Chapter 3: I'll Be With You Through the Dark

"That was fantastic," Dean lovingly laid his guitar in its case. "Seriously, Sammy, that was better than sex." He stretched hugely, releasing the kinks that several hours hunched over his guitar had left in his back. It felt so good it forced a groan from him.

"Ew," said Sam. Dean gave him a sidelong look, and was relieved to see that despite his words, Sam was practically glowing. There was nothing like the high after a good performance. In his heart, Dean believed that was what drove so many performers to alcohol and drugs – chasing that fix that could only actually be had from planting oneself in front of an audience, playing your heart out, leaving it all on the stage. It was certainly a lot of what drove him to the bottle.

"Pure fucking adrenaline, nothing like it," said Dean, grinning. No need to exaggerate his drawl when he wasn't performing. "How's it feel to get back in the saddle?"

"I've been performing constantly, Dean," Sam said. The bite was gone from his words, though. Not like earlier, when every sentence out of his brother's lips had oozed a painful contempt. Having Sam gone for so long had hurt like a piece of him was missing. For years, Dean had thought nothing would be worse than Sam's absence. Turns out, he was wrong. Having Sam condemn him so coldly the previous night had burned, wildfire loose in thoughts already made tumultuous and dry by his father's sudden disappearance. The phone ringing again so soon after Dean left the apartment was all that had saved him from a long, unsatisfying night of booze and sex, a quest to quell the plaintive voice in his thoughts that asked how the family he would do anything for had come to hate him so fucking much.

"Bah, this ain't some prissy string quartet," Dean said. "Come on, admit it, you had fun."

"I…" Sam closed his violin case, staring at it intently, concentrating on the simple task as he latched the clasps shut. Abruptly, he looked up at Dean, met his eyes and broke into a sheepish smile. "We are really good together, aren't we?"

"Fucking amazing," agreed Dean. "You know, man, I've got a gig tomorrow at The Wendigo in Hoboken. It's a tiny venue but they have one hell of a beer selection. Playing there is always a good time."

"Why don't you come spend the night with Jess and I?" Sam flagrantly evaded the question. "I know you said you had accommodations, but…" Sam appeared to struggle with himself, and then enthusiasm won out and he matched Dean grin for toothy grin. "I really like her. I think she's 'the one.' I want you to get to know her – and her to get to know you – when you're not behaving like an asshole."

"I wasn't being an asshole," Dean laughed good-naturedly. "She's just way out of your league." Glowering comically, the light remained in Sam's eyes. Fuck, had he missed this feeling. Performing with his brother was nothing like performing with his father. When he played with his dad, he felt like a ghost, the wispy echo of the years that John and Mary Winchester were the most popular country duo in the country. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he strived and practiced, he could always see that tightness around his father's eyes, the inescapable reminder of all the things that Dean wasn't. When he played with Sam, he felt alive, like he existed beyond his parents' long-cast shadows. Sam's glower turned into a perfect puppy dog face, Sam somehow seeming to look up at him imploringly even though his brother was inches taller. "Alright, alright, I'll come over, but I can't promise I won't hit on her."

"Dude. Leave my girlfriend alone. I will punch you in the face," said Sam.

"Promises, promises," smirked Dean.

"Did you bring the Impala into the city?" Sam asked enthusiastically, forgetting to be surly and standoffish with him.

"Hell no," Dean laughed. "That'd be like throwing a steak into a yard of starving dogs. Anyway, I love my Baby but she's a bitch to parallel park. She's at a Park and Ride in Paterson."

Unable to keep the disappointment off his face, Sam managed to have sad eyes while still beaming. "So, you coming over?"

Dean hesitated. There was little that Sam could ask that he would turn down, especially not when he gave Dean a look like the one he wore. They'd only been together a few hours and Dean was already struggling to picture what life would be like when he left New York City without his brother. "You joining me at The Wendigo?"

