Chapter Text
Chapter One
Cas
Castiel leans on the bar, his nose wrinkling at the stench of stale alcohol, cigarettes, and sweat. This isn’t his life. Well, not his real one. If only he could remember what that is and where. He sighs. The puff of breath makes the front of his overly long hair flutter. When was the last time he’d had it cut? Castiel can’t remember that either.
“Hey, Steve! Quit dreaming about all the crap you ain’t never gonna have and set the damn bar up ready for tonight. It’s going to be busy.”
As it often does, hearing Elijah Lassiter, McBride’s owner, calling him Steve takes a second to register. The funny thing is, he knows his real name and how it isn’t right for him to use it here. No idea why, though. Whatever the reason, he hides behind an alias thanks to his friend and now co-worker Ash. While he doesn’t know who Steve Milton is or had been, Castiel is grateful to the guy for his identity and credit rating.
“Yo! Slowpoke! You gonna do the job I pay you for, or what?”
“Yeah. Uh, sure thing, boss. Got lost in a few thoughts.”
Elijah scoffs and closes the distance between them. He draws himself up to all of his five foot seven inches and then jabs a finger towards Castiel’s face. “Didn’t employ you to think, now, did I? You’re a bartender not a Chuckdamned philosopher.”
Chuckdamned? Castiel shakes his head. He’ll never get used to the strange curse words people here use. The name nags at him, though, like a sore tooth as if he should know Chuck beyond people taking his name in vain.
Luckily for Castiel, Elijah takes his silence as agreement that he is indeed only a bartender not some great and learned philosopher. The problem is, while he knows the description isn’t correct, Castiel (the real him) is much more than the mere human he appears to be. He doesn’t remember what the more is or how to access it. He’s no vampire, werewolf, fae, demon, or other creature he’s encountered in Passaic—this much he knows. Castiel doesn’t have the abilities of those races. He is odd, though. Not like most normal humans he’s observed are. No, there’s this aura around Castiel, a way that people react to him that suggests he’s not one of them, it’s not as marked as it is around supernatural creatures, which is why he passes for human. It is there just the same, telling him people see him as other.
Castiel shrugs the thought off. His being able to pass as entirely human is a good thing given Elijah’s views on non-humans. It turns Castiel’s stomach to hear how his boss talks about them, and he’s not alone in his bigoted attitudes.
“Why’s tonight special? Place is always pretty busy on a Thursday.” Castiel scrubs at a sticky part of the counter Ash should have cleaned last night but clearly hadn’t.
Elijah gives him a withering look as he jerks his head towards the board over by the main entrance. “Live music. You know the thing we advertise as a once a month treat for the sad fucks who drink themselves into oblivion here night after night.”
“Oh, right. Of course.” Castiel nods in understanding.
What he doesn’t admit to is, he hasn’t ever taken notice of the bar’s advertising. The situation is nonsensical, he’s worked at McBride’s for two, maybe three months, and hasn’t known about the monthly event. Is it possible he hasn’t been working those nights?
The idea wouldn’t have occurred to him either. He’ll ask Ash about it later, see if it is normal for dive bars like McBride’s. Ash won’t judge his lack of knowledge, unlike their boss. It isn’t as if bar work is Castiel’s ideal job or a subject he knew anything about before he started at McBride’s. Not that he remembered what he used to do before he arrived in Passaic, only how it wasn’t considered remotely normal, unlike his current employment.
Ash had secured him the job because what else was he going to do? Castiel has no memory of any useful skills. However, Steve’s resume had apparently listed tending bar as something he had done back in college. No way was Castiel up to working as a tax attorney which had been Steve Milton’s latest career before he... well, before Castiel could use his identity without anyone coming looking for Steve or the real Steve realizing his identity has been stolen.
Castiel finishes with the bar and gets to checking the clean glasses when Ash wanders in. He is rubbing the sleep from his eyes and, by the smell of him, wearing at least two-day-old clothes. Still, it beats the time Castiel came in to find him asleep on the pool table. Ash woke up suddenly and, with an oddly graceful move for someone usually so clumsy, jumped off the table, nearly poking Castiel's eye with a cue. His excuse? Ash didn’t enjoy, as he put it, being so rudely awakened.
“Reporting for duty, Steve-o. Primed, loaded and ready to partayyyyy!”
Okay, Ash is still baked from last night. Castiel doesn’t begrudge him. There isn’t much joy in this world as he’s found out since he’s been here. Unfortunately for him, Castiel seems to have too a high tolerance to both drink and drugs for a human. Even in large quantities which floor Ash and McBride’s patrons, neither do more than give him the slightest buzz—it doesn’t take the edge off the horrors of this world.
