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Ramble on by Zepp? Six o’clock?
Dean slips the handwritten note through the crack in the boarded up air vent between his apartment and the one next door.
He’s got work in an hour and he’s already running late, so he doesn’t wait for a reply. Not that his neighbour will reply—not with a note, anyway.
Dean slings his duffle over his shoulder, his leather jacket already on as he shoves his feet into his ratty old work boots. He should’ve bought new ones last pay, but retuning his prized baby grand took more than he thought. Worth it, he thinks, glancing back at the at the sleek, polished red maple. His second pride and joy behind his Baby.
Dean ducks into the elevator, shooting off a text to Bobby as he descends. The old goat’ll chew him out for being late, but he figures he should give him a heads up anyway. Not that Bobby will read the message—the man can barely figure out how to turn the damn thing on.
The elevator dings and Dean steps out, not bothering to look up as he taps away at his phone. If he leaves without checking his mail and doesn’t bother with coffee, he might make it to the garage on time.
But he promised coffee. Fuck—
“Oof!”
Dean stumbles back, just about tripping ass over teakettle into the elevator, but strong hands pull him up. “Sorry,” he says, flustered now as he stoops to pick up his phone. “Should really watch where I’m going.” He doesn’t bother looking at whoever it is, brushing past them for the front door.
Bobby’s going to kill him.
Dean trudges through the lobby, aching and exhausted from a day of dealing with Bobby’s under-caffeinated rampaging—it’s his own damn fault, sure, but the constant, quarter-hourly reminders weren’t necessary. The project he’s been working on for weeks was tossed onto the back burner in favour of oil changes and battery checks, belt changes and plug replacements. Grunt work put on Dean’s shoulders for his misdeeds.
“Fuck, the mail,” Dean grunts, thrusting a hand between the elevator doors before they can fully close. All he wants to do is crawl into his bathtub and stay there for hours, soaking his overworked muscles until his bones feel like jelly.
But, the mail.
With a heavy sigh, Dean digs out his keys and collects his mail from the slot, turning back to the elevators as the lobby door bangs open.
Dean looks up.
His breath catches.
It’s him.
Dark, wild bedhead, stunning blue eyes, and a stubbled jaw to weep over. Dean doesn’t know who the man is, always dressed in a suit and tan overcoat, but he’s only ever seen him in the lobby. Lobby Hottie, as Dean calls him, has lived here at least as long as Dean has—a whole four months—and Dean still hasn’t plucked up the courage to talk to him.
Besides, the girl—or guy—on his arm, different every time Dean sees him, makes it pretty clear he’s not available.
With his heart trying to escape through his ribcage, Dean watches Lobby Hottie cross to the elevator with sure strides, but he can’t make himself move. He’s frozen, his joints locking up until the doors close between them.
Ding, ding.
Then, he’s alone, his mail scattered at his feet. He doesn’t remember dropping it, but curses himself as he scoops it up before jabbing at the elevator button. That’s two elevators he’s missed—who knows when the next one will come.
It’s got to be close to six o’clock, and Dean’s just about to crash on the couch with the latest episode of his Dr. Sexy M.D. marathon queued up, when he remembers.
“Fuck, shit,” he huffs, tumbling off his couch and scrambling for the vent and what he hopes is a note from his neighbour. “Come on, come on,” he mutters, peering into the crack. A slip of white catches his eye, and Dean grins as he pinches the note between his fingers and pulls it out.
A man after my own heart, the note reads, and Dean’s pulse kicks up a notch as his eyes eat up the scratching scrawl. Six is good.
Dean checks the time, a thrum of panic hitting him when he finds the minute hand not quite touching the outer edge of the twelve. He needs a warm-up, he needs the music—he needs to stretch.
Panic running high now, Dean scrambles to find the book he needs. He’s sure it’s buried in his cardboard box of songbooks. His limited edition Led Zeppelin: Piano Compositions songbook was a gift from Sam upon achieving his grade eight pianist status.
The gold foiled edges flash at him from the bottom, and Dean pulls it out with a grin. He flips up the fall-board and flicks on his lamp, dropping onto the bench and flexing his fingers over the keys.
