A/N: For Sam and Shalina, to whom I owe my deepest gratitude to.

PART I

Residing in the heart of Lawrence, Kansas—an inconsequential section of the world known for its Civil War cenotaphs and scorching humidity—was a man named Dean Winchester, better known by the townspeople as the Righteous Man.

Most of his acts were unprecedented enough to leave unscathed from—well, for the most part. His hearing was blown to Hell in his left ear and every once in a while his sciatic made it impossible to move. Luckily the reviews compromised for the injuries sustained, leaving him as brazen as the day he walked into Purgatory Palace.

The pay wasn't as extravagant as the daredevil stunts he pulled, but luckily the fame went beyond a couple Franklins with his name imprinted on them.

Being a well-renowned illusionist was Dean's dream since he got his first magic set when he was ten. Of course, back then he was in it for the attention, simply to be commended for executing his talents. One of the biggest incentives of being a magic man was the behind-the-scenes attention. He struck out with five dates this week (not his personal best, but he would suffice), two of whom were Asian twins who practically bartered for a threesome.

The types of performances Dean did weren't like any other. In the papers he was often labeled as the "single-handed boy wonder." His first act on stage consisted of a classic card trick, only the cards in his possession were tarots and instead of pulling the drawer's card from his hand, somehow landed a completely different card in the hands of an unsuspecting and rather dubious woman. (And also, as it turned out the card she ended up receiving was boldly labeled "THE FOOL".)

But the act that truly made him a star involved a straight suicide to the chest. There was a glass panel dividing the stage in two. The objective was that, as Dean stood on one side and the other man on the opposite he would take a gun and shoot without harming Dean. As expected, the gun Matrix-spiraled through the glass at record speed and pierced Dean's chest. The audience gasped as the young magician staggered backward, seizing onto anything he could find until he gained balance and pulled back his low-cut sequined tuxedo to reveal his unclad chest, free of any withstanding injuries.

The house erupted into applause, giving Dean his first standing ovation and public press that lasted for eons after. No one had ever gone as far as The Righteous Man to gain publicity.

Well, except maybe Crimson's Child. Crimson's Child was his newest competition as of last year. His performances archetypally boiled down to death-defying fire acts that landed him in Azazel's Amphitheatre, the second largest rink in the tri-state area (Purgatory Palace, obviously still holding its number one). Crimson's Child also happened to be the same man he performed his first act with over a year ago. The same man he grew up with for nearly twenty years and has been an absolute pain in the ass for all of them.

Sam Winchester was good; good enough to be accepted back into Purgatory Palace after the one-year breakup anniversary of their dynamic duo for a state-wide competition. In just a matter of just a few of weeks, his younger brother will be sharing his stage and contending for the same title as Top Entertainer in the State. Dean knew the latter brother would have to step up into the Big Leagues. After all, the competition was a place for grownups, not a twenty-something novice that majors in conflagration and crappy haircuts.

"You can shove your spangles up your ass, Dean. Hand over the trophy and I won't tell Dad."

Dean scoffed, "No way in hell. Actually, come to think of it, I'll consider it if you shave that mustache dangling from your head."

Despite the claim, Sam was actually not that unappealing. In fact, more often than not his usual female audience swooned over the second-born's primitive features. (They never said anything about his shoulder-length mop for hair, though!) With dimples, rosy cheeks, and a physique taller than most, Sam certainly has no trouble winning over the affections of said women.

The eldest wasn't too concerned. Unlike his brother after he went solo, Dean gradually shed more skin for his performances, which caught the likes of women and men alike. Dean was a more rugged-type handsome, like his childhood hero Steve McQueen. He set a modern-day standard for Liberace's style combined with the foolhardy of Houdini.

"Whatever, dude, just do me a solid and try not to choke on my dust," Sam said, sneering.

Dean crossed his arms, nodding in sudden clarity and recognition: "Oh I get it now. You're gonna bore the entire house into a deep sleep with your lame ass puns."

The two exchanged spiteful looks before the younger Winchester exited the empty establishment. Dean walked in the opposite direction, towards the wardrobe room, not paying another mind to his brother's not-so-friendly criticism. He was always a sore loser, anyway.

Just as he began undoing the last button on his undershirt (also sequined to his taste), he found a note resting inside the bottom frame of his gold-imitation mirror. It was slightly crimped at the corners, but otherwise legible. Whoever the owner was had flawless penmanship. It was addressed to him:

Dean,

I'm a curious spectator from afar

Where I await patiently from the Death Star

To meet in hopes of uncovering

The prestigious man who exiled me there

~ Your Secret Admirer

A rouge-like blush crept onto Dean's stoic face. It wasn't uncommon that fans paid homage to Dean, but certainly not in this form. Most men and women he encountered want something physical, whether it's something as simple as an air-blown kiss or as complex as shower sex. This happened to be neither case. This was piety through the oral language, something that took someone with an extensive knowledge of pop culture (Dean was a sucker for anything that involved space and golden lace swimsuits).

"Dean, you're on in thirty," the Righteous Man's manager, Michael, said from the doorway. How long had he been standing there? "You have t-minus ten minutes to dress out, same goes for makeup. Benny. Where the hell is Benny?"

A robust man in a silver sequin-suede coat, complete with a top hat, scarf, and pants, went tumbling out of the clothesline behind Dean. "O' Captain, my Captain, at your service!" he proclaimed gallantly, raising his hand to his forehead in proper salute.

"Christ's sake, son, stop lollygagging and start dressing."