“Could you check the kegs on the cheap stuff, please.” Elijah won't lose much if Ash pours a few drinks, because the people who frequent McBride’s mostly don’t have money to burn on fancy booze meaning the inexpensive beer always runs out first.
“No problemo, amigo.” Ash offers him a mock salute. “Ready for the chaos? These guys aren’t my style, but they rock.”
Style isn’t a word Castiel would apply to Ash with his weird hairstyle, faded black tank top, flannel with the arms chopped off, ripped almost white coloured jeans, and undone combat boots. He tilts his head as he looks the other man up and down trying to work out what he means by both his question and the follow-up statement. “Your hairstyle suggests you like rock music? Are My Bloody Addiction a different genre?”
“Hey, don’t diss the mullet, dude! It’s all business up the front, party in the back if you know what I...” Ash trails off, glaring at Castiel as he runs a hand through his ridiculous hair. “Never mind. I ain’t no punk rocker, more about the good old classics me. But My Bloody Addiction are all about that schtick.”
Ash’s explanation doesn’t help at all. Castiel refrains from saying so.
“Oi! Same as I don’t pay Steve to be some highfaluting thinker, I don’t pay you...” Elijah points a finger at Ash, “to stand around gossiping. Like Steve asked you so nicely, go check we’re properly stocked up on the cheap shit. Oh, and Ash, might wanna make the Yuengling go a little further if you catch my drift.”
Ash acts like he knows what their boss means as he nods with an unduly serious expression on his face and, after a toss of his hair, gets to work.
While Castiel doesn’t fully understand what Elijah had asked Ash to do, he’s never asked Steve to do that. Castiel instinctively knows it is about ripping off their customers. It makes him uncomfortable.
However, in the short time he’d been working at McBride’s Castiel has already made the mistake of questioning Elijah’s ethical choices. He’d gotten threatened and punched for his trouble and isn’t keen on a repeat performance. His intuitions told him he should fight back, that the real Castiel (not Steve Milton) would always stand up for injustice. The need to keep his job won out. Castiel must stay under the radar until he figures out what is going on, which means he accepts Elijah’s shitty treatment of his staff and gets on with doing his job during working hours and attempting to figure out what is going on when he’s off shift.
“Uh, Elijah?” Castiel makes a show of polishing the top shelf glasses as he asks his question.
“What?”
“I’m not familiar with modern music. When Ash says the band is punk, what does he mean?’
Elijah rolls his eyes like Steve is the stupidest motherfucker to ever walk the Earth and he’s regretting hiring him. With a deep sigh he gives up whatever he was doing with the menus at the side register and hauls himself onto a barstool.
“For Chuck’s sake, give me something to work with. What do you know?”
A name floats into Castiel’s consciousness. He can’t place where he knows it from, only how it used to be important for him, Castiel, to know it. “Led Zeppelin.”
“Uh, wow. Okay, well I guess they ain’t exactly modern no more.” Elijah’s face is scrunched up. His brows are knitted together, one corner of his mouth is lifted showing a hint of one yellowed and cracked tooth. He also has his head cocked to one side. “Strange you know something as old as Led Zep but don’t know what punk is unless you been under a rock since about 1975.”
Castiel shrugs. “No. Definitely not. Still don’t know what to expect.”
“Loud, angry music about society. Songs lasting three minutes and with only three chords. It’s shit. But it ain’t about what I want to listen to. It’s about the dollars. My Bloody Addiction? Well, they have enough of a crazy following we should be packing them in by the time the set starts.”
As he talks, Elijah rubs the thumbs and fingertips of both hands together. Greedy little slimeball.
*~*~*~*
Three hours later and McBride’s is quiet again. Gone are the clink of glasses, the noise from the jukebox is no longer competing with the commentary on the replay of the hockey game from last season. Nobody is yelling at Castiel for drinks, or chips, or pretzels. The afternoon rush is done. To be fair, calling it a rush is an exaggeration given it’s mostly a few (meaning under twenty) regulars from the canning plant around the corner. These people have strictly one drink and possibly a bag of something eked out of their meagre wages before heading back to accommodation ripe for the bulldozer instead of being rented out for human habitation. Then again, not all of them are human, are they? Elijah always pushes the ones who aren’t Castiel’s way and something inside him ignites as he interacts with them.
Castiel is collecting empties from the booths and tables when the double doors of the main entrance slam open and a tall, well-built man with half his hair shaved and the other half a floppy bright pink, dressed in black leather and denim stands in the centre of the doorway. Something about the man makes Castiel feel like he should recognize him. Castiel doesn’t.
