A/N: Aw, shit, man, the ball's really rolling, now. For any of you wondering I've just started at Cambridge and am DEAD to the world. Fresher's week is carnage and my reading list is so immense. I'm still trying to write regularly but updates won't be so constant, I'm afraid! Also, this chapter is really fucking long. I hope you enjoy :)
Chapter 37 - Never Supposed to Leave
"So that pretty much leaves it as yours, Castiel," Gabriel says, turning to face his brother.
Castiel nearly jumps back to his senses, shaking himself and looking up to meet Gabriel's gaze.
"What?" He asks, blinking. He hasn't been sleeping well, caught in a stir of grief and confusion at the loss of his father, grief renewed at the reminder of the loss of Dean as his best friend, and anger at himself for still caring, still loving Dean even though he knows these affections will have no chance of being returned, and after so many years of hard-fought getting over Dean.
So now, sat in the living room of his old home, going over the matters of their father's will with Michael and Gabriel, Castiel cannot for the life of him keep his mind static and focussed. It keeps wandering off—and more than this, Castiel wants it to keep wandering off: going over who will inherit what feels, to use a rather morbidly appropriate metaphor, like the final nail in the coffin regarding the reality of their father's death.
"The house, Castiel," Gabriel rolls his eyes. "Michael and Hael have their own house, and Michael doesn't really want it anyway, seeing as how he isn't attached to it 'cause he didn't grow up here. I pretty much feel the same way, plus, my work is literally in LA, so it's not really feasible to think of commuting from here."
"It could be your second home," Castiel frowns.
"Yeah, again, Cassie," Gabriel raises his hands, "I'm not exactly attached. You're the one with all the amazing memories of this place."
Maybe. Castiel is also the one with the sour, stinging memories of this place, too.
"But I live in Edinburgh," Castiel points out. "I think that trumps California, just slightly."
"Well, it's whatever," Gabriel answers, exasperated, "the house is yours anyway, so."
"Who says so?!"
"Well someone's got to have it!"
"But I don't want it!"
"Why not?"
"I live in Edinburgh!"
"Please, Castiel," Gabriel rolls his eyes again, "you really think you're gonna live there forever?"
"As a matter of fact, I do," Castiel growls out.
"Okay," Michael interjects, before Gabriel can reply with something snarky, "Castiel can easily rent it out, while he's in Scotland. And then, when he's back in the States, he can stay here." Michael turns back to Castiel. "How does that sound?"
"Dumb," Castiel replies frankly. "What kind of person would want to rent a house like this?" He gestures around them. "It's needlessly large, and unless they have a family, they won't be able to fill it, and why would they want to rent somewhere that's so out of the way? Wouldn't they want to live somewhere more central? Also, who in their right mind would want to have a landlord who quite literally lives in Edinburgh?! I'd be virtually uncontactable, because of time difference, I'd live five thousand miles away—"
"It's actually more like four thousand," Gabriel corrects.
"Great," Castiel rolls his eyes, "thank you, Gabriel."
"Geez, you don't have to be so sarcastic about it," Gabriel replies, frustrated. "Why're you acting so immature? We know you're the youngest, Cassie, but this is—"
"Just because you accuse me of being immature doesn't mean it's true!"
"Fuck!" Michael exclaims. Castiel is so surprised that he actually jumps. Gabriel, who clearly hadn't expected the outburst, either, or for Michael to even curse, is stunned into a rare silence. "Dad's dead for what, a month, and you guys take that as an excuse to start ripping each other's throats out? What the hell?! You never used to fight like this, c'mon. What's going on?"
"You two obviously want me to have the house," Castiel growls, "and not for any reason that I can determine, unless—"
"We want you to have the house so you'll come back and visit, a little more often!"
"Surely if you wanted me to come back and visit, you'd just invite me round to your places to stay?" Castiel counters. "Gabriel, how much am I gonna see you, if I'm in Lawrence, and you're in LA? Michael, seeing you is only just more realistic, but let's be honest, with two kids and a busy job, are you really gonna be able to make it down to see your little brother for more than a day?" Michael and Gabriel have both averted their gaze, with guilty faces. "So, since we've pretty much determined that you don't want me to have the house because you want to see me, who is it that you do want me to see?"
"What are you accusing us of, Castiel?" Michael asks with a cold, calculating frown.
"Oh, Michael," Castiel grits his teeth, "I think you know."
"Okay, fine, Cassie, but so what if we are?!" Gabriel groans. "We literally don't have any use for the house, anyway, and if you decide to sell it, then that just means a lot of shit that you're gonna have to sort out. 'Cause half of the crap in here, pretty much, is either yours, or dad's. Who has time for that? Especially when, as you keep on pointing out, they live in Edinburgh? Four thousand miles is a long way to be downsizing from."
Castiel glares at his hands.
"Fine," He mutters, grudgingly, "I'll take the house."
…
"Thanks for coming over," Castiel says, setting a coffee down in front of Dean. They sit in the kitchen of, what is oddly enough, now Castiel's house, and no-one else's. This knowledge makes the white walls feel that little bit colder, when before they were calming and clear. A bitter tang has taken over the taste of this hosue, no longer does it ring with the sounds of home. Castiel realises that, in fact, it was only ever home because of the people he shared it with—namely Jimmy. And maybe, and in a funny sort of way, Dean, too.
"Hey, it's no problem," Dean replies. "I was wondering how you were getting along."
"Really?" Castiel asks, distractedly, steeping his teabag in boiling water. "That's nice of you."
He sits down opposite the green eyed man, who laughs.
"You always seem so surprised whenever I do anything moderately decent, toward you," He points out. Castiel actually laughs, amazed by his own amusement, though of course he shouldn't be: if anybody were able to make him laugh, even in times such as this, of course it would be Dean, and shakes his head.
"Not surprised," He denies, "always touched."
Dean beams.
"So, what's the problem?"
"Does there have to be a problem for me to want to talk to my oldest friend?" Castiel counters.
"So there isn't a problem?" Dean raises his eyebrows at the writer, who deflates in his admittance of Dean being, actually, pretty on the money.
"Well, I never said that," He half-groans. "But part of my problem is that my problem isn't so easily articulated. Another part of my problem is that I, in fact, have many problems."
Dean barks out a laugh and takes a long drink of his coffee, staring at Castiel with warm eyes over it all the while.
"God, I've missed you," He beams, when he's finished. Castiel's lips twitch upwards, even as he tries to suppress them from doing so. It's at moments like these where Castiel cannot help but force himself to forget the nine years of anguish, nine years of alone and of heartbreak and of no contact and of hurt, of what Dean said and what Castiel said, what Dean did and indeed, what Castiel also did. In these moments he measures the thickness of Dean's pretty brown eyelashes with his own gaze, counts the spattering of freckles across nose and cheeks and tries to match them, each and exactly, to a hue of gold or tan that he can think of. He'll mark the movement of thick, dark lips, the bob of Adam's apple, the dimples, the inexplicable constant blush that somehow paints a indescribably pretty face even prettier.
Then he remembers.
Nine years of hurt. Nine years of gone. Nine years of missing Dean. Nine years of nothing.
"You flatter me."
"No, really," Dean shakes his head. "I—I hope—"
Castiel raises his eyebrows.
"You hope?"
"I hope we stay friends, now," Dean flushes. "And—I know you're going back to the UK, but—when is that, by the way?"