Dean hits the first key of a scale, the ringing sound of the C note filling his ears and vibrating in his bones. D, E, F follow, climbing higher as Dean works his way through a C major scale.
On his third pass, his ring finger knocking out the F note, there’s an echo through the wall.
Dean smiles, keeping his eyes one his dancing fingers as he picks up the pace, shifting into an E major scale that his neighbour follows with ease.
Over and over, Dean climbs the scales, going faster and faster before dropping right down to a languid pace. Dean lets the final note fade, the rich sound bouncing off the walls of his tiny apartment, touching the kitchen sink and the beer bottles on the coffee table.
He raps his knuckles against the wall, their signal to begin, and Dean leads them into Ramble On with energy in the tips of his fingers—excitement thundering in his veins.
This is what Dean lives for—the thrilling feeling of playing for only a stranger to hear. Don’t get him wrong, he loves his time slot at Lawrence’s finest restaurant, playing for the mega rich crowd that frequents the financial district, but there’s something about this…
His neighbour shifts the scale, playing in harmony, and Dean laughs at the clever trick. “Someone knows a little something,” he whispers to himself, playing faster and higher to match the accompaniment. He’s never met anyone who can play like the stranger on the other side of the vent, and he’s not sure he wants to me them, either.
Something about the anonymity feels safe. This annoying little crush be damned.
Dean lies in bed that night, clutching his neighbours notes to his chest as the moonlight spills soft and silver over his sheets.
Even alone, the space beside him empty and cold, Dean feels warm all over. He can’t read the smudged pen marks on the folded paper, but that doesn’t matter. They’re etched into his mind, front and centre, the source of his smile as he closes his eyes and sinks into his pillows.
You sound like magic. I’m counting the minutes until we play again.
“Pot luck,” Dean reads, holding the flyer someone jammed under his door sometime this morning. “Huh.” Dean’s not much of a cook, but he can whip up a mean Winchester Surprise. He’s sure he’s got all the ingredients, and there’s a casserole dish kicking around here somewhere.
Dean sets the flyer on his piano bench and can’t help but wonder if he’ll see his neighbour there. His heart flutters with the thought, anticipation filling him with nervous energy as he heads for the kitchen. He’s got about an hour before the party starts, according to the flyer, so he might as well get the casserole in the oven and jump in the shower.
Maybe he’ll manage to work up the courage to ask his neighbour if he’s going by the time he’s done. He’d been planning on making the casserole the next time Sam visits, but who knows when that’ll be, so he pulls out three pounds of ground pork, beef, and shredded American cheese, setting them aside as he digs out the casserole dish.
It’s been a while since he’s had Winchester Surprise—probably the last Christmas he had with his parents before his mom died—but the recipe is simple as anything. He mixes the meat and two-thirds of the cheese in the dish, sprinkling the rest of the top. Dean throws in some bacon bits, chopped tomatoes, and a dash of hot sauce before popping it in the over.
That done, Dean hops in the shower, cranking it up high and hopping in before the water heats up. He cranks up some tunes, humming along to classic rock playlist as he lathers, rinces, and repeats.
The mouth-watering scent of melting cheese and cooked meat fill his apartment, but it’s not quite done when he cracks the door. Dean sighs, looking at his piano with more longing than should be acceptable, but he can’t help it. All he wants to do is play some music, maybe catch his neighbour near the wall, perhaps they could—
Dean sighs, turning away from his piano. He needs to get dressed, and he needs to finish his casserole. Besides, maybe he’ll get lucky and meet his neighbour at the party.
Can’t miss out on an opportunity like that.
Dean steps into the conference room with his casserole dish in hand and butterflies fluttering in his stomach. He’s nearly sick with them, honestly, but the room is packed, four fold-up picnic tables lined up across the back wall, covered in dishes just like his. There’s no way of knowing who his neighbour is in this crowd.
Dean drops his dish off and grabs a plate, figuring he might as well get some grub while he tries to find anyone he recognizes. He hasn’t been in the building long, and he’s got no friends to speak of here—why the fuck did he even come?