The sports channel stops running immediately and, as if summoned by the disregard for his property, Elijah appears from out back.
“Think you can damage my bar and still get served? Nah—you’re barred. Get the fuck out, monster.”
Three other people in a similar style of dress come to flank the first man.
Oh. Now Castiel sees what’s wrong. Well, he has the impression: 1) these are not humans. He can’t tell what creatures they are or how he suspects they’re different. He simply does. 2) Like himself, two of them have an aura broadcasting they aren’t who they claim to be. Castiel chooses to store the knowledge away for later when he has more time to ponder what it means.
The tallest of the creatures speaks. “We’re the band. We aren’t going anywhere. Unless, of course, you’d like to pay us what we’re owed upfront?”
Elijah laughs. “I got a friend named Pansy what says you’ll do as you’re told. Steve...” Elijah jerks his head in Castiel’s direction. “You know all about Pansy, don’t you?”
“Yes. Although I fail to see what good Pansy will do when the weapon isn’t already in your hand and there are four of them. Weren’t you espousing the joys of how live music brought in more people and filled up your cash register?”
Castiel has no idea why having these four strangers in the bar has him confident about calling Elijah out. If past performance is anything to go by, not only might he be sporting a few bruises before the night is out, he could also be out of a job too. His boss is not the forgive and forget type. Should he appease Elijah? Make certain he doesn’t fire him? Too late to worry now. Can’t take the words back. Then again, how many times has the assbutt threatened Ash since Castiel has worked at McBride’s and Ash is still working for Elijah.
The man who’d opened the door strides over to Castiel. He pats him on the shoulder as he says, “Steve, was it?”
Castiel nods. Yes, he’s certain he hasn’t seen this punk in passing as he travels about Passaic when he’s off shift. Castiel’s mind is convinced he’s known the man for many years. If he had, wouldn’t he know his name?
“Good to have you in our corner, buddy.”
“Haven’t you got instruments and stuff to bring in?” Elijah’s face is the same colour as the red bandana wrapped around the guy standing next to Castiel’s thigh.
“Whoa, My Bloody Addiction in the flesh! This is awesome, dudes.” Ash has ambled through from the direction of the restrooms, looking more unsteady on his feet than Castiel would deem safe for someone lugging crates and kegs around. “Was that you at the back door? Sorry, man. When you gotta—”
Elijah cuts Ash off before he goes into great detail about what he’s been up to in the men’s room. Such lengthy explanations have been known to happen before. “Go and open the fucking thing now, then.” Elijah waves Ash off out the back, then rounds on the three members of the band still stood in the doorway. “Well? What are you motherfuckers waiting for? A written invitation or the Chuckdamned fairies to unload your gear?”
They share a look before giving each other a one-shouldered shrug, then follow Ash to the rear door.
“Thin ice, Milton. Thin ice! Be thankful you were right or...or you’d have—”
“Leave. Steve. Alone.” Those three words delivered in what can only be described as a growl come from the sole remaining band member in the room.
Castiel watches his boss’s face drain of colour, and his body start to shake. The tremors are so small Castiel doubts most people would notice them. He does. Intrigued by what’s suddenly got the irascible man scared, Castiel turns to observe his would-be protector.
Gone is the easy-going smile and loose-limbed stance. In their place, every muscle is taut and ready for action and there’s a snarl on his face revealing a row of superhumanly long and sharp teeth. My Bloody Addiction are vampires!
“Uh, I di...didn’t me...mean, er, well, anything. You know. Just, um, a lit...the bit of friendly, er, employer-employee banter. S S S Steve knows I don’t mean anything by it, right, Steve?” Elijah does a jig, hands out in front trying to placate the punk.
If he wasn’t hung up on all the wrongness of this scene, Castiel would laugh at the sight. Instead, though, his brain spirals. The vampire shouldn’t be one. Isn’t one. Can’t be a vamp. No, not wherever Castiel knows him from. Castiel is convinced it is the truth despite what his eyes tell him. The weirdness of Castiel’s strange amnesiac life has gone up another level.
“You sure?” With preternatural speed, the man has his hands around Elijah’s throat. He lifts him until only the tips of his toes are in contact with the floor.
“Absolutely.”
“All right then.” The vampire cranes his head over his shoulder, staring right at Castiel. “You copacetic, Steve?”