"I've booked my flight," Castiel answers. "In about three and a half weeks' time. But—" Castiel thinks of telling Dean that he has inherited the house, but then changes tack. "I was wondering," He coughs once into a closed fist, shuffling forward on his seat, scooting his legs further underneath the table, "how do you know where home is?"
Dean sputters on his coffee a moment, then swallows, mouth twitching into a lopsided smile.
"Uh, I'm sorry, Cas," He begins, shaking his head affectionately, "I'm not sure I follow."
"How do we know where we belong? How do we know where we should be?"
"Do you know where you want to be?" Dean asks with a frown.
"No," Castiel sighs, thinking of his students, the beautiful high buildings of Edinburgh, of its old cobbled streets and darkened alleys, its hills, its history, the cold, the snow, the moody sheets of rain and coffee shops, the castle, the long and bracing walks, of Arthur's Seat and the streets piled one on top of another, criss-crossing constantly in picturesque serenity. Then he thinks of here, of his childhood home, of Dean and his brilliant green eyes, of the sound of his laughter, of how his laughter makes Castiel feel, of the sweet rumble of Dean's voice and the graceful way his lips lift upward into a smile, and, inexplicably, the prettiness of the ridges of Dean's knuckles. "But does anyone?"
Dean chuckles.
"Maybe not," He admits, looking away. "But most people know in an aspirational kind of sense. Like, we all want what we can't have." He pauses. "I know where in life I want to be, for example. I just also happen to know I can't get there."
"And what if, theoretically, you know you can be in any of the places you want—or, not any, but either of the places you want. What then?"
"Then you're a lucky bastard," Dean shrugs, grinning, "And I guess you've gotta make a choice," He states, tone becoming more serious.
"But what do I choose?" Castiel asks, pleading.
"If you don't know where you want, maybe choose where you're wanted."
Dean stares hard at the writer.
Castiel slumps.
Well, Dean's pretty much spelt out stay in Edinburgh, then. Where else is Castiel wanted?
But then, what reason has Castiel given Dean to want him here?
"Okay," Castiel looks down, "enough about me, and my cryptic issues. How are you?"
Dean shrugs, cracking a smile.
"Now, that's a question you know I'll never answer honestly."
"Please answer it honestly," Castiel replies, "or else I'll start asking questions that are more explicit."
"More explicit?" Dean repeats with a confused frown.
"Like, how are you doing, since my dad died, seeing as he was a father figure to you for twenty three years, especially after your own dad died."
Dean sputters.
"Well, shit, Cas," He looks away, eyes wide with shock, "excuse me if I don't feel comfortable enough to answer that, like, ever."
"I'm sorry if I overstepped," Castiel raises both his hands, backing off. "But I really do care."
Dean looks back up at him and presses his lips together.
"Thanks." Dean's gaze flickers away from Castiel's face. "Honestly, I miss him a lot. Obviously. But I don't want to say any shit that's gonna make you sad," Dean shakes his head.
"Nothing you could say will make me sad," Castiel denies. "I'm asking because I want to know. I've grieved, I'm still grieving, and I've been given opportunities to do that effectively. I just worry that you haven't."
Dean coughs once, looking down.
"Cas, man…. You know how bad I am at opening up. Isn't it kind of unfair of you to expect me to be able to just—I don't know—"
"We used to talk feelings all the time," Castiel points out candidly.
"Yeah, but…"
"Do you have anybody to talk about your feelings with?"
Dean looks down, obviously uncomfortable.
"I'm not a girl…"
Castiel rolls his eyes, tempted to be offended.
"Sexist," He points out, "and emotions aren't exclusively for women. Or inherently bad. They humanise us, so I think they're actually pretty good. Also, don't equate femininity with inferiority. That's called misogyny."
"Right, forgot I was talking to an intellectual," Dean rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.
"Would you tell any of your students that it's bad, or weak, to feel things?" Castiel presses. Dean sips awkwardly on his coffee, averting his gaze.
"Uh, no, of course not, Cas," Dean rolls his eyes.
"Then why can't you be as kind to yourself as you are to them?" Castiel asks. Dean swallows and doesn't answer, face red. "Or at least half as kind, one quarter? Dean, you really are so deserving of kindness. Is that so difficult to believe?"
"Cas, I'm not good at these conversations…"
"Do you have any kind of emotional outlet?"
Dean gulps all of his coffee down, probably burning his mouth in the process, judging by his wincing expression—which on second thought, may also be attributable to the discomforting nature of Castiel's question—and gets up to refill his cup.
"I write songs, Cas. Isn't that sissy enough?"
Castiel glares.
"That's an ugly word. And I hope you know what I mean by 'ugly'"
"Then I'm sorry I used it," Dean turns around, taking a sip from his refilled cup, resting against the workbench. "But the point still stands. I write songs about how I feel. Isn't that enough?"
"I don't know," Castiel counters, tilting his head to the side. "Is it enough?"
Dean breaks his gaze away after about a half-second of staring at Castiel.
"Maybe not," He admits, hands closing round the edge of the worktop for a moment. "Maybe not," He repeats, pushing himself off it and making his way back over to Castiel with slow, heavy steps of a defeated man, sitting down. "But I'm getting by."
"And I'm proud of you, for that."
Dean all-out stares at Castiel.
"Proud?" He repeats, his lips moving around the word in half time.
"Proud," Castiel confirms. "I know—I know the years haven't been easy on you, Dean. And I know I don't have much of a right to say that, considering how I haven't been around for a decade, but—"
"Hey," Dean waves his hand dismissively, looking down and wrinkling his nose as he interrupts Castiel, "don't worry about it. And don't be apologetic." Dean swallows. It looks difficult. "I mean—I know we haven't really—but I shut you out, didn't I? That was me. It's not your fault."
"No," Castiel shakes his head, "I shut you out, too—"
"Cas, you don't need to—"
"It was a collaborative effort. A group shutting out."
Dean's lips twitch upwards into a closed-mouth, reluctant though undeniably warm smile.
"You're kind, you know that? Like, you're one of the grumpiest and stubbornest people I know, but you're so damn kind, Cas. It always amazes me."
"If you pack a compliment in with two insults, I'm not really sure it counts, Dean."
The green eyed man snorts, shifting so that his elbows are resting on the table and looking down, eyes closing briefly. He clasps his hands together, where they fiddle with each other, distractedly.
"Funny, too," Dean says. "People will never understand how funny you are."
"I think you just always liked laughing at me," Castiel points out.
"Believe me, Cas, it was affectionate, if nothing else," Dean grins. Castiel smiles, pulling a longsuffering expression.
"I'll count my blessings."
"Hey," Dean says, as if suddenly struck by a thought of pressing urgency, "we were talking about feelings."
"We were."
"Do you get to express yours to anybody? Do you have anyone to like, process things with?"
"Michael and Hael, when they force it out of me," Castiel chuckles. "And, for all my criticism of you for saying music, I suppose the most effective—or at least most regularly used way I sort through emotions, is by writing. Which works for me, and very well. But I fear you might be the kind of person who needs another person to talk to, not a notebook."
Dean smirks, gaze averted.
"Maybe you're right…" He admits.
"You can't talk to your brother? You and Sam were closer than anyone, when I knew you."
"Yeah, well, a lot can change in a decade, Cas."
"How much?"
"Me and Sam don't really talk, any more."
"What do you mean?"
Dean swallows guiltily.
"I don't know," He nearly snaps out, sounding defensive. "I guess something just changed, one day."
"What changed?" Castiel asks. "Who changed?"
"Damn, I didn't come over here expecting the Spanish inquisition."