The conference room is packed, more food than anyone can eat stinks up the room, and Dean hides in the corner with his plate piled high. There’s Mrs. Moseley, the ladies from 223 with the tiny dog—he met her getting the mail his first week when she started asking about the non-existent girl in his life she’s known him since diapers—talking to the paunchy douchebag from 906 that bitches about his car at every chance.
Dean listens to them chatter about the weather and Missouri’s next trip to see her granddaughter while savouring whatever concoction this pie is. It tastes kind of like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and it’s fucking delicious.
Dean moans around another bite, the sticky-sweet filling bursting with flavour on his tongue. Fuck… he’s not sure who brought it, but he’d love to find out who the pie genius is before he leaves.
“Perhaps a little indecent for a public event?” A deep, rough voice asks from his side, and when Dean glances up, he chokes on his pie.
He coughs, choking on the flaky pastry when he inhales a sharp breath. “Lobby Hottie,” he whispers, his face flaming when he realizes what he just said.
“I prefer Castiel,” the man says, his eyebrows shooting up as a laugh rumbles from him. “And you are?”
“Uh…” Dean stutters, scratching the back of his head and shuffling his feet. His stomach twists in knots, every nerve jumping inside him. God, he can smell him… Like honey and watermelon, fresh and warm and so fucking intoxicating—
“Did you hear me?”
Shit—open mouth, breathe, say some words, jackass! “Dean. Name’s Dean. You?” God, he’s even hotter up close, with startling blue eyes, messy brown hair, and a jawline sharp enough to cut himself on. This close, he’s not quite as tall as Dean, but just as wide.
And, oh man, those shoulders…
“Castiel,” the man says, a little wry and with a smile that has Dean blushing right to his toes because yeah, okay, he already said that. He leans against the wall beside Dean, arms crossed, looking out at the gossiping crowd. “Nice to meet you.”
He holds out his hand, and Dean, his fingers smeared with jelly filling, wipes them on his pants before taking it in his. Castiel notices—of course he notices. Can the ground just swallow him whole?
“I’m glad someone like my pie,” Castiel says, waving at the dish with one slice missing, and is takes Dean a minute to realize the PB and J pie is Lobby Hottie’s concoction.
“You made it?” Dean blurts, falling maybe just a little bit in love with the man. “It’s fucking awesome, dude.”
To Dean’s astonishment, colour rises in Castiel’s cheeks, a soft blush that takes him completely by surprise. “I like to bake, but my tastes don’t always compliment others’.”
“I’ll be your guinea pig any time you want,” Dean says, scraping his plate clean before tossing it in the trash. Dean scrambles for something to say to keep this conversation going so Lobby Hottie—Castiel—won’t leave. “So, uh—”
“This is pretty boring,” Castiel says, turning his eyes on Dean with the most intense look he’s ever gotten from another man. Seriously, Dean’s bisexual, and he’s pretty good looking if he says so himself, but something about those eyes just feels like Castiel is looking right through him.
“Yeah,” Dean breathes, a little self-conscious. “Turns out lobby gossip is relegated to just the lobby.”
Castiel laughs, soft and intoxicating. “I heard Mr. Crowley there,” Castiel says, pointing to the paunchy douche-bag, “spends his nights with his hand down his pants watching project runway.”
Dean snorts, looking at the man in question, and yeah, he can picture that. “He’s got a serious thing for suits, huh?”
“You have no idea.” Castiel shakes his head, leaning closer to Dean in a way that makes his head spin. “Ms. Rosen over there, spends so much time on fan websites, she doesn’t notice her husband sleeping with his best friend.” He nods a a couple of men in the corner, so absorbed in each other, it’s a wonder she hasn’t noticed anything.
“Where’s she?” Dean asks, because he doesn’t actually know what she looks like. He glances around the packed conference room, but finds no axe-wielding wife.
“At home, probably updating her latest Blood-Brothers fanfic.” Castiel shrugs, like it’s nothing to him either way. It’s refreshing how he speaks about everyone else, not a hint of judgement in his voice.
“Why are you telling me all this?” Dean asks, because really, he didn’t ask. Not that he doesn’t want to know, but still. “And how do you know so much?”
