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Dean had a dream once, long ago. One he thought about from time to time but never thought would become a reality.
It came to him between hunts, or when he sat alone in his room at night blasting Zeppelin through his headphones. It comes to him now that the fighting’s stopped and he can finally kick off his boots and hang up his jacket.
Sam’s been at him constantly to get out and start his life; to meet new people, maybe meet the one like he has, to get at job and a house (with a goddamn mortgage). His younger brother set the perfect example with his returning to education bullshit. (It’s not bullshit really, Dean’s proud of him.)
Cas, at least, is easier to be around. The guy doesn’t pester him to get a life - he even helps him find cases and joins him on hunts. Dean’s not sure if he’s just doing it to try to keep him happy or if he’s just as lost too. He doesn’t appear to be planning on leaving the bunker anytime - Dean supposes he has nowhere else to go. He’s not one to judge, because neither does he. Why would he ever want somewhere else, anyway? He thinks what they have going is good, a life worth sticking around for. He never was one for suburbia and a daytime job.
All’s well and good. Peaceful.
He spends his days loitering around the bunker, curled up on his recliner in the Dean cave as he forces Cas to watch every Jurassic Park film just to hear his commentary on its many inaccuracies. Sometimes, they go into town for lunch at the diner or drinks in the evening. He teaches Cas to play pool, and darts, and how to operate a duke box properly because ‘no you can’t play that one or you will be walking home.’
He thinks of his dream again.
There’s a thrift store across from the bar with a guitar in the window. He doesn’t think much before he’s inserting his bottomless card in the reader and buying the instrument.
There’s something that makes him hide it from the angel once he’s driven it home and is carrying it down the stairs. Perhaps it’s embarrassment, though he finds it ridiculous that anything could embarrass him in front of his family.
He practices everyday when Cas leaves for his daytime walks around the meadows. It does them good to spend some time apart these days when they’re living out of each others’ pockets.
His guitar playing had gotten rusty over the years - what, with all the trying to save the world and dying a handful of times along the way - but the skill is still there, just needing to be sharpened a little.
He thinks he’s got a good voice too, though how can anyone really judge themselves.
After weeks of the same routine, he reads about an open-mic-night at a bar a few towns over - far enough that he won’t be recognised. He tells Cas he’s going for a drink and to play lone-wolf to pick up women. Instantly, he hates the lie, hates pretending to be the man he used to be, especially when he hasn’t wanted that in a long time, but he’s not ready to share this part of himself yet. He hates it twice as much when the hurt glistens in his friend’s eyes.
“Wish me luck,” he grins exaggeratedly as he climbs the stairs, his guitar already loaded in the back of the car earlier in the day.
“Good luck,” Cas replies disinterestedly. He so badly wishes he could tell him the truth but he wants something for himself for once.
Dean’s been to enough bars in his lifetime to know how these events work. He’s early enough to see a couple other acts, all of which are incredible and much better than he expects to be.
There’s a small crowd of patrons scattered around the bar. Each one of them enjoys their drinks with a tapping foot and the occasional glance at the performer, clapping when the songs finish. A group of drunk women, perhaps his age, dance loosely together in whatever space they can find. They truly look happy.
He steps up after a young woman who looks barely twenty, patting her on the shoulder and praising her performance. Her eyes are giddy as she thanks him with a wide smile and wishes him luck.
The lights aren’t as blinding as he had hoped and he thinks he might choke as he looks out over the crowd. Then he sees each of their faces, calm and happy, waiting for the music because it’s the reason they came.
“Hey,” he says too far away from the microphone. He moves closer, gets comfortable, “I’m Dean - Campbell,” he gives his surname after a pause - it’s an alias he’s become acclimated too and feels like less of a lie than the others, “It’s my first time doing this, so, uhh, be nice,” he earns a soft chuckle from the crowd before they fall silent in anticipation.
He’s thought a lot about what he might sing. The vibe of the night has been generally tame - as they usually are at these things - and he thinks his usual karaoke choices might be a bit much for the atmosphere. He also wants this night to mean something.
The song he opens with isn’t one usually to his taste - Mykonos by Fleet Foxes. It’s one he’s heard on the radio a number of times and can’t help relating to every time. I mean, come on, talk of brothers parting ways - ‘waiting down at the ancient gate.’ Plus, its easy enough that he doesn’t think he’ll mess it up.
The song plays smoothly, the dancing drunk women at the front sway in time with his strumming. A few members of the audience sing along to the last repeated lines. He finishes with a smile on his face. They applaud and ask for another.
The whole drive home, his lips are turned up with the rush of joy and there’s a giddy tingle in his stomach as he descends the stairs.
Cas met him in the kitchen, “I take it it went well,” he smiles, likely an effect of the excitement Dean feels himself radiating.
“So well,” he replies popping open a beer and holding it out for his companion who takes it gladly. He grabs another for himself and they stand side by side leaning against the counter.
A frown passes the other man’s face before that beautiful smile returns, though dimmer than his own. He remembers the lie and tires not to let it dampen his mood.
“Well,” the angel says, “It’s good to see you happy.”
He thinks he’s been happy plenty recently. Maybe since his life feels like his own for once. Maybe it’s the company. He wonders why Cas comments on it now.