Dean looks serious, grumpy. His brow is set in an uncooperative frown, and if Castiel hadn't expected this at his admittedly incessant prodding, he'd be taken aback, perhaps even upset at the scowling, teenage expression scrawled across Dean's features. As it is, and even after all these years, he knows Dean well. Very well, and dearly. And so he prods a little more.
"After you found out about Sam's addiction?" He asks, and perhaps Dean hadn't expected it, or at least had not expected it to be named so explicitly, because he downright flinches in response.
The scowl grows.
"Not addiction…" Dean shakes his head, sinking down in his seat. Something in his person grows burdened, as though weighed down by the full extent of all Dean's responsibilities for this past decade. "The addiction was fine. Well, not fine, but… If it had happened any other way, I think I'd be okay with it. Like, if he'd told me. But no, his girlfriend dies, he starts hanging around with some nasty, and I mean nasty girl, who gets him taking all this crap, and he refuses to talk to me, any more, doesn't pick up my calls, shuts me out completely—as if that kind of shit doesn't hurt a person enough?! And then one day he overdoses. And—" Dean cuts himself off. His eyes glisten. "There've been a couple'a moments in my life, where it's felt like everything's been falling apart around me, like I'm the one with the sky on his shoulders, who's got to sort things out, hold everything up, but I can't…. I'm too weak, I'm helpless… That was one of those moments. And I don't know. I just can't talk to Sam, after that. I just can't trust him."
"You feel that his addiction was a betrayal?" Castiel asks. Dean stares at the table, finger drawing distracted patterns across its surface. "You feel that in his overdose, he broke your trust?"
Dean coughs, expression troubled.
"Something like that," He answers. "But it's more, and I can't do it justice—you… You make me sound petty, when you say it that way. He's overdosed loads. After that, it was like he just gave up, like the floodgates opened. And not just heroin, all kinds of crap. And he doesn't talk to me," Dean says, looking back up to Castiel, roughly. His eyes are still stung with tears. "And even now, he doesn't. You know what I found, on the day of your dad's funeral? I went round to pick Sammy up—he wasn't even dressed, you know? But I went to pick him up, and while he was showering, I was getting him some clothes ready, and you know what I found? Smack, again, in his sock drawer. He was hiding it from me. He still hasn't told mom, keeps saying he wasn't gonna take it—like, as if I'd believe that?!"
Dean's voice grows louder with feeling, his expression is somehow cut off from Castiel and the room around them, and seems, instead, in the presence of his brother as they have this fight, where Dean confronts Sam about the heroin and Sam attempts to deny it.
"I'm not an idiot, why does he act like I'm an idiot?! What the hell, are they selling fucking ornamental heroin, now? But he still has the audacity to lie to me, his brother, when I'm the only one who's stuck by him, through all of this—" Dean breaks off, suddenly catching himself. "Sorry," He says, eyes filling regret as he centres back, into the kitchen, into reality, in front of Castiel in the white house he spent so much of his childhood in, back into their conversation. "You can't have wanted to hear any of that," Dean lets out a self-abasing laugh. "And this is what happens when you ask me to open up."
"I'm glad I did," Castiel replies, honestly. Dean presses his lips together, a wall going up around his features so that Castiel cannot read them.
"We got in a fight on the day of Jimmy's funeral," He confesses. "I guess you heard that?"
"I did," Castiel admits. Dean snorts bitterly.
"Of course. Nothin' happens in a vacuum, no business is private."
"I think people were worried."
"Ha," Dean rolls his eyes. "People are nosy, and my mom's a blabbermouth."
"She was probably just explaining what had been going on."
"We got in another fight, the other night," Dean says, voice quieting.
"You and your mother?" Castiel asks.
"No," Dean snorts again. "There's no use arguing with my mom, she has to be right, always. At least with Sammy you get the feeling it's a conversation, even if it's more like a conversation with a brick wall than a person."
"So it was a verbal fight? Not physical?"
"Cas," Dean frowns, seriously, "Sammy and I—that day of shiva—Sammy punching me…. That was honestly a real first. Well, maybe not a real first—but normally we just have shouting matches. No hits. Not physical ones, at least. And it was only 'cause emotions were high. I provoked him."
"So what did you fight over?"
"The fight a couple of days ago?" Dean asks. Castiel nods. "I asked Sam if he'd throw away the smack, in front of me. Flush it away, so I knew it had happened."
"And?"
"He refused," Dean looks down, jaw clenching. "Said I was overstepping. What kind of bullshit?! So I said something along the lines of, you've taken it, haven't you? Innocent, nothing offensive. And I mean, a fact's a fact, he obviously had taken the heroin. But then he started saying he hadn't, that he must've lost it—and I don't know. I guess I just lost my shit. Started giving it to him, and hard, about how he was throwing his life away, about how I didn't know him any more, about how he was going nowhere, relying on me, and I was sick of it. About how his actions weren't excusable. About how Jess died nearly two years ago; he needs to get over it. And I guess I asked for it. He started giving back just as hard as he got. Said some thing—" But here, Dean falters. "He said some things that weren't too kind. But I guess I deserved them. They weren't wrong, and I was laying it pretty hard on him. But I didn't see it like that at the time. So I just stormed out. And here we are," He shrugs, shaking his head pitifully. "Haven't spoken to him, or seen him since then."
Castiel's brow slopes in melancholic sympathy.
"Oh, Dean, I'm so sorry," He shakes his head.
But Dean brushes him off.
"What're you sorry for? I'm the one who fucked up. It's on me. It's all on me."
"You didn't fuck up—"
"Oh, shut up," Dean rolls his eyes, almost snarls, bitterly.
Castiel hardens, but doesn't respond with fire.
"Have you told your mother about this?"
"I've told you, haven't I? I can't talk to my mom about anything."
"You haven't, actually," Castiel shakes his head. "And why not?"
Dean growls.
"You were the one with awesome parents, Cas, not me."
"Parent," Castiel corrects, to which Dean flushes. "And that hardly answers my question. Why can't you talk to Mary?"
"Mary," Dean presses his lips together a moment, jaw clenching, "hasn't taken responsibility for things she ought to have, and hasn't righted wrongs she's seen done. And we both know this, but neither of us acknowledge it, neither of us talk about it."
"What do you mean by that?" Castiel asks with a frown.
Dean sighs and shakes his head.
"I can't explain it," He says, defeatedly. "Not to you, not to anyone."
"Why not to me?" Castiel asks.
"Jimmy was the best dad, ever," Dean sniffs, instead of answering. "Every day, I miss him."
"Every day I miss him, too," Castiel replies. "And he loved you, Dean. So much. Saw you as his son."
"He already had three sons, Cas," Dean snorts bitterly. "He didn't need another."
"Well, he got another," Castiel counters. "Got another two," He corrects. "You and Sammy. And he wanted you, and loved you, and cared so deeply about you, Dean, you have no idea. So there."
A tear finally, finally, leaks onto Dean's cheek at this. His whole body seems to sag with the relief of it.
"You mean that?" He asks.
"Of course," Castiel replies, earnestly. His voice tears a little at his throat.
"He was so good," Dean laughs, more tears spilling onto his cheeks, now. "People are so shitty, you know? But Jimmy was so, so good."
"I know," Castiel laughs, welling up himself, "he really was."
"How did he react, when you came out?" Dean asks, looking up suddenly at Castiel. "I realise I never asked you."
"Why do you ask, now?"
