his workshop, eyes like a deer in headlights. “Excuse me,” she says, “But - Castiel Milton is on line one for you?”
Well, that would explain the starstruck look in her eyes. It’s not every day one of the world’s top violinists calls your place of work. “Probably should have warned you about that, huh?” he smiles, chagrined. “Thanks, I’ll take the call.”
Of course, Sam was in her exact position not so long ago. Castiel had a long working relationship with Sam’s mentor, and when Bobby passed along his most illustrious client to Sam, he can’t say he didn’t have a teeny tiny heart attack at the thought of working for someone of such high calibre. He’s gotten pretty used to it by now, but he still can’t deny the little shock of excitement he gets whenever Castiel comes to visit. Muting Metallica entirely, he picks up the phone, suddenly energized again. “Hey, Cas!”
“Hello, Sam, ” he says, gravelly as ever. To anyone else’s ear, Castiel would just sound tired, but Sam knows better - that’s just how he is.
“I didn’t realize you were back in the states! When did you get back?”
“I returned last night .”
“You were in Germany, right?”
“Yes, Berlin. I was judging a competition. ”
“Great. Cool. Very cool,” he rambles, groping around for a pen. “So, what can I help you with?”
There’s a pause, and some static, and Sam can almost see Castiel shifting the phone from one ear to another. “I am concerned about my Mandelli. Berlin was quite dry, and the sudden change in humidity has caused a change in the sound. I do not think the soundpost has moved at all, but I cannot locate the source of the change, although I believe that there may be the beginnings of a crack on the right f-hole. ”
Oh jeez. That’s a fifty-five thousand dollar instrument. That’s not good. “You need me to take a look?”
“Could I come in today? ”
Sam casts an eye over his cluttered desk, the hangers full of half-finished repairs, the stack of yellow paperwork that should have been done yesterday, and hears himself say, “Sure!” then immediately wants to smack himself.
“Are you certain? I more than willing to wait if - “
“No, no, you should definitely come in today,” he says, digging himself in deeper, “I mean, I really would like to check out that crack before it gets any worse, right?” Yeah. That’s definitely why Sam wants him to come in. For the violin. Totally.
“Very well. I shall arrive shortly .”
“Alright then!” And if Sam is being totally honest with himself, he really didn’t want to do paperwork today, anyway. Castiel is a pretty convenient excuse. “I’ll see you soon.” Castiel, as always, hangs up without so much as a farewell, but Sam doesn’t mind. He’s very unassuming for a celebrity - quiet, unpretentious, humble. Sam’s dealt with a lot of divas over the years, but Castiel is always a breath of fresh air among the self-important narcissists.
Poking his head out of his office, he spies Joanna, hard at work, and he grins. “Hey, Jo!” he calls, and she turns, expectant and attentive. “Don’t freak out, but Castiel Milton’s gonna swing by the shop today.”
She freezes, eyes wide with sudden panic. “He’s what?!”
An hour later, Sam, arm full of bows, nearly runs Castiel over as he comes out of the bathroom. “Hello, Sam,” Castiel intones, serious and grave like he hasn’t just finished relieving himself.
“Oh - “ he fumbles, tongue tripping in surprise, “hey! Glad you could make it!” The hallway has always been thin, and Sam is a big guy, but he never is quite so clumsy as when Castiel comes to visit. The man just exudes talent, an aura so big it could knock you down. “Come on into the shop,” Sam says, shuffling backwards through his office door, suddenly keenly aware of his messy workspace and the crisp lines of Castiel’s suit, and sets the bows down gently on what little free space his counter has to offer, wiping his resin-y hands on his apron. “So, what have we got?”
Castiel unloads and unpacks his instrument on Sam’s table with the same elegance and control he has while performing - precise and efficient, yet graceful and poised. It’s always something Sam has admired about him. “Here,” he says, handing over the violin. Generally, Sam’s clients will ramble on about their instruments bumps and bruises and what-have-yous, but Castiel has apparently relayed all the information he needed to, for he lets Sam work in peace and silence. Which, honestly, is for the best, because if Sam’s not focusing on an instrument, he will run his mouth at top speed and eventually say something really dumb.