"Aye, sir," Benny drawled as the grouchy manager fled the scene. He turned to the magician, clapping his hands together, grinning wide. "So who's the lucky bastard?"

This only caused Dean's smile to spread like margarine across his face. Unwillingly, he tore his eyes from the note to rejoin his best friend of three years. Benny Lafitte was his fashion consultant since he and Sam were together. Benny had been fonder of the eldest from the start, and certainly felt no need to side with Sam after he deliberately went out of his way to set all of Dean's (aka his)hand-crafted costumes ablaze. "You make it sound like he has no choice in the matter."

Benny wagged his finger at the performer. "Did you just say—?"

"Oh, shit," Dean gasped, "I didn't mean—I mean, we don't even know…"

The designer swayed his head defiantly, calling blasphemy, "Nope, no way. It's casted in stone forever and ever with no takesy backsies."

Prudently, Dean turned his back to his friend and used the empty silence to further disrobe. Suddenly the fabric was too itchy and the tinsels were protruding too far into his skin. In fact, come to see, everything was bothering him. His spiked mocha hair with electric blue tips made him look more like a gay Jack Frost, his emerald eyes were too wide, lips too big, chest too flat, waist and feet too small, along with everything in-between. There was no way he could perform another show looking like he was.

"I'm sure he'd like to see you again," the other man said in a small voice, coming up behind him to size up a costume. Benny knew that Dean was openly bisexual, but he also remembered his last relationship with a man. Cole, his boyfriend at the time, dropped the bomb that he was leaving for a while to "travel the world," which turned out to be an artifice while he made love to his trophy boyfriend in Denmark. Needless to say, that combined with getting older left a tremendous strain on his self-confidence.

Dean's jaw tightened, eyes stilled on the mirror in front of him. Except he wasn't looking at his austere reflection; he was staring at the note. He tried to picture the person behind the words, but ended up drawing a blank.

Now wasn't the time for that, anyway. He had a spacecraft to find.

SBR9S1. It was a set of coordinates to the most beautiful blue maelstrom the galaxy had to offer. It led him to blue eyes, wispy chocolate hair, and a big, inane smile plastered on two rubicund marshmallows.

Another message was on his mirror after his show.

This one was concise, but more explicit:

SBR9S1

He hadn't known what that meant until he showed Benny. The fashionista explained that the numbers corresponded to a code seating in Purgatory Palace. The venue was divided into sections (A-J), each obtaining thirty rows, and the seats were labeled from left to right. Dean didn't know such organization method existed; when he was onstage everything in front of him was just a giant Pandora box.

"Section B . . . so that's close, right?"

Benny didn't try placating his grin, "Yeah, that's front row, real expensive seats."

"And seat one, that's right here," the magician said, gesturing his blue-tipped index finger to a seat in the front.

Benny followed his gaze, nodding with an appreciative hand running through his stubble chin. "Aisle seat, that's how he transports his poetic ass so fast."

There were a couple hundred or so people still there, chatting amongst themselves, some about genuine interest in the show, others just for the sake of filling time. Benny and Dean were idling under a single spotlight, waiting for the latter man's prince charming, when a boy that couldn't have been more than eight years old shuffled over to them with big, eclectic eyes.

"You're the Righteous Man!"

A smile split across Dean's face and he couldn't keep from laughing. He squatted down to meet his level. The kid was just tall enough to poke his head over the surface. "That I am, little man."

"How did you do it?" he exclaimed, "How did you do that trick with the pencil and the rose?"

The Righteous Man shook his head, "Sorry, little man, if I told you all of my infinite mysterious, they wouldn't be tricks anymore. You know what they say. . ."

"Oh, yeah," the boy said despondently, hanging his head.

"Listen little man, I know you're sad," Dean responded, reaching behind his head and pulling out golden coin, "but don't cry; I don't wanna have to talk cents into you."

The child lifted his head and gaped at him, mystified. The same bright smile returned to his face and he hurried off in the direction from whence he came from.

Benny chuckled from behind him, arms folded against his chest. "If I didn't know any better, I would have thought that was your aficionado."

"Hell, I'd have taken it," Dean said, hoisting himself up, "did you see the smile on his face?"

Benny nodded. "You do tend to have that affect," he said, then: "But I'm not sure it's not the right time to get arrested for pedophilia, you have a competition in three weeks."

Dean crinkled his freckled-splayed nose. "Shut up."

Before either man could reproach the other any further, another waltzed up to the near corner of the stage. He was, if Dean had to presume, was ten years his junior.

Dean wasn't much of a pious person, but the singular thought running through his head at that moment was Lord, take me now.

"Hello Dean." His voice was matured, refined like aged wine, and had the same dizzying effect on him.

Couldn't he have been less attractive? "Mr. Secret Admirer."

"Castiel," he replied generously, "I see you got my notes. I would've written more, but the anticipation was unbearable."

Dean chuckled, mostly to release the tension forming in his muscles, "Is it possible you ran out of rhymes?"

"I never run out of rhymes," Castiel replied, smiling graciously, revealing an influx of white teeth, "'to run out of verses would be the most heinous of crimes, especially for a man imparted with a gift of a thousand lifetimes.'"

Dean's breath hitched in the back of his throat. "Did you just pull that from thin air?"

"Poetry is a lot like magic, Dean," he said pragmatically, pushing his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose as he spoke, "except, the magic is in the words . . . and no, I might have been waiting to use that for a while."