"I don't know," Dean shrugs, frowning and averting his gaze. "I guess I just…. He never cared, did he? But then his faith was such a big part of who he was. I guess I just never knew how a person could… reconcile the two, I guess. I never thought they could."
"Yes, I remember you saying," Castiel replies. "All those years ago, after Charlie's party. Do you remember?"
"Of course," Dean answers, with a bitter laugh. Castiel is a little taken aback by it.
"Well, anyway, no, Jimmy didn't care. Our temple's pretty liberal, and was, even when I came out. They were more concerned about the fact that Samandriel was a goy, than that he was a man."
"What's a goy, again?" Dean asks, smiling. "A one of me?"
"One of you," Castiel nods, with a laugh. Dean chuckles. "A non-Jew."
"I could be offended by that," Dean points out, but still smiles.
"If you were, we'd have to stop being friends."
Dean laughs, rich and warm.
"So that really matters to you, huh? Would you not marry someone, if they were a gentile?"
"Nah," Castiel shrugs, "I don't know. I don't really give a shit. But then I kind of do. It's complicated."
Dean chuckles again.
"So your congregation, they didn't care that you were bi?"
"They didn't, and they don't."
"So you're still bi, then?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Castiel asks with a frown.
"I don't know—" Dean raises his hands, "sexuality is fluid, that's all. I mean, I remember how you didn't really think 'bi' suited you, when we were kids—"
"And it didn't," Castiel answers, "I just didn't know what else to call myself."
"And do you, now?" Dean asks.
"Queer," Castiel shrugs, and Dean wrinkles his nose.
"I don't really like that word."
"Well, that's alright for you, you don't have to use it. And you shouldn't call anyone queer, unless they're okay with it, especially if you're straight," Castiel points out. Dean presses his lips together, averting his gaze. "And if not bi, then pansexual," The writer admits.
"Pansexual?" Dean repeats. "The hell is that?"
"It's complicated," Castiel shifts in his seat, uncomfortable.
"Yeah, and I'm not stupid," Dean glares. "What is it? C'mon, Cas, you really think I'm gonna give you shit over you saying you're ponsexual—"
"Pansexual."
"Pansexual," Dean amends. "Whatever it is. Why would I give you shit?"
"Well, if you imagine the slating that bi people get within the community," Castiel says, "then imagine that half the community doesn't even know you exist. And then imagine that outside of that, most of the world doesn't think you exist…"
"So what is it?"
"Uh, some people describe it differently…" Castiel answers, non-comitantly.
Dean sighs, and rolls his eyes.
"And how do you describe it?"
Castiel licks his lips nervously.
He's already come out to Dean once, why should it feel like he's doing it again? And why should he have to do it again?
"As… I don't know, as attraction to all genders. Or attraction to people, regardless of gender."
"And what's the difference between pan, and bi?"
"Some people identify as both," Castiel shuffles a little more.
"But you don't?" Dean asks. "Why not?"
"'Bi' implies a 'two'—so just boy and girl. It actually means 'two or more', but it's the implication that I can't really identify with. It also—I don't know, it connotes a preference."
"How do you mean?"
"As in, you might like one gender for one reason, another gender for another. You see genders as attractive for different reasons. Which maybe some pan people do, as well—sexuality isn't concrete, neither are our definitions—but, I guess, 'pan', meaning 'all', would suggest not an indifference, but… It's as though gender isn't really a factor? If I find someone attractive, I find someone attractive."
"Right…" Dean nods slowly, as though genuinely trying to understand. "So, like, a bi person—that's like, if I think spaghetti and meatballs are fuckin' awesome. They taste real good. Wholesome and satisfying on a level. But then I also like cheesecake, which is all sweet and moreish. And maybe there's crossover, like they're both filling, but they're still different. I like them for different reasons."
Castiel laughs, taken aback.
"Right…"
"And pansexuality," Dean goes on, talking, not to Castiel it would seem, but rather to himself, nodding thoughtfully and with a distant expression as he goes on, "that's like, you go to an ice cream parlour. And there're all these flavours. And you like all of them. There's bubblegum, and strawberry, and cookies and cream, and peanut butter, and double chocolate, and they're all sugary and good, and you like all of them. So you just say to the ice cream guy, 'hey, surprise me', 'cause you know you'll be happy with whatever. Is that it?"
Dean looks up at Castiel, grinning with pride as he finishes his analogy.
Castiel bursts into laughter, beaming.
"Trust you to relate sexuality to food, Dean," He chuckles. Dean smirks. "But… That sums it up pretty well, for me. Of course, different people will say different things. Some pan people may choose to date one gender, for any kind of reason—they may actually have a preference, they may not have come out yet, et cetera. But… The ice cream metaphor is nice."
"I'm glad you think so. I guess I should be educating myself a little more on this kind of stuff, huh?"
"Maybe," Castiel admits.
"I guess it's just a pretty big world," Dean confesses, "and so many different words for things, so many articles—I've tried reading some, but my head just starts spinning—"
"Why does your head start spinning?" Castiel asks with a frown. Dean looks away, pink creeping across the expanse of his cheeks.
"I don't know," He shrugs, "attention difficulties? I can't read fucking anything, Cas. You know that."
Somehow Castiel doubts that this is the whole truth.
…
"Castiel, you do know how I loathe favours—"
"This isn't a favour," Castiel counters, pushing open the door to The Roadhouse. "If anything, I'm doing you a favour."
"That's what they all say," Balthazar rolls his eyes. Castiel turns back to him from where he stands, at the doorway, to see Balthazar taking a step back, looking up to The Roadhouse and its yellowing lights, giving the establishment a deeply appraising look. Castiel's body straightens out, as though he too, is being judged critically. He gives his friend a quietly scornful look at the discriminating character of Balthazar's features—but the gentle playing of a guitar inside distracts him.
"What a dive," Balthazar rolls his eyes, shaking his head and stepping forward. "And I suppose that's him, is it?" He asks, gesturing inside, in reference to the music emanating from within the yellow light and bustling silhouettes of Ellen's bar.
"It is," Castiel nods. He holds the door open to Balthazar. "And you'll be thanking me—"
"What makes you think that?"
"Because I've heard Dean play," Castiel explains, pushing through figures clumped together, a mess of weathered leather and denim jackets, of men who are weeks unshaven and smell more like stale beer than human being. "And he's good—the kind of good we don't get to hear anymore—or at least, that you complain that we don't get to hear anymore."
"What do you mean by that?"
Castiel finds an empty table in the corner of the bar, a fair way away from, but still in the line of sight of, the stage. The music has stopped, and Castiel guesses that Dean has gone to take a break, probably—and this thought worries him—drinking far more than he ought to be.
"What was it you said was lacking in your movie? What did it need?"
"Sincerity."
Balthazar sits down. Castiel smiles by the very corners of his mouth, and does the same.
"Exactly."
"And you think this friend of yours is what I've been looking for? The final piece in the puzzle that will stop my currently-pretentious, dispassionate, uncompelling coming-of-age film sucking proverbial dick?"
"I'm saying that you're gonna think that, when you hear him."
Balthazar rolls his eyes again and leans back on his chair. He lifts his right foot to his left knee and crosses his legs, elbow resting on his right knee. He looks up at the ceiling, obviously irritated but also caught between this frustration and his usual nonchalant indifference.
"Do you know how many people tell me they've found some new, budding talent—who also 'happens' to be a friend or relative of theirs—who they'd like to show me? Just so I can make them famous? I hate to break it to you, Cassie, but you're hardly the first—"
"If I wanted to make him famous, Balthazar, I could do it myself," Castiel sighs, sitting forward in his seat and glaring at his British friend.