"Dean, I can't," Sam's face fell. "I've got this thing on Monday morning, it's like, the rest of my life, and I only get 30 minutes to show I'm worth it. If I stay out late again tomorrow I might blow it."

"Thing?"

"Grad school at Julliard, with a full scholarship," Sam explained. Dean whistled.

"Fine, fine, I won't fuck up your future," said Dean. All he could feel was Sam slipping further away. They picked up their instruments and headed out the door together, saying good night to the venue crew, who were packing up the stage, cleaning the floor, scrubbing the bar. Neither said anything as they headed out the door and down the street towards the subway. There was an itch between Dean's shoulder blades, as if he were being watched. Glancing around, Dean saw nothing out of place for the Lower East Side after midnight on a Saturday night – which was to say, he saw a whole mess of weird shit, from a raucous group of drag queens to a short man in an oversized cowboy hat to a tremendously drunk bridal party decked out in pink dresses and boas to what looked like an accountant loosening his tie – but nothing to explain his uneasiness. It was a long walk to Astor Place, and Dean fought down the mounting sense that this was it, that this was the last time he would share with his brother before he lost him forever, before he settled down with that hot chick and got his full ride to Julliard and never had any use for his footloose older brother and his guitar.

"I'll spend the night," he said gruffly.

"What? Really?" Sam enthused, smiling happily.

"Yeah, really," grunted Dean.

"That's…that's awesome, Dean," Sam caught him in a rough hug right on the street. The drunken bridal party whooped and catcalled for them to make out.

"Yeah, yeah, get off me, Sasquatch," said Dean good-humoredly, shrugging off the hug, but not before returning it.

It was a long train ride uptown. Dean shoot a text to Bela, who had offered him a bed in Queens, at the high price of sharing hers. Not normally a problem, as far as Dean was concerned, but Bela was a selfish lay. Last night, she'd made him sleep on the floor after they'd fucked. Typical behavior. Staying with Bela always made Dean feel like a whore. Though, at least with Bela, he knew exactly where he stood and he knew he was being used. He couldn't say the same for a lot of the people he interacted with, the venue owners, the motel proprietors, the "old friends" with ulterior motives. As Dean had gotten more successful, the number of people who latched on to him in order to push an agenda had grown. The strangest thing to him was that they all assumed he also had an agenda. When he told them he didn't want a record deal, they thought he was trying for a better contract, more money, increased royalties. When he said all he wanted was to play shows with his family, they thought he was trying to get them to hire Sam or John as well as himself. It was all rank bullshit, and now that he traveled alone so much of the time, scheduled his own gigs, was his own manager, he struggled immensely, hundreds of hours in the car with nothing but Zeppelin, Metallica and his own frustrated thoughts.

By comparison, the train ride was a dream. The awkwardness between him and Sam was gone completely, and they talked easily, catching up on the last couple years. Sam talked with enthusiasm about his time at school, and Dean shared anecdotes of some of the more interesting jobs he'd had of late. Sam was suitably impressed that Dean was working solo and pulling it off, and Dean was similarly awed that his brother was first chair violin at one of the most prestigious music schools in the world, not that he said so to Sam in anything like those terms.

After the hubbub of downtown, Sam's neighborhood was eerily quiet. They made their way from the train station, one of only a handful of people to get off at 145th, though Dean noticed with amusement that another was the adorable accountant, black hair disheveled, tie askew and suit jacket buttoned against the cold. Few others were out on the streets, and a wicked cold wind howled through the corridor made by the streets. Their conversation finally petered out. With the piercing chill, the surprisingly deep darkness, and the pervasive sense that someone had their eyes on him, Dean found it impossible to maintain cheerful interaction.

At Sam's front door, he knocked a warning before opening the door. When there was no answer, Sam opened the door, shushing Dean. "Jess had a friend over for the night," whispered Sam. "Let me just check who is sleeping where." He ducked into the shadowy apartment.