Dean didn't even have to see himself to know that his entire face was seething red. Usually, attractive people didn't do this to him—in fact, in retrospect, he was usually the one to have some kind of effect on people. But Castiel, he wasn't just attractive. In the short few seconds they had been talking he proved to Dean that, in addition to his circulation-cutting features, he was also charismatic, charming, astute. . .

He bit down on his lip to keep from saying something he might regret. The other man handed him a sliver of paper in between their instinctive staring competition. He opened it before Castiel with a smile on his face from beginning to end:

Here we are, two cumbrous twins,

Lifting souls with a smile,

If it's not much to ask,

Would you care to dine awhile?

~ Your Secret Admirer No More

Cain's Kitchen was a small but immaculate establishment just a couple blocks south of the Palace. The restaurant first opened a little over a month ago. The place was formerly known as Abaddon's something-or-other—his recollection for names was worse than his gig in Topeka, where you weren't entirely sure if that was sweat under your arms or just the humidity—and collected good revenue.

Of course, there was the consideration that the former owner was all over Dean like a domestic feline. In fact, Dean hardly even needed one of his many famous pick-up lines to catch her fancy. She took one look at him, raking him over with that heated and ever-intensifying scrutiny only a woman with years of bent-up passion could muster, and practically caved under his fingers. She wanted him, and would court Dean every day until he obeyed to her wishes.

Any other day, Dean would have promptly accepted such offer from a red-headed, silver-tongued fox with a body like an hourglass, but there was also the little tiny detail that she was completely insane. When she showed up at his apartment with a basket of hand-made sugar cookies with his face carefully constructed in brown and white and green frosting was when he laid the hammer down. She then proceeded to smash every cookie with her bare hands and hurtle them at his face, and yeah, he had to move complexes and burn off his fingertips, but it was a sacrifice he willed to make.

Now, fortunately, he was out to dinner with someone just as into him, and the new restaurant was beginning to feel homey already without the supersized crazy. His date, Castiel, reminded him of a younger Matt Bomer with his wide-rimmed glasses and surplus scruff dancing around his masculine jawline. His hair was tousled, unkempt just like a writer's would be, and though the thin skin around his sapphire eyes looked weary, the eyes themselves held the vitality of a child's.

Talking with him was . . . refreshing. There really was no other way to put it. In the few minutes they had been sitting together, Dean already knew he busted hundreds of tables and mowed hundreds of lawns to pay for a local university, he's majoring in creative writing, minoring in forensic science, and lives with three roommates: two cats and a guinea pig named Clarence. In addition, he could also already distinguish his two worst habits: he bit down on his lower lip when he was trying to conjure a witty response, and the middle finger on his right hand varied from over and behind his index, like he was grasping for something invisible (which, Dean presumed, was a pencil). Even so, these glitches somehow only enhanced Dean's fondness for the man. Probably had something to do with wanting to parish those lips of all those meaningless thoughts with his own, and wanting to hold onto that hand for much longer than he needed to, memorizing every callous and ingrained indent.

Where were all these words coming from? The other man must have poisoned his drink so that he could die and wake up from this amazing dream.

"About four years," Castiel said, answering Dean's previous inquiry. Dean had asked him how long he had been attending his shows—well, their shows, considering that he was once with his brother. "I remember I got my first real writing assignment in freshman year as part of my final course grade. I had to go out and write an extensive paper reviewing a show. I was never too crazy about magic until I heard about the two incredibly attractive brothers headlining at Purgatory Palace—"

Dean cut him off with a chuckle, leaning back in his booth and crossing his hands over his head, "Oh, so you think I'm eye candy?"

"—then, I saw what you guys could do," he stressed, but blushing profusely as he did so, "and needless to say, I've showed up for every show since. You guys really know magic."

Usually, Dean would throw an innuendo faster than the man across from him could inhale another breath. Instead, Dean suppressed his urge, shook his head, and whistled low. "Same place, same times, and same seat for four years… that's—"

"Two hundred eighty-eight shows," he concluded quickly, then ducked his head, slightly embarrassed. "Not like I've been counting tickets or anything…"

A widespread blush crossed Dean's face, already flushed of every color in the gamut. "Why did you decide just recently to write me love notes?"

Cas shrugged impishly, saying, "I'm a writer, not a conversationalist . . . and you're very hot."

The comment only enabled the red splayed across his cheeks to extend, and then he was remembering the old days when he first began in the business. Recapturing it was like trying to kindle a fire that had died long ago. "Jesus, I am getting old," he expressed, leaning forward, raking his hand over his face.

"C'mon, you can't possibly be old, at least not by societal standards."

"Dude, I'm hitting the big 3-0 soon. Society is mostly kids, so yeah, by standards, I'm old."

Incredulously, as if he had just witnessed a supernova opening its eye directly at him, Castiel blinked twice. "What? You are not."

"Yeah, I am," Dean replied, confirming his suspicion. His age was one of the few things that he wouldn't exaggerate to impress someone. Shaking his head, he sighed, "Where did time go?"

Castiel shrugged slightly, much to Dean's rhetorical question. His smile faded and his emerald eyes began to glaze over, probably trying to collect the numerous fragments of withered shells the ocean washed away years before. After a moment he leaned into say, quietly, "Look, I know you may not see it, but you make tons of people happy, especially the ones you say degrade you for your age. People look up to you, admire you. As far as I can see, you're basically the epitome of how I see success. That's one of the reasons I'm a fan of your shows. I'm a writer; you and I are bred from two different grape vines. You have something, Dean Winchester, something a lot of people don't have, and it certainly can't be measured in age."