"By, what?" Balthazar smirks easily, finger playing absent-mindedly with the corner of his bemused smile. "Immortalising him in fiction?"
"I have an influence, believe it or not," Castiel rolls his eyes, sitting back on his chair and closing his fists round each arm of it.
"Oh, I've heard—you got asked to speak in a school—very impressive—"
"It was my old school, Balthazar, and I was doing the principle a favour," Castiel grits his teeth.
"All I'm saying is," Balthazar raises his hands at Castiel's frustrated tone, "if you'd agreed to write that TV series with me, instead of teaching at a university, then—"
"We were talking about Dean," Castiel grumbles, rubbing his temples with middle and forefingers. "And for your information, I don't regret my decision to lecture at Edinburgh. It's the most beautiful city in the world—"
"You could be living in London with me," Balthazar tips his chair back and looks up to the ceiling wistfully. "Oh, it'd have been grand—you could've had an apartment on Southbank overlooking the Thames, a townhouse by Primrose Hill, a home in Wimbledon—"
"We were talking about Dean," Castiel repeats, already exhausted by his friend's deliberate difficulty. He crosses his hands on the table and peers earnestly at Balthazar. "Honestly, Balthazar, I wouldn't have called you if I didn't think he was any good."
"I'm sure he's good," Balthazar concedes grudgingly, exasperated, "but good isn't good enough, when it comes to making soundtracks. People want to be blown away—"
"And they will be," Castiel presses. "You've said you're making a movie about teenagers in Kansas, that you can't find anyone who can write songs for shit—well, Dean's been a teenager in Kansas. And, listening to his music, he knows all about heartbreak and tragedy and drunken nights made numb with ephemeral happiness—and none of it's pretentious. It's soul-soothing. Soul-wrenching. Listen to it, you'll see what I mean. And then we can get to talking about you making a movie out of my books—which, by the way, I'm still not sold on. I saw how you slaughtered—"
"Oh my God, fine, Castiel," Balthazar groans. "I'll listen. Where the hell is he, anyway?"
Castiel scans the bar, the tables, eyes finding Ellen, Jo, Ash, Bobby—but not Dean. Where is he? Has his set already finished?
A light brown-haired head emerges from a back room with a beer in hand. Ellen eyes the figure warily, as though worried a repeat of the last night Castiel was here will happen again.
He wears a beaten, dark denim shirt for a jacket, a gray tee under it, and jeans ripped—not by style, but by usage—in several places.
"Oh, good Lord," Balthazar laments, following Castiel's gaze, "is that him?"
Castiel swallows and turns back to Balthazar.
"What?"
And Balthazar turns back to him.
"He looks like he's caught somewhere between tramp-chic, and wannabe metalhead."
"That's probably offensive," Castiel muses, "and you consider it to be a bad thing?"
"He looks like a douche."
"Lucky that I've not suggested him as a stylist, then," Castiel counters, frowning defensively at the director-producer, "and rather a songwriter."
Balthazar smirks.
"Touché," He allows, nodding his head by way of conceding this point to the writer. "Alright," He turns back to Dean, who makes his way up to the stage, "let's hear him then."
"You won't be disappointed," Castiel promises. Balthazar laughs wryly.
"For your sake, I hope not."
Dean picks up his guitar with one hand, before taking one last, long drink from his beer and setting it down on the floor. He takes his seat on the weathered stool, and swallowing, pulls the ancient mic toward him.
"Back again," He greets, and a couple of laughs roll out from amongst the audience. People ordering drinks at the bar stop and turn to Dean, conversation dying down, almost respectfully, as he speaks. "Hope you're all havin' a good night—"
"Good God," Balthazar groans, lounging back on his chair as though he expects this to be quite an ordeal. Castiel kicks him under the table.
"Hey!" Balthazar exclaims, and Dean must hear it, because his gaze flickers over to the pair in the corner, and, for whatever reason, his expression falls.
Why is he looking so disappointed to be seeing Castiel?
Dean's eyes graze over to Balthazar, and his jaw clenches. Castiel marks the way he swallows thickly and how painful it looks, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down slowly and jarringly, as though it doesn't want to move. Suddenly Dean rips his eyes away from the pair, but his features are still sloped, his lips curl.
Is Dean disgusted to see Castiel sitting with another man?
Has he assumed that Castiel is taking Balthazar on a date? Fuck Dean! For all his pretenses—continued over and over ever since Castiel was first forced to come out to Dean—every time the green-eyed man has seen Castiel in a capacity that could be construed as even slightly gay, for want of a better word, Dean has done this: withdrawn himself, looked, acted, disgusted and disappointed with his once best friend.
And after all that Castiel has done for him? Is doing for him, in bringing Balthazar here, persuading him to listen to Dean play. And now Dean looks away from him in abhorrence because, the idiot that he is, Dean is convinced that Castiel is dating Balthazar.
Castiel shouldn't even be here! He's not supposed to listen to music live for a year after his father's death! But he's doing a favour for his friend—no, not his friend any more. This is it. Fuck this. Fuck Dean.
He seethes in his chair even as Dean speaks, and refuses to let the slow, drawling rumble of that voice soothe him.
"I, uh—" Dean's eyes are glittering. Why do they glitter? Why is he so sad? "This is a song I wrote—about—" He swallows and looks down. "About—some stupid, teenage heartbreak I went through," His voice has taken on the signature self-deprecating tone. "You know the ones," He laughs bitterly, and the audience joins in. Balthazar swears irritatedly under his breath, probably at Dean's style or manner of speech, but this time Castiel doesn't feel the need to reprimand him.
"Of course you know the ones," Dean continues, expression wry and upset. "Doubt we'd have nearly so many customers if you'd all married your high school sweethearts."
The audience laughs again at this, louder—and to Castiel's surprise, so does Balthazar, however reluctantly.
"It's under a working title," Dean admits, "and for want of a better one, for now, I'm calling it The Dark. I'll let you know when it changes, which it probably—hopefully—will, if I manage to think of anything less cruddy."
Balthazar smiles.
Castiel watches him closely.
Dean starts playing, one note at a time, the sound filled with vibrato and nostalgia as he plucks at his guitar.
I can never talk me down
I could never turn me round
At the edge of the pool, I watch me drown
I call for help but there is no sound,
No sound in a world without you.
I'm stuck on a road
I'm stood up on a roof
And it's dark, it's dark, so dark out here
It's dark out here without you.
And it's dark in the world without you.
I'll keep on hanging on
'Cause that's what I always do,
I'll keep on hanging on
'Cause I can never see things through,
And even though I spurned you, kid, I'll keep on loving you.
I sit and watch the dark at night
Instead of watching you.
Remember how we slept and you might
See what's really true,
But now the resting darkness is all I have in view,
There's no sound in a world,
It's dark in the world,
And I'll keep on loving you.
The song ends. Dean looks down, head shaking minutely in the orange light. Castiel watches it, the way the lighting catches on his cheekbones and makes his hair look darker than it really is.
Balthazar sits back in his seat and sighs. That he had been leaning forward is a good sign, and Castiel has quite forgotten his earlier anger toward Dean, now taken with observing his friend appraising the green eyed man.
But the director-producer says nothing: his hand covers his mouth in thoughtfulness and he nods his head once. Castiel is about to ask what he thought of it, but is interrupted by Jo at the table.
"Hey, sorry it's taken so long to serve you, we're kind of packed tonight," She states, straightening out her black tee. "What can I get you boys?"