Castiel contemplates his response. He could be an assbutt and get some retribution on Elijah. However, Elijah’s threats won’t amount to anything until after the bar has closed for the night, if he hasn’t forgotten by then. This time, Castiel suspects nothing will come of it. Not after being at a supernatural monster’s mercy. Elijah's greed will win over his hurt pride as long as the band brings in cash for the bar.
“Yeah. No harm done.” Castiel runs a hand through his already messy hair, then tugs on the hem of his t-shirt as he says, “I ought to get back to cleaning and getting ready for the next rush.”
Elijah gives him a weak smile of thanks. He’s still being held by the vampire.
“You could let him go now.”
The vampire does a double take, then realizes he still has a death-grip around Elijah’s throat and drops him. He looks startled. “Oh. Right, listen here you sleazy sonofabitch. You ain’t gonna hassle your staff again in my presence and you’re gonna pay us our rate plus a little bonus for leaving you and your dive in one piece, capisce?”
“Whatever you say.” Elijah scurries off as he delivers his robotic-sounding reply. His eyes remain trained on the vampire as one hand massages his throat.
His lips move but Castiel can’t hear whatever he’s saying. Probably more vile ranting about how the supernatural should all be rounded up and “dealt with”.
Castiel stifles a laugh as he watches Elijah’s retreat. It’s a miracle his boss doesn’t bump into anything until he’s safely behind the bar.
He has the vague notion of how, if he wanted to, he could touch Elijah and make both the internal and external bruising around his neck go away.
It’s an absurd idea. Faith healers are not a real thing. Castiel doesn’t believe in gods anyway—or... He lets the thought trail off. Better to get on with his job and worry about all the perplexing stuff later in his crappy room above the bar. Disinterested as he is with the task at hand, Castiel goes back to his job like he promised.
“I’m Dean by the way. I’ll introduce to the rest of the band later.” Dean winks at Castiel as, instead of heading out to the rear through the bar, he goes back out the main doors.
If anyone claims they heard Castiel snicker at the way Dean slams the door again, he’ll deny it vehemently.
*~*~*~*
Over the next hour, the band move like a well-oiled machine setting up their equipment and discussing technical stuff with Ash, who is in his element. Castiel has never seen the man this animated. He wonders if Ash knows he is helping a bunch of supernaturals.
Why did Dean act like that? His behaviour is illogical.
As far as Castiel knows, supernatural creatures are known and commonplace in this world. However, they rarely go around advertising their otherworldly status as openly.
None of that is Castiel’s business, though. He serves drinks and cleans up after McBride’s patrons. When he’s not at the bar Castiel eats, sleeps, showers and well, he doesn’t do much else.
Castiel keeps his thoughts to himself and gets on with his job.
When he isn’t serving drinks to the raucous crowd, Castiel leans his elbows on the counter and watches the show. Dean is the lead singer. The one who’d initially challenged Elijah over My Bloody Addiction’s fee, stands to his left playing guitar. The shorter of the other two stands to the right, behind Dean, with his bass. He’s swaying out of time with the songs’ rhythms. The final vampire hammers away at the drums like a being possessed.
“How we doin’ New Jersey!” Dean says as he leans over the edge of the stage, tilting the microphone stand and using it to keep him upright. “This song’s a little autobiographical—if you catch my drift. It’s called Vampires Will Never Hurt You!”
Castiel taps his fingers in time with the beat, listening to the lyrics. How does he know they are wrong? You don’t kill vampires with a stake through their heart—you chop their heads off. In the same vein, sunlight will make them ill, but it won’t burn them to a crisp as the song suggests.
As captivating as Dean’s antics are, throwing himself around the stage, screaming into the mic, stalking across the stage as if hunting prey, Castiel keeps being drawn back to Sam. He is so entranced by the sounds the vampire is pulling from the instrument with such apparent ease, he doesn’t hear a customer until the man throws a beer mat at him.
“Uh, sorry. What can I get for you?”
“Pint of PBR, please. Good ain’t they for a bunch of bloodsucking creeps.”
It takes a remarkable amount of restraint for Castiel to pour the man’s drink and take his money with a smile on his face instead of berating him or knocking him out cold.
What I want to do is smite the xenophobic assbutt! Smite? What the heck kind of word is that? Who the fuck says assbutt?
Once the guy has elbowed his way back towards the stage, unharmed, Castiel’s attention swings back to the guitarist. Oh, Dean’s voice is commanding and distinctive, and the other two are masters of their instruments, but Sam is something else. As people say, a man with Chuck-given talent. Logic would dictate many hours of practice are behind this vampire’s skill, only Castiel recognizes, Chuck knows how, the assumption is wrong.