A writer indeed, thought the latter man. Intelligent and sincere—those were two qualities hard to come by. He even finished with a flawless execution, and that speech wasn't even written down. There was no way he could rejoin with something as perfect and made him feel as good inside as he did now. So, instead he granted Castiel the luxury of full-bodied smile and continued conversation (you know, just so he didn't turn into a sap on him). "How old are you, Cas?"

"Twenty-two," he said, then noting something rather peculiar about the inquiry, asked if Dean had just called him Cas.

Well, shit, had he? "Uh, yeah, Castiel seemed a little long so I thought…"

"I like it," Castiel, newly renamed, chuckled. "I actually can't believe I didn't think of it before."

"Cas," the other man began, solely to test out how smoothly the new name rolled off his tongue, "if it's not too straightforward of me to ask, how would you like being a magician's assistant? Think of it as being a sorcerer's apprentice, except we're not using real black magic."

The poet tilted his head and pursed his lips in curious thought. "Isn't it, though?"

"Unfortunately, no, last time I used black magic I had charges pressed against me for 'performing necrophilia on a domestic animal during a public assembly', quote unquote."

"I'm afraid to ask if that actually happened."

"It's best not to," Dean replied in all-seriousness. "So what do you say?"

Cas couldn't help it. He chose that moment to break his brooding, stoic character to express his inner fangirl. His face lit up, his body shook with laughter that wouldn't come and for a good few seconds, he couldn't even muster a proper response. "Yes, a thousand times, yes!" he exclaimed elatedly.

He had finally taken to eating his untapped shrimp pasta. Dean was already miles past through eating his steak and started in on scooting around his asparagus, trying not to let his own impalpable excitement consume him before he finished dinner.

The next two weeks following their first rendezvous, Dean spent an incalculable amount of time with the blue-eyed son of a bitch who stole his illusionist heart. Since Castiel was better at balancing books than a wand, Dean had to teach him everything about magic from scratch, beginning with the premise. Dean believed that only when you know the history of magic can you really begin to appreciate it, and it'll give in exchange the same for you.

It took Cas a good three days learning how to master the basic three cup and a ball trick, but once he nailed that and a few more complicated tricks after, Dean decided to turn up the temperature. (Like Cas didn't do that enough in his adorable new magician outfit that he had Benny hand design. The get-up was made to correspond with Dean's with purple and silver sequins etched into leather and spandex shorts.) He brought in an audience of two: Benny and Michael. Benny obviously took an immediate liking to the studious college boy, having already become more than acquainted through Dean's doting over him, but Michael took more convincing.

"Don't you think the costume's a little . . . risqué?" he said, stroking his chin for emphasis.

Dean placed himself in front of Cas, but not before cutting the lights and background music. "Mike, I know this is about my sexuality, so just say it. He's gay; I'm gay, what's the problem?"

Though Dean couldn't see, his assistant's face turned bright red, one part out of slight embarrassment, the other out of genuine adulation.

"Well, you're not gay, per say," the snarky manager corrected. "You like women, too."

The entertainer didn't even want to correct that that was literally the definition of bisexuality, but he did go on to defend his newest fixation. "Look, if anything this'll bring in an even larger crowd. 'Boy Wonder and his Robin Hood invoke magic on stage'. Plus, think of all the women that would line up to see a guy in tights."

"He does have a point, Mike," Benny shrugged next to him, "I would show." Michael shot him a look.

Cas was the next to speak out of turn. "Sir, I really don't mind these tights. In fact, they're rather comfortable for one-time wear."

"You really do look amazing," Dean said unabashedly, shifting his focus to his assistant and enveloping him in a supportive one-arm embrace. Cas succumbed, loving the feel of the older man's side pressed against his.

Michael threw up his arms and began walking out of the auditorium, muttering, "Do whatever the hell you want, it's your funeral."

"Ignore the stick up his ass," Benny said to Cas, climbing up the steps to the stage. "It got lodged up there around the time the first gay was ever created."

The younger man laughed at the comment, lending out his hand, yet not quite letting go of Dean as he did so, "Benny, right? Dean's told me a lot about you."

"I can definitely say the same for you," the designer said, accepting his hand. "Except Dean here's been keeping me so busy making your costume, I haven't had time to see the sunlight."

Cas chuckled at that, retracting his hand. Benny continued on to say that he admired Cas's measurements around his diagram and Cas replied with a detailed compliment about the overall embroidery of his costume. Needless to say, the two got along well for first-time strangers.

Meanwhile, Dean headed backstage for something in his knapsack. Most of what he lugged around never changed, mostly because he didn't like to change venues. One of the items in the bag that remained forever constant was an imitation-gold talisman that Sam gave him when they were kids. Despite the obvious fact that the two resented each other now, back when they were classified as brothers he and Sam were tight, and the amulet meant something special. Now it'll mean something special with Cas, someone who he's spent merely two weeks with and has been undoubtedly more merrier versus his pain in the neck brother he had to put up with for well over two decades.

When he came back, Benny had disappeared and Cas was up in the air—literally. The latter man was getting set up for Dean's newest bungee cord act, strapping his said diaphragm securely into the harness buckles that were to supposedly plunge him to his hundred foot fall. From below, with those spandex tights that accentuated every muscle around his taut upper thighs, Dean was receiving the best view. How a writer maintained a physique as figured as Castiel's was one of the few mysteries Dean would never be able to solve, even with all the magic in the world.

"Is this high enough?" he called from above.