The hallways of the brownstone were quiet in a way that made every small sound enormous. Dean set his guitar down, stretching hugely. It wasn't that late by his standards, but he was surprisingly tired. Somewhere, water dripped. From within Sam's apartment, Dean heard hoarse breathing and the faint thumps and rustles that marked Sam's attempts to navigate the rooms from memory.

Downstairs, the front door opened and thudded shut, noise reverberating through the hall as someone took the stairs at a run.

"Dean," shouted Sam frantically from within the apartment.

Instantly, Dean dashed through the door, cursing as he ran straight into a table that tried to tangle his legs. Flailing, he caught the light switch for the living room, illuminating a vacant room.

"Dean!"

Sam's voice came from the bedroom. Dean leapt over the couch and through the door. Faint shadows from the windows cast the room in shades of black, blue and gray. Sam squatted on the floor, clutching Jess' in his arms, her still form clad in a white nightie. The sharp, nauseating tang of vomit clogged his nose. Jess spasmed and her breath rattled desperately, her entire body went rigid, only to collapse limp again. Sam was making inarticulate noises, staring at Jess, one hand helplessly shaking as he brushed hair from her face, glancing at random over his shoulder at Dean. He looked terrified and confused, completely lost.

Memories paralyzed Dean. His father, tears streaming silently down his face, bent over on the floor, cradling his mother with all his strength, so powerfully his arms trembled. Blue and red lights playing off the walls. Mom giving one last shudder before going still forever. "Take your brother outside as fast as you can," his father had said, "don't look back! Now, Dean! Go!" This room was dark where that one had been lit dim. This room was homey and comfortable where that one had been cheap wall paper, coarse carpeting, and polyester bedding. This time he was an adult, not a four year old boy with only a vague understanding that something was very wrong, daddy was upset, mommy wasn't feeling well. Sammy was a man now, not a infant. Despite the contrasts, in those first instants, Dean was a child again, confused, uncertain, upset, useless.

"Sam," called a deep, rough male voice from the other room.

The voice dragged Dean from the past, and he fumbled for his cell phone. As he hit the emergency dial button, the accountant burst through the doorway. Since the walk from the train station, the man had acquired a trench coat from somewhere.

"What the fuck…?" Dean said.

"Sam, put her down," the man said authoritatively. He was tugging at his tie, loosening it.

"Help her!" pleaded Sam.

"911, what is your emergency?" said a professional female voice from his phone.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean ran put a hand to his forehead, trying to collect his disordered thoughts. "My brother's girlfriend is unconscious. I think she overdosed."

"I will, Sam," vowed the accountant. Clearly at a loss, Sam laid Jess on the floor.

"What's your location, sir?" asked the 911 operator.

"374 East 144th Street, Apartment, uh, 5C," Dean rattled off from memory.

The accountant leapt to Jess' side and began to do CPR. "I should have thought of that," mumbled Sam, running his hand through his hair distractedly. "I should have..."

"We're sending an ambulance," the operator said. "Do you know what she took?"

Dean had a pretty good idea. He knew what his mother had taken, what Sam used to take. Sam was supposed to be clean, dammit. He felt a flash of anger. It was beyond his comprehension that Sam had used, after what had happened to their mother. It had been beyond John's, too. That had been one hell of a fight. Fuck, he had to focus. "Sam," he said with authority. Sam's gaze turned, vaguely, towards Dean, then drifted back to the accountant. "Sam, what did she take?" Sam's face fell, guilt adding to his horror and distress. "Sam!"

"Speed," he said miserably. Dean groaned. He fucking knew it. "She takes – she took – it's gotta be speed." The accountant rhythmically compressed Jess' chest, hard, expert strokes, then huffed into her lungs.

"Methamphetamines," Dean told the operator. "There's a man here doing CPR."

"That's good, sir," the operator said encouragingly.

Tears welled in the corners of Sam's eyes. He wrung his hands, expression lost, looking from the accountant to Dean.

"Is there anything else I should be doing?" asked Dean.