An odd image floats into Castiel’s head. Strange even with all the other peculiar thoughts and images he’s had. The picture shows a man Castiel comprehends is him even though his features are different to Steve’s, dressed in a green, gold-edged tunic playing a stringed instrument with as much passion as My Bloody Addiction play theirs.
He is struck with a sudden, unknown, undeniable desire to be a part of it. To experience the frenzied energy, soak up the way the crowd hangs off every note, every word, every movement. To be at Dean’s and the guitarist’s side. He belongs there. How he understands this is beyond him, but Castiel knows it to be true.
The spotlight falls on Dean. He leans against the mic stand, panting, wiping the sweat out of his eyes with a grey, ragged towel, and smirking as he stares out over the crowd, winking when he catches the gaze of several fans.
Castiel wants to be one of them. He feels as if Dean should be staring at him and Castiel would return the favour, eyes fixed on Dean’s holding his attention for longer than is polite.
He coughs and shakes his head to clear his mind of such ridiculous thoughts. Nevertheless, Castiel acknowledges while Steve Milton may not be this impertinent, Castiel is—he can’t help but be when Dean is the subject of his gaze.
Cut it out! It doesn’t matter because once the gig is done, My Bloody Addiction will pack their gear and be gone from Castiel’s life for good.
“I wanna thank every one of you for coming out tonight. If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t be here on this stage in this shitty dive bar. But we are and we love it. Thank You. This last one’s off our new album. You might have heard it, despite all these new bullshit speech laws. This song is for you if you’ve ever felt alone, rejected, lost, confused, been wronged, or made to feel ashamed of who you are.”
The crowd erupts into raucous cheers above which Castiel can hardly hear the opening chords. He is spellbound. Mesmerized as a couple of hundred people sing all the words with Dean and on their own when Dean holds the mic out to them. It strikes Castiel that the audience is loudest on the line, “I’m not okay”.
My Bloody Addiction, Dean and the guitarist in particular, have a hold over Castiel which is too strong for never encountering them before tonight. He can’t remember ever meeting them or seeing their images before and yet the impression that Castiel knows the two men exceptionally well won’t leave him.
If only he could remember the who, what, where, and when of Castiel and perhaps also where that bond he already feels for Dean and the tallest vampire comes from.
In theory, once the lights are back on and the crowd are draining the last of their drinks before leaving, the spell should break. It doesn’t. Castiel goes through the motions of cleaning and putting things in order for whoever is on the morning shift tomorrow. He keeps one eye on the stage as Ash helps the band pack down.
Castiel is lost to the wonder of why the music Elijah had been in some ways correct about kept him entranced. He is caught up in the puzzle over his previously unknown connection with two of the vampires and jumps when a voice pipes up beside him, bringing him back to the present.
“Ever wanted to run away with the circus, Steve?” Dean stands in front of the bar, one hip cocked out to the side and a hand resting on it, a finger of the other hand presses to the corner of his mouth.
Castiel tilts his head to the side, brows knitting together. His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish’s as he tries to formulate an answer. What comes out isn’t the most eloquent. “But there isn’t one around here?”
Dean searches Castiel’s face for something, the pause spanning several seconds before he tips his head back and laughs, a full on belly one too. “Not literally, no. What I meant was, uh...” Dean scratches at the back of his neck. The action shouldn’t be endearing, for heaven’s sake, Dean is a vampire who could as easily rip Steve’s throat out as look at him.
Castiel knows Dean wouldn’t do that. He’s not sure it would work on the real Castiel either.
“Seems like you and the douche that owns this place ain’t friendly. Figured maybe you’d wanna come on the road with us if you ain’t got no other place to be.” Dean sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. “I get this is insane, way too much information and vamps aren’t supposed to dream, but I have to say this. I dream and when I do I always see a man matching your description.”
Colour Castiel even more intrigued by the man as out of place as himself. “Go on, Dean.”
“Well, my dreams imply you and I know each other—like, um, we’re good buddies and...”
Before Dean can start rambling again, Castiel closes the space between them. He’s now close enough to the vampire that if the creature had any Castiel could feel his body heat.
It may be the dumbest idea Castiel has had since he found himself stranded in this world with no recollection of where he’s come from, who he really is, or how to return where he belongs, but he can’t help the smile that lights up his face as Dean trails off, fiddling with a chain hanging off his belt, his eyes anywhere but Castiel’s face.
“If you’re asking what I think you are—I’ll go with you, Dean.” For an inexplicable reason, Castiel then leans his head until his lips cover Dean’s ear and says, “My real name is Castiel.”