III.
After walking away from the stage, away from his friend, all Cas registered was the buzzing in his ears. When he'd confronted Dean about…the event…he'd expected, even hoped, that the performer would deny it, release a slew of excuses and fervent lies, anything to avoid the truth of the matter. Instead, he'd received a desperate, flabbergasted silence. A silence that destroyed the doubts he'd clung to and clarified, grounded the candid truth in certainty. Pushing it aside as a mistaken misunderstanding was no longer possible.
Cas didn't return to the hotel right away. Sitting alone in solitude would only exacerbate his fragmented state of mind. Rather, he wandered inside the auditorium hallways, past the empty food and merchandise stands, post-concert clutter still scattered across the cement ground. Every item drove the betrayal deeper into his heart. Posters lining the walks boasted Dean's freckled features, provoking all the memories whose actuality Cas was beginning to doubt.
Thinking back, Cas started wondering if he should have known better. It wasn't like this was the first time, after all. But regardless of how often people he trusted ruined that trust, he couldn't remember it ever hurting this much. He wondered if it was because he loved Dean more than any of those people.
Friends and family and former girlfriends always told Cas he wore his heart on his sleeve, that he loved too easily. Cas didn't understand how this could be a weakness. For him, it was the only way to draw close to someone. Sure, it made fall-outs and breakups all that more difficult, but it added a beautiful openness to any relationship.
That's how it was with Dean. When he first met the rock star, whose personality was tough and selfish at best, he admired him immediately. The backstage pass won via a radio competition earned Cas admittance to a new opportunity. And considering the opposing nature of their characters, they'd struck up a strong friendship fairly quickly.
Cas stopped in front of another plastered poster, declaring the famous lineup for the night, including his favorite a new tune that Cas remembered Dean writing. Dean, muttering to himself while nursing a beer, humming the same lines over and over under his breath. Dean, drilling Cas for his opinion, finalizing the melody on his acoustic guitar. Dean, pausing in his work to turn next to him and kiss Cas, informing him that it inspired his creative muse.
Clenching his fists at the memory, Dean trudged on, remembering the warm, strong grip on his shoulders, Dean's breath on his neck, firm fingers pressing into his back, the evening turning into night, Dean's artistic process moving from the desk into the hotel bed that smelled of cigarette smoke, though Cas' heart pounding in his head blocked out the reek. Cas recalled the mastery with which Dean explored his body, his hands roaming every inch of Cas' skin, from his face to the most sensitive areas, allowing Cas to reciprocate his affections, making love to him until the early hours of the morning, whispering words into Cas' ear that, in retrospect, must have been lies. The thought burned in Cas' throat, or maybe those were tears. Did he actually at one point share a connection with Dean? Or had he been flattering himself?
He should have known better. The only thing Dean knew was how to use other people. Perhaps Cas disillusioned himself into thinking he could change his musical idol. He should have known better; one can't change a person so deeply ingrained in such a lifestyle. Maybe Dean was simply too cold to hold.