Castiel laughs, the sound moving through Dean like a warm breeze. “You look a little lost.”
Is it really that obvious? Dean thought he’d been hiding it pretty well. He huffs, shoving his hand in his pockets—of course it had to be the hottest guy he’s ever met to point out how deer in the headlights he looks.
“My best friend manages the internet here,” he adds, catching Dean’s attention. What does that have to do with anything? “That’s how I know so much.”
“Oh.” Oh, his friend’s a hacker. Dean hasn’t met many, just ash, who works at the Roadhouse, but they don’t talk about that.
“You can meet her if you’d like. I think you would like her.” Castiel pushes off the wall like he’s getting ready to leave, and no, Dean doesn’t want a random hookup with this girl, but he doesn’t want to say goodbye to Cas, either.”
“Sounds fun,” he says, rocking on the balls of his feet with a nod. “I’m in.”
“Great,” Castiel smiles, wider than Dean’s ever seen, and it just about knocks him on his ass. “I’m meeting her for drinks in half an hour. You should come.”
“Uh…” Dean panics, not sure what to say, but the words fall out before he can stop them. “Just let me change and I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
Dean slams his door and strips out of his pie-smeared pants. He doesn’t even bother looking at the mess, tearing off his shirt instead and racing back to his bedroom. He’s got about twenty minutes to change and meet Castiel in the lobby, but he wants to see if his neighbour ever made it to the party first.
He throws on a clean henley and his favourite flannel, deciding on a pair of jeans that might be half a size too small, but make his ass look spectacular—hey, he can use all the help he can get. The sun has set through his kitchen window, the dim glow of stars fight against the light pollution in the city, but Dean can see them all the same. He misses the way the stars shine in the country—how they light up the sky, leading the way as he flies down dirt roads.
He shoves his feet into his boots and plunks a few melancholy keys on his piano. The rich, lonely sound rings in the corners of the living room, echoing and aching inside him.
What is he doing?
Going out with a stranger, meeting another stranger he doesn’t have any interest in dating, all while having a perfectly good stranger next door. Someone who, despite never having met, understands him. Through music, through discretion, through all the little secrets in his head. Their notes that pass through the vent are filled with some of the most vulnerable parts of Dean, so what the hell is he doing?
He doesn’t sit, but hunches over the keys, one hand in his pocket, the of filling the room with sound until—
The tinkling notes of a B major scale float through the wall, filling Dean up and bringing a smile to his face. A giddy feeling floods him, happy and hopeful, but somehow sad, too.
His stranger wasn’t at the feast.
“Hold the door! Hold it—”
Dean huffs as the elevator door seals shut, only strides before he reaches them. Great. He leans against the opposite wall, impatience bubbling inside him. It’ll be another ten minutes before the elevator makes its way back to his floor, so he crosses his arms and leans his head back to wait.
He just hopes Castiel waits for him. Hopes he doesn’t think Dean is ditching last minute.
Finally, the bell dings, the doors sliding open. It’s packed with party-goers, laughing and swaying, cheeks red and eyes glassy as they stumble out. At least they enjoyed themselves—Dean can’t really say the same up until the last twenty minutes.
“Hey,” Dean says, a little breathless for absolutely no reason as he steps out of the elevator, into the brightly lit lobby.
“I thought you got lost,” Castiel says, biting into a mini slider as he stares out the front window into the lamplit parking lot.
“Elevator,” Dean says, waving a vague hand in its direction. Castiel nods like he gets it, and he should. The elevators are crap. “Any more of those in there?” Dean asks, nodding at the slider. They smell damn good, and the one Castiel has is loaded with sautéed onions and melted cheese.
Instead of answering, Castiel holds up a Tupperware container, tossing it at Dean with a smile. “These are the last of them.” He shoots Dean a wink that has him melting into his boots. God, Castiel is going to be the death of him. “Come on, Charlie’s waiting.”
Right.
Dean follows, shoving through the glass door with a slider in hand. This is going to be a hell of a long night if Castiel expects him to flirt with some chick the whole time.