Balthazar, drawn out of his contemplative stupor, turns, ready to order, but Castiel cuts him off.
"Jo," He greets, "it's good to see you. How've you been?"
Balthazar sighs pointedly.
"Yeah, okay, thank you, Cas," She smiles. "I won't assume you'll want to tell me how you are, but I hope you're doin' alright."
Castiel smiles weakly, certainly appreciating Jo's honesty—and her understanding. Jo's father died when she was just a child, alongside John Winchester, who worked with him, so she knows better than most the rawness of sudden grief.
"Thank you, Jo, that's kind of you. Is Dean the one bringing in all these customers?"
Jo laughs, looking about her.
"Y'know, he's actually built up quite a cult following. A couple of hipsters and lots of old men who miss feeling however Dean's music makes them feel, even a couple of kids trying to get in on a fake ID. He's proving popular, now he's doing his own stuff, but—" She laughs again, and shakes her head a little sadly, "you wouldn't think he believed it, listening to the way he talks about his shows."
"He doesn't think he plays well?" Castiel asks, raising his eyebrows in concern. Dean has started up a new song, this one rougher and perhaps a little trendier and retro than the last; Balthazar has turned back to him, having lost interest in the conversation. At least he's taken an interest in Dean, Castiel remarks to himself.
"He thinks it's crap," Jo sighs, half in amusement, half in frustration. "But that's Dean, y'know? Never can admit when he's doing something right. At least—" And her face falls down, a little sadly, "not any more."
Castiel's mouth closes, he presses his lips together.
"And how does he explain all the numbers?"
"The numbers?" Jo repeats with a frown.
"The number of the people coming to The Roadhouse to watch him play."
"Oh," Jo rolls her eyes, "he just thinks they're coming here for the drinks, that they dig the retro and kinda-shitty but kinda-charming vibe of the place," Jo shrugs. "I dunno. It's weird—so is Dean. Can I get you anything?"
"An Old Fashioned for me—and, Balthazar? A Gin and Tonic?"
Balthazar turns round again languidly.
"Oh, yes," He nods vaguely in confirmation. Then, looking up at Jo, "You do serve those, don't you?"
Jo bristles.
"Sure, we serve 'em," She confirms. "Anything else?"
"Shots?" Balthazar asks, turning to grin at Castiel.
"Absolutely not," The writer shakes his head. Balthazar slumps and groans in disappointment, then returns his focus to Dean. "Thank you, Jo," Castiel looks back up at her, who smiles warmly and nods once to Castiel.
"No problem. Your drinks'll be here in no time."
When she leaves, Balthazar glances back to Castiel.
"My God, she's so American."
"What does that mean?" Castiel asks with a frown. "So am I."
"No," Balthazar shakes his head, "you're not so American, you just happen to be from America. Big difference. Dean, by the way, is so American."
"And that's a bad thing?"
Balthazar shrugs.
"Depends on who you ask. If you asked me..." But he deliberately trails off.
"You're being kind of an ass," Castiel points out. "And Jo thought you were kind of an ass. I could tell."
"I am kind of an arse," Balthazar points out. "And lucky for you, I don't mind being called one."
"Well, I wish you'd be a little more polite."
"What, to the tomboy?"
"To Jo," Castiel corrects, "and yes."
Balthazar shrugs.
"Fine. There's a certain charm in being so American, you know. I never said it was an inherently bad thing."
Castiel rolls his eyes.
"Right."
"It can be very charming, in fact."
"I'm glad you think so."
"Small town, plaid shirt—"
"Shut up, Balthazar."
Balthazar laughs. Castiel glares at him, just as Dean's song ends. Jo comes over with their drinks.
"G and T," She lays it down in front of Balthazar, "and an Old Fashioned," in front of Castiel.
"Thank you, Jo," Castiel smiles.
"No problem," She returns the look, and leaves them.
"So what do you think?" Castiel asks, after a pause, in which Balthazar takes a long, smooth sip of his drink. He looks over to Castiel from the rim of his glass.
"What do I think about what?" He asks, coolly. Castiel scowls.
"Don't be like that, Balthazar, what do you think of Dean?"
Balthazar smiles coyly.
"Oh, I'm not so sure," He grimaces. "He's not really the—"
"Balthazar,"
The blond-haired man barks out a laugh just as Dean starts up his next song.
"Ah, sorry," He screws up his face in a pained expression, "I don't want to interrupt the performance. Won't tell you now."
Castiel groans and slouches down in his chair.
This song is like a shot of eighties reminiscence. It's slow and angsty and sounds almost hazy, even if the guitar parts that Dean plucks out rather than strums pierce the mood of nostalgia and longing with something vivid and distinctly pained.
I don't wanna see you dance
If it's gonna be with another man
And yeah, you've got every chance
To get out of and into any town
While I'm stuck in here, and it's all on my own
And I don't wanna see you dance.
There's a song they played on the radio
I think if I danced it with you, we'd take it slow
And there's no way out of this quiet town
And everything right now just seems so down.
I don't care if you've got exciting news
When all I've got are my strings, my drums and my blues.
You say you're not the guy I thought you were
Well I look at you and I'm not so sure.
I know the place I wanna be
I know the place I wanna be
I know the place I wanna be,
It's right with you, and I'd be happy.
It's right with you, and I'd be happy.
If I were with you, I think I'd be happy.
Balthazar is smiling, now.
Castiel stares at him.
"So," He says, strangely terrified, "seriously. Did you like it?"
Balthazar's eyes flit back to Castiel. He smiles crookedly and winningly, by the corner of his mouth.
"I think," Balthazar concedes, and Castiel's heart flutters excitedly—with joy, for Dean—inside his ribcage, "that I've found my new composer."
Castiel beams.
Dean plays another three songs—two dedicated to his father, one of them angry and heavy, and another… soft. And bitter and sad and wistful.
Well, Castiel has always known that Dean's relationship with John was strained, but here it sounds painful, pleading, as though Dean, in song, is begging his father for something. Love? Acceptance?
When it ends, Dean thanks the crowd, rather red, seemingly oblivious to their applause, and gets down from the stage. He goes straight to the bar and pours himself a needlessly large vodka.
"Jesus," Balthazar frowns, "is he going to drink that straight?"
"Most likely," Castiel sighs, watching Dean in dismay. He waves to attract the green-eyed man's attention, which Dean gives, reluctantly, after several moments, and nods in greeting. Dean presses his lips together grimly and forces a smile from across the bar. Castiel beckons him over. Then he turns back to Balthazar. "Be nice," He says. "And don't make any jokes if you think they might be rude. Okay?"
"Okay," Balthazar laughs, shaking his head. "Don't know why you're feeling so defensive of him, I don't bite."
"I think we both know that's not true," Castiel retorts, then looks back up at Dean, who is unmoving, staring at him and Balthazar. Castiel, frustrated and certainly showing it, beckons a little more forcefully. "Another thing," He turns to Balthazar, "you're sure about this? You really want to hire him?"
Balthazar sits back in his chair.
"Much as it pains me to admit it, Castiel," He says, "and believe me, it does, I think that—on this occasion—you were right."
He grimaces comically at the end of this sentence, and Castiel chuckles.
"Well then, I suppose I ought to thank you for trusting me."
Balthazar smiles warmly.
"My pleasure."
"Cas," Dean approaches the table cautiously. "Hey—hi—what's up?"
