Make Yourself at Home

Part II

December: 2 weeks until Christmas

When Dean had told Castiel about his trumpet, and how he'd pawned it to try and pay another month's rent, Castiel had tried to commit the name of the shop to every fiber of his being. He wanted that trumpet for Dean. But, God, that was three weeks ago, and Castiel, no matter how hard he wracks his brain, simply can't remember the name of the shop, and dammit, why not?!

The answer probably has something to do with the sinfully gorgeous man on top of him, currently trailing kisses up his body from his ankle; slow, open-mouthed kisses that make him writhe and whine in protest. He decides, yes, this is the perfect way to spend his lunch break.

It really had taken him a shamefully small amount of time to end up here, on his back with Balthazar's firm body between his legs. Their meeting, the day after bus-gate and Dean agreeing to stay with him, was like a scene plucked straight out of a chick flick. Cooped up in the meeting room, with frosted windows that faced the corridor, with that level of sexual tension buzzing in the air was unbearable; like a ringing in your ears that just doesn't quit. Balthazar didn't quit either. He tried everything to get Castiel flustered and blushing. What had worked in the end was crowding Castiel against the large meeting table, his chest pressed flush against Castiel's back, with his arms penning him in. Castiel was busying himself with example sketches, and pattern samples, saying mundane things like "I think we need some pops of… uh… of colour, maybe… I was thinking maybe that could come from these… delightful… barstools. I found them… in Ikea," his labored breathing giving him away entirely. Balthazar had then pressed his lips, just so, against Castiel's pulse point and hummed quietly in response.

"Or… um… for the… uh…. For the bar area, I thought perhaps… some dark leather… maybe some… exposed… mnf," and just like that Balthazar had spun him around and kissed him, hard enough to bruise. Despite the happy flutter in his chest, Castiel had feigned horror, pushing him away and gasping.

"What are you doing?" he whispers sharply, "Anyone could come in!"

"Oh come on, Cassie, you're killing me here." Balthazar had whined in response, pulling Castiel against him once more. Cas couldn't find the energy to even pretend to resist the second time.

"What if someone sees?" he'd whispered quietly, his lips bare inches from Balthazar's.

"Mmm, let 'em look," he'd chuckled darkly, capturing Castiel's lips again, bunching his pale blue shirt in his fists. And that's all it took for Castiel to melt into a puddle of navy trousers and patent leather shoes. That's all, folks.

"Balthazar, will you quit being such a tease?" he grunts, kicking his lover's stomach playfully. Balthazar deftly caught the offending foot and pressed an open kiss to the sole of it before resuming his torturously slow tour of Castiel's leg.

"Hush, hush, Cassie. I want to take my time with you, is that such a crime?" Balthazar drawls against the soft skin at the underside of Castiel's knee, lifting the leg to get better access. It tickles, and Castiel bites back a laugh, not wanting to appear childish, but… sexy… well put together… in control. Of course he doesn't feel even slightly like any of these things, but who does? Right? Right?

He's laid out on the large mattress that Balthazar keeps in his studio… maybe for this purpose alone; in the loft that overlooks the easels and paint pots below. Everything in here is raw and nostalgic; it smells like an art classroom. Castiel simply can't believe that he's here, underneath the man he's been dying to get his hands on since the moment he set eyes on him. With that thought, he's reminded that he is in fact allowed to touch Balthazar, and he wonders, aghast, why on earth he's not. He sits up, winding his arms around his lover's slender neck and pulls him down on top of him, locking their lips together in a slow, sensual kiss. He laps at Bathazar's pliant lips, accepting the other's tongue when it's given. All too soon, their union is broken. Balthazar is gazing down at Castiel, a mixture of fondness and awe in his eyes, which makes Castiel squirm self-consciously beneath it.

"God, look at you," he whispers, leaning back on his heels, running clever, calloused fingers down the planes of Cas' stomach. Possessed by an unexplained confidence, Castiel sits up again, threading his fingers through Balthazar's silk-fine blonde hair, pulling him down with it. That earns him a little grunt, which sends sparks of electricity straight to his groin. Castiel brushes his lips against the shell of Balthazar's ear, delighting when he feels fingers tighten their grip by his hips.

"Stop looking, and fucking take me already," he whispers hotly, his 'sexy-and-in-charge' disguise thoroughly ripped from him when he's pushed back onto the mattress, his legs roughly pushed towards his chest. He giggles. He fucking giggles.


Dean closes the door behind him and stretches his arms above his head with a groan. That's it, his first week of working in a coffee shop completed. He did it. There was a smattering of moments where he thought he was actually going to die of stress, but he'd made it. And now, by some kind miracle (he'd been getting a lot of those recently), he had a weekend free of shifts, and he couldn't be more excited about it. He places his keys, his keys, on the hook by the door and slips off his jacket… well, Cas' jacket, tossing it in the vague direction of his bedroom. God, he still can't quite believe it. He's earning money on the regular, he has a permanent home, and a blossoming friendship with possibly the nicest person he's ever met. And he's managed to get back in touch with Sam (who promptly sent him £200 in a bank transfer after hearing of Dean's struggle, with a 'don't you dare transfer this back to me' attached), who, incidentally, had been worried sick about him for the last month. Which is nice to know. It's been good catching up with everything he's missed; he'd received approximately 5,000 emails in the month that he was off-radar. Of course, most of them could be deleted on sight, but one had caught his eye. It was from his old college friend, Benny. They'd been out of touch for quite some time, work and life getting in the way. They'd been emailing back and forth for a week or so, and now Dean is sitting at Castiel's desk, logging on to check if Benny has sent a reply. He smiles when he sees Benny's name in bold on the screen.

Hey! So glad to hear you're back on your feet, that sounds like a hell of a ride. Sorry I didn't know about it; would have offered to prop you up, you know that right?

Anyway, got a little proposition for you: we're getting the band back together! We need your horn, man. We got a gig, a few weeks away yet, just after new year's at Ronnie's. Be there? There's a paycheck at the end of it. Would be so good to play together again, brother.

Say yes!

Benny.

