Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean has, until recently, been happy with his nomadic lifestyle. A new place every couple of weeks, leaving his mark in small towns and big cities alike. During their last weekly call though, Sam had insisted that Dean join him in California, set up shop in the open-air transit station where street performers were welcome without the stigma of roadside buskers. It was a good spot, too. Tucked against a wall covered in mosaic glass depicting the ocean waves. Dean sits on his folding stool, guitar case laid open at his feet, adorned with photos of his mother and father when they had first started performing together in the early seventies. Mary Winchester’s golden hair in a wild mop, tamed only by the flower crown she wore, barefoot and strumming the guitar Dean now held, and John, in loose jeans and dark hair, only had eyes for his new bride, the laugh lines cut deep into his face already.

Dean dedicates each day to their memory, thumbing the horned amulet he wears around his neck. The station is markedly quiet when he arrives each morning, few commuters brave the pre-dawn light.  He’s certain that no one around here starts the workday before nine in the morning. His usual audience is the handful of homeless folks who couldn't get a spot in the shelter the night before, so he makes sure his tune-up runs are gentle lullabies and soothing sonnets until the sun makes its way over the horizon. He hums in his father's baritone and watches the people around him relax visibly deeper as his music envelopes them.

Hey Jude is a favorite of his in the early mornings, but he's been working on something special for a man named Joshua who has been waking to his guitar each morning for the past week. Once he's up, the elderly man disappears down the road and always returns with two steaming cups of coffee and a warm smile. They share stories - Dean often speaks of his parents and the places they used to play, and Joshua reminisces about the Cincinnati Botanical Gardens he tended before the city cut funding and he was forced to the streets. Dean tries to craft something for him akin to a flower unfurling its petals, punctuated with staccato bluegrass picking to mimic hedge clippers gently removing deadened leaves, making way for new life.

Dean loves watching the transit station slowly yawn awake, filling up with all sorts of people eager to begin their day. He tries not to choose favorites among his audience, typically moves on to the next city before that happens, but Joshua keeps him tethered, and there's a little girl who darts away from her mother, through grown-up legs, right up to his case and drops a little scrap of paper inside each morning. They're little pictures: a bird, tree, and globe.  Yesterday’s drawing was his absolute favorite - his mother's guitar, complete with Sam and Dean's initials that the boys scratched into its body with a small pocket knife when they were six and ten. Dean had spent the rest of the afternoon writing her a song.  

Today, when he spots her yellow windbreaker on the platform, he's ready, strumming sneaky chords as she snakes her way to him and sliding into a fully-fledged pop song once she gets to the case, each note punctuated by her footsteps. The look on her face is priceless, and Dean glances up and realizes he's gotten a two-for when the girl's mother graces him with a kind smile and a crisp bill on their way to the open-air platform.

He’s taking a quick break to stretch his fingers and unfold the girl's latest creation: a fat bumblebee with a dotted flight path, when he feels a tingle race down his spine, goosebumps raising the skin at the back of his neck. He tucks the drawing with the others in the breast pocket of his flannel, nestled amongst his guitar picks, and settles his guitar, eager to catch the first glimpse of his not-favorite, favorite blue-eyed commuter. 

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮

Castiel lets his mind wander to the day ahead, pocketing the change from his coffee order and making his way to the bus station, anticipation making him drag is feet. He truly loves his archivist job: it’s behind the scenes, and he gets to brag about the folk art museum's collection on its social media sites. He rarely makes public appearances except when new exhibits open. Recently though, he’s been pulled into a maddening quest for a new exhibit that he simply can’t wrap his head around, no matter how many times he reviews his colleague’s notes.

Charlie Bradbury had told him excitedly two weeks ago that she and her partner, Gilda, had finally received the green light from their adoption agency and would be bringing home the little boy they had fallen in love with months before. Castiel had been positively thrilled for his best friend and her growing family and eagerly accepted her workload as she prepared for life as a new mom. While she’s left him with plenty of planning and implementation time, the exhibit's subject matter itself is one in which he has no real interest: musical history.  He needs to put together something to tie her research into the community - a requirement of all the museum's exhibitions, but he keeps coming up dry. The topic so far only brings to mind his brother, Gabriel’s off-key singing on Sunday mornings growing up.

He takes the first step down to the bus station platform and slips, reaching for the sticky handrail to keep himself from careening into the woman in front of him. He’s still feeling flustered from his near-fall when the sound of a guitar cuts through the general din of the station.  It's a genuinely beautiful melody and the cadence reminds him of a field of wildflowers, watching bees flit here and there. Castiel breaks out in a wide grin that wrinkles the corners of his eyes as he makes his way to the source of the strumming. The man, with his short beard, is effortlessly charming, shirt sleeves rolled just below his elbows so the fabric doesn't impede his playing. Castiel has noticed him before and has made an effort to drop his change into the man's case each morning over the past week.

He reaches into his pocket just as he arrives at the man's case and produces a ten-dollar bill.  He bends to put the bill inside the case and when he comes back up, the man is smiling, the apples of his cheeks tinged pink when Castiel returns the gesture. The man plays on at a quieter tone, like this song is just for the two of them and Castiel is compelled to speak to him.

“New song?” he asks, counting the freckles along the man's nose, uncaring that this is the first time he's given more than a passing thought to what's playing around him. “It's lovely,” he adds and watches as the man's blush deepens.  

He doesn't stop playing as he murmurs a quiet, heartfelt, “Thanks, man,” in a rich voice that has Castiel instantly smitten - the way you fall in love with the next person in line at the grocery store for as long as it takes them to bag their items and be on their way. He parts with a smile and a small wave and loads into the cramped bus, thoughts of Charlie's exhibition forgotten in favor of wildflowers and green eyes. 

At the museum, Castiel badges into the staff entrance at the back and takes the freight elevator to the basement level. He winds his way through the brightly painted hallways to his workspace. The room is large with light blue walls occupied on one side by two large desks and a set of storage drawers, and cabinets on the opposite side.  The center of the room is dominated by a flat work table so large the movers had to bring it in parts through the elevator. There's an oversized crazy quilt laid across the table that Castiel had flagged for restoration. It's a wild mosaic of patchwork pieces held together by hand stitching so even it could pass for machine-made. 

Castiel hangs his messenger bag on a hook near the door and pats the Chewbacca bobblehead on Charlie’s desk, retrieving the watering can from his desk drawer. After a quick trip to the water fountain, he makes the rounds of their little garden, ending with a spider plant that he’s let die several times which Charlie somehow manages always to resurrect. He says quiet hellos to each plant as the water sinks into their rich soil, thankful for the small amount of life they are able to bring to the subterranean environment. 

His morning tasks complete, Castiel sets about booting up his desktop and logging into the hard drive Charlie left him. He is grateful for her superior organizational methods, and quickly finds the project file for the upcoming music exhibit. He's lost in thought, jotting down potential ideas and doesn't hear the museum's preservationist enter the room. 

“Are you humming?” Anael asks from the doorway. Castiel jolts, turning in his desk chair to face her stunned expression. 

“I don't think so,” he answers with a furrowed brow, his head tilting to the side as he considers the implication of her words. He never hums or sings along with the radio. Truthfully, he encounters very little music in his daily life.   

“You were definitely humming,” she replies, leaving no room for argument.  

Anael sets about examining the quilt, making notes in pencil in a leather-bound notebook. Her expensive necklaces jangle as she bends to inspect where the threads have begun pulling along the hem. Castiel is grateful for the background noise. Since Charlie left, he has taken to listening to art history podcasts just to hear another voice. He already misses her clacking keyboard and exclamations of success. Most of the staff works on the first floor in administrative offices. Anael is the only other person who ventures into the basement, and even she has a second office above ground.  

“How's the new exhibit coming along?” Anael asks around lunchtime.   

“Charlie has already completed the majority of the planning. She's come up with a truly unique perspective on oral histories through folk songs. She plans to display our collection of instruments to tell the history of the bardic tradition. I suspect she secretly wants a tie-in with Moondoor if at all possible. The missing piece will be pinpointing how best to bring the community element into it.”  

“What in god's creation is Moondoor?” 

“Live Action Role Playing. It's a social club for people who wish to act out mock battles as part of a larger strategic game. Charlie is Moondoor’s current regent.”  

“Good for her! I have no idea what you said, but I'm always up for a woman in power,” Anael admires with a smirk. 

Castiel isn't great with social cues if he’s honest with himself, and he isn't entirely sure if Anael expects him to explain the intricacies of the gameplay to her. People tend to baffle him. The few coworkers he interacts with directly know to keep conversations work-related. Charlie is the only person he has ever opened up to and he wonders if he should try to get to know Anael better. She'll be working on the quilt for at least a month and making no attempt at all would surely be noticed.  

“Are you going out for lunch?” 

The statuesque woman looks momentarily taken by surprise but quickly recovers, a genuine smile turning up the corners of her mouth. 

“There's a cafe two blocks from here that serves killer sandwiches,” she mentions. At his nod, Anael swaps her heels for flats and the pair walk together to the cafe, making polite conversation about the museum's upcoming events. 

On their way back, lunch in tow, they sidestep a young woman strumming a bright green ukulele, its small case set open in front of a slouchy backpack with patches sewn into it. It reminds Castiel of the quilt despite the lack of finesse. A small handwritten sign propped against the case asks for donations and gives a social media handle: @claireukes.  Anael digs into her Hermes coin purse and pulls out her phone and a few bills, depositing them into the guitar case and taking a quick video clip while the girl plays on with her eyes closed to the world around her. She hums counter to her strumming and Castiel finds himself smiling, remembering the man from the transit station with his rich voice and kind smile. He gives the girl the change from his lunch order and they carry on to the museum, humming the girl's song while they eat their cold cuts.  

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮

Dean can't get rid of the butterflies swarming around in his stomach. He's been riding high since the blue-eyed man spoke to him. He spends the rest of the morning wearing out his fingers on variations of the wildflower tune, in an attempt to perfect it, the amulet a warm weight around his neck.  His phone vibrates in his back pocket and he silences the alarm. He packs up his guitar, pocketing the money he's collected and tucking his folding stool into its pouch. He slings the strap over his shoulder and carries the guitar case to the edge of the platform, pleased when he realizes that it's the same one his not-favorite boarded that morning. 

On the way to campus, Dean listens to the music blasting in tinny notes from the headphones of the lanky man seated in front of him. It's some old R&B song, and Dean tries to make out the lyrics but settles for tapping the beat on his knees until the man gets off five stops later and his seat is filled by a woman and her stroller. Dean spends the rest of the trip making goofy faces at the baby and enamoring the little old lady seated to his right.  

Stepping off the bus, Dean looks across campus for a moment, admiring the stone buildings. Stanford's law school used to intimidate Dean; the people hurrying about in pencil skirts and creased slacks are intense. Dean is keenly aware his flannel and jeans stick out like a sore thumb, but he carries on regardless, head held high. He remembers having a case of stage fright when he was younger and his mother telling him to keep his chin up and always look the audience in the eye. She said more often than not, he would be met with a smile. He suspects the lawyers-in-training are too stressed to share a kind interaction, and once he made peace with that thought, he found he had no fear of them.  

Dean jogs up a flight of stairs of the stone building and opens a side door that takes him directly to his brother's office. The door is open and Dean strides in, knowing that if there were any students, Sam would have closed the door. His brother shares the office with three other TAs on a rotating schedule, so there isn't much personality to the room's decor. There's a solid wood desk in the center, a few filing cases behind it, and two guest chairs. The window at the far side of the room looks out over the campus and is adorned with vertical slat blinds whose pull chain taps against the plastic, motivated by the air conditioning. Sam looks up from his laptop and opens the desk drawers, coming away with their lunch.  

"How was the station?" 

"Real good, Sammy. Wrote a new song." 

He takes the Tupperware container from Sam and opens the lid, revealing a thick roast beef sandwich with a side of horseradish and a little cheese wheel. He claps his hands and rubs them together excitedly like some greedy banker in a B-movie. Lifting the sandwich, he takes a too-big bite that puffs his cheeks like a chipmunk. Sam rolls his eyes. 

"Big tipper?" Sam asks with thinly veiled amusement. Dean scoffs, then coughs when he inhales a bite of bread. 

"For the girl, dude. Get your head out of the gutter," he mutters taking a drink from Sam's water bottle, which he quickly snatches back and places behind his desk.  Dean distracts himself by unwinding the red wax from around the cheese wheel, popping the entire thing in his mouth at once. Sam snorts at Dean's expense and finishes his veggie stir fry.  

"What did she draw for you?"  

Dean pulls the bumblebee picture from his pocket and realizes, as he hands it over to Sam, that his song for Blue Eyes has outside influences.  He's immediately disappointed that he hasn't created something truly unique for him. He hasn't told Sam yet, that the man might be something more. More than just someone putting money in a case, enjoying the music at face value.  

