Castiel and the Phantom of the Opera - Prologue
Hey everyone. So my friend and I have recently become obsessed with all things "Phantom of the Opera" so I decided to write a Destiel fic based off the famous play.
WARNING: LYRICS WILL BE INCLUDED IN THIS STORY. I AM IN NO WAY CLAIMING THESE LYRICS TO BE MY OWN. I WOULD NORMALLY TRY TO AVOID THIS, BUT I HONESTLY DO NOT KNOW HOW I COULD AND KEEP THE SAME EFFECT THE PLAY HAS. THERE WILL BE VERY FEW SONGS WHOSE LYRICS APPEAR HERE, BUT I WILL ALWAYS WRITE A DISCLAIMER IN THOSE CHAPTERS. I AM NOT CLAIMING TO OWN THEM IN ANY WAY SHAPE OR FORM. PLEASE LET THAT BE CLEAR HERE AND NOW.
Since that is out of the way, I hope you enjoy this crossover!
Again, I do not own Supernatural, or The Phantom of the Opera.
Prologue – The Chandelier
Paris, 1903
A cold, icy wind ruffled the hair of an aging gentleman. He was dressed in fine clothing – clearly showing off his wealth. As he climbed out of an elevated carriage, he was assisted by a woman, presumably his wife. She looked to be about his age – maybe a few years younger – and while she was past her prime, she still had an intangible beauty. It was in the way she carried herself, the way she walked, and the light that shone brightly in her crystalline eyes. Her hair was mousy and pulled back in a tight bun. Her piercing blue eyes were bright, but also cold. There was a stoniness there – a hardness that was the result of many years of hardship and suffering. Then again, she had seen more than most. She helped her husband into a wheelchair and then proceeded to push him to the steps that led up to the opera house.
Waiting for assistance, the woman looked up at the massive pillars in front of the building and the intricate arches above them. The opera house itself was an architectural masterpiece – back in the day, it was even more glorious. The windows that once sported posters of the night's opera were not black and boarded up. The large mahogany door that had once shone with polish was now weathered and worn.
Three men descended the steps to assist the woman in getting her husband up to the door. They greeted the couple courteously and with great respect, calling them Monsieur and Madame Winchester. The men continued to flatter Madame Winchester as they carried her husband's wheelchair up the five steps to the door. Neither batted an eye at the flattery and were silent as they ascended to the opera house. Once they were escorted inside, Madame Winchester slipped them a few francs and proceeded to wheel her husband into the main hall.
Both Winchesters were appalled by the conditions of the interior, Madame Winchester especially. She had attended operas there when the theatre was thriving with life – when opera was a spectacular event for the elite, when it was full of soul and passion and pure talent. She remembered the opera house when it was in its glory; she remembered it vividly. In fact, she remembered everything that happened in that opera house with impeccable accuracy. After all, the events that occurred there were not something one would forget. Even her husband – his body a centimeter from death, but his mind still as sharp as a needle – remembered the ordeal as if it were yesterday.
Leaves were strewn across the floor of the main hall, and there was a slightly unpleasant odor in the air. It smelled dark and musty, and had an ominous accompaniment. Madame Winchester felt a shiver go up her spine. She had not thought about the tragedy or the phantom in years. She knew that returning here would bring back the memories, but she did not think that they would be so painful. As they proceeded into the main hall, they heard the voice of an auctioneer in the distance.
"And here we have a poster of Don Juan Triumphant, an opera put on during the night of the great tragedy that occurred here almost thirty years ago. A few of you may remember hearing of that peculiar night, however that is not why we are here. The poster itself is in excellent condition. It has few blemishes, rips, creases, or stains. May I start the bidding at 10 francs?"
Madame Winchester wheeled her husband into the room where the auction was set up. They arrived just in time to see the poster be sold at 15 francs. Upon their entry, a few people gave the elderly couple looks, but the Winchesters ignored it. Monsieur Winchester even felt a sharp bite of bitterness rise in his heart at their judgmental gazes. If anyone had a right to be there, it was them. They were there when it happened. They witnessed it all. If only those youths knew the true horror of what happened. If they did, they would most likely be traumatized; the Winchesters nearly were.
"Next we have number 665, a music box topped with a monkey dressed in Persian robes, playing the cymbals," the auctioneer informed, gesturing to the piece that was being held by an assistant.
The assistant stepped forward so all could see the item. "Showing here," he called, mostly for tradition's sake. The Winchesters immediately had their eyes glued to the music box.
"The music box is still in working order, ladies and gentleman! Fredrick, would you mind demonstrating for us?"
The assistant wound up a small crank on the side of the box. Then, the money began to play. While the cymbals did not come together, a beautiful, soft, happy melody drifted from it. It was a twinkling sound – almost like the stars if they were to make noise. At least that was what Madame Winchester could compare it to.