Dean smiles sadly, thinking of his trumpet again. Maybe… maybe he could pick up some extra shifts at the café? He scoffs out loud. He'd never make enough to be able to buy his trumpet back in just a few weeks. His whole body ached to say yes; he'd only ever played Ronnie Scott's Jazz Club once with Benny and his old college band, and it is still the best gig of his entire life. Maybe he could take out a trumpet on loan from an instrument shop? He sighs heavily. He'd have a trumpet, yes, but it wouldn't be his. He may only be able to get it out for a few days; he has two months of not-playing to undo, and he seriously doubts he has the man power to overcome that in just a few days. No… he'll have to decline. He has no other choice. It's with a heavy heart that he clicks reply.


It's around 7PM by the time Castiel finally makes it home; he hadn't got much work done after he left Balthazar's studio. He'd resigned himself to being distracted, and since he had no clients for the rest of the day, he used the time at his desk to begin the search for Dean's trumpet in earnest, feeling utterly guilty for pushing it out of his mind for so long. He'd googled and contacted every pawnshop with a website, his search spreading across all of London. He had basically no information; didn't know the first thing about identifying an instrument, but he knew they'd have a record of a Dean Winchester pawning it. That's all he had to go on. He checked his emails on his phone again as he dropped his satchel to the floor, shrugging out of his coat. Still nothing.

"Dean? You home?" he calls, and smiles at Dean's grunt in reply. There are some mysterious noises coming from the living room, rustling, grunting and jingling. Castiel doesn't hesitate to investigate. The laugh that's forced from him surprises even himself.

He's greeted with the sight of Dean, well… half of him, buried face-first in Castiel's plastic Christmas tree.

"Come on, ya sonuvabitch." Dean groans, pulling at something. Castiel steps further into the room, picking up the plug end of the string of lights that Dean is currently wrestling.

"Need some help?" he chuckles, as Dean re-emerges, red faced and pouting.

"The damn things have gone all tangled," he snaps impatiently.

"Aren't they always?" Castiel smiles, moving forward to try and fix the lights.

"But… I untangled them. And then, I go and put them round the tree and they just… tangle themselves up again. I don't understand." Dean frowns, throwing his hands up and plopping himself on the sofa to watch Castiel struggle. He doesn't have to watch long; Castiel has solved the problem in about twenty seconds, which only serves to make Dean more annoyed. Castiel is grinning at him, all smug and victorious, and Dean grumbles,

"Yeah, well I loosened them for you," folding his arms and deepening his pout.

"Would you like to do the tinsel?" Castiel teases, shaking several streams of bright red tinsel in Dean's direction, laughing as his friend's face instantly cracks out into a grin.


It's 9:30PM, the living room now bathed in the twinkling glow of the Christmas lights around the tree, when Castiel's phone pings, alerting him to a new email. Dean is too busy watching New Girl, pretending not to find it as funny as he does, to notice, and Castiel quickly grabs it, checking it secretively.

"That Balthazar?" Dean teases without taking his eyes off of the television screen. Even if he can't see Dean's face, from where he's sat behind him on the other sofa, Castiel just knows Dean's eyebrows are waggling suggestively. He huffs, feeling a blush heat his cheeks.

"Yes," he lies. It's not Balthazar (he tries to not feel the stab of lovesick pain that keenly pinches his chest at that. Balthazar rarely contacts him unless he's asking Castiel over to the studio. And he's cool with that. No, really), but a man called Bobby, who owns a Pawnshop on Lewisham high street. Castiel holds his breath as he opens the email:

Dear Mr Novak,

Thank you for your enquiry. I believe I have the item you have requested! We're open tomorrow from 9-5. We're in between Gregg's and the Entertainment Exchange, the end of the street nearest the station. Looking forward to seeing you soon! Glad this instrument is going back to its rightful owner; Mr Winchester had looked so upset when he brought it in.

All the best,

Bobby Singer

Castiel is grinning like an idiot (pain from Balthazar's radio silence totally forgotten, honestly), and he swallows the laughter bubbling in his throat so as not to raise Dean's suspicion. He can't wait to see his friend's face come Christmas day.

"That good, huh?" Dean says. He's turned around and there's a full on smirk on his face that Castiel would really like to slap off if he wasn't so damn fond of the guy. Castiel rolls his eyes dramatically, locking his phone and settling back on the sofa.

"You see him today?" Dean asks, waving an arm in the space between the sofas. Cas looks down at his lap, suddenly feeling bashful as memories from earlier that day flood his mind. Balthazar's groans, the smell of his lover's skin still lingering on his own, phantom hands retracing their paths across Castiel's body. God, he feels like a clingy, lovesick teenager all over again.

"Yes…" he murmurs.

"And?! Come on, man, I want deets!" Dean gives the arm of the sofa he's sitting on a thwack for emphasis.

"A lady doesn't kiss and tell." Castiel teases, looking pointedly away from Dean, holding his chin high in defiance.

"Ah, fine, be that way. Spoilsport." Dean smiles fondly, turning back around to face the TV. Castiel finds himself gazing at the back of Dean's head, a small smile gracing his lips.


December: 2 days until Christmas

Dean cradles the unfamiliar metal in his hands, running his hands lovingly along the pistons, following the tube with his fingers. The trumpet belonged to one of the other trumpeters in the band; a man Dean had never met before, who happened to have a spare he was willing to lend Dean for the gig at Ronnie's. That was over a week ago, and Dean still couldn't believe how much luck he was suddenly getting. There had to be a catch in all of this somewhere. Surely.

He'd spent every waking moment when he wasn't eating or sleeping, working with this instrument, trying to bond with it and understand it, working his way back to that old familiar feeling of making music with it; like his soul is on fire, tracing his veins, burning hot and bright behind his eyes. Here he was again, sat on his bed, holding the trumpet up to his mouth, forming his embouchure and forcing his muscles to remember how to make that signature Dean Winchester sound that Benny had said he needed for this gig. He couldn't let his friend down. Not at Ronnie Scott's. He blew a middle octave note, pulling the instrument away from his mouth almost immediately; assessing the sound… was that what he used to sound like? He repeated this process for twenty minutes or more, before his brain began to buzz with fragments of jazz classics he used to play. He tried a few of them out; his fingers and ears following the thread of the melody like a string through a maze. He had to give credit to himself, he was remembering more than he'd expected to, and within the last nine days or so his confidence was growing again. He had no doubt that he would be a nervous wreck at the gig, but he was at least beginning to feel as though he could do it.