"Very cute," Sam grins, handing back the paper and watching Dean fold it neatly into his pocket.  

The air conditioning kicks off, and the room is suddenly silent. Sam taps his fork absentmindedly against the empty plastic container. Dean hides a grin. The beat belongs to a song they used to play together during warmups with their parents. Some old seventies tune that Dean hums along to openly. Sam uses his free hand to drum along the desktop and the pair's ramblings evolve into a full-on jam session, complete with air guitar provided by Dean, and an extended drum solo from Sam who trades his fork for two ballpoint pen drumsticks.  

By the end, the brothers are giddy, the rush of the performance warming them. They never play together, haven't since Sam left the family band, and Dean feels a sudden pang of longing. When he looks at Sam, he sees his emotions reflected back to him. Neither are willing to break the spell though, and Dean packs his dirty dishes, Sam reaching to place everything back in his desk drawer. Dean moves out of the guest chair, bends to pick up his guitar and the stool, and turns away from his brother.  

"Maybe we could play something later," Sam lilts when Deans turns the doorknob.  

"Yeah, Sammy," he replies, opening the door to three of Sam's students. Each one sits on chairs lining the hallway, books open in their laps, scribbling away in notebooks. One looks past Dean into Sam's office and gives him a radiant smile. 

"Come in, Alice," Sam gestures the girl inside.  

Dean hears her say, "I didn't know you played," as he makes his way down the hall.  

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮

Castiel spends the remainder of his workday helping Anael with the quilt. They chat about their weekend plans and on his way home, he considers how much he enjoys her company. That perhaps his first month without Charlie won't be so bad after all. The thought buoys him for the rest of the evening.  

He stands in front of his bathroom mirror, squeezing toothpaste onto his toothbrush, and realizes that he's humming. He suspects he may have been for most of the day. It's the song from the man at the transit station. Wildflowers and honeybees. He drops his toothbrush in the sink with a clatter. He flinches at the sound, spits out a mouthful of suds and rinses out his mouth.  

He’s got it. 

It's perfect.  

Castiel dashes from the bathroom to his messenger bag hanging from the coat rack next to the front door, and pulls a notebook from its depths. He opens to the middle of the book where he keeps his exhibit ideas and finds the blank page for Charlie's. It's mocked him relentlessly for more than two weeks, so it feels fantastic when he finally pens something there for the first time: 

Modern-day bards = local street performers.  

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮

Dean jumps out of his skin when he hears Sam come home. He feels like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He knows he's blushing as he props his guitar against the couch and tries to arrange himself in a mockery of comfort. Sam catches him scratching his short beard, halfway to horizontal, and scoffs at his brother's antics. 

"Guilty much?" 

"No, bitch, just got up from a nap," it's a bald-faced lie and they both know it; Dean never sleeps on his back. Let alone uncovered. Even when he doesn't have a blanket, Dean uses his flannel to cover as much of himself as possible. 

"Mhm," Sam grunts and finds himself a beer in the kitchen. He returns with a bottle for Dean and says, "Who's the lucky sap that's got you acting all squirrely?"

Dean uncaps the bottle and takes a drink. He doesn't want to tell Sam about Blue Eyes, and he really doesn't want to admit to spending the last six or so hours crafting his best work to date. It's strange how easily the man has gotten under Dean's skin. 

"Nah, just trying to figure out what we might play when you got home." 

Sam isn't expecting anything so personal from Dean and it shows clearly on his face. Dean picks up his guitar and plays a chord. "Whaddaya say to Heat of the Moment ?" Sam chucks a pillow at his head and both brothers spend the night reminiscing about all the pranks they played on each other as kids, including the month Dean woke Sam up with that particular song every morning before sunrise. 

That night, Dean lulls himself to sleep with the song he wrote for the blue-eyed man, the quilt pulled high over his shoulders.

Chapter Text

Castiel rides a wave of nervous excitement on his way to the transit station the following morning. He has the notes app open on his cell phone and taps out various points and details about the exhibit he’ll put together in the coming months while he waits for the barista to take his coffee order. He hums quietly, his typing keeping time with the bumblebee he imagines collecting pollen. It’s a nice thought that carries him through the line and out into the California sunshine. The clock in the corner of his phone display says he’ll be a few minutes early for his train.

He spends the walk from the coffee shop to the transit station rehearsing what he’ll say to the flannel-clad man, suddenly more nervous than excited. The crowd at the platform does not part for him, but he still catches a quick glimpse of eyes he knows are green in the distance. As he approaches, the song the man plays wafts out to meet him, and it is beautiful. Different from the day before, it catches Castiel’s ear, and he already knows Anael will tease him for humming it all day. No one around him seems as captivated as he is, either too busy or hurried to stop and listen.

Castiel closes the distance between them and digs into the front pocket of his messenger bag for his business card and the change from his latte. The man has kept eye with Castiel the entire way, and his face splits into a bright smile when Castiel is within a few feet of the guitar case. He puts his change inside, takes a small step back, and waits for the song to finish. The man plays on until at some predetermined point in time, the song is over, and Castiel feels the last notes seep into himself, warming him to the core of his being. It’s like stepping into the sunshine from a cool building, skin warming with goosebumps. He feels at peace and closes in after a moment with his card in his outstretched hand and warm smile on his lips. 

“I was hoping you might be free for lunch? I never see you here on my way home,” he realizes at some point mid-sentence what he’s saying might be misconstrued and finishes in a rush, “and I’d like to speak with you about an exhibit I’m putting together,” he manages. “I’m Castiel Novak.” 

The man’s mouth tilts up and he takes the card to look it over briefly, before holding Castiel’s gaze once more. “Sure, man. What’s it about?” he asks and looks at Castiel expectantly, warm and open, like he’s hung the moon. 

“Music through time, with a section on local community involvement. It’s still in the planning stages, but I’d like to know how you got started as a musician and what goes into your performances.” There. Back on track. 

“I’ve only been in Palo Alto a week,” the man trails off, dropping his eyes to the case in front of him. “Dunno if I’m really your guy.” 

Castiel feels a pang of disappointment, but carries on, “I would still very much like your input. Even if it’s just a jumping-off point. My cell number is on the card.  If you’d still be interested in lunch, let me know.” Castiel wonders if that last bit sounds like a flirtation and is once again mortified. 

“Lunch sounds good. I’ll give you a call,” he quips and tucks the card into his breast pocket with a gentle pat. “I’m Dean, by the way. Dean Winchester.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dean. Please feel free to text or call with details. Anywhere you’d like is fine. I work at the Museum of American Folk Art on Centennial. It’s, ah, on the card,” he feels like a bit of an idiot, rambling on, but he’s nervous now that he has a name for the man whose songs have become the most delightful earworms. 

“Sounds good, Cas. I’ll see you later.”  Dean sets his fingers on the strings of his guitar and plays Castiel to his platform, and the bus soon arrives to whisk him off to work. 

Castiel can’t legally contact Charlie regarding anything work-related, so he keeps his lunch meeting to himself, but it doesn’t stop him wanting her advice on what to say to Dean. He thinks back to their brief interaction and cringes inwardly at the way he handled the entire situation, though he doesn’t think he’ll do much better this afternoon either. Scatterbrained, he nearly collides with Anael in his office who’s working on the quilt and they each apologize to one another. 

“Something on your mind?” she asks after Castiel has set his bag on its hook and booted up his computer. 

“I figured out the exhibit.”  

Anael’s eyes light up, genuinely happy to hear he’s made any sort of progress. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with that tune you got stuck in my head yesterday, would it?” 

“Yes. There’s a man, Dean Winchester, who performs at the transit station I take into work each day. I asked him for lunch, to get his perspective on street performers as modern-day bards.” 

“Oh, that’s exciting! You could interview the girl we saw at lunch yesterday, too.” 

“That’s an excellent idea,” he supposes, dreading the thought of interacting with other people. He’s so much more comfortable keeping to himself. The only time he interacts with the public for any stretch of time is through the museum’s social media sites. Often those people are fellow museum professionals or students with a direct interest in whatever collection piece he’s posted. 

“I’ll email you the video clip I took. She’s on Instagram,” Anael answers, tapping on her phone screen.  Castiel’s inbox pings with a new email, and he is suddenly relieved to know he can reach out to her online. Perhaps later this week, after his meeting with Dean. He thanks Anael for her message and the pair work in relative silence through the morning. Anael makes good progress on her restorations and Castiel digs through Charlie’s notes, finalizing a list of questions for Dean.

At eleven o’clock, Castiel’s phone vibrates from inside his messenger bag, and he opens the lock screen, thumbing into his messenger app to read his text: 

Hey this is Dean Winchester. There’s a café by the museum with great reviews. Does 12:30 work for you? 

Dots bounce along next to Dean’s unsaved number and Castiel waits a moment longer before the restaurant details pop into existence. It’s within walking distance of the museum and he quickly taps out an affirmative reply, confirming the time and place. He locks the phone screen and takes a deep breath. Turning back to his desk, he catches Anael watching him with a bemused expression on her face, leaning her hip against the table. When he doesn’t immediately engage with her, she goes back to work, humming the wildflower song under her breath. He spends the time before his meeting rehearsing each question he’ll ask Dean Winchester.  

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮

Dean spends a good forty minutes skipping back and forth from restaurant menu to review site, trying to pick something nice but innocuous. Finally, after a hurried text fight with Sam - Dean refuses to say why he’s skipping out on lunch, but still wants his opinion on a lunch place - he picks the Claremont Club Café. He spends the remainder of the morning strumming for the few late-morning commuters, then hops a bus to Sam’s apartment where he drops off his guitar and stool, changes into a clean undershirt and flannel, and takes the time to dust the dirt off his boots.

All that, plus the bus ride to Continental, and Dean still finds himself at the café well before their scheduled time, too keyed up for a sit-down interview. He decides a walk around the block will help burn off his excess energy and heads away from the museum, not willing to risk running into Castiel before he’s ready. The streets are nice this close to campus, and he’s blissfully alone on his walk, thoughts of Castiel with his blue eyes and his morning tips bouncing through his brain. He feels empty without the weight of his mother’s guitar on his back but is thankful to move unburdened in the afternoon heat. The marine layer had burned off around the time he texted Castiel, and the sun shines hot on him.

He turns back toward the café, not wanting to show sweat during the interview when he’s drawn down a side street to the next block at the sound of strumming.  It’s not a guitar, the chords are too bright. When he rounds the corner, he sees his ear was right, it’s a ukulele, played expertly by a young woman he would place in her late teens. A shiver breaks down his spine and the hair on his arms rises. He doesn’t recognize her song, it’s something original, and he sticks around until the last chords have dissipated into the universe. He jogs across the street to her, digging into his pocket for the ten-dollar bill Castiel had given him that morning and places it into the girl’s case, a miniature of his own.

“Thanks, man,” she drawls when he raises up, and with two words, Dean knows he must hear her sing. Her voice is raspy, something caught between blues and folk, and he’s already picked two dozen songs for her when he realizes he’s creeping himself out with his own inner monologue.

“You sound great, loved the song,” he grins, managing to rein in his fanboy.

“You play?” she asks, rolling her eyes fondly at him. He hopes it’s fond, it’s hard to tell with teenagers. If he didn’t have somewhere to be, Dean would probably talk her ear off.

“Guitar. It’s kind of a family thing,” he offers. “I gotta lunch thing, but do you play here often? I’d love to hear more of your work.”

“Yeah, I’m here every day, same time. I’ll see ya around.”

Dean glances back down to her case and pulls his phone from his pocket. He taps into his Instagram account and easily finds the girl’s social media handle and follows her. “See ya tomorrow.”

She gives him a lopsided grin as he jogs back across the street, head down to thumb through her feed. It’s mostly one-minute clips of her playing to small groups of people. The locations are all over California and he wonders how long she’s been traveling on her own. Shaking his head clear, he checks the time on his phone and opens the door to the café. He finds a table in the back, secluded from the main dining area. A waitress takes his order and he makes himself comfortable, trying to keep the butterflies in his stomach at bay.

The waitress has dropped off two glasses of water and the menus when Castiel walks in a few minutes after noon with a green file folder tucked under his arm. He scans the room, his eyes lighting on Dean and suddenly they're both standing, shaking hands, and Dean feels a little spark of emotion race through him. He's reminded of the rush he felt when he first noticed the man before him, and he realizes suddenly that their handshake has gone on far too long. Castiel hasn’t let go either. It seems they’re both equally nervous. The waitress moves past them to get behind the counter with her notepad and gives them a sly look which finally seems to break their connection. Castiel takes a step back and pulls out his chair. 

"It's nice to see you again, Dean. Thank you for taking the time."