“Damn,” Castiel murmurs, the soft glow of his phone illuminating his face in the back seat of the Uber. “Charlie cancelled.”
“Oh.” Does that mean the night is over? Will Castiel go home and forget Dean’s name? Forget he exists? Is the beginning and the end of their little friendship? He’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed. Sure, he’s never met his stranger, but he feels almost guilty—like he’s cheating on his neighbour by being here—but at the same time, Castiel is real.
“Would you let me show you a place?” Castiel asks, looking up from his phone. The light clicks off, plunging his features into darkness, and Dean’s heart skips a beat.
“I—yeah, sure.” He nods, relief melting in his bones that the night isn’t over. “What d’you have in mind?”
Castiel flashes a mischievous grin, but doesn’t answer. Simply books another Uber and waits for the man in the front seat to accept the job.
“You’re not taking me out here to kill me, are you?” Dean asks, following Castiel up a hiking trail that overlooks the highway far below. “‘Cause I gotta tell you, man. I think I’d have you beat.”
Castiel laughs, the sound rich and warm—not the slightest bit threatening. “You sound fairly sure of yourself.” With his back to Dean, he can see the way he brushes the hair from his eyes as the wind whips it around, and maybe it’s a little bit distracting, and maybe he gets it—why Castiel always has someone new on his walk through the lobby.
Castiel drops onto a random patch of grass at the top of the kill, just this side of the wooden fence posts, and Dean lowers down beside him. “That’s not a no.”
“Fine,” Castiel sighs, pulling three Tupperware containers out of his book bag. “No, I don’t plan on killing you.”
“Don’t plan on it?”
“Well, I didn’t make any of this food, so…” Castiel shrugs, taking a bite of a soggy quesadilla as he looks out over the speckled horizon. “It might kill both of us.”
Dean laughs, taking the offered container and pulling out a quesadilla of his own. It’s their own little feast, and Dean tries not to think about what it would be like to wipe the salsa from Castiel’s lower lip.
“I have a, uh…” Dean wipes at his own face, staring at the spot on Castiel’s lip where the salsa clings. “Sauce.”
“Here?” Castiel wipes at his chin.
“No, lower.”
“Here?” Fingers against his cheek.
“No,” Dean huffs, dropping his quesadilla into the Tupperware as he leans in, thumbing pressing against the curve of Castiel’s lip before he knows what he’s doing. “There—”
Castiel’s lips are on his before he knows what’s happening. A hand on his face, spicy salsa burning his tongue, and the intoxicating taste of Castiel driving his wild. He dives into it, surging forward as his head spins, his stomach swooping, his hands shaking as they find their way to Castiel’s waist—
“Wait,” Dean gasps, tearing his mouth away. This isn’t right. He doesn’t do this. And… and what about his stranger? What about the notes they’ve been passing back and forth—the compliments and the promises and the time-set-aside-just-for-you? “I don’t do hook-ups.”
Castiel scowls, blinks like he doesn’t understand. “Neither do I.”
“But,” Dean starts, every memory of Castiel crossing the lobby with someone on his arm flashing in his mind. “The people you bring over.”
“Friends,” he says, like that should’ve been obvious. “You would have met them tonight, but I…” He turns away, his lower lip caught between his teeth.
Wait…
“Did Charlie cancel?” Dean asks, but he thinks he might already know the answer. It’s too dark to see, but he’d bet his last beer that Castiel is blushing like a virgin on her wedding night right about now. “Cas?”
He sighs, deep and resigned, like he’s been caught out. “You’re cute, and you like classic cars, and every time I walked through the lobby, you would look at me like I’m something special, and—”
Dean shuts him up with another kiss, emotion swelling inside him like one of Beethoven’s sonatas. He almost wants to forget about his stranger entirely, now that he has this. Maybe he could? Maybe he should?
Dean faces the elevator with his heart in his throat. The lobby is empty, the party-goers long gone, but Castiel is beside him, sneaking glances like he thinks Dean doesn’t notice.
“I need to get my casserole dish,” Dean says at the same time Castiel says, “How do you want to play this?”
Well, that’s settled.