"Can we start the bidding at 20 francs?" the auctioneer inquired.
Monsieur and Madame Winchester exchanged a knowing look, and Madame Winchester raised her hand.
"Thank you, Madame," the auctioneer said, dipping his head to her. "Do I hear 25 francs?"
A young man that stood across from the Winchesters raised his hand. He was younger than most of the other people there. He had light blond hair and bright, pure, blue eyes. He stared at the Winchesters with an odd expression on his face. Monsieur Winchester stared back, unblinking, and with a challenging expression.
"Thank you, sir!" the auctioneer trilled. He then looked back to the Winchesters, expecting them to raise their bid. "Do I hear 30 francs?"
Madame Winchester raised her hand again on her husband's behalf.
"Thank you, Madame. Do I hear 35?"
This time, the blond boy shook his head. Instead, he looked at the Winchesters again. There was a curiosity in his eyes – unspoken questions that Monsieur Winchester had a feeling he was going to hear at some point that afternoon.
"Going once . . . twice . . . Sold! Madame, may you hold up your number, please?"
She did as she was requested and the music box was transferred to Monsieur Winchester's hands. He stared at the monkey situated on top of the box, and let out a shuddering sigh. Emotion began to bubble up in his chest. A young man came to mind – a man with hair as black as night and with eyes as deep a blue as the ocean. Then, he saw another man in his mind – a man with untidy blond hair and an intense, evergreen gaze. He closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them, he stared at the monkey, his eyes becoming rather moist. "Here it is . . ." he whispered. "Every detail . . . exactly as he described . . . I wonder . . . Will you still play when the rest of us are dead? Will you outlive us all little music box?"
"Excuse me . . . Monsieur?"
Monsieur Winchester looked up to see the young blond boy from across the room. Monsieur Winchester narrowed his eyes at the blond boy. He looked up for his wife only to find her absent. He returned his attention to the boy. "What do you want?" he asked gruffly.
"My name is Adam Milligan," the boy informed. "I'm writing a novel based of the legendary phantom of the opera, and I was wondering—"
"I have nothing to say on the matter," Monsieur Winchester cut him off. Briefly, his lips twitched in a bittersweet smile, though. Legendary . . . Who'd have ever thought that you'd be a legend, Dean? he thought. However, the humor – the nostalgia – was very brief. Thought of this made his chest ache; it was as if a gaping hole had been gouged into his chest . . . Then again, it always felt like this when he thought of him. "Please . . . leave me now. I am . . . not prepared to speak on this matter. My health is failing and I really do not think that this is the time to talk of such awful things."
"Sir, I just have a few questions, that's all," Adam persisted. His eyes were bright with a hope that Monsieur Winchester had not seen in a long time. He had not seen such hope – such wide-eyed naïveté – since . . .
"Excuse me," the voice of Madame Winchester cut into the conversation. She strode over to them with surprising grace, especially for a woman of her age. "Sorry, my love," she whispered to her husband. "I was paying for your music box." She then turned her attention to Adam. Her eyes were particularly cold as she gazed at him. "My husband requested that you leave him alone. I suggest that you do so now. Please. I do not wish to argue." While she spoke with politeness, there was a warning in her voice.
"Of course, Madame," Adam said, bowing slightly. "I apologize for any discomfort, or for any problems I may have caused. I meant no harm."
"Yes, I know. We do not wish to be bothered right now – especially about . . . that subject."
Adam nodded, apologized again, and retreated to some dark corner to lick his wounds.
"Number 666," the auctioneer continued. "A chandelier completely restored!" The mention of the chandelier got the attention of both Winchesters. "Now, as I mentioned before, this piece was also involved in the tragedy of the affair of the phantom of the opera. This chandelier was directly involved in the famous disaster. Since then, it has been restored completely and fit with equipment for the electric light. Perhaps the whispers and echos of the past can be brought to rest with a little illumination. Gentlemen, would you please raise the chandelier now?"
Monsieur and Madame Winchester watched as their past suddenly became the present once more. The sheets were drawn back to expose the beautiful and complex chandelier. A group of men hoisted it into the air. The electric lights that were now in place of the candles flashed to life. As the chandelier rose, Monsieur Winchester felt as if he was back in the time with the opera house was alive. The cobwebs, the leaves on the floor, the dust, the broken statues and chairs – they were all swiped away and replaced with liveliness and vigor. It was as if color was being restored to a world of black and white. Monsieur Winchester could perfectly picture the theatre in its full glory. But of course, he could not think of the theatre without thinking of the phantom.
No, he couldn't not think of his tortured, disfigured brother and the angelic man that stole his heart.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Please follow and favorite! And remember to leave a review telling me what you thought! :D