Work Text:
Serenade
Ship: Destiel.
Characters: Cas, Crowley, Dean.
Words: 806
Based off one of these prompts.
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Dean threw his pillow over his head and groaned in frustration. Listening to three minutes of a, somewhat out of tune, voice serenading his window at three in the morning would have been great. If it was him that was meant to be serenaded.
“Benny! I just want you to take me back-.”
‘Oh, God,’ Dean groaned into his pillow.
And then he heard it.
Annnddd I will always love you-
Dean will tolerate a lot of things. But Whitney Houston is not one of them.
He threw the duvet off his body, and was standing at his window in under 10 seconds. He peered out into his yard and bellowed down. “Hey! Shut up!”
The man below faltered for a second before continuing where he left off.
Will always love you, my darling-
“Alright, alright. Okay, buddy, you’ve been serenading the wrong window for the past five minutes. You looking for Benny Lafitte? He lives next door. But he’s out of town visiting his parents until Thursday,” Dean turned, grumbling about lack of sleep and early morning classes, when a deep voice broke the silence below.
“Who are you?” Dean’s eyebrow rose in the darkness of his room, the voice was surprisingly deep. Dean flicked on the light above, and peered out the window again. He felt his words catch in his throat as, even in the dim light, the man’s blue eyes pierced the darkness. He shook his head and laughed, “I ain’t Benny Lafitte.”
A deep rumble came from below, and Dean smiled involuntarily. “Well, I’ve been serenading you for the past-,” the man paused, “six minutes, can I at least get a name?”
Dean shook his head again, but conceded, “Dean. My name is Dean.”
There was a crunch of dry grass and Dean squinted to try to get a better look at the singer who was rapidly retreating. “Well, Dean, I hope you enjoyed the show.”
Grinning to himself, Dean’s shout of “yeah, I wouldn’t give up the day job!” was met with hearty chuckles. Realizing that he was losing sight of Mr Blue Eyes, he called down one last time, “hey, what’s your name?”
“I think that I’ve revealed enough of myself tonight, don’t you Dean?”
And he was gone.
When Dean woke up the next morning, tired and irritable, it took him a solid 4 minutes before he remembered the night before. Snorting to himself, he got out of bed and dressed quickly, running to make it to his psychology class on time. He plopped down into a seat, next to some guy with messy black hair, with just over 2 minutes to spare. Running his hands through his hair, he shook his head, “man, you would not believe the night I had,” he chuckled.
Then he heard it, the deep voice from the night before, “oh, I think I know exactly what you mean.”
Spinning around in shock, he turned to face the man, sputtering out words that he couldn’t fathom into sentences, “you’re..last night! Him! Benny Lafitte! Whitney Houston!”
With a gum showing smile, he spoke “hello, Dean.”
“Man, who are yo-,” Dean was cut off by a man with a Scottish accent coming up behind them.
“Castiel, you giraffe, you didn’t even make me coffee before you left!” He plonked down next to Dean’s mystery man, pouting.
The man, Castiel, pinched his eyes shut in irritation, “Crowley, this really isn’t a good time.”
Crowley ignored him, “Giraffe, introduce me to Squirrel.”
Castiel threw an apologetic look towards Dean, and turned to face the lecturer, completely cutting out Crowley.
When the lecture began, Dean leaned forward towards Castiel, “Giraffe?” he mouthed.
Grimacing, Castiel shook his head, “don’t ask.” Dean shook his head, smirking to himself.
Dean spent the next half of the class acutely aware of Castiel’s presence next to him and forcefully stopping himself from looking at him every 10 seconds. He finally gave in when he heard the scratch of a pen on paper, and the paper being slid onto his desk.
I have a spare concert ticket, if you want to come? -C
Dean’s eyebrows shot towards his hair, and, smiling slightly to himself, he started to write back.
Well, that depends. -D
He got the note back within 20 seconds:
On??? -C
Smirking, he passed it back. It’s not a Whitney Houston concert, is it? -D
He had to cover his mouth with his hand to restrain his laughter and the whispered profanity coming out of Castiel’s mouth.
I’ll pick you up at 8, assbutt. -C
“Whatever, Cas.”