“Goodnight, Dean,” Castiel says, a hint of disappointment in his smile as he jabs the up button. “Talk to me next time you’re in the lobby, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, watching Castiel step into the elevator. There’s no hiding the sadness in his voice, he’s sure. This is it; he’s sure they’ve reached the end of whatever this is.
After all, Castiel didn’t give him his number.
Dean collects his dish, ignoring the mess off balloons and sagging streamers as he steals one last piece of the mostly untouched PB and J pie, before heading back to the elevator. Castiel is long gone, of course, but Dean would be lying if he said he’s not a little disappointed when the doors slide open and the only person he sees is his own reflection in the mirrored wall.
A series of notes whispers through the wall as Dean steps through his front door. The apartment is dark, moonlight stretching shadows across the floor as music fills the space.
A smile touches Dean’s lips, and he crosses to his piano before he can think better of it. A few notes won’t hurt, and besides, it’s not like they’ll ever meet.
His fingers falter on the keys, pain arching through him at the thought. They will never meet. Why? The stranger is next door, not ten feet from him—why can’t they meet?
Suddenly, everything he’s been doing for the last four months make zero sense. Why is he avoiding his stranger? What’s the point?
Dean’s a coward—he’s terrified that he won’t be good enough for the person on the other side of the wall—he knows that, but still, staring at the vent, he doesn’t know…
“Come on, Dean,” he whispers to himself, a slash of moonlight cutting across the boarded up vent. “Just one more note.”
Before he can talk himself out of it, Dean grabs a slip of paper from the tiny stack he keeps on the edge of his piano, and a pen.
He scribbled out four words. Simple. Easy. Folds the note in quarters. Slides it through to the other side.
His fingers shake, sure, but it’s done.
It’s done.
On the other side of the wall, the piano plays on, but Dean retreats to his bedroom. His words swirl in his mind, round and round as he climbs under the covers, because it’s real now. The one thing they’ve both been avoiding is out in the open.
Dean tosses and turns as the minute hand ticks around the clock hanging on his bedroom wall. All night, the only thing he can think about is that note.
Why haven’t we met?
I want to.
Dean clutches the thin paper between shaking fingers. This is real. This is happening. Oh God, he’s really doing this. Is he doing this?
There’s a twisting in his gut that he can’t get rid of, and he’s not sure what it means. Is he going to meet his stranger? Really?
Dean scrawls out a time and a place—hallway, ten-o’clock—and jams the note through the crack in the vent. The white slip disappears, too far to reach. No going back.
Somehow, he’s not scared.
Still in his housecoat, Dean drops onto the piano bench, not sure what to do with all this nervous energy inside him. He presses a few keys. Waits for a reply. Gets nothing.
Maybe his stranger’s working? Sleeping? Maybe they’re backing out and Dean won’t ever get to—
Three notes, soft and bright—yes.
Except, it’s only nine-thirty, but he can hear footsteps crossing the floor on the other side of the wall. An apartment door opening and closing.
Dean’s heart sits squarely in his throat, pounding and pounding and pounding as he waits, waits, waits—
A knock.
Dean stands.
Crosses the room on trembling legs.
This is it.
He wonders what they’ll look like. How they’ll sound. Forgets all about last night and the party and—
He opens the door and his heart sinks to the floor.
“Cas?” He whispers, because that can’t be right. How does he know where Dean lives? How could he possibly—
Oh no.
“It’s you.”
“It’s me,” Castiel whispers, his face unreadable. Does he think Dean did this on purpose? Does he think Dean already knew?
“Shit, man, I had no idea you played piano, I swear,” he starts, and once the rambling gets going, there’s no stopping him. “You were just this cute guy in the lobby, with the nice smile and the hair, and I never thought you could be my neighbour—which is dumb, actually, because we live in the same building—but you probably think I’m super weird—”
“Shut up,” Castiel breathes, and then he’s kissing him. Hands in his hair, lips on Dean’s lips, kissing him like it’s the first time. Like it’s nowhere near the last time.
Dean pulls away after a beat, panting hard. He runs his piano playing fingers over Castiel’s cheek and whispers, “Hello, Stranger.”