"Has she already vomited?"

"Yes."

"Then, no – wait for the ambulance, and if she's not breathing on her own, keep up the CPR," said the operator.

"Thanks." Dean hung up immediately and pocketed the phone. Dropping to his knees, he grabbed Sam's face and made his brother look at him. "Ambulance is coming, Sammy. She's gonna be okay. She's gonna be fine. Just you hold yourself together, here?"

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Sam moaned helplessly. "She told me she'd stopped. She promised me."

The accountant snorted, or at least Dean thought he did, but when Dean looked over all he saw was the same intense concentration as the man continued his ministrations to Jess' body. Dean caught his brother up in a rough embrace, murmuring words of reassurance all the while.

When the downstairs buzzer went off minutes later, their positions hadn't changed. Worried about how upset Sam was, Dean nonetheless shrugged off his brother's arms and let the EMTs in. They charged up the stairs carrying a load of equipment.

A whirlwind of events followed, the EMTs loading Jess onto a body board, Sam staring after her like his heart was shattered and he hadn't a clue what to do with himself, the accountant hunched over, hands on his knees, breathing hard to catch his breath. Dean found out from the EMTs where they were taking her, and as soon as the ambulance left, he hustled both of his companions downstairs, got them a cab, and made sure they all got to the hospital. Keeping his wits about him, keeping himself focused on Sam's needs, was all that was keeping him from falling apart himself. Their family was fucking cursed, that was the only explanation.

That was how they found themselves sitting in a private waiting room. Sam was staring at nothing, eyes unfocused, tears leaking down his cheeks periodically. Dean emotions were roiling. Inactivity and quiet brought them back into focus, the memories he was trying to escape rapidly catching up with him. The accountant had a vague, baffled look on his face, his head quirked at an angle, giving every sign that he wasn't quite sure how the heck he'd ended up with them at the hospital. The sadness and pain evoked by the parallels to Mary Winchester's death faded into a dull, throbbing anger that only grew in intensity as the minutes passed and they heard nothing.

"Sam, are you using again?" Dean finally broke the silence, unable to hold his temper in check any longer.

"What?" Sam looked at him uncertainly, eyes still glued on the plain floor tiles.

"I thought it was a damn clear question," snapped Dean. "Are you doing drugs?"

"You're asking me that now? Fuck – no!"

"Really?"

"Really, no," Sam snapped, anger growing in his tone. "How can you even ask me that?"

"Might have something to do with the way your girlfriend just tanked herself," said Dean caustically.

"I can't have this conversation with you right now," Sam shook his head.

"Cause if she was using, it seems mighty likely you were too," Dean continued, unable to hold the words back. Some part of his brain screamed at him to shut the fuck up. Sam was hurting enough, Dean should leave him alone, but he was too angry. Drugs! Why the fuck was it always drugs?

"Mr. Winchester," the accountant's voice was firm and cut off everything that Dean was about to say. He blinked in wonder. No one called him that. "Your brother has not been abusing illegal narcotics."

"And who the hell are you? You followed us, didn't you? Were you at the concert, too?" Dean asked shrewdly, turning his temper on the pretty, suited man. The accountant looked at him, expression neutral yet conveying anger, disdain, protectiveness of Sam. In the harsh, bright light of the hospital, the accountant's eyes were dazzlingly blue, so clear and deep that Dean thought he might drown.

"That is not your concern," said the man in a voice that brooked no argument.

Fuck that, Dean could argue with whoever the fuck he wanted. "Bullshit. If you're fucking with my brother – what, are you his dealer or something?"

"Dean—"

"Shut up, Sam," he snapped. "If you're in trouble, I swear I will get you out of it, but you've got to be straight with me. Who the fuck is this guy?"

"I'm not in trouble – I didn't think I was in trouble," amended Sam, running his hand through his hair again, mussing it beyond redemption. "Oh, Jess," he moaned, dropping his head into his hands.