Dean chuckled. He almost didn't have the heart to tell him that in order for the trick to pan out, he had to be up there with him, guiding him through the process and carrying out the overall act. He couldn't blame his excitement, though. "I hate to say this, but you're actually gonna have to come down. Who's suspending you, Benny?"

"Yeah," Cas said, nodding carefully for fear he might rock the beam too much, "he said that me being up here while he's down there is 'opportune' in order for us to better know each other."

The older man swayed his head; classic Benny, always scoping out the chicken before it went on the grease pole. "Alright, well, that just means he wants to check out your ass."

"I'm okay with that," the younger man admitted blatantly, "how the hell else was I supposed to get up here on my own?"

Dean put his hands on his hips, grinning and staring up at him in mock-shock. "You're a real player, you know that?"

"I'm okay with that, too!" an unsuspecting voice interjected from behind the curtain. Dean laughed along with Cas.

Right then, Benny must have accidently let go of the ropes because Cas was sent spiraling back to Earth. Dean sprinted so hard he probably twisted his ankle leaping out to catch his fall. Luckily, Cas landed almost exactly inside Dean's torso, minus his glasses, rendering him temporarily blind inside his arms. They breathed a reprieving sigh almost concurrently, yet didn't remain unconscious that their chests were pounding against one another's in rapid succession.

"Shit that was, uh…" Dean began to say, but couldn't quite find the words.

Cas fumbled to steady his arms around Dean's shoulders while he suggested, "Close?"

Close. It was one word, and so beautiful in an understatement. All the green-eyed man wanted now was to capture his lips with that owner of sapphire eyes, making them forget completely about everything leading up to this moment and get lost in everything—

But, of course, a familiar pain in his ass snuck up on him like a bad hair day. Sure enough, when he turned, his allegations were right.

"Aw, if it isn't Beauty and the Beast meeting again," Sam Winchester mused, striding over to Dean, but not before resting his eyes on an unacquainted face. "Well, well, well, usually I would be Beauty, but damn, you are way out of my idiot brother's league."

Dean let go of Cas, but not completely. He pulled him into his familiar one-sided hug, as if acting solely on instinct (which wouldn't be entirely wrong). "Sorry, you have to tell your owner that the Palace doesn't allow dogs inside. Oh wait—Sam, is that you?"

Instead of rejoining with something whimsical like the usual verbal battles go, Sam looked over the comment, keeping his gaze steadfast on the attractive assistant. Sam wasn't gay, at least not from what Dean knew, and he certainly was far from running around promoting it . . . unless it meant taking another unnecessary jab at his brother. "What's your name?" he asked, not before sweeping up his glasses.

"I—uh, I'm, erm—"

"Castiel," Dean blurted irritably, "His name is Castiel."

The younger brother scoffed, "Well, he's obviously not a mute. Right, Castiel?"

"Y-yeah," the smallest one managed through clenched teeth. "Sorry, it's just—you're a legend, Dean's a legend, and I'm in the same building as, you know…"

Sam laughed, "Legends?"

Cas nodded, and even though Dean was going to send Sam to Mars with a new level of ass kicking, he had to admit that blush spreading like wildfire across Cas's face was contagious.

"Hey, I'm sorry about letting go of the suspension cords," he added as a side note, "I thought that was Dean up there, you know how we like to kid around."

Dean shot him a hard look. "We've never kidded around, not even when we were kids."

"He's joking, we're still tight," Sam said, laughing and nudging Dean's shoulder, both solely for emphasis. If Dean had his own personal genie, he'd wish for 1) time to rewind itself, 2) an anvil to drop on his brother's head before he even had time to conceive the idea of walking over, and 3) three more wishes, one so that he could take back the first two and exchange it for more time to scheme up a more suitable, elaborate torture.

Castiel shrugged at the previous attempt on Sam's part to belittle Dean. "I don't think he's that bad. I actually happen to think he's kind of an amazing guy."

Sam muttered something indecipherable under his breath. Dean probably knew what it was, but he had gotten so used to his brother's bantering over the years that it's just become second-nature cancel out every noise coming out of his mouth. That and what the younger man had said made his heart swell ten times his size. Shit, he really hoped Sam couldn't see—

"Sam don't you have a—kid's—lollypop candy thing to steal or something?"

Sam threw up his hands. "You're right, you're right, I'll lead myself out. Besides, you need the extra practice anyway. It'd be nice to have at least some competition to beat." He sneered at Dean but gave Cas a heart-warming smile. "It was a pleasure, Castiel."

The other magician was almost completely out of sight when Cas spoke up, amid a moment of deafening silence, slightly flushed: "He's nice."

Dean tried to overlook the statement, remembering the amulet in his hand. "Cas, there's, uh, there's something I wanted to give you." He paused to hold up the necklace, letting it shimmer under the fluorescent purple lighting. "It doesn't look like much, but it's something that used to mean the world to me, back way before Sam and me were a joint act. Now I want it to mean something special to someone else."

Cas smiled warmly at the gesture of solidarity, regarding its purpose with stunning grace. "I-I don't know what to say, Dean," he said, accepting the gift, "except, I didn't get you anything—"

"Don't worry about that," Dean replied sincerely, returning the smile. "Giving your all out there next week will be as good a gift as any."

The magician-in-training slipped on the necklace, smiled wider, and wrapped his arms around his chest. Dean held on tight, bending his head to brand his smile into the crook of his neck. Nope, not even that incessant pain in his ass could ruin these last couple of weeks and the next one to come.

Knocking on wood next time might come in handy for Dean Winchester.