He lowers the trumpet again, gazing over at the pile of presents that he'd bought for Cas (with Sam's charitable donation), waiting to be wrapped and put under the tree. He felt a little bashful about them, but he really wanted to save Sam's money; the gifts were nothing more than cheap, unnecessary stocking fillers really, but he hoped they'd appeal to Castiel's adorably childish nature. There was a box of plasters with things like "ouch!" and "bugger!" written on them in comic book style, a 'money tree', a small plastic tortoise that, on a motion sensor, shouted insults at you every time you passed it, a harmonica and a personalised phone case, sporting a less than flattering selfie that Dean had taken specifically for it. He hoped it was a step towards enough. He lay the trumpet down carefully in its case, plucking the mouthpiece from the body and holding it to his lips, trying some of the old warm-ups that were once a part of his daily routine as he stood up to search the flat for some scissors and cellotape.

There was an odd shaped package under the tree already; it had been there for about a week now. Dean couldn't, for the life of him, work out what it was lying beneath that unassuming wrapping, but he was itching to find out. When Cas had placed it lovingly under the tree, he'd turned around to grin at Dean, who had watched the whole scene with wide eyes. He'd said "I really hope you love this, Dean," before giving him a hug, which Dean now knew, was always far longer than necessary with Cas. He was a serious hugger, that housemate of his, and Dean had watched several people squirm in his grip after about 10 seconds. Dean couldn't honestly say he minded all that much. Castiel's hugs made him feel warm and safe… and cherished or some shit.

"There you are," he murmured when he found the scissors and cellotape in the desk drawer. He carried them back to his bedroom, blowing another arpeggio through the mouthpiece attached to his lips.


Castiel sat at his desk, finger tapping endlessly against the left-click button on his mouse. He was staring resolutely at a watch on his screen, seriously thinking about buying it and giving it to Balthazar for Christmas. But he was being plagued with doubts: was it too soon? Too much? Do artists even wear watches? Was a table at Ronnie Scott's for Dean's gig enough? Is this even a nice watch?

"A little flashy for you isn't it, Cassie?" came Balthazar's voice, thick as molasses right by his ear. Castiel lets out an undignified shriek and hurries to turn the screen off.

"It's… um… for a… for a friend," he babbles.

"Lucky friend," Balthazar purrs. Castiel whirls around in his chair to face him; wrapped in dark jeans, a tight, white v-neck and a dark suit jacket, his coat slung over his arm. He sighs deeply, practically drinking him in.

"You done staring, darling?" he chuckles, leaning down, bracing himself on the arms of Castiel's chair, which slides back against the desk with a dull thump.

"I'm here to take you to the new exhibition space you designed," he says in a low voice, reaching up and cupping Castiel's cheek to stop him from looking anywhere but at him. It works, and Castiel feels his eyes widen when Balthazar leans ever closer, whispering in his ear,

"And I'm going to fuck you in it before my guests arrive."

Oh holy fuck.

"But… I don't finish work for another," a quick glance at the clock on the wall behind him, "4 hours," he stammers nervously, palms already sweating.

"Well, I didn't get to see you during your lunch break," Balthazar mocks a pout, "don't you want to see me?" The smug bastard knows full well that Castiel is a hot second from sprinting out of this office.

"Is Charlie okay with it?" he whispers. Balthazar simply shrugs,

"Isn't it customary for a designer to survey his work before the public sees it?" His hands are burning hot against Castiel's thighs now, and inching higher and that's about all the encouragement Castiel needs. Before he knows what he's doing, he's grabbing his coat and eagerly following Balthazar out of the office.


Castiel is breathing heavily, slumped against the brick wall, surrounded by Balthazar; his body pressed tightly against his back, the smell of his sex in his nose, his art covering every surface of the room. He lets out a groan as Balthazar slides himself out, giving Castiel's ass cheek a slap and a squeeze, causing him to wiggle his hips, seeking more attention. Balthazar's lips are lazy and wet against his shoulder blades, as they ride out the come down.

"Fuck." Castiel whispers against the cool bricks, his legs shaking, threatening to give way beneath him.

"God, I don't know what it is about you, Cas," Balthazar breathes against the skin of Castiel's back, "I can't get enough."

Castiel hums happily, riding another wave of confidence.

"Happy to be of service," he purrs, finally straightening up and pulling up his boxers and trousers, pretending not to notice the dirty stickiness between his legs. Balthazar does the same, before crowding him against the wall again, and claims his mouth in another ferocious kiss.

"God, what I wouldn't give to go again," he huffs with a throaty chuckle against Cas' lips.

"Your staff will be here in about half an hour to set up," Castiel giggles, trying to push Balthazar away, which only makes Balthazar press closer.

"Plenty of time," his lover smirks, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down Castiel's neck.

"Hey, I got you something for Christmas," Castiel says, desperate to change the subject. He doesn't not want to make out like sex-crazed teenagers, but in all honesty, the idea of getting caught is something that terrifies him. And it terrifies him that Balthazar is so turned on by the idea.

"Mhm," comes the distracted reply, vibrating against the soft skin of his neck.

"Yeah, I got us a table at Ronnie Scott's on the 2nd of January. Dean's playing with his old band, and I thought it'd be nice to go and support him. Make a little date out of it." Castiel explains, grabbing the other man's shoulders and pushing him away more fervently now. Balthazar raises his head, frowning in confusion.

"Dean?"

"You remember Dean, my flat mate? You haven't met him but… I'm sure I've told you about him."

"Oh, the homeless fellow. Yes, I remember." Balthazar drawls, "Didn't realise he had a talent."

Castiel feels his eyes narrow, something in his chest pinching uncomfortably.