Dean's heart shattered. Tension hung in the air for an instant, then he swallowed, anger imploding into worry and concern and distressed memories. He moved so he was sitting beside Sam. "Shit, Sammy, I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I'm a fucking asshole. You can hit me if you want. If you say you weren't using, I believe you." Sam looked at him gratefully. "Come on, hit me." Dean pointed at his chin."

"I'm not gonna hit you, Dean," sighed Sam. "I just can't believe..."

A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. It opened a moment later, and a depressingly unattractive nurse stepped into the room. "Mr. Winchester?" she asked politely. Sam nodded. "Jessica Moore's parents have given us permission to update you on her condition."

"Is she alive?" the desperate hope in Sam's voice was painful to here.

"She is," confirmed the nurse. Tension drained from Sam's body and he slumped bonelessly into his chair.

"Thank God," he murmured. "Thank God!"

"The prognosis isn't good, Mr. Winchester," continued the nurse, tone professional. "She's in the ICU, and she's currently in a coma. At the moment, she's stable. We've done everything we can. The rest is up to her. One of three things will happen: she'll recover, possibly with brain damage, but there's no way to know until she wakes up; or, she'll die; or, she'll remain in a persistent vegetative state."

"Is there, I don't know, like, what's normal? What's common?"

"Most patients in this situation die," said the nurse with a hint of sadness. "However, she is still holding on, and her vitals are good. She's got a chance."

"When can I see her?"

"I can show you in, sir," the nurse said. Sam was on his feet instantly and out the door, leaving Dean alone with the accountant.

The man was staring at him.

Meeting those bright blue eyes, Dean glared back.

The contest was on – which of them would break eye contact first? There was no way that Dean was going to let some blue eyed freak assert dominance over him, no matter how pretty the guy was. And, looking at him – really looking at him – for the first time, there was no denying that he was pretty. It was a weird descriptor to use for a man, and Dean wasn't sure why he felt it appropriate in this instance. It wasn't that the accountant wasn't masculine – he was, with well defined features, a firm chin, a lean, toned body. Yet, with the combination of his tousled black hair, pale skin, and those unbelievable eyes, Dean's mind whistled appreciatively and went straight from attractive, to pretty, to beautiful as it sought an appropriate adjective. Dean scowled. The accountant broke eye contact, but there was no defeat in his expression – he simply looked away, expression remaining impassive.

"Castiel Novak," the accountant said gruffly.

"Huh?"

"My name," he said. "That's my name." Maybe Dean had won the staring contest. The man – Castiel – didn't sound cowed, but he was clearly flustered.

"Dean Winchester," Dean shot back.

"I know," Castiel said. The slightest upturn of his lips revealed amusement. "Your brother is not doing drugs."

"Leave it," said Dean tiredly. "He said he's not, and I guess I have to believe him, and you said who the fuck you are is none of my business, so seriously, just fucking leave it alone."

"I should not have snapped at you before," there wasn't the hint of an apology in his tone. It was shocking to Dean that anyone could speak with so little inflection. He found himself listening closely to every word Castiel said, trying to catch the slight modulations that would reveal the thoughts beneath the unflappable surface.

"So, Cas, how do you know my brother?" asked Dean. The man tilted his head slightly, eyes growing ever so slightly wider. Surprise, Dean thought, that's what surprise must look like coming from this understated weirdo.

"It is complicated," Cas replied. A hesitation before the word complicated – uncertainty, interpreted Dean, and evasion, of course. He said nothing else, and Dean waited as silence stretched out uninformatively.

"Ya know, we're gonna be in this room, just the two of us, for who knows how long," Dean said, letting his southern drawl stretch out his syllables again. "If we ain't gonna talk, we gotta find some way of passin' the time."

Castiel met his eyes once more, the intensity of the gaze stealing Dean's breath for a moment. Delicious, there was another appropriate adjective. "What did you have in mind?" he asked seriously.