“I really think I am,” he bumps Cas’ shoulder with his own, looking at him with a softer smile than before, “thanks, man.”
“No problem, Dean,” he smiles back and keeps his eye’s on Dean’s.
They silently finish their beers.
-
Over the next few weeks, Dean spend’s more time out at bars singing Zeppelin and Bob Dylan and Pink Floyd, Deep Purple, Creedence Clearwater Revival, R.E.M, Dire Straits, you name it.
When he brought actual, physical dollar bills home, he told Cas how he hustled at pool - the next day he sets his hat on the sidewalk and plays for the passers by.
They still watch their films and drink at the bar and laugh over shitty diner food, but it becomes less and less frequent.
They still hunt together, occasionally, but Dean’s head is just not in it any more. He’s found something else he really enjoys and he doesn’t want to lose it all over some stupid ghost or ghoul or vamp.
(He’s considering booking a gig at a bar sometime - maybe Donny’ll have him, here, in Lebanon.)
Cas seems partly relieved when he says he doesn’t want to hunt much anymore, but he also has a sad look about him. Dean can’t help but feel guilty; he just wants them both to be happy.
The lying still hurts. He’s not sure how to tell him. It’s not like telling Sam (which he also hasn’t done), he can’t just say it outright. Telling Cas is different somehow. It feels more personal than telling a brother, who’s known his passions since childhood, and its deeper than telling just any old friend offhandedly that he likes to sing and play guitar. It feels almost like a confession.
“Hey, Cas,” he says as the man enters the kitchen where he’s sat at the table eating pancakes.
“Good morning, Dean,” he replies, sitting down at the table opposite him, in front of the extra plate Dean made for him and the jar of honey he brought with his money earned off the street.
“What’re your plans for the day?”
“I’ll probably stay here with my book, go for a walk later,” a says tiredly, “I assume you’ll be out again,” he smiles sadly and Dean wishes he weren’t such a coward. The last thing he wants is for Cas to think he’s being abandoned, when, in fact, thats the last thing he would ever do.
“Actually, you’re gonna come with me,” he announces. Cas looks up from his plate. “Well, sort of.”
“What are we doing?” The angel asks curiously.
“I have an errand to run in town first - can you meet me there at one?”
“Of course, Dean,” Dean smiles when he does.
-
While just like any other day, today’s performance is perhaps his most nerve-wracking. He makes his way through his usual set, even adds a few new songs.
People pass by dropping change in his hat; he pays them no mind. There’s only one person he needs to see in his audience today.
If anything, the man is prompt. He appears across the street as Dean plays the opening chords to his acoustic rendition of Temple of the King at exactly one o’clock.
It takes a while for Cas to notice him; glancing patiently down the road, all the while Dean grins at him around the words he sings. Dean can tell the instant Cas realises its his voice he’s hearing and his head whips around to watch him. He stands frozen until the end of the song.
Dean packs his guitar away as the man walks towards him - his blush hidden as he bends down to count the money he’s collected.
“You have a beautiful voice,” greets Cas while his back is turned.
“Thanks,” he replies shyly. Quickly, he runs out of things to pack up, with his baseball cap on his head, money in his pocket and guitar on his back.
“Is this what you’ve been doing?” The man pinches his eyebrows in the adorable way he does when he’s curious. It’s a look somewhere between shocked and amazed - he looks baffled.
Dean laughs, “I know, right. Earning money the legal way,” he feels the urge to cover his face with his hands.
“You’re very talented,” Cas blushes too, he notices fondly. He can feel the difference now, between telling a brother or telling a friend and what he’s doing now. He accepts it easily, has been doing so for a while. He doubts anything will change much with this thing they have - Sam already calls them an old married couple. “I had no idea.”
“I’ve kinda been keeping it to myself,” he gestures for Cas to follow him back to the car and they walk side by side. “It’s something I’ve wanted for a while - was kinda personal - wanted to start that journey on my own.”
“And now?”
“I don’t wanna do this alone anymore. Didn’t know how to tell you so I thought I’d show you instead. I guess I’m ready,” there’s somewhat of a double meaning to his words. As they arrive at the car, he gently places his guitar in the back seat. He feels the tension building, building, building until its close to breaking.
“Thank you for sharing it with me,” Cas places a hand on his arm and thanks him so surely. There’s no smile but his look is sincere, so much so Dean almost trembles under his gaze and has to brush him off and rub at the spot on his arm.
“It’s nothing, man,” he chuckles awkwardly.
Cas reaches forward and grabs at his hand, squeezing it tightly, “I mean it, Dean. You are incredible.”
Dean relaxes in acceptance and squeezes his hand back, hoping to communicate everything he feels with the contact, “Thanks. Shall we go home.”
“If thats what you want.”
He waits, not making any move to leave as he thinks about what he really wants.
Dean takes a chance - still high from the thrill of finally being honest - leans forward into his space, waits for Cas to step back. His intentions are clear as day, even to an angel blind to social cues.
Cas nods.
He feels the tension finally cave.
He kisses him - a quick brush of lips on lips.
“This is what I want,” he whispers, face still close. “I didn’t know how to tell you so I thought I’d show you instead,” he echoes.
“I’m glad,” Cas whispers back, hand squeezing tighter.