"Dean's incredibly talen-"

"Ah! There you are, Zach! Just there will do, darling, thank you." Castiel nearly falls to the floor with the sudden loss of Balthazar's body as a supporting weight. He runs his hands through his hair, frantically trying to tidy up his appearance, though he's pretty sure the whole room smells of sex, and shit is that his come on the floor? He moves away from it surreptitiously, staring at Balthazar's back, trying not to be confused by his response to Dean. Why should he believe that Dean is anything other than Castiel's flat mate, right? He shakes his head, feeling a little foolish for getting offended. But, for some reason, that doesn't stop the tendrils of annoyance clawing at his stomach.


Christmas Day

Dean doesn't like Balthazar. He doesn't like Balthazar one bit. But, for some reason Castiel seems infatuated with the smarmy prick. Maybe Dean's just a little grumpy thanks to his night of next-to-no-sleep, also, by the way, Balthazar's fault (how can Cas bear to be called 'Cassie'?) And now Balthazar is leaning against the kitchen counter, shirtless and shameless, watching Dean cook up a fry-up. He and Castiel had both agreed that not only is breakfast their favourite meal, but also the one that deserves to be the most special for Christmas Day. They'll pig out on chinese take away later since neither of them can be bothered with faffing about with a turkey. This was meant to be their Christmas, and now, it's theirs and Balthazar's Christmas, and Dean has no idea why he's feeling possessive over his friendship with Cas? But, he is. He really is.

"You don't like me much, do you, Dean?" Balthazar chuckles, biting loudly into an apple that he's just picked up out of the fruit bowl.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dean offers politely, throwing in a tight smile that absolutely doesn't touch his eyes, "Breakfast?"

If Balthazar picked up on Dean's sarcasm, he has the good grace not to comment on it, bowing his head in thanks as Dean hands him an over-full plate of grease. Dean looks up at the sound of bare feet padding across the floor, grinning at the sight of Castiel's bed-head, which this morning looks like a home fit for a whole family of birds. He's wearing boxers and a scruffy t-shirt, yawning loudly, his eyes still droopy with sleep.

"Morning sleeping beauty,"

"Cassie, darling, Merry Christmas," Balthazar's greeting cuts over the top of Dean's, his stupid posh voice easily drowning Dean out completely. Castiel smiles sleepily, dragging his feet over to his lover and pressing himself against him, snuggling like a cat.

"Dean, gimme bacon," he yawns, and Dean can't stay mad (he sort of is though; he misses the banter, the early morning hugs with Cas. What do you mean two men sharing regular morning hugs is weird? It's absolutely not.)

"Alright, princess," Dean chides, sliding a plate over to him, "Merry Christmas," he adds, before turning the hob and oven off and taking his plate over to the dining table, where he sits alone because all of a sudden Balthazar is licking tomato ketchup from Castiel's chin and, swell, now they're making out, their breakfasts totally forgotten. Damn this open plan room, Dean thinks bitterly, stuffing a whole rasher of bacon in his mouth.


Dean's feeling bashful as a child as he watches Cas gently pull at the wrapping of his Christmas present.

"Oh my God, Cas, just tear it already," Dean groans, his nerves unable to take much more of the suspense.

"I don't want to tear it," Castiel pouts, "the wrapping is so pretty." He runs his fingers over the paper again, which sports a dozen images of different cats in varying styles of festive headgear. Dean had snorted as soon as he'd seen in it the shop, and had bought a sheet of it immediately, deciding then to wrap up a box for Castiel's gifts.

"Alright, just hurry it up," Dean huffs, wringing his hands together tightly. Castiel offers a small smile, but his eyes are glistening with anticipation as he opens the box. Dean can't bite back the embarrassed groan that escapes him; he can feel his ears heat up as soon as the box is opened. There's a silence that settles over the room, but Dean doesn't lift his head from his kneading hands to see why. Then comes the bark of laughter from Castiel, and he risks a peek. Cas is holding the stupid swearing turtle (oh god, what possessed him to buy that for him?!) with a hand over his mouth.

"Dean-"

"God, I know, it's so dumb-"

"This is amazing! I wonder how many swear words he knows," he babbles excitedly, turning the box over in his hands. He passes it to Balthazar with some puppy-dog eyes that say please open this for me pretty please with a cherry on top, while he rifles eagerly through the box, turning each gift and grinning from ear to ear.

"Dean, this is…"

"Stupid? I'll take it all back-"

"Dean, shut up. Get over here," Cas demands, opening his arms. Dean smiles timidly, leaning over Cas where he sits on the sofa. It's a little awkward because he doesn't quite know what to do with his arms; Cas is sitting so close to Balthazar and Dean definitely doesn't want to touch him, but sort of can't avoid it. But, Cas pulls him close, so close he has to brace one hand on the arm of the sofa to stop himself falling right on top of him.

"Thank you so much, Dean. They're perfect," Cas says, nuzzling his face into Dean's shoulder.

"They're totally not," Dean grumbles back, rubbing small circles into Castiel's shoulders in response.

"Well, I love them," Cas says, pulling away, "So, thank you, truly."

"Shit for brains!" comes a sudden yell, and Dean looks down to Balthazar's lap to see the swearing turtle waving its little arms profusely, while its head bobs up and down.

"Pardon you," Balthazar quips, waving his hand in front of the turtle again.

"Anal probe!" comes the squealed response.


It's Castiel's turn to feel sheepish as Dean pulls his gift onto his lap. He holds his breath and waits patiently, his palms slightly clammy with nerves. He casts furtive glances out the corner of his eye at Balthazar beside him, eyes glued to his phone, typing fervently. Cas assumes it's work, and though he feels bothered, he fights it; he can't possibly expect Balthazar to understand how important this moment is for the both of them right now.

Dean's ears are tipped with pink, his fingers dancing nervously around the lovingly wrapped mystery package.

"Is it a pony?" he jokes, feeling decidedly uneasy. Cas doesn't respond, just touches his tightly joined fingers to his lips, his eyes not leaving Dean; he's beginning to wonder if the guy's even blinked in the last minute.