Standing, Dean stretched suggestively, in a way he knew showed every well-defined muscle in his torso to best effect, caused his shirt to ride up to expose his belly button. Dropping back into his chair, he sat languidly, arms stretched over the backs of the chairs on either side of him, one leg crossed loosely atop the other. He hitched his hips once suggestively, settling further into a slump. He'd 'accidentally' not pulled his shirt back down. Castiel's expression didn't change, but he caught the edge of his lower lip between his teeth. As soon as realized that Dean was looking at his face, he looked away quickly, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket and shifting his tie as if he'd not been watching Dean's theatrics.

"Well, I tried chit chat, but you don't seem interested," drawled Dean. "I'm open to...alternative pastimes." He watched the other man, a predatory look in his eyes, and this time Castiel did break first, he looked down and away.

"I am sorry," said Cas. "I did not mean to discourage conversation. However, I am not at liberty at the moment to discuss the nature of my relationship with Sam Winchester. Is there some other topic that would be of interest to you?" Dean made no answer. Instead, he rolled his shoulders back into his chair and licked his lips evocatively.

"Come on," Dean let his voice become lower, rougher. "Can't think of anything you'd like?" He smiled lazily. Attentive to every shift in the other man's demeanor, Dean caught exactly the subtle signs he was hoping to see – the tightening of Castiel's hand against his leg, the way Castiel's pupils dilated slightly, black absorbing some of gorgeous blue, the lip Castiel barely snagged between his teeth.

"Mr. Winchester—"

"Dean," he interrupted.

"Mr. Winchester," Castiel repeated with emphasis. The faint signs of attraction faded, repressed instantly. Dean was surprised to find he was mildly disappointed. "I am aware of your sexual proclivities. Your attempts to make me uncomfortable are futile. If you actual wish to engage in discourse, I am willing to oblige you, but you will desist in this inappropriate familiarity."

Sighing, Dean let his head clunk back against the wall. "Got a pretty high opinion of yourself, don'tcha, Harvard?"

Castiel quirked his head again. It was a rather adorable habit, Dean thought. He immediately put the kybosh on his own thoughts. The moment after getting forcefully rejected was the moment when his brain needed to stop thinking of what a cutie the accountant was – or whoever the fuck Cas was. "How did you know where I completed my education?"

With a groan, Dean banged his head against the wall again. "Just...wow," he closed his eyes. "Forget I said anything. Why don't we just sit here, in silence, bored out of our fucking minds, waiting?"

There was the faint click and smack of Castiel opening his mouth and then shutting it again.

Poor Sam. What a nightmare this was. It sounded like he really dug this Jess chick – had said she might be the one – and now she was in a coma. Dean fished through his thoughts, trying to think of some way he could help his brother.

We could drive across the country,

Maybe see the tall Redwoods,

Take a train through old Kentucky -

Come along, it'll do you good.

The music formed in his mind whole, lyrics and tune, lips whispering the words, fingers twitching in an imitation of the chords.

Sure, we've been across the country

But we never had time to see.

Sittin' backseat in the old car

Never stoppin', never free.

When they'd been kids, those trips with dad had been endless. Dean would spot some roadside attraction he wanted to see, the world's largest ball of twine, the C&O Canal hike, carhenge. He'd beg to stop. John would say no. Sam would spot some roadside attraction he wanted to see, the Wyoming Dinosaur Center, the Boston Philharmonic, Mount St. Helena. He'd beg to stop. John would say no. There was always another gig to play, not a day to call their own. There was no time to experience, no time to live. Dean refused to work that way. This was his life, his only life. So he took all the gigs, every single one, but when he wanted to stop, he stopped. Even if he only got 10 minutes to stretch his legs, at least he could say he'd seen the world's largest ball of twine.

I know you always longed for freedom.

Know you always dreamed of home.

Wish I could give you all you've wanted

So you'd not have to cry alone.