The last few days leading up to the final showcase weren't exactly peachy. While the novice worked increasingly hard and became one of the greatest live performers Dean could hope for, he also grew intolerant. Cas would more often than not try to sidetrack Dean with other ideas of extracurricular activities to do to "take a break" from the competition. Take a break? Last time someone suggested he take a break was after a second round of hardcore sex, and not even what she had to offer in the meantime was convincing enough to do it. This competition was everything to him. This thing literally determined his entire career and whether he was going to have to swim or sink. He wasn't about to mess up in the middle of a performance because he was out on the town playing House.

"Dean, you're amazing, there's no way you'll screw this up." The other man's back was to his face, but he could still make out the brooding and pensive tension forming in his shoulders. He tried to conceal how he had been truly feeling about himself, but now it all just seemed to come out like a river of angst.

Dean shook his head, running his hand across his eyes and mouth, back still faced to him. "How can you say that? How can you be so sure?"

"Because you've already proven to me how much potential you have years ago—"

"What if it's not good enough?" he breathed. Jesus, he was really starting to sound like a contestant on Ru Paul's but he didn't care.

Cas swiveled Dean to meet his eyes. "Impossible," he pressed, "it's impossible because you are literally the most amazing person I could ever—"

"Jesus, will you stop calling me that?!" Dean seethed, throwing down his arms.

Cas took a step back, incredulous. "What, amazing?"

"Yes, goddamnit, no one is amazing at anything! We're just taught to believe that we are so whenever you lose the science fair and you get the participating ribbon your parents don't have to say 'Wow, you suck, better luck next time, kid.' Deep down, none of us are amazing because we're all set to fail! I'm not, you're not, but we all still buy it. So telling someone who knows that it's a crapshoot doesn't make them automatically believe it, it makes them feel worse!"

Cas knitted his eyebrows together, half piqued, half pitiful. "Do you really believe that, Dean? Because as far as I can see your life is a cakewalk, what with the thousands of fans packing these stands, lining up to see you, paying your tabs, your house, your food, your sequined suits, Mr. Imperfection. So don't tell me that you're programmed for failure, because as far as I can tell you're floating on Cloud 9 and you don't even know it."

Dean's jaw clenched tighter, fists, too. What was about to come out of his mouth was unfiltered, but inevitable: "Get out."

"What?" It was almost too low for Cas's ears, but he heard; he just didn't believe it.

"I won't repeat myself."

That was the final levee that kept the kraken behind closed bars. "Fuck this! Fuck everything! I'm done being your little handmaiden," he hissed, and with that Cas ran out without another moment's hesitation. After all, he didn't want Mr. Big Shot calling security.

His breath caught in his throat when he ran into what felt exactly like a brick wall. He was about to shake it off and carry on when a voice, deep and protruding, came: "Whoa, hey," Sam breathed, backing him up at arm's length, "where are you going?"

"Anywhere away from here," Cas huffed.

Sam scoffed indignantly, crossing his arms, "What made you throw in the towel?" He paused, taking into consideration more pressing matters: "Actually, you know what that doesn't matter. Look, I know you're upset, I get it. I've had to put up with it for years. You deserve someone who appreciates you for who you are. How would you like to join my act?"

"I don't know," Cas began impishly, "I'm kind of done with the whole magic scene, if you know what I mean…"

Sam shook his head, softly, disbelievingly. "No, I'm sorry, but I don't. Magic has been my entire life since my mother died in my nursery. It gave me purpose and made me believe in small miracles again."

"Wait—you mean you're not in this for the fame and fortune?"

"What? No, of course not," the youngest feigned, "this is to prove myself to my family that I can rise above the black sheep title."

Cas was flabbergasted. Here he was, standing in front of the right Winchester all along. Sam was sensitive and compassionate, while the eldest was spiteful and self-loathing. He was mesmerized by both of them in the beginning, after all. Now he knew why. "I guess we're not too different," he concluded. Sam nodded.

"Tell me, Castiel, do you want to throw a month's worth of discipline away," he said, "or do you wanna make some magic?"

PART II

Hanging from the mirror was a single piece of square paper. When you think about it, it's rather inconsequential, really, when there are a million other trees that yield paper. To make this specific slice, however, meant to take away a silver of oxygen that could save the life of one human who needed it desperately.

One ought not to have to care

So much as you and I

Care when the birds come round the house

To seem to say good-bye

~ Robert Frost, "The Hill Wife"

It appears I ran out of versus…

Dean was that one person. There were millions of people right now contracting heart diseases and asthma attacks and respiratory influenza, but none of it compared to the swelling pain in his chest that plagued his heart. Like the aforementioned, nothing could prepare him for this unceremonious response. Cas ran out of words. That meant an official end for any sort of prospect that he had prior to today.

Benny attempted to comfort him in every way possible and although it wasn't working, Dean kept him in his dressing room. He realized, as he contemplated his actions over the course of the last month, that he always pushed people away when things became too intimate. It flustered him, understanding his frequent tendencies but never quite being able to change them until it was too late.

Attached on the back of the note was the amulet. That's when he broke down.

His best friend had remained silent throughout. He was bouncing back and forth, fighting the internal battle with his rationality on whether or not to give Dean his space or increase their proximity by triple. He wanted him to know he was physically there, but not so much to the point that Benny suffocates him in pity, which Dean claimed after ten-minutes of unspoken communication between him and his mirror was the last thing he needed from anyone.

"Are you sure? My strong manly shoulders have been known to be an opportune crying place."