"Cas, chill it with the staring, huh? It's just a Christmas gift," Dean shoots another glance at his friend, "no, seriously, you're making me nervous, quit it."

"Sorry," Cas murmurs, shaking his head, and huffing a laugh, "I just really want you to love it," he adds, quickly quieting when Dean's fingers hook under the cellotape to pry open the paper.

"I'm sure it-" Dean stops short, the case of his trumpet at this point only half revealed. Castiel guessed Dean would know that case anywhere.

"Wait…" his brow is furrowed, his voice laced with uncertainty.

"Yes, Dean, it is." Cas answers simply, his face splitting into a grin. He casts his eyes back to Balthazar, in the hopes that they can revel in Dean's joy together, but finds himself outraged to see that Balthazar is still looking at his phone. Castiel grits his teeth. It could just be some really important business; it really isn't his place to tell Balthazar what he should and shouldn't be doing at any given time.

Dean pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth as he carefully undoes the package, caressing like he can't quite believe what's happening. There's joy behind the disbelief; Cas can see it dancing in his eyes when he finally looks up.

"Cas, I don't know what to say-"

"Open it and make sure it's yours?" Cas replies, laughing breathily, trying not to let on he's centimeters from tears.

Dean's hands run over the stickers that cover his case, some of them faded and peeling. Stickers from the County Youth Orchestra he once played for, stickers from competitions, a couple of 'Fragile' stickers from airports, all layered a top one another to form a baffling and beautiful collage of Dean's childhood. He unzips the top of the case with the utmost care; a familiar sight that Castiel has come to associate with him. Dean treats everything (except Christmas lights of course) like it's made of glass, as if he expects to ruin it by touch alone.

At the sight of his trumpet, Dean's tears begin to fall freely.

"Cas, this is too mu-"

"Dean, it's yours. I figured you'd probably want it for the gig," Cas explains, his lips pursed in a cautious smile. When Dean didn't reply, Cas cast his gaze to his lap, crestfallen and feeling utterly embarrassed. He had just gone ahead and presumed that this is what Dean had wanted, how stupid could he be? Maybe it was too much; maybe Dean had made peace with the separation. Maybe he didn't even want his old trumpet back; perhaps it reminded him of better times that now caused him too much pain to think about. Stupid, stupid, stup-

"Thank you so much," Dean whispered into his hand, finally raising his eyes from the instrument, sitting unassuming in his lap. Castiel's breath tumbles out of him in his relief, and he barrels over to him, wrapping his arms tightly around Dean's shoulders, humming happily as Dean slumps against him, his arm snaking around Cas' back in response.

"You're so welcome, Dean. Merry Christmas," he smiles into Dean's hair, pressing a kiss into it before he's really thought about what he's doing. It felt like the right thing to do at the time, and Dean didn't seem to mind. A cursory glance at Balthazar across the room turns this moment sour though, as he sees that the man is still otherwise engaged with whatever is happening on his phone. Cas is not aggravated by it, he really isn't.


"Oh, you simply have to try the Gong Bao Chicken, it's simply to die for," Balthazar gushes, fingers clacking away noisily on the computer keyboard, as if he hasn't already forced them to change from their staple restaurant to some wanky posh joint in Kew Gardens. Dean can't quite bite back the mocking imitation he mouths at the wall. He glances over when he hears Castiel snort, and sees his friend covering his mouth trying to hold back a laugh. That makes Dean grin fiendishly; maybe Cas finds this guy just as much of an insufferable know-it-all as Dean does. Castiel holds his gaze even after he's stopped choking back his laughter, his eyes glowing in the light of the tree. Dean's the first to break the contact, feeling a little scrutinized.

"Sounds good," Castiel says quietly, sauntering over to the computer chair, resting his chin on Balthazar's shoulder and threading his arms about his lover's middle. Suddenly, Dean's feeling cold despite the warmth of the flat.

Irritatingly delicious Chinese take out devoured, the three of them sprawl on the sofas to soak up the festive telly staples; Wallace and Gromit (obviously), the Queen's speech (which none of them stand up for, because duh), and The Best of Morcambe and Wise. Dean spends the entirety of the afternoon resolutely not feeling lonely because he has a sofa to himself, whilst Castiel and Balthazar snuggle sickeningly on the other behind him, the sounds of their kisses making the hair on the back of his neck stand up on end uncomfortably. There are some frankly appalling noises coming from Cas back there, and Dean's blaming his baffling bouts of arousal in response to those little moans and sighs on the fact he's been single for almost two years, and hasn't seen any action in almost as long. He and the ugly bulldog-dressed-as-the-queen cushion are becoming quite well acquainted, let's put it that way.

He's feeling thoroughly sorry for himself when he hears a shuffle of bodies from behind him. Dean looks up to see Balthazar drag Cas from the sofa, pulling him close. He kisses him deeply, as if Dean weren't even there. Dean's not going to make a big deal about it, but he does indulge in an over-dramatic eye roll, whilst dragging his legs closer to his chest, because damn that looks enjoyable.

"Right, you, time for my present," Balthazar murmurs seductively, and Dean's suddenly sure the smarmy git is doing this on purpose. Castiel is blushing like the virgin he isn't, flashing Dean an apologetic look before he's dragged to his bedroom by his hands.

"Sex as a present, how thoughtful of you," Dean murmurs sarcastically to the empty room, trying desperately to swallow back the choice phrases that are bubbling up in his throat, threatening to spill out of his mouth. If Cas is happy, he's happy. Ish. He turns the volume right up on the Gavin and Stacey Christmas Special, just as a precaution.


January 2nd: Ronnie Scott's Jazz Club

Ronnie Scott's is everything Castiel expects it to be, hidden on the dark streets of Soho, surrounded by excellent Chinese restaurants and gay bars. Its doorway is unassuming, as if it isn't the prestigious home of some of the best live gigs that have ever existed, and inside it's just as modest; a low ceilinged, cramped space, a small stage surrounded by round tables and booths packed tightly against the walls. If anything, it makes him feel even more pretentious and alternative coming here for his first date with Balthazar, but he's here to see Dean perform for the most part, and that leaves him buzzing with anticipation.

