"Hey," Castiel looks up from the photo he's holding "Do you remember when we first met?" Dean laughs a little and continues to move the cardboard box he's currently holding.
"You mean back when we were recording at your dad's studio and you came running in soaking wet and started to freak out because we were sat on your couch?" Cas nods, looking down flush with slight embarrassment at the event 20 years previous. Dean laughs again. "Because, yes, I remember it to the way your shoe laces were flopped across the carpet." It's Cas that laughs this time, walking towards his husband who in turn places a chaste kiss to his lips.
The rain poured heavily down in a seemingly endless stream against the thin glass of the Roadhouse Recording studio. The quaint cottage sat back against a long winding river far out in middle of Ireland. Roses ran around the outside and up the walls of the Tudor esque building, their scent assaulted the senses the moment you pulled up the long winding forest drive. The studio's thatched roof was three shades darker brown, soaked from the weeks' worth of relentless rain. Puddles the size of small paddling pools churned up the gravel and made navigating the driveway dangerous. But that was normal for Ireland; good weather was a myth come autumn.
Lucifer Milton stood lent up against the window frame of his front room. He didn't care much for the rain, nor did he worry about his only son who was currently walking the family dog through the down pour. Who Luce did worry for was the four twenty-somethings who were currently late for their arrival to the Roadhouse.
Lucifer was a world renowned music producer who had worked with everybody who was anybody in the music industry. The band he was currently awaiting was an up and coming indie group named Impala. Their first album had done well and the lead singer, Dean something, had quickly become the poster boy for teenage girl crushes.
At first Lucifer had been reluctant to work with the boys; he disliked young new artist, they were too volatile and didn't appreciate good music. It was his son, Cas, that had made him reconsider. Cas had kind of always taken a backseat in Lucifer's life and they had become even more detached after the accident some years ago. Although Cas would never admit it, he wished his father would act more like a father and less like a land lord that didn't charge rent.
For the last few months Lucifer would return home to the Roadhouse to find Impala's first, self-titled album playing. And so out of love for his son and a want to reconcile their relationship, Lucifer had agreed to produce the new album for his son's favourite band.
He hadn't told his son that the next lot of college dropouts that would be sharing their home for the next two months were Impala, not that he would have even if Cas had asked.
The deep rumble of a '67 Chevrolet Impala and the teeth grating sound of wet gravel being compressed had brought Luce back to the real world.
He stepped through into the hall and grabbed a couple of towels and opened the door to the soaking kids.
The eldest, and the front man of the group, stood forward and accepted the towels with a grateful smile and held out his hand. "Dean Winchester, sir, and can I say what an honour it is to meet you!" a slight southern twang made its way into the boys voice.
"Well Dean, I'm 'pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name'." Lucifer's face held a confident smile as he shook the boy's hand firmly once and dropped it. He was sure the reference would be lost on the kid.
"I just hope I know the nature of your game." Dean replied coolly, earning an impressed grin from the elder man. The younger man stepped backwards and pushed each member of his group forward respectively. "Sir, this is my little brother Sammy," the long haired boy nodded shock Lucifer's hand and muttered a quiet "Sam" which his elder brother promptly ignored. "Our cousin, Gabriel Novak" the short boy had equally long hair and a lollipop hanging from his mouth, which he removed to practically shout a bright 'hello'. "And finally, our friend Balthazar Roché" The blonde boy shook Lucifer's with a firmer grip than he had expected from the young man.
"It's a pleasure, sir" Balthazar spoke with a strong English accent.
Lucifer helped the band retrieve their bags and showed them upstairs to their rooms.
With the full bottom floor turned into a recording studio, everything that made the Roadhouse the Milton's home was upstairs. The staircase its self was lined with photographs of Lucifer, his late wife Claire and their son Castiel, along with photos of Lucifer with several of the higher profile bands that had recorded there.
The carpet was a darkish blue that matched the small flowers that decorated the wall paper, neither of which had been replaced since Claire had put them in over twenty years ago. The stairs made way to the corridor of which every room stemmed from. The first two rooms on the left were the spare rooms set out for any artists that wanted to stay at the studio rather than deal with an hour car journey to the nearest hotel. Both rooms were set out similarly, pale yellow walls, two double beds with yet more flowers on the bed sheets, a standalone wardrobe with full length mirrors on the doors and an adjoining all white bathroom.
The next door down from the second spare room was out of bounds to guests. It was again set out as the rooms before but with only one bed. Everything in the room had its place and it was pristine. Only one photograph resided on the desk that replaced the second bed, the silver frame held Castiel's most precious possession, the only picture left of him and his mother.
The two doors opposite revealed the kitchen that would be shared by both the band and the Milton's. A small four seated dining table with mismatched stools sat back against a bay window, an old kitchenette that could barely pass for useable was connected to the left wall, white cupboards that ran along the top of the kitchenette that had paint peeling from the doors and white and black tiled flooring. It looked run down but somehow made it feel more homely.
The fifth door at the end of the hallway was Lucifer's bedroom. It was blue and simple with a few items of clothing strewn across the floor but only on his side of the room. The other side, Claire's side, remained untouched. Everything where she'd left it, as though she'd just left home for a few days. Her side of the room was spotless; her side of the bed was made every morning, the sheets that had long since stopped smelling like her, pulled tight over the mattress in the way she'd have liked. Lucifer slept on the couch or in a spare room most nights now. The thought of the empty bed too much to bare.
Once the boys were settled, Lucifer took them downstairs to show them around the studio. It had several mismatched couches in different corners, each room had at least two wall sized windows, and the ones in the back rooms were bay to overlook the river. Lucifer had found over the years that comfortable, cosy, well lit conditions worked best for most artists; though he was unsure of whether these kids would want to sleep through the days and work at night, he was never sure with the young ones.
Lucifer was in the middle of telling the band a story about the time Bono had attempted to act out the beginning scenes of The Lion King with the old family car when the front door banged open. Lucifer jumped up and grabbed one of the towels that had been left abandoned on the side in an attempt to stop the soaking wet Border collie colliding with everything in sight.
"Castiel! Get the bloody dog!" Lucifer shouted through into the hallway. A boy of no more than nineteen appeared round the corner. His shock of brown hair was dripping wet and stuck to his face, he had bright blue eyes that shone brighter than the lightning the rain had brought with it.
Having grabbed the dog, the boy looked up at the four men sat on his sofa. His eyes had grown wide as he stared in disbelief. The boy's jacket was hanging open slightly and Dean caught sight of the reason the boy looked so freaked, the shirt he had on had Impala's logo sprawled across the front of it.
Without a word the boy took off up the stairs toward his bedroom.