"It's no trouble, man. Happy to help," Dean confides, returning to his seat and clasping his hands in front of him on the table. Castiel moves to open the folder and pulls a piece of paper from it, then a thin notebook. Leaning against the table with one arm, he reaches into his back pocket to produce a blue pen, clicking it open.

"I've never actually been interviewed for anything in my life, so go easy on me," Dean warns, laughing a bit and moving to toy with the cord knotted at his neck. He puts his arm down immediately, afraid of showing his nervous sweat. 

"I assure you they're all softballs," Castiel tells him with a grin. "To start, the idea for the exhibit belongs to my good friend, Charlie. She's the curator for the museum and wants to showcase some of the more exotic instruments we have in our collection. Part of our mission is to tie in all exhibits to the community in a significant way, and Charlie left that part of the planning for last. I recently inherited her project, and our interaction yesterday inspired me to delve into the idea of street performers, like yourself, as a sort of modern-day bard." 

Castiel takes a sip from his water glass and the waitress stops by to take their order. Dean thinks he could listen to Castiel read the phone book without tiring, the other man’s voice is deep and rich and leaves his ears buzzing. After she leaves with the menus, Castiel leans forward, pen poised to jot down relevant details from the questions he’s about to ask Dean. He really wishes he wasn’t so nervous.

“How did you get into music?”

Dean takes a deep breath, finishes his water and looks into Castiel’s eyes, “Family band,” he starts and Castiel’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “I know, it sounds cheesy or whatever, but that’s how my mom and dad met, playing each other songs.  Mom always said dad won her over cause he knew every word to every Led Zeppelin song.” 

He and Castiel share a warm grin. 

“Anyway, when they got around to having us, they got it in their heads to form their own little Partridge Family. First instrument I ever learned was the tambourine. Sounds lame, I know, but man was I cute. Stole the show every time.”  He feels more relaxed talking about his family and settles back into his seat.

“You said ‘us’, how many siblings do you have?”

“It’s just me ‘n my brother, Sammy, now. He’s gonna be a big-shot lawyer when he’s done at Stanford. Quit the band before we lost our parents though.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that. Are you close?”

“Have lunch with ‘im every day since I got into town,” he stops short of telling Castiel about their text battle that morning, unwilling to admit how much he’s been anticipating the last several hours.

“Is he what brought you to the west coast?”

“Yeah, try and make a stop every few months. Mostly, I travel around though. Been just about everywhere in the U.S. Mom homeschooled us growing up, so I didn’t have the traditional upbringing. But, man, I wouldn’t trade it for nothing. That rush, when you know you’ve hit the right notes, that you’re really getting your message across, touching lives. Nothing beats it,” he’s feeling wistful now, lost in thought, a little high on remembered performances.

They sit in silence for a moment, their food delivered and eaten, and plates cleared away. When Castiel speaks again, he’s quiet, “How long do you think you’ll stay?”

He eyes the corner of his napkin the waitress left behind and lifts the salt shaker on the table, tapping it a few times before answering, “Dunno, man. Kinda knockin’ around the idea of this time being long-term.”

They chat for another half hour or so, Castiel taking down copious notes, and Dean regaling him with a few notable performances. He doesn’t mention that meeting Castiel has been the best so far. He does mention the little girl and Joshua, and as they’re wrapping things up, Dean’s face breaks out in a wide smile.

“I almost forgot, there’s a girl a coupla streets over, real rock vibe, but plays the ukulele.  You should really interview her for the exhibit.”

“Claire?”

“You know her?” he asks in disbelief, “I just ran into her on my way here. Man, that girl can play.”

“She is really quite remarkable.  My colleague and I came upon her on our way to lunch yesterday. She’s on my list of contacts. I thought I’d reach out to her through her social media, see if I can’t find more artists in the area.”

“That’s awesome. I was going to stop by tomorrow to hear her play again, maybe we can meet back up here for lunch.”

“I’m amenable to that,” Castiel smiles and they stand to make their way to the front of the restaurant.  Castiel insists on paying and Dean gets the tip and they part ways on the sidewalk, Dean heading to the bus stop and Castiel to the museum. Both with a newfound lightness in their steps.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮

Castiel feels lighter than he can ever remember on the short walk to the museum. Anael perks up when he gets down to the basement, eager to hear about the interview. He isn’t quite ready to divulge his feelings though and makes a polite excuse of needing to type up Dean’s answers while they’re still fresh in his mind. She gives him his space, threading a needle and making precise stitches along the loose hemline of the quilt.

After an hour, he’s decompressed enough for a brief conversation. He turns his desk chair to face Anael and offers to the quiet room, “The interview went well.”

“That’s fantastic, Castiel. So, you’ll be moving forward with the idea?”

“Yes, I believe so. We’re going to see Claire tomorrow over lunch.”

“We?”

“Dean and I,” he corrects, then adds, “but you’re more than welcome to come.”

“Oh, no.  I wouldn't want to interfere with your interviews.”

“The invitation is there, if you change your mind,” Castiel offers kindly and turns his chair back to face his computer. 

On one monitor, he reads over his notes from his interview with Dean, and on the other is the file list for Charlie’s hard drive. He finishes proofing his notes and opens a folder titled Research from the hard drive. Inside is a plethora of information on the museum’s existing collection, including write-ups on each of the instruments Charlie is planning to display. He minimizes the file list and opens the internet browser, doing a quick search for “Bardic Tradition” and spends the remainder of the afternoon researching his part of the exhibit.

Anael leaves him alone in the workroom to disappear up to her office, and Castiel continues uninterrupted, well past his regular hours.

He’s reading an article on Parisian troubadours and recalls the handful of times he’s attended Moondoor events at Charlie’s behest. He had spent most of the day in the queen’s royal tent set-up near the tree line of the local community park. She had led a fierce battle with thirty soldiers against the villainous Shadow King and arose victorious once more. The occasion had been marked by a great feast where turkey legs and veggie burgers were grilled over parks and recreation-approved fire pits.

Castiel remembers feeling entirely out of his depth once the music started and begged off Charlie’s pleas for him to join her in a celebratory dance. Instead, he had sat and watched the people twirling with one another while the band played late into the evening. There had been five musicians dressed in bright tunics with elaborate hats, two sang while the others played lute, lyre, and harmonica.

He wonders now if the musicians were authentic or if the songs they played were of any historical significance. He had no occasion at the time to care about the details. Now, he clicks open a new tab in his browser and pulls up the official Moondoor website, navigating to the California faction and digging for more details. As it happens, the musicians are a local band called Ghostfacers. Castiel copies the band’s email address and sends them a message inquiring if they would be interested in participating in the exhibit. Charlie will be so proud.

Under their “About Us” section, Castiel reads their biography.  They’re self-proclaimed nerds who play Dungeons and Dragons when they aren’t playing shows in the dive bars around the Stanford campus. There’s an embedded link in the text that takes him to a Dungeons & Dragons site on bards, and Castiel reads over the fantastical description, entranced by the idea of any of it being true. As he reads, though, a chill breaks out along the back of his neck. 

“ Whether scholar, skald, or scoundrel, a bard weaves magic through words and music to inspire allies, demoralize foes, manipulate minds, create illusions, and even heal wounds…A bard’s life is spent wandering across the land gathering lore, telling stories, and living on the gratitude of audiences, much like any other entertainer. But a depth of knowledge, a level of musical skill, and a touch of magic set bards apart from their fellows .”

He clicks through the open tabs of the browser until he finds the article he’d found earlier in the day and reads under his breath, “ A bard was a professional storyteller, verse-maker, music composer, oral historian and genealogist, employed by a patron to commemorate one or more of the patron’s ancestors and to praise the patron’s own activities. ”  He clicks through to the next tab, “ Patron: a wealthy or influential supporter of an artist or writer…the unspoken contract between artist and patron .”

Castiel doesn’t consider himself ‘influential’ or ‘wealthy’ but he has been happily and silently supporting Dean Winchester for the better part of the last two weeks. The unspoken contract. It’s a puerile thought, he knows, but Castiel wants to believe, just for a little while, that Dean’s music holds some magic, magnetic pull.

He looks at the clock in the corner of his monitor and realizes he’s worked two hours past his normal time off and saves the websites into a word document to access later. He shuts down his computer, grabs his messenger bag, and heads home for the night. Just as he lays his head to rest, he remembers he’s meeting Dean again for lunch tomorrow and drifts off with a smile on his lips. 

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮

Sam has listened to Dean play the same song for over three hours and he’s a little past his breaking point. He wants to tell his brother to go to his room, but the living room is his room, and Sam doesn’t want to take his case files into his own bedroom to escape the noise. Instead, he sighs loudly and shuffles his papers, and tries to get his brother to shut up by making as much distracting noise as possible. It isn’t working. 

Finally, after re-reading the same three sentences for the eighth time, he closes the file, pushes himself to standing, and drops down on the other side of the couch, jostling Dean and interrupting the song mid-chord. Dean shoots him an affronted glare.

“What the hell, Sammy?”

“Dude, you’ve been playing the same song for hours. It sounds great, but let it go.”

“Yeah, maybe to you,” Dean mumbles and sets his fingers back to the strings. Sam leans into his space and grabs the guitar by its neck. Dean, unwilling to risk damage to the instrument, lets it be taken from him and set on Sam’s other side.

“What’s going on, Dean? You haven’t been this obsessive since Lisa Braeden,” Sam puts froth with genuine concern in his voice. Dean scoffs at the reminder.

Lisa Braeden was a woman Dean had met on his way through Cicero, Indiana twelve years before. She was a yoga instructor, beautiful, and made a habit of hanging out where he played at the edge of the Gas ‘n Sip parking lot. He stayed the entire summer. It’s still the longest he’s ever spent in one place. Sometime in late August, she came banging on his motel door in tears and confessed that she was pregnant.  He was willing to stick around, do the right thing, but the timing was all wrong. She’d been with a long haul trucker the month before Dean rolled into town, and she was certain it was his baby. She called the other man and he was on his way and she couldn’t see Dean anymore. He checked out of the motel the next morning with a broken heart and hadn’t spoken to her since. He thought about the kid all the time though, wondered what it might be like to start that apple pie life someday.

“It’s not an obsession, Sammy,” Dean grumbles, dejected. “It’s probably too early to admit to anything, but,” he cuts off to sigh and rubs a hand over his face, leaning deep into the couch cushions. “Look, there’s this guy, ok? I haven’t told you about him because it’s still new, but I’ve seen him every day since I got into town and he’s been… supporting me, you know?” Dean ends on an explosive sigh and waits for his brother’s reaction. He risks a peek at Sam and sees him speechless, eyebrows in his hairline, utterly flabbergasted.  “So yeah, man. Maybe you’re not far off the mark.”

“Is that who you had lunch with today?” Sam asks tentatively.

“Yeah. He works at some folk museum and has an exhibit coming up on street performers. Wanted to interview me for it. And look, it’s not really like that, ok? But you know I can’t help it when I feel something.” He looks to Sam with a hangdog expression and Sam takes pity on him.

“I know. You’ve gotta play when the mood takes you. It was the same way with mom. Remember when dad got pissed at that English dude, Ketch, who kept showing up to our shows? Flashing all his money? And mom started coming up with original material and dad got so pissed, he punched the guy and we had to leave town in the middle of the night?”  Dean nods his head emphatically and they share a laugh. Dean motions for Sam to return the guitar and he hands it over, thumbing their initials.

“Seriously, though, Dean. It’s been forever since you had someone. Maybe this'll be good for you,” Sam claims when they finally calm. “What’s his big quest anyway?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to help him with this exhibit. Gather the masses. He gets shy sometimes and I gotta feeling I can help see him through the next few months,” he reveals and strums the opening chords for Little Wanderer . Sam gives him a surprised look and Dean shrugs back in response. It’s never been his kind of music, but if it gets his brother to sing, he’ll play just about anything.

Chapter Text

Castiel finds himself giddy for the first time in his adult life the following morning. He wakes up twenty minutes before his alarm is set to go off, and spends the extra time fretting over what to wear. His usual outfit is dark grey slacks paired with a white button-down and some sort of blue tie. He rarely strays from his self-appointed uniform, though sometimes the slacks are navy.  He never has grown out of his midwestern sense of style, despite seeing the CEOs and college professors of California in flip-flops and t-shirts. Truthfully, the only other thing he has to wear is a lightweight sweater his father got him for his thirty-fifth birthday, but it still has the tags and it’s too hot outside, and he settles for rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt and going without a tie.

When they meet at the transit station, Castiel watches Dean do a double-take and he isn’t sure why, but he smiles to himself, all the same, placing his coffee change in the guitar case and making plans to meet at the museum at noon. The song Dean plays while he awaits his bus is lovely and he recognizes the feeling of it, if not the tune itself. He boards the bus feeling warm all over and hums it for the remainder of his journey.