He cranes his neck to look around at the slowly filling room to see if he can spot Dean from where he stands at the entrance. His housemate has been here all day, rehearsing and catching up with his old college friends. When Dean had left the flat this morning, his face was pale and his hands were shaking. He'd made himself some toast but stood at the counter just staring at it before throwing it into the bin with a noise of irritation. Castiel had made sure to share as much reassurance as he could muster; touching, hugging, encouraging, all in the hope of persuading Dean that this was going to be okay. This was his thing; this is what he'd trained for four years to do. Castiel's face relaxes into an easy grin as he sees Dean appear from the door behind the stage. He looks relaxed enough; Castiel can almost hear the hearty laugh that etches itself across his features. That in turn helps still the butterflies in Castiel's stomach. He'd been feeling sick all day, just wanting so much for this to go well for him.

He and Balthazar are shown to their table, and his date picks a mid-range bottle of red before settling down and appraising Castiel with hooded eyes.

"So, darling, I thought, since this is a date, we could get to know one another, what do you say?"

Castiel forces himself to hold Balthazar's gaze instead of looking away like a blushing bride, "Yeah, alright," he agrees, smiling.

"There's a set of questions designed to make people fall in love with one another, shall we see if it works?"

That knocks Castiel for six, and now he is blushing (thank Christ for the dim lighting in this room). He ponders this a moment, wondering just how much he's comfortable with revealing about himself. He wouldn't want to make this awkward by refusing to answer Balthazar's questions… wait, did he say designed to make people fall in love?!

"Sure, why the hell not?" he says with more confidence than he feels. His attention is momentarily won from his date in that sinfully form-hugging black suit, by a peppy, short man stepping up to the microphone in the middle of the stage. He taps it a few times, sending several hollow sounding knocks around the room.

"Is this thing on?" he says, smiling when a few people in the front tables cheer in response.

"Well, aren't you a good looking bunch this evening? My, what a crowd! Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, I am your host for the evening, and on behalf of all the staff and performers, may I welcome to Ronnie Scott's Jazz Club. You can call me Gabe, and boy, have we got a treat lined up for you this evening? I've been watching these guys rehearse all day today, and let me warn you, they are tight. Here tonight to sing you a whole host of jazz favourites, ladies and gentlemen please, will you join me in welcoming Missouri Moseley and her Band of Brothers!"

Castiel is grinning so hard he fears his face might split in half, as he watches Dean make his way onto the stage along with two other trumpeters, three trombonists, a drummer, a double bassist, a pianist and five saxophonists. The singer, Missouri, comes on last, offering her hand to Gabe who bends and kisses it, wholly exaggerating the movement. He says something to her that makes her laugh, which the mic picks up; it's a smokey, delicious sort of sound that makes Castiel's eyes droop involuntarily. Her short, stocky frame is covered in a floor-length gown, dark blue and shimmering with sequins. She looks like a goddess.

"Alrigh', alrigh', good evening everyone," she drawls in a Southern American accent, "My boys and I are gonna play a little number for you called Sophisticated Lady." Castiel doesn't know the song but her announcement is met with several crows of enthusiasm from the audience, and he smiles warmly, settling down into his chair, glancing over at Dean, who's shrugging his shoulders, adjusting his rental-suit jacket, shooting a smirk to one of the trombonists. A plaintive melody starts in the double bass, accompanied by answering gestures from the cymbal. Missouri starts singing, and her voice is intimate and low, her hands cradling the mic close to her lips. Cas can feel himself falling in love with that sound, and his eyes drop closed in response, his chest expanding with a sigh.

And when nobody is nigh, you cry.

Suddenly, the band is playing; huge sweeping chords, perfectly tuned, each voice separate and Cas can hear him, he can hear Dean, in amongst that melted chocolate sound of the trombones, the passion of the saxophones in the front row; above all of it, above all the trumpets, there's Dean's unmistakable brightness. He opens his eyes, feeling infinitely glad that he did, when he sees Dean leaning back, his trumpet screaming right at the top of the texture, and it just sounds so fantastic that Castiel can do nothing but laugh aloud.

"Oh, boys, y'all don't know what you do to me," Missouri croons into the microphone, a deep, throaty laugh bubbling from her ample chest. Even Balthazar offers a little cheer, joining in the hype of the rest of the audience.

"Speaking of, I guess you guys wanna meet 'em, huh?" the crowd answers a cheer, Cas whoops a little shyly. Missouri laughs again, "Alrigh', alrigh'. Startin' with my nearest and dearest; tickling them ivories pink as blushin' brides, it's Rufus Turner! Walking that bass all the way to heaven, give a warm hand for the adorable Sarah Blake, just look at her!" members of the band were cheering along with the audience, and Castiel felt his heart swell out of his chest at the camaraderie on the stage; Dean was almost glowing.

"On drums, ladies and gentlemen, is the one, the only Garth Huggy Bear Fitzgerald!" Missouri grinned wide as the whole band barked a chorus of laughter, leaning over their instruments, pointing at Garth as the skinny man sulked behind the drumkit, hitting the snare drum loudly for emphasis,

"Love ya really, Garth, honey," Missouri purrs, and Garth all at once is grinning like a maniac, sticking his tongue out at some of the other band members, like the youngest sibling who has decided he's now mummy's favourite.

"Now, the saxes," Missouri turns to her left to face them as she motions with an open hand to each of them in turn, "Seducing us with that sweet, sweet baritone; Jodi The Sherriff Mills; the irresistible tenors, Victor Henriksen, and Andy Gallagher; and singing to the heavens on alto, we got the astounding Pamela Barnes and Mark Campbell. Over to the engine room; our trombones, the downright gorgeous Cassie Robinson and her partner in crime Elias Finch, led by the delectable Benny The Beast." Castiel watches as Dean throws his head back and crows, earning several laughs from band and audience alike. He'd almost entirely forgotten that he was on a date with Balthazar until he felt a foot brush against his calf. He offers Balthazar a shy smile by way of apology, but his eyes are fixed on the stage once more when Missouri announces the trumpets.