“So, fortunately for you,” Sam says, after turning over the violin and running an eye across the varnish on the back, checking for any other wear and tear, “it doesn’t look like there’s any sign of cracking around the f-hole. But, I’m glad you brought it in, because your seams are starting to come apart. See that?” He points to ribs under the end-button, where the wood is just barely pulling away from itself.
He nods. “I do.”
“Yeah, but it’s a super quick fix. I’ll glue it, clamp it, and it’ll be done by tomorrow morning.”
Castiel breathes a sigh of relief, eyes wide and grateful. “That’s wonderful! Thank you so much, Sam.”
And Sam can’t help but smile back. “Believe me, it’s no problem.” This is truly his favorite part of the job - restoring priceless instruments is one thing, but there’s something about the sheer joy and relief on a customer’s face when Sam tells them that he can fix their instrument that has always settled him, satisfied him in a way very few things can.
“And how much will I owe you?” Castiel asks, already reaching for his wallet.
“Eh,” Sam shrugs, “don’t worry about it.”
“Are you sure? I am quite capable of - ”
Sam shakes his head. “Absolutely not.” With all the business and exposure Castiel gives them, this may as well be a drop in the bucket.
“Please, I insist - “
“It’s really not worth the paperwork,” he says, turning around to grab his special glue concoction. “Don’t worry about it, Cas. Total active time will be ten minutes, tops.”
Quietly, seriously, Castiel stares that piercing stare of his at him, like he can see through Sam’s soul. Hopefully, he doesn’t find Sam lacking. “That’s very generous of you.”
“Aw, it’s nothing,” Sam beams. “Not every day I get to work on a Mandelli.”
He nods, thoughtful. “Well, if you refuse to let me pay you through conventional means, may I take you out to dinner?”
“I’m serious, you definitely don’t have to pay - “
“Oh no, this isn’t for that.” Then Castiel breaks into a beautiful smile, cornflower blue eyes sparkling. “I simply meant, would you like to have dinner with me sometime?”
Oh. “Oh. Um. Th-that’s very flattering,” he stutters, brain grinding to a complete halt, “but, I, uh - “
Castiel draws back, deflated, that splendid smile falling off of his face faster than Sam can blink. “I apologize. I - I didn’t realize you weren’t - “
“No!” he says, cutting off that train of thought, because that is absolutely not the reason why, “no, that’s not it. It’s just, uh,” unbidden, his eyes flicker to the shelf on the other side of the room. It’s mostly books, treatises and pictorial archives of the old masters, but nestled in between are a handful of pictures. There’s some of Mom and Dad and Dean, the old house and the old car, Lisa and Ben and Uncle Bobby, and then there’s the one of Jessica. It’s been years, but he keeps her close anyway, watching over him, always. He sighs. “Castiel, your interest is flattering, but I’m just - not in the best place right now to be…” he gestures lamely, shrugging a shoulder, “...seeing anybody.”
Stiff, jerky, Castiel nods. “I understand.”
“Right. So.” He resists the urge to tap his foot, or wring his hands, or do something to belie just how fucking bad that felt. “So like I said, you can come by tomorrow morning, and… yeah.”
Without a word, Castiel turns on his heel and leaves. Sam tries not to think about how it feels like a closing door.
Then he catches Jessica’s eye again. She smiles at him from beyond the grave, warm and sunny, and he loves her still. She had inspired in him a kind of bravery he had never known before, a recklessness that spurred him on to leave his law degree, move to New York, kiss her on the California beach while everyone was scrambling inside to escape the freak storm that pelted them with hail, and his feet are moving before he realizes it. Pushing past the front desk, he flings open the front entrance, the evening light almost blinding him, before he sees Castiel, halfway across the parking lot. “Cas!” he calls, running towards him. “Cas!”
“Sam?” he asks, quietly hopeful.
“Forget what I said,” he breathes, trying not to pant too loudly. It’s not the sprint that’s winded him, anyway. “I would love to have dinner with you.”
Castiel’s smile returns, tender as a campfire, and for the first time in years, Sam’s heart skips a beat.