He spends the morning assisting Anael with the quilt and she reveals she’s been doing her own research on several performers in the surrounding area; it seems Castiel’s enthusiasm has rubbed off on her, too. When Castiel grabs his wallet and travel notebook before noon, Anael makes an excuse to go up with him to the lobby and he kindly doesn’t call her out on wanting to see Dean for herself.  She chats for a few moments with the volunteer at the front desk as Castiel tries not to pace the entryway.

Just before noon, Castiel spots him, looking both ways before crossing at the light to the museum. Dean can’t see Castiel, and he gets a moment to watch the man as he looks up at the building, draped in banners displaying their current exhibits and mouthing the titles to himself. Anael appears at his side, startling a little at her presence. She has a sly look on her face, red lips tipped up on one side.

“Is that your man?” she comments, knowing full-well the implication of her words.

“That’s Dean,” he states, not giving in to her teasing.

“Well, you don’t want to keep him waiting,” she drawls and walks to the front desk. He’s puzzled that she doesn’t want to say hello, but he nevertheless strides to the doors and opens them, stepping out into the sunshine and thankful for his rolled sleeves.

“Hello, Dean,” he says, squinting into the afternoon sun and smiles at the musician who has just taken the first of the steps up to the museum.

“Heya, Cas. How’s your morning?’

“Good, thank you,” he stutters, suddenly nervous for no real reason. He catches Dean staring at his forearms. 

“How ‘bout we get a few sandwiches and go see Claire? Maybe we can bribe her into talking with cold cuts?” Dean offers with a boyish smile. He makes everything effortless and Castiel is immensely grateful to him at that moment.

“That sounds great, Dean. Please lead the way. Lunch is my treat.”

They walk a few blocks from the museum, chatting about their morning and the other exhibits the museum currently has up.  They duck into a small restaurant Castiel and Charlie frequent. Dean orders first, but Castiel gets caught up with the man behind the counter, Alfie, who asks why he hasn’t seen Charlie around in the last couple of weeks. He fills the young man in on her happy news and ends up with free cookies to go along with their lunch. Castiel isn’t sure if Claire might be vegetarian, and errs on the side of caution, ordering the pear and brie sandwich along with his usual turkey club. When he finally turns back to Dean, he sees a gentle smile on his handsome features and has to turn away before he finds himself lingering for too long. 

While they wait for their food, Dean asks, "Have you had any luck tracking down other buskers?"

“Anael, one of my co-workers, sent me a list of local artists this morning. It seems there’s much to be done all of a sudden.” Castiel grabs the bags with their food from Alfie since Dean carries his guitar on his back and the pair make for Claire’s usual spot. 

“Hey man, I wouldn’t mind helping out with your interviews, if you want to?” Dean seems hesitant with his words, but Castiel warms at the thought of someone to help. “I mean, I’m free most of the day anyway. It really wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“I’d like that,” Castiel says simply, giving Dean a smile that shows his gum line, even though he’s always been self-conscious about it, but Dean beams back at him and he feels warm all over again. 

Claire has moved since he last saw her, though she’s still on the same block. She’s set up on a bench showcasing a real estate agent’s smiling face and is seated on the backrest, feet planted on the seat. Her small case is open next to her feet and the leather jacket she’d worn the day before is draped over the back of the bench. She’s wearing a tank top and dark-wash jeans with holes in the knees. She’s playing with her eyes closed, her hair pulled into a side ponytail, and when they get within shouting distance, she opens her eyes and spots them, even though both Castiel and Dean are silent. She stops her strumming as they approach.

“Well, hey. Small world, huh,” she states more than asks.

“Indeed,” Castiel imparts. “We were hoping you might want to break for lunch.”

“Depends, whatcha got?” Claire asks, eyeing the bags Castiel carries. 

“Turkey club or…”

“Yes! That sounds a-mazing,” the young woman swoons, and Castiel hands over the sandwich, snickerdoodle balanced on top. Claire rips the cellophane from the cookie and eats it in two large bites, cheeks bulging. Dean snags his own bag from Castiel and has taken a similar-sized bite of his own food, leaving Castiel to witness their chipmunk impressions alone. He recovers quickly though, and opens the vegetarian sandwich for himself, taking a more controlled bite. They eat in silence, save for the sound of the musicians’ smacking lips and contented sighs and Castiel is thankful for the opportunity to feed them both. Once they’ve finished their lunch, Dean gets right down to business.

“Cas here works at the Folk Museum a coupla blocks that way,” Dean indicates, jabbing a thumb at Castiel, then over his shoulder. “He’s got an exhibit coming up an he’s looking for buskers to interview.  Think you might be interested?” It’s not how Castiel would approach her, but it seems they’ve bonded telepathically over lunch, and she readily agrees to help them.

Castiel takes his notebook and pen from his back pocket and runs through the same questions he asked Dean. The man himself sets down on the bench, angled to give Castiel and Claire some privacy and goes about playing the song from that morning. Castiel notices Dean’s guitar case is closed and leaning against the bench and the pedestrians that pass the trio drop their bills and change into the ukulele case. They share a smile over Claire’s shoulder and Castiel continues the interview. 

Thirty minutes later, they bid Claire farewell, and make their way to the museum. Castiel has a dozen pages of notes and six more names of local buskers to interview. Dean takes the list from Castiel’s hands and promises to speak with them if Castiel will email him the list of questions.  

They’re back at the museum before Castiel is ready to say goodbye, so he offers Dean a grand tour of the place, leading him from room to room, noting the artifacts that make Dean’s face light up: a sculpture made entirely of car parts and a hand-carved wooden mask he admits reminds him of Inigo Montoya. 

At Castiel’s blank expression, Dean says emphatically, “C’mon, Cas? The Princess Bride ?” He dons a vaguely Spanish accent and continues, “‘My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die!’” He mimes running Castiel through with a sword and Castiel finally loses it, bursting into a fit of laughter that Dean joins in after a moment of stunned silence. “You just wanted me to do the voice, huh?”

“I couldn’t resist. It’s one of Charlie’s absolute favorites, and she said the same thing the first time she visited the museum,” Castiel explains, wiping tears from eyes with the back of his hand. 

They make their way to the main entrance and Castiel continues, “I’ll send you questions once I get back to my desk, and thank you for today, and all your help. I’m not sure I could do it alone.”

“Happy to, Cas. And for the record, you could do it, but it’ll be easier with help, and I’m real glad you asked,” Dean breathes, and his cheeks turn pink, bringing out his freckles. They part with a promise to meet again later in the week, once they’ve each had time to meet with some of the other buskers. Dean says he’ll check in frequently and Castiel assures him that he’ll look forward to hearing from him. 

Dean leaves the museum and when Castiel turns back to the elevator bank to return to his office, he sees Anael there with a small smile on her face, shaking her head at him. He has no idea what she means because when he asks what the matter is, she supplies, “Nothing at all,” and joins him in the workroom without another word. 

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮

Dean and Castiel stand side-by-side on Charlie’s doorstep. Both are nervous. Dean has been absently preening his beard since they got on the bus, tugging and pulling the underside into a tangled mess that makes Castiel’s hyper-bouncing knee look downright tame by comparison. 

On the bus ride over, they discussed the buskers they’ve already met with and the few still left to see. In the two weeks since their interview with Claire, Dean has become invaluable. Castiel tried to bring him on as a consultant; he doesn’t like the idea of Dean working without pay, but when he brought up the idea during one of their lunch meetings, Dean quickly shot it down. 

“Castiel, this right here,” Dean said, gesturing between them, then to the thick sandwich in his hand, “is all the payment I need.”  

The little smirk that accompanied his words featured prominently in Castiel’s daydreams.  When he’d called Charlie later that evening, she’d worked out his crush in less than a minute, and really, he shouldn’t have been surprised. What he hadn’t planned on - foolish really - was her invitation to have Dean over to their Friday game night. Castiel hadn’t mentioned anything to her about the exhibit details despite her asking, so he supposed she had latched onto the next best thing to get her work fix. He was strict about fostering a clean break from work while she developed familial bonds with her wife and son.  The call didn’t last more than ten minutes before his friends were ganging up on him. 

“Tell Cas I want to meet this mystery busker! ” He heard Gilda shout from somewhere in their apartment.

“Already on it, dear! So, invite him over for game night. Four’s the perfect number for board games, Cas! Plus, I could always use more handmaidens. Do not deprive me of my handmaidens.”

Knowing he would lose this fight no matter what, he conceded defeat. “Of course, Your Majesty,” Castiel said with mock sincerity. “I will pass along your summons. Though I can’t guarantee he’ll come.”

“Well, of course, he doesn’t have to come. But he’s welcome. A friend of our angel is a friend of ours.”

“Thanks, Char. Really.”

“Now, tell me about the exhibit.”

He once again begged off the question, and the pair spent another twenty minutes talking until Charlie hung up for baby Anson’s bedtime routine. He had opened his messaging app and tapped Dean’s name at the top of the list to type out an invitation.

Charlie has summoned you to her castle for a formal introduction. Would you like to join us for a game night on Friday?

Waiting for Dean to return his text had been some sort of torture, but just before he decided to head to bed that evening, Dean texted him back:

Yeah, buddy. Send me the address . 

After a quick warning about Charlie’s competitive nature and Dean assuring Castiel that he could hold his own, they made plans to bus together to the Bradbury’s humble abode. 

Castiel shifts his canvas grocery bag higher on his arm and takes a deep breath. He spares a glance at Dean, and the pair are still staring at each other when the door swings open on its hinges, revealing Charlie in all her bubbly, exasperated glory. Dean and Castiel each jump, shoulders knocking, and the bag slips down Castiel’s arm to be deftly caught by Dean. They’re a little frazzled, and Charlie is eating it up with a spoon, thrilled that her best friend has been rendered nearly useless by the man next to him. 

“Hello, Charlie,” Castiel says once the bag is back in place. Dean looks like he might combust.

“Hello, Angel,” Charlie replies on a snorting laugh, stepping away from the door to let the men inside. 

Anson runs shrieking to Castiel and wraps himself around his knees, nearly toppling him over into Dean who rescues the canvas bag from Castiel so that he can scoop the boy up into his arms. Charlie leads Dean through the house to the kitchen to set up the snacks Castiel brought, and Castiel tries to translate Anson’s baby babble.

“Good to see you two getting along,” Gilda sing-songs, coming from the hallway leading to their two bedrooms with Anson’s stuffed stegosaurus in her hand. She’s willowy with long brown hair that falls in curls to her waist. He knows how lovely it looks during the Moondoor events, woven with ribbon and twine and ivy, tangling in her fairy wings. Tonight, she has it piled atop her head in a messy bun and still looks absolutely beautiful. 

“Anson makes for excellent company. Isn’t that right, sir,” Castiel asks, bouncing the toddler on his hip until the boy wriggles out of his arms to tear off into the kitchen. 

“Should we go make sure they haven’t gotten into too much trouble?” Gilda suggests, following her son into the kitchen. 

“An excellent idea.”

Charlie and Gilda’s home is a nerd haven. Any space that isn’t taken up by overstuffed chairs and other furniture, holds bookcases full of collectibles, books, and figurines. The walls are littered with framed movie posters and puzzles and the whole place is equal parts overwhelming and fun. Castiel is certain he’s still hasn’t seen everything, despite coming over weekly since his and Charlie’s best friendship was declared.  

The Bradbury’s kitchen is dominated by an island that is used for prep work, breakfast bar, and a hangout spot. The counters are covered with Harry Potter -inspired appliances, the backsplash a combination of Charlie’s Gryffindor and Gilda’s Hufflepuff colors.  Dean and Charlie are dumping chips into serving bowls and Castiel watches Dean sneak a chip to Anson, who had sidled up to their newest house guest. 

The boy grabs for the goodie, and plops down on his rear end right beside Dean’s legs, and sucks on the corner of the tortilla chip. Dean reaches down to ruffle the boy’s hair and offers a second chip dipped in queso. Anson drops the first to the tiled floor and eats all the dip off the chip, smearing his mouth and hands with cheese sauce. They catch eyes when Dean raises up and get stuck for a moment staring at one another until Charlie bumps Dean’s hip with her own and they each grab a bowl to take to the dining room table.  Gilda sits down and reaches for the Settlers of Catan box, lifting the lid and pulling out the contents. She and Castiel set up the board while Dean, Charlie and Anson snack on chips and dips. 

“So, Dean. Castiel says you’ve been helping him on a project for work. How are things going?” Charlie asks. Castiel lifts his head to object to the question, hex tiles forgotten, but Dean is already talking. 

“Awesome. We’ve been interviewing buskers around town for the exhibit, that’s actually how I met Cas.”

“Really,” Charlie asks with thinly veiled excitement. Castiel wants to intervene, but keeps silent, hoping her questions don’t go too deep. 