"And finally, last but not least, our astonishing trumpets; the intensely adorable Becky Rosen and Crowley The King, led by the much-missed, nigh-on-irreplaceable Dean Winchester!" Castiel whistles, woops and bangs the table, watching as Dean's eyes scan the room, settling on him and smiling wide, giving a little wave. Cas feels like a parent at a school concert right now, and he couldn't be prouder.


Castiel makes Balthazar wait for the band to take a break before they begin answering these magic questions. Balthazar drains the rest of his wine, smiling tightly and rubbing his foot up Cas' calf again. He scrolls down his phone a ways, "Alright, here goes nothing. Question one: if you could choose anyone in the world, whom would you have as a dinner guest?"

"Can I have more than one?" Castiel pleads, struggling already.

"I don't see why not. Let's say we can have three." Balthazar smiles, turning his empty wine glass around by the stem.

"Okay… okay. I'd have… John Snow-"

"From Game of Thrones? Good choice." Balthazar says, winking suggestively.

"No, you- the news reporter, from Channel four," Cas informs him, not able to keep the look of incredulity off his face.

"Oh, the old guy?" Balthazar laughs as Cas performs one of his signature eye rolls with his whole body.

"He's not that old! I don't know… he's so wise. I'd spend the whole night asking him to explain literally everything to me."

"Here's hoping your next choices are a little more adventurous-"

"Hey! Well, for sure, you're no longer invited," Castiel teases, giving Balthazar's leg a gentle kick, "right, who else, who else… oh! Irena Sendler-"

"Who?!"

"The lady who single-handedly saved the lives of 2,500 Jewish children from the holocaust in the Second World War?"

"She's dead though, right?"

"You never said they had to be alive!" Castiel protested, "I'd want to try and get some of that good-will to rub off... she was so brave, and saved thousands of lives, I can't believe you haven't heard of her! And you'd have to have someone like… Beethoven or… Mahler or someone… yeah, let's go with Mahler, so I can question him for Dean, and maybe I'll suddenly become a completely swatted-up, do-gooder composer of poignant, heart-breaking symphonies or something," Cas rambles, nodding resolutely, pleased with his choices.

"So, you'll be having dinner with a bunch of dead people?"

"John Snow isn't dead!"

"He's as good as," Balthazar shrugs, smirking when Castiel fakes a sulk.

"Alright, whom will you be having dinner with?" Cas questions mockingly, pouring the remainder of the wine into their glasses.

"That's easy, I'd have Hugh Grant, Colin Firth and Hugh Laurie-"

"They're good choices-"

"So we can engage in possibly the hottest foursome the world has ever seen."

"It's a dinner party, Balthazar!"

"You're telling me if the two Hughs and Colin were in the same room as you, you would insist on having fucking dinner?"

Castiel blushes.

"That's what I thought."


"Alright, number eleven: Tell your partner your life story in as much detail as possible in four minutes."

Castiel squirms uncomfortably in his seat, "Alright, but can you go first?"

"Sure. You got the timer ready?" Castiel unlocks his phone with a swipe, and sets the timer, nodding with a warm smile.

"On your marks, get set, go! Okay, I was born in Oxford, one of four boys; middle child, so obviously I was bound to be the rebel. My father wanted me to be a doctor, like my brother Michael, but I went out and got drunk instead; partied as much as I possibly could. If there was a party, I was there, convincing the boys on the football team to sneak behind a closed door with me," he sighs, smiling, "good times. Let's see… I found my passion for art at a very young age: it made me feel edgy, you know? Sort of cool. I'd invent things to be angsty about, as all teenagers do, but in all honesty, I had a very comfortable up bringing. Anyway, after completing my A-Levels, completely flunking them of course, I just… sort of bummed off my parents for a while, I worked in a café during the day and painted by night. I met a man called… you know, I genuinely don't remember his name? Let's say his name was José. I was completely in love with him though, gosh, he was so handsome. He opened me up sexually, taught me everything I know. We all have one ex like that, don't we? I had great fun pissing off my parents with him. Anyway, I kept painting, trying to get my work into galleries and such. I got spotted by an owner of a rather prestigious set of galleries, and he wanted to become my patron. Who was I to resist? He gave me enough money to set up my studio, and the rest is history I guess. Moved out of my parent's house when I'd made a little money from my paintings; I started a mini-series online, taking commissions. I did some larger works with musical instruments, which I'm sure, if Dean didn't hate me so much, he'd love to see-"

"He doesn't hate you, how many times? You've got one more minute,"

"And then, I approached the well-renowned Bradbury & Co to design me an exhibition space in order to entice some rich wankers to buy my more expensive works, and found a rather dashing, charming young man, who was so adorably flustered by my presence, I just had to have him. I've been crazy about him ever since."

"Anything else? You've got 20 more seconds," Castiel raises his eyebrows. Balthazar leans over the table, his lips right by Castiel's ear, as he whispers,

"He's got a great ass too." Castiel can't help but rise out of his chair to crash his lips against his dates', both of them grinning into the kiss.

"Alright, your turn. Ready? Off you go." Castiel watches Balthazar's slender finger press the button, watches the numbers scroll steadily, and he takes a deep breath to steady himself; this is a pretty big deal for him.

"Umm… okay. Okay. I was born in Faversham, in Kent, an only child. I was a pretty happy child, and got on with my parents very well indeed; we used to call ourselves the three muskateers. Once I got to school, I was extensively bullied because I was small, because I liked classical music, because I was shy… I don't really know. Anyway… kids can be vicious can't they? I used to eat my lunch in the toilets… and spent a lot of my time alone or in the company of the teachers,"

"Does this story get happy at some point?" Balthazar says, offering his hand. Castiel huffs, sighing deeply, because no… no, not for a while. He barrels on, because now he's started sharing this with Balthazar, he doesn't want to stop. He hasn't shared any of this with anybody, not even Dean. He threads his fingers tightly through Balthazar's in order to gain some sort of grounding.