Balthazar smirks, probably at the fact that Dean has just greeted Castiel in four different ways out of nervousness, but Castiel doesn't frown at him, troubled instead by the fact that Dean still can't seem to look at Castiel straight when the writer is doing things Dean would assume to be particularly queer.
"This is Balthazar," Castiel gestures to the man sat opposite. "We came to watch you play."
"Oh," Dean shifts uncomfortably on his feet, looking down, then up to nod shortly to Balthazar. "Thank you—it's—it's nice to meet you. You guys—are you havin' a good night?"
"It's been surprisingly productive," Balthazar smiles genuinely, but Dean definitely struggles to return the look.
"Aw, great," He balls his hands together and his gaze keeps shifting like clockwork: on Castiel, briefly, before flitting to the table, to Balthazar, to Castiel again with an expression of guilt, Balthazar, the floor, the table, Castiel, the floor, over and over as he rocks from one foot to another in a strange, awkward dance. "I'm glad to hear it." He swallows, it looks painful by the way he winces and how long it takes. "Lemme—let me get you guys a drink. Wha'd'ya want?"
"That's very kind, Dean, but—" Castiel begins to protest, but Balthazar cuts him off.
"A scotch, thanks, neat. We need to celebrate. For you, Castiel?"
He turns to the writer and raises a cool, inquisitive eyebrow, which Castiel glares at, much to Balthazar's amusement.
"What're you guys celebrating?" Dean asks nervously, with an uncomfortable smile that puts Castiel ill-at-ease.
"Cassie and I have just struck up a bargain," Balthazar beams. "He's just persuaded me of something I'd been a little unsure of."
"Oh," Dean says, as if this even vaguely answers his question. "Well—that's great, I guess. What will you be having, Cassi—" He blinks miserably and corrects himself, shifting uneasily on his feet again, "Cas, sorry," He shakes his head. "Cas." He says again, and shifts once more, in such a way that Castiel begins to wonder whether Dean is, once again, drunk. "A drink? What—"
"Cas'll have a bourbon," Balthazar answers confidently, then, at the look his friend gives him, "what? We're celebrating."
Castiel sighs, but decides not to argue this one out.
"Thanks, Dean," He looks up at the green-eyed man who still stands, stiffly, beside their table. "Won't you join us?"
"Oh," Dean winces, "I wouldn't want to intrude—"
"It wouldn't be an intrusion," Castiel answers quickly, sincerely.
"Get yourself a drink," Balthazar says, sitting forward. Castiel is quietly frustrated that Balthazar is encouraging him to drink more, but guesses that arguing this over with his friend would be unproductive, too. "Come and join us."
Dean thanks them awkwardly and leaves.
Castiel sighs again.
"I'll go and help him with the drinks," He pushes himself up off the chair and stands, stretching out after remaining seated for so long. "Please don't be an ass," He says, and he walks past Balthazar on his way to the bar.
"You're asking a fish not to swim there, Cassie," Balthazar calls after him. Castiel smiles despite himself, and is still wearing the expression when he makes his way over to the bar.
Dean glances behind him and catches the expression on Castiel's face.
"What's up with you?" He asks.
"Something Balthazar said."
"Oh." Dean looks over Castiel's shoulder and presses his lips together. "You two… known each other long?"
"Um," Castiel squints, genuinely trying to remember. He rests his forearms on the bar's surface. "Not very long—I met him while I was getting my doctorate, so…"
"Four years, then?" Dean asks. "Three?"
"Yes," Castiel nods thoughtfully. "He's a director and producer. He's been trying to persuade me to let him make a movie of my books for years, now. I think I'm gonna have to give in, after tonight."
Dean looks troubled.
"So, he's pretty successful, I guess?"
Jo brings over their drinks and sets them down in front of the pair. Dean picks up Balthazar's and his own.
"I suppose," Castiel shrugs. "Honestly, from what I can tell, he's pretty rich, but…"
Dean stares at the floor as he makes his way back over to Balthazar.
"That's cool… good for him, I guess. Has he directed anything I'd know?"
"Actually," Castiel smiles, thinking that this is a pretty good segue into probing the subject of how Dean would feel about writing and singing the music for Balthazar's next movie, "he—"
"Oh, Dean, darling, thank you," Balthazar beams, getting up to take his drink from Dean. Castiel squints, frowning. Is he—is Balthazar flirting with Dean?
Well, Castiel nearly laughs, he is so barking up the wrong tree, there. And Castiel should know, after nine years of heartbreak, and fourteen years preceding that of hopeless desperation.
"No problem," Dean sits down, looking distracted. "So, Balthazar… Cas says you direct movies?"
"Yes," Balthazar smiles winningly. "And produce them."
Castiel takes his seat again.
"You—" Dean coughs once, and takes a generous sip of his drink, "you enjoy that?" He asks, obviously awkward. Balthazar smiles.
"Oh, absolutely," He confirms. "I've told Castiel, if he started working in my field, he could be making at least twice what he earns now, but," Balthazar shrugs with exaggerated remorse, "the man says he just likes teaching, too much."
"Well," Dean's lips twitch upwards, "I think he's pretty good at what he does. I reckon we need more lecturers who honestly love their subjects, and their students."
"I suppose you're right," Balthazar sighs.
"You working on anything at the moment?"
"As a matter of fact," The director smiles winningly, "I'm just starting on a new one. It's a coming of age one, you know, those stiflingly pretentious but inevitable money-makers that teenagers searching for meaning can't help but all flock to."
"You really feel so down on it?" Dean raises his eyebrows.
"It's more a defense mechanism," Balthazar shrugs, surprisingly honestly. "I am hoping it'll turn out well, but we've hit quite a few stumbling blocks along the way. Some of those have been clearing up though," He smiles, and winks over to Castiel, which Dean notices with a furrowed brow, "which is a pleasant thought. We're also just working on the final editions of another movie, which will be released in February."
"What kind of movie?" Dean asks.
"Romance."
"Nice—for Valentine's day, I guess?"
"Around then," Balthazar smiles. "But it's just a straight romance. More drama than rom-com."
"Who's gonna be in it?"
"Uh," Balthazar, perhaps more for dramatic effect than actual thoughtfulness, looks down at his hands and examines his fingernails as he thinks, "not many big names. Some actors new to the scene—Frankie Corrigan, Charlotte Barry, Brent Valenti."
"Brent Valenti?" Dean repeats, raising his eyebrows suddenly.
Balthazar feigns surprise, looking up from the nails he was still examining.
"Oh, you've heard of him?"
"The porn star?" Dean asks, disbelieving, then obviously realises what he has said, and flushes deeply.
Balthazar smirks. Something about the expression makes Castiel uncomfortable. Balthazar has always had the look of a man who knows more than he would ever let on, and would always use his knowledge to his own advantage—there is something in the thick brow, the permanent charm and charisma, the sarcasm and calculatedly scruffy facial hair that suggests a man too intelligent and cunning for anybody else's good.
"The porn star," He confirms. "He also has a penchant for acting, it seems." He takes a long sip of his drink. Dean looks away, swallowing, face red. He's obviously uncomfortable with the look Balthazar is giving him, perhaps because he is worried the director is flirting with him—which, Castiel realises, Balthazar may well be.
"I've, uh," Dean fumbles, getting up, "I've gotta sing a couple more songs. Set's not technically over, yet, so…" He picks up his drink and downs the last of it hastily, hardly wincing. Castiel watches, troubled.
"Well, come back to us, when you're done," Balthazar smiles. Castiel nods in return of Dean's wave to him.
"Good luck," He wishes, "though I'm sure you don't need it."