“Yeah, we’ve still got a few people to meet with next week.”

“Do you have a list? Can I see the list? Please, please?”

“Charlie, I don’t think-”

“Yeah, lemme pull it up on my phone.”

Gilda touches Castiel’s arm gently and takes the remaining hex tiles from Castiel’s hand. “Let her have her fun, Cas. She’s ok.” 

Dean pulls his phone from his pocket and opens the latest email from Castiel. The list is a few names and the locations where each musician plays. Charlie grabs the phone from Dean and scrolls through the list, eyes alighting on one of the names.

“I know Chuck! He’s down by Jack Lyle Park. Oh! Cas, you could ask the Allied Arts Guild if they want to help with the exhibit!” Charlie lets out an unrestrained squeal of delight that has Anson clapping and laughing along with her. In the face of her elation, Castiel lets go of his discomfort and decides to embrace the turn of conversation. 

“That’s a great idea, Charlie. I’ll give them a call on Monday.”

“Chuck’s great, Cas. Little squirrely, but kind-hearted. I think you’ll really like him. He’s got that whole modern folk thing going on, perfect for the museum!”

“All right, you three, enough work. Let’s play,” Gilda chides, and pulls Anson into her lap so he can help her roll the dice. 

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮

Jack W. Lyle Park is primarily a large field where local community sports groups host soccer and peewee football games.  There is a modest jungle gym and a few benches set along a paved walking path that circumvents the entire tree-lined space.  It’s blocked in by two-story homes on three sides and the Rosen House Adult Care center on the fourth. Dean has brought his guitar along for their meeting; it’s a great ice breaker with the other buskers and he likes playing with new artists, collaborating on something unique born from their shared passion.  

He meets Castiel outside the Arts Guild where he’s just finished meeting with a man named Cain. They walk together to the park from there, and Dean tries not to be jealous of the older man while Castiel gushes over their shared love of honey bees and how the man invited Castiel to his home to see his apiary. It’s hard to be upset though when Castiel beams up at him with his bright blue eyes. He is such a goner. 

The pair find Chuck, not at the park, but set up in the little memorial garden behind the Rosen House, surrounded by senior citizens and two nurses in bright pink scrubs. A few folks are dozing in their motorized wheelchairs, but those who are awake smile and clap off-beat to the man playing his acoustic guitar for them. One of the nurses, a petite woman with mousy blonde hair and overly large eyes spots Dean and Castiel and moves away from the group to approach them. Dean feels a little caught out and wants to turn away from the group, but he sees Castiel shifting nervously beside him and stands his ground. 

When the woman gets closer, he extends a hand to her and gives his most charming smile, “Dean Winchester, miss. This is my partner, Castiel.”

“Becky Rosen,” the woman titters in a high, enthused tone. “How can I help you, gentlemen?” She leads them toward the edge of the parking lot, closer to the park where several large trees shade them. Castiel has clammed up, so Dean carries the conversation for them, explaining the exhibit and concluding with their desire to meet with Chuck for an interview. 

“Oh, Chuck’s not a busker! He’s my boyfriend. He plays for the folks here that we take care of. I own the place, inherited it from my mom when she passed away. Your exhibit sounds fascinating, by the way. I’m sure Chuck would be happy to participate,” Becky supplies in one breath. Dean isn’t sure he follows half of what she says and is afraid they won’t get a word in edgewise, but Castiel seems to have woken up a bit and offers Becky a business card from his messenger bag. 

“Thank you for agreeing to help, Ms. Rosen. Do you mind if we wait for Chuck’s show to end? We’d like to ask him a few questions.”

Becky opens her mouth for another run-on sentence when the small group of seniors break into polite applause.  Becky takes the card and bounces off to meet Chuck. Dean huffs out a sigh and Castiel turns to him with a bemused look on his face. 

“That went well, I think,” he surmises.

“If you say so.”

Becky motions for them to come over to the garden and he holds the white picket gate open for Cas so they can step inside. 

“I need to help Tessa with getting everyone back, but you boys have fun!” Becky gestures to the other woman in scrubs, helping a woman with a walker get the tennis balls stuck to the legs over the threshold and into the air conditioning. The bubbly blonde pecks Chuck on the cheek and bounces toward an elderly man with a cannula running to the oxygen tank on the back of his chair. 

On first impression, Chuck seems exactly as Charlie described. He has curly greying hair and a short beard. He’s wearing a white baseball tee trimmed in black under a green canvas jacket, jeans, and grey Chuck Taylor sneakers. He has wide blue eyes and smiles when they approach. Castiel gets to him first and shakes his hand, exchanging pleasantries. When Chuck glances over Cas’s shoulder to Dean, a flash of recognition runs across his features and he closes the distance between them quickly, dropping Castiel’s hand in the process, to envelope Dean in a tight hug. Dean freezes, then pats awkwardly at the smaller man’s back until he lets go, bracing Dean’s shoulders in each hand. There are tears in his eyes, tracking down to his beard, and Dean realizes that his shirt is damp where Chuck buried his face in his shoulder. 

“Uh…” Dean supplies, mouth agape at the display of emotion. He catches Castiel’s eye and sees the other man is no better off at understanding what’s going on in this garden in the middle of the afternoon. 

“Dean Winchester,” Chuck whispers his name like a prayer, reverent. “When Becky said it was...but I didn’t think - I mean. Wow. It’s you.”

“Uh-huh,” he's still not sure what’s going on between them, but Chuck’s eyes drift down to his throat, his right hand coming away from Dean’s shoulder to root his amulet from beneath his shirt.

“Hey, man! No touching,” he gasps and tries to jerk away from Chuck’s grasp, but the man has him pinned in place by the shoulder. Castiel makes an abortive step toward them, but Dean knows he won’t throw a punch if this goes sideways. Chuck stares in awe at the small horned mask in his palm, running his thumb along the ridges and planes of the figure. Chuck’s eyes snap to Dean’s and he stops struggling, caught in their depths. Castiel has one hand poised to reach for the older man when he opens his mouth to speak.

“I gave this to your mother, Mary Winchester. I - I knew your parents before they had you. Back in the early seventies. We used to play together before they were married,” he conveys with quiet wonder. The amulet is warm, buzzing when Chuck replaces it under Dean’s shirt.

“You knew my mom?” Dean knows his face is scrunched in an unattractive twist, but he can’t wrap his head around what Chuck is saying. 

“And your dad. Met Mary first though, what a lady. Does she still play?” 

He swallows the lump in his throat. God, Chuck looks so hopeful. 

“No, she and Dad died in a car accident. Ten years now.”

He watches Chuck’s entire being collapse on itself, shoulders sagging and face falling into deep remorse. His eyes well up again, the tears carrying none of their previous mirth. 

“Dean, I’m so sorry. That’s...terrible. Just, awful.”

Chuck leads them to a stone bench in the garden. There’s a skinny tree trying its best to shade them, and Dean drags the guitar case off his back to sit with Chuck. The older man makes room, so he can balance the case on his lap, flicking open the latches to raise the lid. Castiel stands a short distance from them, and Dean is so grateful he’s here, that they came together on this errand-turned-trip-down-memory-lane. He huffs out a sigh and tips the case toward Chuck showing him Mary’s guitar and the family photos tucked inside. 

Chuck gasps beside him at the sight and murmurs, “May I?” Quiet as a church mouse. Dean nods and tries not to let his fear show at someone besides him touching this last connection to his parents. Castiel has stepped closer to them, and places a gentle hand on Dean’s right shoulder, calming his frayed nerves. 

Dean watches as Chuck runs his fingers over the weathered pickguard, scratched with decades of use. He traces the initials carved into the body and looks up with a question in his eyes, fingers resting over the SW . 

“Sam, my brother,” Dean answers the unspoken question. “He doesn’t play anymore. Quit the band to join Stanford...Law.”

“You must be so proud,” Chuck says, and his tears have dried, but he looks no less wrecked over their impromptu reunion. He leans into Dean’s space, not wanting to remove the photos, but desperate for a closer look. “She’s just as beautiful as the day I met her,” he points to a family portrait, all four Winchesters with their instruments held aloft, mid-performance. 

Dean wants to ask if there was something between this man and his mother but doesn’t know if he really wants the answer. It seems Chuck can read his mind though, for he offers, unprompted, “There was nothing but deep friendship between us. I introduced her to your father, you know? Our friend Missouri Moseley married them back behind Bobby’s old salvage yard. Doesn’t sound romantic, but Karen decorated the place beautifully. Had the ceremony on the wraparound porch. Karen had it draped with fabric and flowers. Killed John’s allergies. I remember he sneezed right before the ‘I do’s’. It was perfect.”

It’s Dean’s turn to get teary, his shoulders shaking with each of Chuck’s words. They lost Karen just before he was born. All he knows about her is that she made the best pies and that Bobby loved her with his whole self. The way his parents loved each other. Missouri, he hasn’t thought of Missouri since his last trip to Sioux Falls a year before. Thinking of her and the motherly way she treats him and Sam has him letting out a sobbing gasp. Castiel lowers himself to the arm of the bench and pulls Dean into his chest, rubbing soothing circles across his flannel shirt. The warmth of his hand seeps deep into his bones, a gentle comfort. 

They sit on the bench for several hours, reminiscing, trading stories, laughing and crying in equal measure. Castiel is silent, save for polite laughter and never stops touching Dean. When the sun begins to set, Becky joins them, slightly subdued once she catches the nature of their conversation. She and Castiel make plans for the exhibit opening; he invites the seniors who can make the trip to opening night, and she exchanges contact information with him.  

Castiel and Dean beg off the couple’s offer to join them for dinner and instead make the journey back to their bus stop in silence. The bus pulls next to the glassed-in benches with a hiss of the breaks, and Castiel motions for Dean to get on ahead of him. They sit side-by-side near the back doors. The interior lights are blinding, and Dean leans his head against the glass, knocking his temple along with the cracks in the pavement. His mother’s guitar is wedged in the space between his knees. Dean lets out a long breath, fogging the glass and watching as the condensation recedes. Castiel reaches a hand to Dean’s knee and gives a tentative, gentle squeeze. Dean moves his hand from the curve of the guitar case to cover Castiel’s. They ride together until they reach the transit station where they met. Dean pulls the bright yellow cord for the stop and Castiel shifts beside him. He looks over, pivoting so that he can stay propped up and still see Cas. 

The bus slows in its approach and Castiel draws a deep breath before gets up, “You’re more than welcome to come back with me if you want to.”

“I do, Cas, but I - I gotta get back to Sam,” he's apologetic. He really does want to go with the other man, but he needs to unpack the day, relate everything he’s learned to Sam. He knows he has just enough energy to get through the basics before he crashes, and it doesn’t feel right to wait to tell his brother something this monumental. 

“I understand,” Castiel seems to falter a moment as the bus jerks to a stop. “Perhaps next time?” The corners of his mouth tilt up, cautious and hopeful. 

“Yeah, Cas. I’d like that.” 

Castiel steps out of the bus doors and waits on the platform as the bus carries him away, he lifts his hand to wave and Castiel returns the gesture, the distance growing until the bus turns and Castiel disappears from sight. He fingers the amulet around his neck with renewed fondness until the bus pulls into the stop near Sam’s apartment. He pulls the guitar case strap over his head and feels the weight of the instrument ground him. 

Sam and Dean don’t make it to bed that night.  They fall asleep, leaning into one another, on the couch. When they wake up late the next morning, it’s with cricks in their necks and full hearts. Dean makes them bacon and pancakes after Sam calls into his professor to excuse his absence, and the pair spend the whole day together for the first time in years.

Chapter Text

Dean spends all his free time over the next few months running down leads on local musicians and meeting with Cas for morning cups of coffee, afternoon lunches, and weekend evenings with Charlie and Gilda for game nights and babysitting Anson. He replaces Sam’s couch with a queen-size hide-a-bed and makes himself comfortable, starts pitching in on rent, and Sam stops asking him over for lunch at Stanford. It seems he’s met a woman named Madison, another legal TA, who occupies his office hours these days. 

The first time Dean meets Castiel at Milton’s Cafe, he finds Joshua there, holding two cups of coffee.  When he turns to find Dean in line behind him, his face breaks into a warm smile and he hands one of the travel cups to Dean. Introductions are made and Joshua and Castiel become fast friends, each man bonding over a love of community outreach. It seems only natural for Dean to invite Chuck to coffee the next week. The older men get along famously, and Chuck and Becky hire Joshua on at the adult care center to tend to the garden there and even set him up in the granny flat behind Becky’s home. 

In addition to his regular group of friends, Dean also has a dozen students in Palo Alto who meet him at Robles Park after school to learn the guitar. Castiel helped him set up the ad on the local community board, and Sam has been nothing but encouraging.  It is by far the most rewarding thing he’s ever done, and it’s helped bring some much-needed stability to his life. He has a feeling his parents would be proud of him. 

