The guy was always at the bus stop, playing guitar with his case open for tips, until one day he wasn't. It was weird; the empty space seemed unnatural. Like a void. The sound of the strings no longer sweetened the air. The silence was eerie. Wrong.

There was no longer anyone to make conversation with. The budding artist had been part of his routine.

Wake up, go to work, take the bus home, and meet him on the park bench outside the French restaurant on Garrison Street. He was there every day without fail, usually with only a few dollars in the can laid out on the ground by his feet. He'd always end the day with five more though, as was the routine.

"So, what brings you here?" He had asked on that first day. The sky was clear, to the point where a few stars could be seen through the haze of the city lights.

"Business as usual I guess. I'm here for the week, then moving out to New Orleans," the blonde had replied. A wistful smile turnt up the corners of his strawberry lips.

"Business doesn't look too good," Castiel nodded towards the spare change at the bottom of the cup.

"Whatever. I take what I can get. These people are working just as hard as I am. Whatever they can spare is enough for me."

That had been almost two and a half months ago. He'd ended up staying in town for much longer than expected. He had stayed at the cheap hotel at the edge of town, making the trip to downtown on foot every day. Weekends, holidays, you name it. He was always at the bench by 5:30 p.m, rounding up coins.

"What kind of music do you play, Dean?"

The artist's smile brightened as he brought the guitar up from his lap and placed it in a more practical position.

"Well, I love the classics, Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, and all that. But until I get a real gig, I'm playing that indie stuff. You know, the music people won't complain is polluting the air.

Castiel tilted his head to the side.

"There's some softer music by those guys, right? Not as loud?"

"Well, yeah, I know some of those."

"Play one for me. Your favorite. Something that won't 'pollute the air'," he joked.

"You asked for it," Dean checked his strings before beginning.

The walk home was a particularly long one. No odd conversation to replay swirling at the back of his mind. Just silence. Nothing new to ponder over.

He felt empty.

"There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold. And she's buying a stairway to heaven. When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed, with a word she can get what she came for."

Cas listened intensely to Dean's voice. It was deep, with an edge to it, but it was soft. Gentle. Melodic.

He listened quietly, his eyes closed as he pressed his head against the brick of the building behind him. He heard the clink of a coin being thrown in the jar by a passerby.

"Ooh, it makes me wonder, Ooh, it makes me wonder."

Castiel approached his door. It was hidden in an alley, with one of the numbers falling off the door. The inside was much better than the outside, however. As he reached for his keys, he noticed something stuck in the door, slightly fluttering in the cool evening wind. He reached for it, unfolding it in his hands.

Cass,

It's Dean here. I know it was a sucky move on my part to just up and go like that, well, maybe you don't care. But I'm assuming you do. I finally got that gig I was looking for in New Orleans! Maybe now I can build up that college fund. Sammy might be able to stay in school for next year! I know it's a long shot, but with his scholarship and my talent, well, who knows. Right? If you ever feel the need to get in touch, my number is on the back of the paper.

Dean W.

Castiel's hands went to his face. He got the gig? Where would he be playing? Even if it was something small, he'd be damned if he didn't see that performance.

The warm air, which had grown colder with the oncoming night, wrapped around him like a blanket.

Yeah, he'd see this performance.