He fought to keep tears from welling up in his eyes. He's never known how to say the things that Sam wanted to hear, never been able to put aside his own needs and desires enough to see that Sam got what he deserved. Nothing would be more amazing than if Sam wanted to go with him, but that was never what Sam had wanted, never what Sam had needed. Fuck, that hurt. The things that were best for Sam had nothing to do with Dean.

There's a place I long to show you

Far away on the Kansas plains.

Not a soul around for miles,

Ease your heart and ease your pains.

"What are you doing?" demanded Castiel. Dean realized he was humming, but he didn't care if it bothered the other man. Sammy wasn't back yet, but there were things in his head that needed to get out, and the only way he'd ever found to say them was through his songs.

How's about we go together?

It would be just you and me.

Leave our hurt and loss behind us,

Make some brand new memories.

"Writin'," he muttered, lost in concentration.

I know that this was always my dream

Know that what you need ain't me

But if shootin' stars grant wishes

This is what my prayer would be.

Fuck, he was a selfish bastard. He wanted to put Sam first, he truly did, but in mere minutes the thoughts transformed, and it was no longer about what was best for Sam. It was about what Dean wanted. Desperately, more than anything, he wanted them to be together again, like they always were before.

We would chase that far horizon

Go wherever the roads lead.

I know the night is long and lonely

But the sunlight brings relief.

"What are you writing?" asked Castiel, a hint of curiosity breaking through his stoicism and aloofness.

All I want is us together,

I know there's nothing we can't beat.

Yes, if only we're together

There's no place I'd rather be.

"Shove it," Dean managed. He was close to the end, the whole thing would fall apart if he stopped now.

I know it's far too much to ask you

To give up all of this for me.

Was supposed to be me helpin' you

How'd it end up helpin' me?

If he had one wish, it would be for Sam to want to travel together as much as Dean did. It was too big a hope, though. Everyone left. Dean didn't blame them. He couldn't be with Sam for ten minutes without picking a fight with him. If that was how he treated the person he gave more of a damn about than anyone else in the world, how the hell was anyone else supposed to put up with him? Fuck, if Dean could leave Dean, he would.

How's about we go together?

Just the two of us, you'll see.

Leave the last five years behind us,

Make some brand new memories.

Leave the fadin' ghosts behind us,

Make some brand new memories.

He released a shuddering sigh. His eyes were swimming. Blaming the bright lights and the long nights, he wiped them with the corner of his flannel shirt.

"Hey, you got paper and a pen I could use?" he asked. Castiel gave him a stern look, a miniscule downward turn to his lips communicating displeasure.

"I've got a pen," he said curtly, pulling one from his pocket.

"Thanks," Dean said. He riffled through his pocket until he found a beat up receipt and hastily scrawled down the lyrics. Part of him balked at even recording them. If he wrote them down, he'd play the song, and if he played the song, he'd be baring his soul for everyone who heard. It was an awful thought, but it was also the basis for his entire career. His best songs were those where he took the words he kept hidden deepest in his heart and leaked them from the stage. They were the things he dreaded to say, that he longed to say, and he guessed he was doing something right, 'cause when he sang them, others seemed to respond. Maybe that was his role in life, he thought as he finished writing the last lines, to lay his emotions on the line for everyone who couldn't find it in themselves to do the same.

"Did you just write a song?"

"Yeah," said Dean, passing the pen back.

"An entire song?"

"Yeah?" he repeated, confused.

"It's been 10 minutes," Castiel's voice rose with faint wonder.

Dean quirked an eyebrow at him. "Impressed?" he asked dryly.

"Yes," said Castiel with a crisp nod. Dean blinked in surprise. "Will you...?" Whatever he'd been about to say, his words were cut off by the most incongruous cell phone ring that Dean had ever heard. It was porn music, pure and simple, except from some terrible 70s shit. Fuck, Dean even thought it recognized it from Busty Asian Beauties Volume 2. It sure wasn't his ring, that was "Smoke on the Water." The idea that staid Castiel had chosen a disco porno groove beat as his ring was ludicrous. Judging by Castiel's reaction, he felt similarly. He took a deep breath and released it, letting his shoulders slump, before he reached into his pocket. "Excuse me," he said to Dean, then answered the call. "Yes?"