Dean still spends his early mornings waking up the people that make their homes at the transit station and spends a few afternoons with Claire each week after Castiel leaves him to go back to work. They make great tips when they play together. After a particularly good day some weeks before, Claire admitted her father left the family abruptly when she was ten, and her mother died earlier in the year from brain cancer. She and Dean had shared one of those ugly, snotty, therapeutic cries that clears your sinuses and leaves you closer to the person you’re with. 

He brings Claire her second-favorite sandwich one afternoon, a hot ham and cheese from Alfie’s cafe with a complimentary cookie, and hands it over before setting up his own guitar to play for tips while she eats. The bench has become their new favorite spot to play, enough room for Claire to sit and eat while Dean strums a song that reminds him of Cas. All his songs remind him of Cas these days. Claire finishes her sandwich in record time, and they play together in companionable silence for a few hours, save for the notes from their instruments. 

There’s a good amount of foot traffic on the street: students heading to and from classes, folks dressed in casual suits and skirts going for drinks after work, parents with their kiddos on their way to the museums and parks nearby. Each group slows as they pass Dean and Claire, an odd couple for sure, but no one passes without a smile or dropping their change in Claire’s case. 

Just before Dean has to leave for a lesson, Kaia, a cognitive science major at Stanford, joins the small crowd of people gathered around them. He watches Claire feel the girl’s presence, opening her eyes and homing in on her. Kaia beams back, a smile radiant on her face. Dean tries to keep up as the ukulele’s notes change into something dream-like and a little haunting, a testament to Claire’s musicality. Dean lets his guitar fade out on the next eight counts and lets Claire play on for Kaia. 

When the song is over, and the people around wander off to their destinations, Dean leaves the two young women, looking over his shoulder to wave goodbye, and instead catches them in a gentle kiss. He lets his hand drop and shakes his head at their blossoming love.  

On his way to the park, his back pocket vibrates, and he shifts the guitar case to fish his phone from his jeans. He always marvels at Castiel’s seemingly perfect timing; he never sends a text or calls when Dean’s playing. It’s like the universe conspires to never interrupt their music. Dean unlocks the phone with his thumb, and reads the message on the screen:

Ghostfacers agreed to play at the exhibit opening!!

Dean is thrilled for him; Castiel has been trying to secure the band for the exhibit for a month, never able to pin them down to a specific date or time. He knows from spending any amount of time with Charlie, that Moondoor was the biggest inspiration for pulling the museum’s instrument collection into an exhibit. Castiel had gushed to Dean that he secretly hoped the band would agree to play as a surprise for Charlie on opening night. Dean may have contacted them outside of Castiel’s official correspondence, admitting to knowing Maggie Zeddmore from a street they played in Wisconsin before she moved back to California to start the band with her brother. He’s happy to know his little push helped sway them to Castiel’s cause. 

The dots bounce along next to Cas’s name before Dean can respond:

Can you stop by the apartment after your lesson? I’d like to go over some notes with you.  

Castiel shares all his research with Dean, running ideas and themes by him for their grand exhibit. Dean supports him through everything. It still makes him nervous any time the man mentions the word bard or the phrase bardic inspiration. He’s pretty sure Cas is onto him, maybe even as early as their conversation with Chuck, but always seems reluctant to admit his suspicions. Sam certainly thinks Cas knows everything. His baby brother likes to point out all the boxes Castiel checks in the Patron column. He even calls Cas his O.T.P. (One True Patron), then laughs and dodges Dean’s brotherly punch to the shoulder. 

Dean’s not quite ready to admit aloud that he believes it, too. 

He and Claire have talked about it at length once Kaia became a regular audience member, the delicate balance between Bard and Patron, going back to the Middle Ages. The Patron enters into a silent agreement, which might explain Castiel’s reticence, funding the Bard’s artistic endeavors with money, shelter, food, or companionship. In return, the Bard provides assistance and inspiration to their Patron’s pursuits. While Dean has many patrons, his relationships with each are defined by the depth of their patronage. He already feels a more profound bond with Castiel, has recognized it on some level since agreeing to help with the exhibit, and each day it grows deeper still. 

Dean’s response is quick: I’ll see you in a couple hours. Lesson, then bus. 

Thank you! I’ll make us pizza :)

Us. Dean can’t keep the grin from his face if he tried.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮

Castiel’s small one-bedroom apartment is surrounded by condos, painted beige, and features a useless electric fireplace in the middle of the living room. Every apartment he’s had in California has a fireplace, and he can’t reconcile the loss of wall space with the average temperatures in Palo Alto. When it’s cold, he drags a second blanket to the couch and swaps for flannel sheets. He can’t even toast a marshmallow on the thing. He tried once in his first apartment, and nearly set off the smoke detector. 

He has the whole place tastefully decorated with eclectic accent furniture and a huge L-shaped couch he’s seen Charlie, Gilda, and Anson curl up on several occasions when he hosts game night. He hears Dean’s boots trod up the steps to his door and listens for his customary four staccato knocks. He hollers from the kitchen, where he’s compulsively watching the pizza. He’s worried it will burn, or the cheese won’t melt properly, or the bacon he crumbled over the top five minutes ago will have somehow rolled itself into the burners. He hears Dean twisting the knob and kicking off his shoes on the patch of linoleum inside the doorway and turns away from the stove to watch Dean prop his guitar on the small side table and follow his nose to the kitchen. 

He almost forgets to be nervous in the face of what feels an awful lot to his heart like Dean is coming home.

“Smells awesome, Cas,” Dean announces, stepping through the arched doorway into the kitchen. The room is all dark cherry cabinets and full-sized appliances, and it’s Castiel’s favorite room in the place. He always makes an excuse to feed any company that’s present. 

“Congrats on the band, too. I can’t believe they finally agreed to play. It’s awesome.”

“Thank you.  I hope Charlie likes the surprise.”

“She’ll love every second of it, I’m sure.”

He graces Dean with a gentle smile, then bends to pull their pizza from the oven. He’s got the towel that’s usually draped over the oven door handle tucked inside his back pocket, and dons oven mitts to protect his hands from the pizza stone resting inside.  He can practically see Dean’s mouth water at the sight of the beautiful pie presented to him: a meaty monstrosity that required a double batch of crust for maximum stability. The bacon is mercifully intact, and the crust has an attractive char around its bubbly edges. 

Dean rubs his hands together at the sight, gleeful, and snakes past him to grab plates and frosty mugs from the freezer, setting them on the table that separates the kitchen from the living room. The table is sized down for the two of them, but there’s a leaf hiding inside that allows for seating for six. Dean goes back for two beers, uncapping them with the bottle opener on his keys and pouring them into the glasses. He has Dean spoiled on frozen mugs. The first time he pulled them from the freezer, Dean’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. Dean places the empty bottles into the recycling bin under the sink, and they walk together to the table, Castiel with the sliced pizza in his hands. Dean pulls the towel from Castiel’s pocket and lays it in the center of the table, so the pizza stone doesn’t scorch the wood, and they each take a seat across from one another. 

“Thank you for coming over on short notice,” he says, once the pizza is served and their mouths are burned.

“Like I’d ever say no to your cooking,” Dean teases swallowing his mouthful of pizza.

“All the same, I’ve come across something in Charlie’s research that I’d like your opinion on,” he continues. Dean’s eyes dart to where his hands are shaking, and he clasps them together to hide his nerves.  

“Are you alright, man?” Dean is starting to worry, he can tell and it’s throwing him from the speech he had prepared before texting the musician to stop by. 

“Yes. I - I believe so.” 

Dean seems unconvinced, and they finish the pizza. Dean’s waiting him out, he knows. 

When they finish, Dean gathers their plates onto the pizza stone and takes everything to the kitchen sink. He’s stopped protesting Dean’s help with such chores and remains silent. Instead, he walks to the coffee table where a green folder sits, it’s the one he made up for Dean for their first interview. It’s grown thick over the months they’ve known one another. Castiel stares at the passages he’s highlighted on the page, summoning the courage to go through with the evening. He doesn’t know if he wants his suspicious to be true but knows he’s come to a boiling point. He wants something with Dean, something more, but not without knowing the whole truth of what’s in front of them. 

Squaring his shoulders, he returns to the archway and watches Dean run the dish wand under the tap until it suds, scrubbing down the first plate and starting to rinse the soap away before he finally finds his voice. 

“What are you, exactly?” 

He all but blurts out the accusation.  It’s not the phrasing he wants to use, not the direction he wants to steer the conversation. Dean finishes rinsing the plate and shuts off the tap, turning slowly to face him, eyes searching his face. He’s flushed, can feel his cheeks burning under Dean’s gaze until his eyes dart down to the pages he holds in his hands.  Dean pulls the towel from beneath the pizza stone and wipes his hands carefully. Dean looks to be stalling. He wonders if Dean somehow knows what's on the page. 

“What did you find in Charlie’s notes, Cas?” Dean asks, indicating the papers he’s now clutching. 

“Could we sit?” 

“Sure.”

They each sit, and Dean wipes his hands down his thighs as Castiel flips the corner of the papers up to a dog-eared point, then smooths it down again. Neither have made eye contact. The silence stretches between them. The air conditioner in the living room rattles.

Castiel takes a deep breath and starts at the beginning.

“When we first met, I gave you the change from my coffee and you smiled at me. I went to work that first day and managed to review all of Charlie’s notes on the exhibit which I found daunting, until that point. Every day, I dropped my change, you smiled, and I got more work done than I had in a month.

“Then you wrote me a song, that next week. That one about the bees? It was for me, right?” Dean nods his head sheepishly and he continues, “I thought so. Did you know I invited a coworker to lunch that day? I haven’t eaten outside of the museum with anyone but Charlie in years , Dean. And that night, I couldn’t get you out of my head. I came up with the idea of this exhibit because of you. With the…bards, uh, buskers.”

He turns the papers and pushes them to Dean across the table.

“Please read over the highlighted parts? I’d like to know if any of what that says is true,” he requests, hesitant. He watches Dean skim over the passages he found in Charlie’s notes, back before they knew each other’s names. “I know it sounds crazy, but I think it…fits. Somehow. That you might be a, an um…”

“A bard, Cas. Yeah, you got it in one,” Dean sets the pages down on the table and meets his eyes. Their features are mirrored: open, honest and ready to lay it all out there.

“And that makes me your…”

“Patron.”

“Right. I read about that, too,” he gives Dean a coy tilt of his lips. An invitation. “So, it’s all true then?” 

“More or less, yeah. You’ve got the basics here,” Dean murmurs, indicating the pages before him. 

“And the bardic inspiration…is that some sort of…magic?”

Dean breathes deeply and Castiel watches the place where Dean’s amulet is hidden beneath his shirt emit a gentle, pulsing glow. Castiel researched the amulet after their first meeting with Chuck. His notes are still in the file, but he remembers it as a talisman, a sort of channeling device for the bard’s power. With his suspicions confirmed, it’s easy to fill in the blanks, explain the unusual charm Dean possesses. 

Dean opens his eyes, catching his own and speaks in a clear and strong voice, as though reciting some ancient mythology. “In the beginning, the universe was spoken into existence. The words of the gods gave the universe shape, the echoes of those primordial Words of Creation still resound throughout the cosmos. Our music is an attempt to harness those echoes, weave them into the power of our own songs. Patrons, as you know, amplify a Bard’s connection to the Words. So, each penny earned, every minute spent listening, and smile freely given makes my music stronger. A true patron ticks all these boxes,” Dean points to the bulleted list of patronage types. “The more boxes you check, the stronger the bond.”

“So, we’ve had such good luck with the exhibit because of my patronage?”

“That and Palo Alto seems to be a Bard hub,” Dean laughs at his own implication, but Castiel is at a loss.

“What does that mean?”

“Claire and Chuck are Bards. Chuck’s got Becky keeping him tied down and I think Claire’s gonna stay, too. Unless Kaia moves away.”

“Why didn’t I pick up on them?”

“Dunno. I mean, I think Claire impacted you, too. But our bond might overshadow what you get from the other bards.” 

Castiel opens his mouth to ask more questions, but he’s afraid of broaching the true reason for this heart-to-heart. The part of him left from before he met Dean wants to keep his next question locked away, but the part of him that has changed because of the man sitting across from him takes a leap of faith. 

“Could there ever be something…more?” He can’t look Dean in the eye and settles for staring into the kitchen over Dean’s shoulder. 

Dean’s eyes widen and his lips part, leaving him looking stunned. It’s over in a flash, his expression smoothing to something carefully blank, but hopeful as he asks, “What is it you want, Cas?”

“You. A, um. Date? If that’s something you might want to pursue. With me.”