Dean wanted to smile at that but he couldn't quite make do. "I think it's over," he deduced. His voice was rough like sandpaper. "I'm just sort of… numb right now."

This too shall pass, he wanted to say, but nothing would arise. Dean knew that that statement would be a lie, and he just couldn't do that to a guy who was practically a brother.

"Dean, you're on in—what the hell?—"

"Mike now's not the time," Benny urged, standing up to guide him out of the be-dazzled doorway, "he's sort of—"

"Incompetent, useless, practically naked!?" he bellowed, gaping at the designer for answers.

Benny tried his best to keep his voice down, but not too much to make it sound like he was gossiping literally behind his back. "Hapless is more suitable, I think," he amended in a voice barely below talking volume.

"I knew that faggot was gonna cause problems! I specifically told him to stay away from them."

That was the gasoline to Benny's bent-up fire bellied deep in his system. If Michael fired him for it, so be it. In one swift move he pulled Michael's face down to his with hard, forced kiss. "You can take your neurotic, hidebound, pompous intricate and shove it up your ass, Mickey," he muttered through Michael's stilled lips, just loud enough for Dean to hear.

Okay, that did deserve a small smile. Much to his surprise, he didn't have to force it like Michael had to force down the fact that he might have actually enjoyed the lip-lock.

"Twenty minutes," the manager said, completely dazed and stirring Dean from his musings. "Twenty minutes until your showcase."

As Benny began sifting through his rack for something more fitting for Dean, a man in a button-down vest and orange-streaked, disheveled hair came sauntering in. He had a devious smile splayed on his face, arm propped against the frame much too small to hold his own ginormous frame. He lifted an artfully studded and blacked-out eyebrow when he saw the man he sought out to find.

"Dean Winchester. I just followed the crack in the not-so-yellow brick road on my way to Oz."

Though Dean was inches away from crawling out of his skin and sinking back into his dark pit of despair, he managed to muster one last profundity from his calloused lips: "'T is some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door; only this and nothing more.""

Sam replied, laughing, "Take thy career from out my life, and take thy clothes from off my back. You shall be 'quoth the Raven, "Nevermore".'"

"Sam now's not the best time—" Benny interjected. Before he could finish, Sam pounced eagerly.

"Au contraire, it's always the best time to berate Dean!" He turned to Dean again, this time stepping into the room completely. "Alright, but seriously, I have ten minutes until I go on with your plaything so I wanted to treat this as an opportunity for any last words before I destroy you."

Dean took a moment to respond, letting the mingling strain of yesterday and today linger in the air, but not quite marinate together. "You're right, you're going to win."

Sam roared a brief, deep-bellied laugh before realizing just what he said. "Wait—what?"

"I said you're right, you're going to win," he reiterated languidly, "because I'm forfeiting."

The youngest's eyes extended wide, let his mouth hang agape and struggled to keep his confident posture. "Um, that's very Oscar Wilde of you, but I was kind of expecting another jab. I had a thousand lines rehearsed in my mind for weeks before I came over here…"

"It's a pity."

"What?"

"That we're still at this game years later," Dean said, "we're basically chasing our tails to out-do each other and none of it means a damn thing. It's a pity."

Sam shook his head defiantly, "What are you talking about? Dean, we practically live for these kinds of moments. Out-doing each other's always been what it's about."

"Yeah, well, maybe it's time we grew up; ever think of that, smartass?"

The room went still. In the nearby distance, the crowd broke into a collective applause. "Dude," Sam began prudently, "what's all this about? Are you still mad that I stole Cas away from you? Because it isn't a permanent thing, I'll hand him back over once the act is over—"

"Sam, you're a dick."

Sam staggered back. "Excuse me?"

"This isn't about winning anymore, okay?" Dean exclaimed, erupting into a fit of anger, "the money, and the fame, the competition, the-the sequined suits— nothingmatters but Cas!"

Benny was concealing a grin. Sam was running his hands over his mouth, shaking all over from a mind-numbing realization. He began pacing back and forth.

"Oh my God, this whole time I just thought you guys were sleeping together, I mean, that's what you do with everyone that so much as jumps your bones at the mile high club offer—"

Another man hanging by the doorway interrupted the conversation. Though he was much shorter than the gang of men surrounding him, he pulled off an authoritative vibe with the corporate suit and long brown hair that hung down to his shoulders.

"Sam, what's going on kiddo? You're on in fifty."

Sam exhaled like he had held his breath for eternity. He cast one long, meaningful look back at Dean, taking that unrequited pity the eldest had specifically said what he didn't want from anyone ever, and then shifted to greet his manager with a long, drawn out kiss. "Coming, Gabe."

"Don't tease me, big boy," the manager, Gabe, growled through his teeth.

Dean turned back to his brother, too. He blinked twice as hard as he meant to.

"We have some catching up to do," Sam said dumbly.

Dean shook his head and finally allowed himself a chuckle. "I'll say."

Following the series of unusual events—everything from breaking up to making up and even making out (and damnit, wouldn't you know, not on his behalf) — Dean stepped through a small back door just at the end of the corridor and into an alleyway. He knew this pavement of dirt; it wasn't the first time he had walked out during a show.

A gust of cold, damp wind greeted him harshly, causing him to turn the lapels of his lent coat upward to safeguard his face. The stench of compost was profuse and told of the story he once knew. Dean didn't grow up in a lavish household with stereotypical supercilious parents like most of his fans take him for. In fact, Dean and Sam grew up scraping the streets before their father sold the family practice. Even then, however, with the settlement, they were barely classified as middle class. No matter what, since he was a kid, Dean had to start from scratch if he wanted to make it anywhere.