"Naturally, I did very well at school because I had no friends to distract me from my work… the bullying continued through secondary school, and in fact, only worsened. People assumed I was gay, and picked on me endlessly about it because I had shown no interest in the girls in our class, so I purposely dated a few when I was about 15 or 16. There was Jo; she was gorgeous, blonde, fiery and passionate, but she soon dumped me when I… well, when I couldn't give her much more than kissing and the odd fumble under the skirt. And then there was Meg, who started out all right in hindsight. I suppose she was the ex that taught me everything; I actually managed to have sex with her a couple of times, but it was rarely very satisfying for me. Or her… she wasn't very nice in the end. Anyway, I got into York University, and moved up there when I turned eighteen, thankful to get away from Kent, but of course, terribly sad to say goodbye to my parents. We'd grown apart a lot during my school years; I was suffering a lot but I didn't open up to them, opting to shut myself away from them instead. The line is so dead between us now that we haven't spoken save for a card on my birthday since I graduated… God… that's awful isn't it?"

Balthazar squeezes his hand, and Castiel nods, determined to continue,

"So… I went to York, and studied Interior Design, of course. I loved every second of it. At University, nobody judged me for being shy or… possibly gay or any of it. Sure, I was nervous as hell, but I met Anna within the first few days; she was in my flat in halls, and we just… we clicked, and she quickly became my best, and pretty much only friend I've ever had. With her came others, and then came Alfie… he was this adorable English Lit student, and we sort of fell hopelessly in love with one another. We experimented together; were each other's first experiences in the gay world, and were practically as inseparable as Anna and I for two and a half years. But, we grew into different people, and we just… grew apart I guess. It happens. I still had Anna though, and we graduated together and it was the happiest day of my life; my parents were there, and seemed proud of me. Life was good. And, um. Yeah, and then a few weeks later… Anna… she, um. She died in a car accident. She was… she was going to come travelling with me for the summer to earn some money… we were going to move to London together… God. She'd just graduated. And for what?" Castiel cleared his throat, not wanting to look up at Balthazar right now, "And um… yeah, I moved in with one of my University friends down here in London, and got myself an internship at Bradbury & Co, and worked my way up to a Designer… got my flat… met Dean, asked him to move in with me… yeah. That's… that's it. That's the whole saga."

He feels hopelessly naked when he looks up again, nerve endings raw and exposed. Balthazar's hand is warm on his, and when he lifts it to press his lips against Cas' knuckles, he has to choke back a sob, because there's no way he's crying on a date.

"I think the band's coming back," Balthazar murmurs against the skin of his knuckles, and Cas smiles warmly at him, gulping a large swallow of wine to try and ease the lump in his throat.


Dean had felt nervous for the last two weeks about this gig, but now it was here, and they'd performed their first set, he was itching to get back under those lights again. He could hardly keep his trumpet away from his lips; his mind firing musical figurations through him quicker than he could find them on the instrument, but he experimented as much as he could keep up. He had a couple of solo slots in this next set; one be-bop which would be easy, but the other was another blues-y number with Missouri and that left him feeling a little too exposed for comfort. Benny had agreed to take some of the slot when Dean had begged for the third time, but it still didn't ease his nerves much. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and pulled his trumpet away, turning into the touch to find Benny grinning at him,

"You're doin' so good, brother, how's it feel?"

"Just like I remember it feeling; addictive, intense… it's slowly coming back," Dean nods, laughing a little when Benny holds his arms, and trombone, above his head in triumph,

"You look good up there, man," he laughs.

"You can't even see me, Benny," Dean says, tilting his head to the side; a habit he's picked up from Cas.

"I sense you, man," Benny says, in a mocking seriousness that has Dean laughing all over again.

"Naw, for real though, it's so good to see you," he recovers, squeezing Dean's shoulder. Dean nods slowly, casting his eyes about the room, which is filled with old familiar faces, and honestly, it's good to be back. He raises his hand to Benny's shoulder, patting a couple of times,

"Likewise, man. Let's stay in contact this time, huh?"

"You bet," Benny grins.


By the end of the gig, Castiel and Balthazar have gone through three bottles of wine between them, and have stood up and danced, fast and slow to the latter half of the third set, having managed to go through all of the questions. Castiel can't tell if the experiment worked or not, since both of them were far too intoxicated to even try and look into one another's eyes for four seconds, let alone the recommended four minutes. He did feel closer to Balthazar though, and from the way his date was struggling to keep his hands to himself, Balthazar was feeling the same. Now they were standing by the stage door, waiting for Dean to appear. Balthazar stood pressed against Cas' back, his arms wrapped tightly around his middle, his lips pressing little promises against Castiel's neck. Cas snuggled back into him, feeling truly loved, like he always did when he was around Balthazar. He wondered if Balthazar maybe did love him? Did he love Balthazar? He was certainly very much in like with him, and Balthazar wanting to ask him questions designed to make people fall in love can't have been a blasé move-

His thoughts are interrupted by the loss of Balthazar's arms, and he opens his eyes, not even realizing they'd closed, to see Dean appear, wrapped tightly in one of Castiel's coats. The band members are slowly spilling out of the doors, each stopping to pat Dean on the shoulder, or pull him into a hug. Benny hands an envelope to Dean and is gone with a one-armed hug and a salute.

"Dean!" Cas cries as Dean approaches them, opening his arms and throwing them about his shoulders. "Oh my god, Dean, that was incredible, you were incredible!" he gushes, as Dean pulls away from the hug, a huge grin adorning his freckled face, pink from the cold of the February night.

"You really enjoyed it?" he asked, offering a small wave to Balthazar as he saunters closer, draping an arm loosely about Castiel's waist.

"Enjoyed it? I hope I die before I hear anything else, Dean. It was absolutely amazing!" Dean's hand is on him then, rubbing up and down his arm, but his eyes are on Balthazar as he says,

"How much has this one had to drink?" with humour tingeing his voice.

"Enough," Balthazar jokes back, pulling Castiel closer to his side, "Come on, darling, let's get you home," he says, placing a lingering kiss to his cheek. Castiel swats him away jokingly, moving to link his arms through Balthazar's and Dean's, babbling happily all the way down the narrow street.