Dean’s lips tip up into a wolfish grin when they lock eyes over the table, “I think we’ve been on plenty of dates since your project started. Don’t you?” 

“I didn’t want to presume. And it’s been hard, working under the assumption that you’re some…mythical being.”

“Hey, I exist,” Dean exclaims, laughing.

“Of course, you exist. I just didn’t know it was all, well…real.”

“Sure is,” Dean confides, leaning back into his chair. He looks so relieved at the evening’s turn of events. “So, you want to make this thing between us official?”

Castiel beams at him, unable to contain himself, “I’d like that very much.”

“Charlie’s gonna flip.”

“I suspect Sam will, too.”

“Nah, he’s too busy serenading his new lady,” Dean admits. “Caught him with a second-hand guitar last week. You shoulda seen him. Turned redder than a tomato.”

“I’m glad to hear he’s playing again,” he says, quiet and genuine and it’s worth it to see Dean’s entire face radiating happiness.

“Me, too, Cas.”

He reaches across the table to take the papers back and rises from the table, asking, “Would you like to stay? We can watch something before you have to go.”

“Yeah, that sounds awesome.”

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮

Dean watches as Castiel packs his notes away in a folder that he slips into his messenger bag while he makes himself comfortable on the big couch. There’s a new tension between them. He thinks it’s the good kind of nervous before something big, but supposes the big stuff is already out of the way given his confession and Castiel’s ready acceptance. He feels fantastic and a little dizzy, having everything out in the open now.

He flicks on the remote to Castiel’s modest television set and selects a streaming service.  All the “pick up where you left off” shows are documentary series, so he selects a nature show, and figures they can ease into this new turn of their relationship. An episode on big cats plays as Castiel walks back to the kitchen to refill their beers in the spare set of frozen mugs and in most ways, it feels like any other time he’s stayed to decompress after a long day before heading back to Sam’s apartment.

Castiel comes back with their drinks and sets them on coasters on the coffee table before walking past his usual spot, taking a seat next to him on the couch. It’s closer than they usually sit: Castiel favors the short side of the L-shaped couch, where he can lay down against the pillows piled in the corner where the two sections meet, while Dean prefers the opposite arm where he can prop his feet on the tufted ottoman Cas keeps there.

He looks to Cas from the corner of his eye and turns fully to him when he sees the other man staring back at him. Then, the distance between them disappears and their lips meet in a gentle press. Neither vies for more until they each pull away and open their eyes. He grins, elated and Castiel swoops in for a deeper kiss. He opens his mouth in invitation for more. A few gasping kisses find him hovering over Castiel, pushed back to lay on the long edge of the couch. The space isn’t quite wide enough for them both, but he makes do with one knee wedged between Cas and the back of the couch, and the other foot planted on the floor. His hands cradle Cas’s head as an excuse to run through his thick hair and they rut against each other like men half their age.

He shifts his weight, so he can get a hand between them, running his palm along the planes of Castiel's side and stomach. He's close to his goal when Castiel grabs for his wrist and drags their hands away. Cas breaks their kiss to breathe out, "Just this, ok?"

He sees the hesitance in Castiel's blue eyes and quickly nods, their lips brushing in the narrow space between them. "Yeah, Cas. Just this. Whatever you need," he whispers, entirely content. When Castiel beams at him: a wide smile that shows all his teeth and his gum line and it is Dean’s absolute favorite thing, he can't help but capture Castiel in another kiss that goes on long after their beer goes warm. 

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮

Castiel wakes warm and cozy the next morning with Dean curled against his back. He has a moment to bask in the novelty of having someone to wake up to and almost wishes they were lying face to face so he can watch Dean as he sleeps. He shifts an arm from beneath the sheets and pulls his phone closer to read the time. It’s early, probably just enough time to have breakfast before he needs to be at the museum. He sets the phone back in place and pulls himself fully under the sheets, nestling back into the solid line of heat Dean provides. He feels his hair tangle with Dean’s beard and the other man stirs behind him, so Castiel takes the opportunity to stretch a bit before settling again. Dean shifts his hips back slightly and noses along his neck, running his scruff between Cas’s shoulder blades and planting a kiss just below his hairline. It tickles, and he tenses up but still offers more of his neck to Dean who smooches him right behind his ear.

“Mornin’,” Dean whispers and he feels a chill racing up and down his spine. Dean rolls onto his back and Cas follows the movement, turning to face Dean fully before kissing him soundly again, without a care for their morning breath.

They laze around in bed for nearly a half-hour, touching and kissing one another until Cas’s phone alarm chimes in gentle tones and they each roll out of bed to get ready for the day. They trade off in the bathroom and Cas goes first, leaving a spare toothbrush on the sink for Dean to use. He comes out to the kitchen to a bed-rumpled Dean holding a steaming mug of herbal tea which he accepts with a kiss.

“Do you not have a coffee pot, or did I just not see it?” Dean grumbles, walking down the hall in only his boxer briefs.

Castiel takes a moment to admire the view before answering, “We’ll have to go down to Milton’s.” 

Dean says something in response, but it’s lost to the sounds of running water from the bathroom. Castiel finishes the tea while he’s getting dressed and Dean joins him in the bedroom halfway through, throwing on the jeans, flannel, and t-shirt he wore the previous day. Castiel hands him a clean pair of socks and Dean thanks him, disappearing to the front of the apartment.  He can hear Dean picking up their forgotten beers, listens to Dean run the sink in the kitchen while he gathers his files for work, and they meet at the front door, ready to start their day.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮

They part ways at the transit station. Dean sets up his guitar in his usual spot, and Cas kisses him on the cheek before he boards his bus. He misses Cas already, which is ridiculous, but he can’t help the way he feels. The amulet is a warm weight around his neck, and the guitar strings seem to hum under his fingers before he’s played a single chord. He feels himself grinning like an idiot, and when he looks up, he sees the little girl bounding toward him and his heart fills up again.

As he picks out a tune for her, he decides he wants to spend every morning just like this.

On a break, he texts Sam, insisting they have lunch. It feels like forever since they shared a meal, and he’s keyed-up with the need to share all their good news.  Sam texts back that he’s free and Dean counts the seconds until noon by the beat of his songs.

He’s walking to one of the cafes on campus to pick up their food when his phone buzzes twice in his back pocket. He swipes over the screen and pulls down his notifications menu, tapping on Her Majesty and opening his text thread with Charlie.

Dean Winchester you lucky son of a bard! Cas just told me the good news!!

I can’t believe you two finally got together!!!

Dean stares down at the phone, shocked at her words. He’s still contemplating how he wants to reply when the dots bounce along next to her name. He decides to wait for her to finish.

Don’t worry, Dean-o. I know it’s a shock, but Gilda’s sort of a fairy. Well, she’s fae. But seriously, your secret’s safe with us.

He sends the text before he’s even considered what he’s typed: WTF is up with Palo Alto?

Well, we are right next to the Hellmouth, lol.

She sends a gif of Buffy Summers spinning a stake and Dean can’t help it; he snorts, right in the middle of the cafe, all the tension draining from his shoulders. He shoots her back a gif of Spike posing for the cameras and decides to embrace this newfound turn of luck. He rides his high all the way to Sam’s office and never once feels self-conscious about the people around him.

He knocks out a staccato on the office door and doesn’t wait to be let in, turning the knob to bombard his brother with an over-eager smile. Sam jumps a foot in the air from the racket Dean’s made but settles once he sees who’s in the doorway.

“Jesus, Dean. I could have been with a student, jerk.”

“Whatever, bitch. Look, I got you your favorite salad,” he breezes in and dumps the bags on Sam’s desk, and despite his careless entry, he makes sure to avoid setting the food anywhere near the papers Sam’s been grading. Sam rolls his eyes but still digs into his meal while Dean gets his things situated so he can eat.

“You look…good?” Sam muses, eyeing him while he stuffs a sandwich into his mouth.

“I’m adorable,” he replies through his mouthful while Sam grimaces.

“That’s not what I meant."

Then, Sam's eyes light up and he points to him from across his desk, a piece of lettuce falling back into its biodegradable container, “You didn’t sleep at home last night!”  His brother’s eyes are dancing with mirth now, and Dean groans half-heartedly, but can’t keep the smile off his face.

“Nope,” Dean confirms, popping the end of the word with great satisfaction.

“Was it Cas? Please tell me it was Cas.”

Dean takes a moment to bask in his brother’s obvious delight, then nods his head with the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old and gushes, “Yeah, man. It’s Cas.”

Sam pumps both fists in the air, a bit of cheese flying off the end of the fork to land somewhere on the floor. 

"So… Did you? You know," Sam trails off with bouncing eyebrows, mimicking a cheesy approximation of bad porn music.

"As a matter of fact, no. It's not something he's into, so don't make it weird," he warns, feeling particularly defensive. His lightheartedness threatening to slip.

"Hey, hey, woah. That's cool, Dean," Sam mollifies with his hands raised in surrender. A grin splits his face and Dean feels his own mouth quirk up in unbidden mirth once again.

Then, they’re both laughing and joking, and Sam hauls himself out of his chair to give Dean a bone-crushing hug.

“All right, all right. Get offa me, ya moose.”

“Dean, this is awesome!” Sam exclaims, holding Dean away from him by the shoulders. There are unshed tears in his eyes and Dean isn’t sure when this little celebration turned into something serious, but Sam steps away and runs a finger beneath his eyes and offers quietly, “Mom and Dad would love him.”

“Thanks, Sammy,” he says, emotion clouding his vision.

Chapter Text

Castiel lifts the messenger bag from around his shoulders and hangs it on the hook inside the workroom door. The large table is covered with the instruments that will go up for installation next month. There’s already an empty space where the first set has been carted away, up to the exhibit hall on the main floor. It’s been blocked off to the public with a banner displaying the upcoming exhibit. The guitars, flutes, and drums will be displayed adjacent to the quilt Anael restored, the exhibition space rather limited given the niche subject of their collection. 

He sets a bright teal bag on the work table, adjusting it a bit so as not to disturb the contents inside. He boots up his desktop computer, and jiggles the mouse to wake up the monitors, then picks up the watering can to give all the plants a quick drink.  He’s thinking about how beautiful Dean’s freckles look in the early morning light, and how the bard has moved in with him a few weeks after they made things official. 

Humming, Castiel replaces the watering can on its shelf and nearly has a heart attack at the wailing squeal behind him. Clutching his chest, he turns with wide eyes just as Charlie runs to him with open arms. She flings herself into him and they go careening into his desk, its contents wobbling dangerously. 

“I’m back! Oh! You kept all our babies alive! Cas, I’m so proud of you!” She’s already moved on from him, to caress all the leaves of every single plant they have, cooing at them and calling them by name as she did every morning before her leave. She whirls around to the work table and her eyes alight on the goodie bag he’s left for her.

“You didn’t ,” she breathes out, making her way to the bag and peering inside it. He thinks her face could best be described as Indiana Jones looking at the Holy Grail. 

“I did,” he affirms, beaming at her. 

“Castiel, angel of my heart, did you get me a Celebration Cake from Susie’s ?!” The last part of her sentence tips up in borderline hysteria and he’s certain a lesser mortal’s eardrums would have ruptured. 

“I did. There’s candles in there, too. I thought we could take it upstairs,” he suggests fishing the candles from the bag while Charlie unboxes the cake. “I’m not supposed to tell you, but everyone’s waiting to surprise you. Anael coordinated everything, I’m the ‘cake guy’ as she put it.” 

“Holy shit! It’s freakin’ perfect, Cas!” 

He puts the candles into the frosting, carefully avoiding the lettering that spells out, “ I’m Back, Bitches! "

“I had that approved by HR, so they’re all expecting it,” he admits, only vaguely scandalized that he went through with his own idea. 

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮

Castiel manages to underestimate how sneaky Charlie can get when she thinks he’s hiding something from her. He has caught her trying to hack his work email, and after a conversation on boundaries in the workplace, Castiel locks himself in the men’s room upstairs and laments to Dean during a frantic phone call, that he’s not sure he can do this anymore. Dean reminds him that he booked Ghostfacers outside of his work email, that they’ve only spoken over the phone, and that there is no real reason for Charlie to find out about their surprise. 

Which is all well and good until the Moondoor events start up again in the Spring.

It’s mere days until the opening when Charlie drags him, along with Dean, Gilda, and Anson, to the park, which has been made over into half Renaissance Faire, half battleground, in honor of the day’s events. They’ve all dressed up for the occasion, of course. Charlie wears a heavy gold crown, cape and a maroon brocade gown befitting her queenly status. She carries Anson on her hip, dressed up as her knight in shining armor. Gilda is resplendent in a gauzy white gown, her hair braided with sprigs of ivy. The Bradbury’s are quickly absorbed into the crowd of Charlie’s faithful subjects, leaving Castiel and Dean in the parking lot. 