It was strangely satirical and profound, how one could start from filth and wind up turning into it.

A voice opposite his own stirred him from his musings. He knew who it was before he begun to breathe.

"If you have another one, don't bother. You've said enough."

All was silent but a thunderous crash that came to pass, shooting through the clouds and shaking the ground. Before it could completely come to pass, there was a quiet response: "That's why I came."

Dean's eyes constricted to contain the water brimming at the corners. "I'm not going back inside."

"I wasn't going to convince you."

The older man peered over his shoulder before turning all the way around. It physically pained him in doing so, seeing Castiel's once deep blue eyes, now enflamed, and his hair was more windswept than usual. He wasn't even in his uniform, just a raggedy robe that was almost twice his size.

"You're not dressed." Dean wasn't in the mood for twenty questions, and he didn't want to lead the other man into believing that he cared even a little.

Cas barely grazed his features. "You'd be correct."

"You're onstage."

"No, I'm here."

Dean shook his head, absentmindedly running his tongue over his lower lip. "You're going to lose."

"So are you," he pointed out.

This emitted a shallow chuckle on the illusionist's part, "I've already lost."

"Impossible," Cas replied, alienating his personal space, "not unless you don't kiss me."

Dean went rigid. He was almost certain that his insides were hanging nimbly on his outsides like a wrung-out cloths line because he turned into a considerably weakened, feeble man. He felt every emotion striking him with a metal rod, rendering him helpless against the assailant. In that moment, he did the only thing he knew he was capable of doing.

Castiel kissed him back, accepting the tongue that was amiably offered to him in exchange for his own. It was incredibly sloppy in both their defenses, but that didn't matter. Everything about it was perfect nonetheless—hell, it even started raining—and, dare he say, amazing.

"You're amazingly the biggest fucking asshole I've ever met," Cas said, voice cracking, letting his words put a lesion on Dean's lips.

Dean brought his chin up to press their bruised lips in a more permissive kiss, saying, "I love you, too."

Then there was a gentle jerking from behind him. Dean turned and a smile spread across his face finding small hand fisted into the borderline of his coat, vying for his undivided attention. It was the same little boy in the audience from last month's show, except his face and clothes were much grimier.

"Mr. Winchester," he said an even smaller voice.

Dean unfastened his hold from Cas to bend down to the boy's eye level. "Hey, what's up, little man? The show's inside."

"Yeah, I know, mama and I can't come tonight," he replied miserably.

Cas hung his head, the image of a cardboard box resonating inside his mind. Dean, on the other hand… "That's no excuse," he said firmly, and then, standing up, led the boy to the exit from whence he came from. "Look for a guy named Michael, yay tall, looks like the nastiest Grinch in Whoville. Tell him I sent you and that his seat is yours."

Before he could muster a proper thank you, the boy was wrapping his arms around Dean's ginormous tree trunk of a waistline and busting through the door at full speed.

Cas soon followed, sauntering up to his newly reclaimed boyfriend with his hand extended. "Come on, we have some magic to make."

EPILOUGE

Four seasons had passed and Dean Winchester was a changed man.

After they won the grand title of Top Entertainers of the State, Cas suggested it would be in their best interest to go out on a real date. Shortly after what had to have been their fifth or six nights on the town, Dean moved in with Cas. Now, every day for almost a year, he's been waking up to the sound of his boyfriend's obnoxious snoring, and it couldn't have been a more beautiful start to his mornings.

Their regime was consistent. After riveting rounds of Scrabble (in which they both knew Cas had the better advantage) and Twister (whereas Dean had his own advantage with his inborn suppleness), the two would venture down to Cain's Kitchen. Mornings, afternoons, evenings, midnights—any time that existed was the best time to dine out in the Winchester-Novak household.

Unfortunately, Cas had graduated sometime earlier that year and accepted a stay-at-home writing job that required zeroed-in focus. (Of course, Dean would try his damnest to divert his attention away in the most subtle, seductive ways that Cas hadn't even dreamed was possible.) Meanwhile, if Cas was super busy, pushing for a deadline that Dean more than likely caused him to fall behind for, he would call his brother. Most of his conversations with Sam bled into food, boyfriends, and what act they were going to perform for their audience. There was a new guy in town, Azazel, that had quickly turned into a respected adversary, and if they were going to beat a guy who could mind-meld, they were going to need a lot more than a few clever remarks and multiparty good looks.

Michael split his ways when he discovered upcoming rock legend at the time, Adam Milligan, and signed him to a five year contract. Benny was harder to get rid of, so he never left. He replaced Cas as a permanent fixture in Dean's—and now Sam's—acts, as per the star's plea to join him on their "never-ending rollercoaster of friendship." Together, the three took the entertainment world by storm with a time travel act that landed them an independent contract with business mogul Zachariah and an extraordinary opportunity to travel continental for an entire year. Dean respectfully declined, claiming he wanted to use his thirties to retire and raise a family with his boyfriend. He still has the bruises on his shoulders from before and after he told Cas.

It was later the following year on Dean's birthday that Cas asked him to be his for eternity. The memento is still on his wall, framed and trapped inside the memory. He can't help but smile as he reads it for what has to be the ten thousandth time over, beginning to end:

Falling in love was not part of the plan,

Yesterday or today, not in the least,

But not giving up was, indisputably.

Will you, Dean, be the Beauty to my Beast?

~ Your Secret Admirer Always