Dean clearly fakes his smile in response, and distractedly makes his way up to the stage again.
"So," Balthazar turns back to Castiel "Dean," He grins, brilliantly.
"What about him?" Castiel frowns.
"Dean," Balthazar repeats, smile growing impossibly wider.
"Dean…?"
"You really don't see it?" Balthazar asks, feigning incredulity.
"Obviously not," Castiel frowns, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, "or I wouldn't be asking. See what? What are you talking about?"
"But you knew him since high school," Balthazar shakes his head in mournful exasperation. "And you really can't tell?"
"Kindergarten," Castiel corrects. "And tell what?"
"Dean," Balthazar begins, both matter-of-fact and utterly dramatic, "is so totally, and obviously, and outrageously gay."
Castiel nearly snorts out his drink.
Dean has adjusted the mic and speaks into it, now, but Castiel murmurs to Balthazar instead of listening.
"I hate to tell you this, Balthazar," He can't help but feel amused, "but you literally couldn't be any more wrong."
"How do you know?" Balthazar asks, not even defensive. He smirks over at his friend as he takes another sip of his drink.
"Dean is straight," Castiel replies, very much unamused. He knows Dean is straight.
"How do you know?" Balthazar repeats, chuckling.
"I've known him all his life, near enough—"
"Have you?" Balthazar asks, with a thoughtful frown. "I thought you hadn't spoken to him for nine years—"
"Shut up, Balthazar," Castiel clenches his fist. "Dean is straight."
"How do you know?" Balthazar asks again.
"He's had girlfriends, and he was definitely attracted to them."
"So?" Balthazar shrugs. "He's gay in the umbrella sense of the word, then. Maybe he's bi, maybe he's pan, maybe he just calls himself queer, but if we're using gay for any man attracted to other men, if we're using it as an umbrella term, then Dean is that gayest man I think I've ever met. Dean is so gay."
"What proof do you have?" Castiel asks, rolling his eyes and knowing that he, at least, has the best evidence for Dean's straightness out of anyone on this earth.
Dean begins singing a new song, and Castiel realises what it is, La Vie En Rose, in French.
Balthazar smirks so widely it's almost ugly.
"This, for one thing," He gestures to the stage and to Dean. "This is the gayest song I've ever heard. And he's singing it in French. The lyrics might as well be I like to get boned—"
"Balthazar!" Castiel hisses, face growing hot. "Stop it!" His friend only leers again, Castiel rolls his eyes. "Dean is straight," He reiterates, "and I know because he's told me, a lot of times."
And every time it broke his heart. One time in particular, though. There is one time that Dean told Castiel he was straight, that just about killed Castiel, destroyed him, forever.
Dean's beautiful rough voice, in French, no less, and his delicate playing of the guitar, and the stillness of The Roadhouse, and thinking of the moment Castiel's heart was shattered beyond repair and beyond ever being able to love like that, again, are slowly eating away at his already charred soul. He can feel his voice cracking in his throat before he even speaks.
"Oh, yes, and people always tell the truth about their sexuality," Balthazar rolls his eyes, droll.
"He did, that time!" Castiel barks out. "He's straight, he has to be!"
Castiel's heart begins to break.
But what if Dean isn't? What if Dean is queer, too, and just never loved Castiel?
"He has to be?" Balthazar repeats, incredulous. "Listen, Cassie, my gaydar is better than anyone's. You know this—"
"He's told me he's straight," Castiel's jaw clenches, his digs his nails into the palm of his hand. "He's told me. He wouldn't lie. He'd have no reason to be ashamed, if he wasn't, seeing as we talked frankly about my sexuality, all the time. If he were queer, I of all people would know it."
And it's true. But maybe, once upon a time, Castiel had hoped beyond all hope that Dean wasn't straight. And maybe, that hope beyond all hope had translated itself into a belief that Dean wasn't straight, that he was, in fact, in the umbrella sense of the term, gay.
And that hope had been dashed, all too painfully, once. Once is enough. Castiel won't allow himself to hope again.
"Well, if you say so," Balthazar sits back, finally accepting defeat, as Dean begins to sing La Vie En Rose in English, now. "I suppose you'd know better than anyone, him being your best friend and all. Why would either of you keep secrets from each other. Why would either of you lie?"
"Exactly," Castiel grumbles back. "We didn't."
He needs Dean to be straight, more than he wants Dean to be straight. He glances over to the green eyed man playing the guitar, and his heart curls both in further heartbreak and vindictive triumph as he catches Dean winking over to a pretty female member of the crowd, wearing deep red lipstick with long dark hair.
"See?" Castiel gestures to the interaction as the woman blushes, beaming. "Straight as an arrow. And those are his words, by the way."
"Straight as an arrow," Balthazar repeats, still smiling, though this time it is more of a thoughtful smile than an obnoxious one, and nodding slowly. "I don't know how I got so it mixed up."
"Well, me neither," Castiel growls out, sinking down into his seat, unsure why he felt so affronted during this interaction with the director.
"Of course," Balthazar says, as though suddenly and distractedly realising something, just as Dean finishes his song to rapturous applause, and gives an introduction to his next one, "there's one thing Dean's straightness doesn't explain," He frowns, feigning something both troubled and thoughtful in his expression.
"What?" Castiel asks, turning back to his friend and sighing. Honestly, he thought they'd dropped this.
"He knew the name Bent Valenti," Balthazar shrugs, as though it doesn't really matter.
"Who?" Castiel asks with a frown.
"One of the guys in my film. One of my actors," Balthazar finishes his drink and begins gathering up his things.
"And your point is?" Castiel frowns, squinting at his friend.
"Well, I only mention it, because he's a porn star," The director goes on, as though this is hardly important.
"Oh, gross, Balthazar," Castiel wrinkles his nose, "and you shouldn't be surprised that Dean watches porn enough to know the names of people in it. If you grew up with him, you wouldn't be surprised. Always making dirty jokes."
Balthazar has stood up. Castiel turns back to look at Dean.
"I'm off," He says, brusquely. "I've got a lot to sort out, this week, and not enough time to socialise beyond business matters. Thanks for introducing me to Dean. I really do think he'll be perfect, and you know I wouldn't say that unless I meant it. So thank you. I'll get in contact with him."
"No problem," Castiel murmurs, still watching Dean.
"I suppose you must really care for him, if you want him to make it this badly."
"He's a good friend," Castiel says, licking his lips as he watches Dean ramble on about how the song he's about to play is a song that has always reminded him of his youth and particular characters from it.
"Well," Balthazar smirks, "you're a good friend, to be doing this, for him."
He makes his way to leave, then stops short, and turns around.
"Oh!" He exclaims.
"What?" Castiel nearly groans out in exasperation.
"It's just that, now I think of it—Brent Valenti is only in one kind of porn."
"Stop talking about porn, you sound like a total creep—"
"Gay porn," Balthazar nods, matter-of-factly, interrupting Castiel. "And like, the gayest of gay porn. Male orgies, boss and secretary scenes, daddy kinks, all sorts of fun. Not that that ought to change anything in our straight or gay? debate. Like I said, if you're sure he's straight, then he must be. You have known him for so long, after all." And he turns around again, and begins to make his way out. "But gay porn," Balthazar says to himself, quite loudly, so that Castiel can hear it, and several other members of the crowd turn around, frowning.
Castiel stares at the retreating back of the director, who doesn't so much as wave goodbye, dumbfounded.
Dean begins playing Stand by Me.
Castiel turns back to him, head spinning.