Castiel has dressed up in his customary Moondoor Knight attire: knee-high leather boots, brown cotton breeches, and a maroon vest-like tunic with the Moondoor crest embroidered over his heart, worn over a long sleeve blouse. He’ll don heavy leather shoulder pads for the upcoming battle and wears a wooden sword in his leather belt. 

He has had a very hard time keeping his eyes on anything but Dean. Dean, who has managed to pour himself into leather breeches, a loose brown tunic layered over a linen blouse, the sleeves of which are pushed up by buckled bracers protecting his forearms, and dear lord, the chainmail, draped so casually over his shoulders. He’s an actual dream if Castiel’s honest with himself. 

“I smell turkey legs,” Dean exclaims, already making a beeline for the barbeque smokers set up on the opposite side of the parking lot. Castiel laughs, following a few steps behind to shamelessly admire what he can see of Dean’s rear end behind his guitar. He’s so distracted he hardly notices the large white van as it pulls into a nearby space, it’s side door slamming open, three of the five Ghostfacers spilling out into the lot. He hears Ed Zeddmore before he sees him, hollering across the lot. 

“Castiel! Hey, man! Wait up.”

He and Dean turn to the group, who is pulling instruments and amplifiers from the van, ready to play war anthems for the Battle of Moondoor. 

“Damn it, Ed! Keep it down. We’re not supposed to know him, remember?” 

Maggie Zeddmore storms over to her adopted brother and grabs him by the arm, hauling him back from Castiel and Dean. She’s the only woman in Ghostfacers, and Dean has informed him she’s the only true bard in the group as well. 

“C’mon doofus, help me get these chords right,” she bickers, picking up her lyre and strumming a soothing melody that has everyone in the parking lot feeling warm and cozy. She winks at Dean and an unspoken agreement passes between them on sharing the burden of bardic inspiration during the day’s events. 

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮

With everything set for Charlie’s exhibit and the woman herself back in action, Castiel goes back to his regular routine. He highlights items in the collection on the museum’s social media sites and tries to throw in an instrument every now and then to keep the public’s interest in the upcoming exhibit. He meets with local researchers and students, showing them textiles and pottery and providing reading resources and support for their own projects.

He sees a shift in himself.  He’s not so anxious around people. The musicians he met during interviews for Charlie’s exhibit helped him see that finding common ground with folks helps ease his stress.  He still needs plenty of quiet time to get back to himself after interactions with the public, but he no longer panics in the days leading up to a meeting. Dean has been an integral part of the shift, booking lessons in the evenings when he knows Cas has been social and playing him lullabies when he does get home, serenading Castiel as he decompresses with a book or playing a mindless game on his phone.   

Then, they go to bed and whisper, “I love you,” and drift into dreamless sleep.

It’s perfect.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮

Castiel wakes early on the morning of the exhibit opening and takes the opportunity to kiss Dean awake. They spend an inordinate amount of time tangled under the sheets, until his alarm goes off and they get themselves up, sated and happy, to share a shower. Dean makes them an extravagant breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast, and jelly. They share kisses between bites and go over the plan for the day. Castiel works a full day and the exhibit opening isn’t until five that evening, so Dean will be able to give his guitar lessons and get home in time for them to change before heading back to the museum.

On the way to work, Castiel lets his mind wander to the surprises he’s managed to keep under wraps from the two most important people in his life. Dean’s surprise has been the perfect distraction for Charlie, keeping her off his case about the Ghostfacers with the added bonus of having someone speak to the museum board for funding and support. He’s been working with Chuck also, trying to get all the pieces in place before tonight. He had just received an email from the board a few days before, signing off on his proposal.

After his morning routine, he and Charlie head up to the exhibit, making one last walkthrough and setting up the brochures and guides that go along with the exhibit.  They assemble cocktail tables and set up the small bar in the lobby, ready the buffet table that will hold meat and cheese trays in a couple hours. He can feel the buzz start under his skin, a tingly feeling that makes his cheeks hurt once he realizes he’s smiling like a loon. Charlie shares his enthusiasm, letting out a little shriek of pent-up energy in the elevator on their way to the workroom. They stop work fifteen minutes early, Charlie skipping through the parking lot to her yellow Gremlin. She offers Castiel a ride home, but he declines, needing the few minutes to himself.

At home, he finds Dean lounging on the large sofa, legs stretched out in front of him as he types a message on his cell phone.

“Honey, you’re home,” Dean announces, beaming up at him when the door closes and he returns the gesture, leaning into Dean’s space to peck him on the lips.

“You look nice,” he grins, taking in the spiffed-up version Dean has presented: a dark green flannel, buttoned and tucked into camel-colored chinos cuffed over his nicer pair of laced brown boots. The shirt makes his eyes pop, and the amulet rests in the center of his chest, on full display. He takes it into the palm of his hand and it warms instantly to his touch. Dean gives a little shudder and stands up to follow Castiel back to the bedroom.

“Everyone’s triple confirmed they’ll be there,” Dean assures with a huff, sprawling across the bed to watch him pick out a shirt. “I like that sweater you’ve got hiding back there, by the way.”

He turns around with the blue fabric in his hands, letting it hang in front of himself.

“That with those dark grey slacks you’ve got and the boots.”

He raises a brow, but strips down to his boxers, blushing when Dean lets out a whistle of appreciation from the bed. He avoids looking back, instead carefully pulling the tags from the sweater and putting on the outfit Dean’s picked out for him. When he does turn, Dean is sitting up on the end of the bed, leaning back on his hands with bright, loving eyes. He figures he’ll wear anything Dean wants if it gets him a look like that.

“What do you think?” He holds his arms out in presentation.

“Very handsome. Now, c’ mere and give me a kiss.”

They linger for several long, joyous minutes until Castiel pulls away and insists they need to leave. Dean straps his guitar across his back and gathers Castiel into a tight hug before they turn on the outside light and make their way to the transit station.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮

Dean has never been to an exhibit opening, let alone played one. He feels nervous but doesn’t want to trigger Cas’s anxiety, so he’s been keeping it to himself. Sure, he unloaded to Sam earlier this week, but his brother has always been good at talking him down from the ledge. Now though, as the bus draws closer to the museum, he can’t stop his leg jiggling or the compulsive way he wipes his sweaty palms down his thighs. A block away from their stop, Castiel reaches across the narrow gap between them and takes his hand. He wants to recoil from the touch, afraid of getting Cas’s hands sweaty, but the finds Cas a soothing comfort to his frayed nerves. He squeezes Cas’s fingers and they keep holding hands off the bus, down the street, and up the stairs to the museum’s main doors.

The place is packed. When Dean’s been by to meet Cas for lunch or to head home, there’s usually a handful of people walking through the place, families and older folks. Tonight though, it’s standing room only, and he feels Cas tense beside him immediately. He wraps an arm around the other man’s waist and pulls Cas closer, kissing his hair and humming into his ear. He always feels energized from a crowd, so he passes along a little bit of it to Cas and is pleased to feel him relax after a brief moment. 

Once they’ve both settled, he spots the Bradburys in the eclectic mix of people. The deeper they venture into the museum, the more faces he’s able to pick out: several of his students have made it, along with Chuck, Becky, Tessa, and Joshua. There’s a space cleared near the entrance to the exhibit hall with a few amplifiers and microphones and he drops off his guitar, eager to mingle with his friends and loved ones. Castiel peels off a few minutes later to join Charlie and a few other museum staff to begin the evening. He snags a program from one of the cocktail tables. 

Bards & Buskers: An Exploration of Musical History

Hand-carved Instruments from the Americas

Special Exhibition by Castiel Novak

Featuring the Rich Histories of Local Artists and Musicians with Live Music

Opening Night: Wednesday, November 6th, 2019

Food and Beverages Provided 

Charlie speaks first, welcoming everyone to the show and personally thanking Castiel at great length for his assistance with the special exhibition. Anson breaks away from Gilda mid-speech and launches himself at Charlie's legs. She scoops him up while the crowd laughs and applauds, and she introduces them all to her son. Just as he starts to squirm, she passes the microphone to Castiel to introduce their first act.

Dean makes his way to the front of the audience and pulls the guitar strap over his shoulder. He sets his fingers to the strings and begins to strum. He watches Castiel’s shoulders relax and all faces trained on him with their warm smiles, encouraging. Cas explains the nature of his part of the project, names each artist who has pledged their time to the exhibit, and thanks Dean for his role in making the entire endeavor a success. They share a warm smile. 

Then, Castiel turns back to the crowd, sweeping an arm toward Dean, “Without further ado, Dean Winchester.”

“Thanks, Cas,” he says into the microphone they have set up in the space cleared for the performers. “This one’s for you.” He winks and strums a little louder, playing through all the songs he’s written for Cas over the last nine months. He usually watches the crowd while he performs, paying careful attention to the emotions passing between them and him, but tonight, he only has eyes for Cas. Cas, who is staring back at him with his ocean eyes brimming with tears. It makes his heart soar and his amulet warm with the love between them. 

When he finishes, and Cas wipes his eyes and the applause finally dies down, Cas turns his microphone back on and turns to Charlie, who stands at one of the tables with Gilda, their heads tilted toward one another in adoration. 

“Charlie, Dean and I have a surprise for you,” he begins, and an excited murmur runs through the crowd. “If you’d please direct your attention to the back of the room? Anael, please get the doors.” Cas is beaming by the time he’s finished, and Dean watches Charlie’s face as the main entrance swings open, admitting the Ghostfacers crew. 

Charlie smacks the table in front of her and gasps out, swinging her head around, red curls flying, “You didn’t!”

“I did,” Cas affirms into the microphone as Ed and Harry join Dean on stage. “Please welcome to the stage, Ghostfacers.”

Dean hands over the microphone and helps them settle in, winking at Maggie and thanking her for keeping the boys away from Charlie. Once everyone is set, he joins Cas and the Bradburys and enjoys the rest of the night. At some point, the crowd decides to make the lobby into a dance floor, and Dean pulls Castiel into his arms, swaying to the beat of the music. Ed invites Claire and Chuck to join them on stage and tries to get Dean to join in, too until Maggie pulls him back from the microphone, letting Dean continue to lead Cas around the dance floor. 

The Ghostfacers finally relinquish the stage to Chuck, who brings the atmosphere back down in an easy transition and the crowd disperses to walk the halls and reap the rewards of their hard work. Castiel tucks himself into Dean’s side and watches everyone interact with different instruments they’ve set up for public use. There are photos of each of the local buskers, taken while they perform with placards of information. One wall displays a large map of Palo Alto, pins carefully placed, marking all the places the musicians can be found. 

Just before the museum is due to close, Charlie takes the stage once more, gathering everyone into the lobby so she can make one final announcement. She and Castiel share a private smile.

“Thank you all so much for taking the time to come out tonight. It’s been a pleasure seeing you interact with the exhibit. I want to give a special shout out to Castiel Novak for his work on the Bards and Buskers section, and to Dean Winchester for his help gathering the talent for tonight’s opening. Before we let you go for the evening, we would like to announce that the Board of Directors has approved funding for a summer program we’re calling The Bard’s College.” A murmur runs through the crowd and Castiel reaches beneath the table to take Dean’s hand in his as Charlie continues.

“Beginning in June, the American Folk Art Museum will be host to several music workshops for various ages and experience levels. Admission will be free to the public. At the end of the summer, there will be a voluntary recital where participants can show off what they’ve learned to family and friends. There are brochures for the program at the doors on your way out.  Please take a handful and help us spread the word. We hope to see you all again soon. Thanks again for joining us and drive safe everyone. Goodnight!”

The lobby slowly empties, a buzz of excitement leaving with them until only the museum staff and Dean are left.  Castiel turns fully to him, a wide smile gracing his face.

“Charlie didn’t mention it, but the Board has asked you and Chuck to lead the summer program. If it goes well, they plan to extend it as an after-school program. Do you think you might be interested?”

He can hardly breathe, let alone answer Cas’s question. He’s completely overwhelmed with emotion, on the verge of tears. He feels warm and mushy and is so glad Sam is out of town with Madison to visit her parents. He doesn’t think he could reign it in if his giant of a brother knew what Cas had worked out for him. 

A legacy. 

He’s already felt it from the handful of students he teaches in the park, his words and instruction shaping the power of their music. He’s never felt a connection to the Words of Creation as strongly as he has since putting down roots here, with Cas. His parents would have been elated by the entire prospect. He takes a moment to close his eyes and give thanks to the gods for all he has gained in these few short months.  When he opens them again, he’s staring into the depths of the ocean, buoyed by the love reflected within Cas’s eyes. 

It gives him the strength he needs to find the words to say, “Yeah, Cas. It’d be an honor.”