The phone volume was too low for Dean to make out the other end of the conversation, and in an attempt to be polite, he tried to refrain from listening too hard. Instead, he tapped out beats on his leg, eying the lyrics. Of course he'd share the song with others. It didn't matter how personal the words were. That was his job. What the fuck kind of performer would he be if he didn't share the songs that actually meant something? He'd end up some Brittney Spears boy band mm'bop bullshit.

"No," said Castiel. Whoever was on the line had just spoken for like two minutes straight, and all Castiel had to say in reply was a simple denial? His tone was so forcefully neutral that Dean snorted on a laugh. Looking up quickly, he was relieved to see that Cas didn't seem to have noticed. He was sitting stiffly, eyes raised heavenward as he listened to the person who'd called him.

"I will call him," Castiel said firmly. "We will speak more after that." A squawk of protest loud enough for Dean to make out the indignant tone, if not the words, was audible over the line. "Good bye." Cas hang up.

"Dude, cold," Dean looked up, smiling and shaking his head.

"What do you mean?" Castiel's lips were curled into a slight frown again. For an instant, Dean fantasized about kissing at those pale, drawn lips until they were split open in a smile and red from teasing.

"That's some way to treat your girlfriend," said Dean teasingly. The voice that Dean had made out from the other end of the line had been male. "I mean, it's like 3 in the morning, she's probably just worried about you, and you go and hang up on her? Really cold."

"That was not my girlfriend," snapped Castiel. "I do not have a girlfriend. I—"

"Boyfriend?" Dean said casually. The answer didn't matter, he told himself. He'd be leaving New York City tomorrow – today, really, it was already technically Sunday – and it would be who-knows-how-long before he came back.

"Just as the overt display of your sexual proclivities is inappropriate, your inquiries into my sexual orientation are both forward and unwelcome," Castiel actually sounded angry. Dean felt a bizarre stab of pride that he'd managed to get a rise out of the guy. He made a mental note that Castiel's vocabulary grew more forbidding the closer he got to emotional vulnerability. He had no idea why he found the tell endearing. Nothing about the man should be endearing, they'd known each other for an hour and had yet to manage a single actual conversation.

"So, gay," he nodded.

"I have to go," said Castiel. He stood abruptly, straightened out his jacket, tossed his trench coat on, and stalked out the door.

"Don't let the door hit that sexy ass of yours on the way out!" called Dean after him, snickering. Maybe not his best moment. He'd driven away his only company through the long night waiting for Sam to come back. The way that Castiel's face had scrunched in irritation was priceless, though, and totally worth it. Maybe he'd ask Sam what the fuck had been up with the guy. Pushing aside dark thoughts of his missing father, his lost mother, his pained brother, Dean lost himself in far more pleasant fantasies. They featured a blue eyed stranger with a nigh-unbreakable poker face, and all the many ways that Dean could think of to crack that icy facade and draw needy cries, whimpers thick with longing, moans of desperate desire, and pleads for release from those pink lips.


Music inspiration:

Links are to Youtube.

Chapter Title:

Gaslight Anthem - Biloxi Parish: watch?v=o2RSKSYIXKY

There is likely to be a LOT of Gaslight Anthem inspiration for this story. I love their music, and many of their songs evoke Supernatural for me. I've been toying with writing a series of Supernatural fanfiction short stories, inspired by different Gaslight Anthem songs. For example, if I actually keep at this project, I'll probably write a prequel to this story, about John and Mary, inspired by their song 1930.

So...as I did in Chapter 2, I recorded how I imagine the song from this chapter going. "Brand New Memories" is an original song written by me for this fic. You can hear me embarrass the heck out of myself here: watch?v=5DRgD3nANOs