Dean could easily have made a habit of stopping by Sam's residence hall every evening, operating under the guise of being a caring, if somewhat overinvolved, big brother, while actually playing the part of private audience of one to his anonymous pianist. He could have done that, but he fought the urge. For one thing, they weren't concerts, and it felt wrong to eavesdrop on someone's personal playing like that. Was there such as thing as a "Listening Tom"? If there was, that was what Dean was doing, and it didn't sit right in his stomach.

For another thing, whoever was playing didn't play every night. Dean clamped down hard on the disappointment he felt on nights when the hall lounge was silent.

But it was okay; he was doing fine, and he didn't need the distraction with that kind of regularity. Most of the time, actually, he felt pretty damn good. He sent silent thanks to Benny and the other commanding officers who had drilled into his head the skills and tenacity he needed in order to buckle down and do hard work when the voices in his head screamed his inferiority. Maybe he wasn't a natural student like Sam, but by God, he was stubborn.

Even so, even when he wasn't actively fighting off nightmares, Dean felt a low-level itch much of the time. Maybe it came from those incessant mental critics, whose voices sounded remarkably like his father when they didn't sound like Dean's own voice. Maybe it came from the sense of being "too old" for this, enviously watching the easy camaraderie between Sam and his friends and wishing he could feel as relaxed as they seemed to be. He wasn't sure whether his shoulders had fully unknotted in years.

"Sam's doing fine, you're doing fine. Why do you think you're still so anxious?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'm just used to it."

"Not everything is a war, Dean. You can't live your life on guard."

Dean's counselor was good at getting to the root of problems, but knowing the issue and fixing it were two different things. All the meditation practice and breathing exercises in the world couldn't break through what he'd spent years cementing in place.

So he rationalized and he rationed, saving his longer visits with Sam for the evenings when the itch was the strongest, making excuses to himself as he subtly checked his watch to time his exits for the hours he'd determined were most likely to coincide with the soothing music that worked such wonders on his mind. "It's not like that's a dedicated practice room or somebody's personal space," he said to himself. "Hell, if I lived here, in one of the suites near the front of the hall, I could probably hear the playing from my room. They have to know it's not all that private, so it's no big deal." The excuses sounded much more convincing when Dean wasn't slouching against the wall in the dark, but he clung to the flimsy reasoning as he closed his eyes and floated on the melodies.

It was perfectly fine. It wasn't creepy at all. A tree falling in the forest needs somebody around to hear, even if they never say anything, or what's the point? But, then…

"Hey, you. Past curfew. Who signed you in?"

Dean jumped at the sudden sound of the voice in front of him. He had been so absorbed that he hadn't heard footsteps, and now the hall security guard was frowning impatiently.

"I, uh, it's my brother. He lives here."

"Doesn't mean you get to go wandering around whenever you feel like it. Do you have any idea what time it is? Rules are rules, and if you are here as a guest –"

"I know! I know. We just lost track of time, and…" Dean had grabbed his bag and was trying to head toward the door as swiftly as he could, but the guard was apparently in the mood to lecture. He wasn't being quiet about doing it, either, and Dean noticed with a sinking feeling in his gut that the piano had gone silent behind the door at his back. "I'll go now! I'm really, really sorry, and I swear, it won't –"

"He's with me."

A gravelly voice over his shoulder nearly made Dean climb the air, in his state of nervous agitation. His bag fell from his hands as he pivoted back and to the side, seeing that the lounge doorway was now open and occupied by a dark-haired guy standing in shadow. Dean couldn't see his face clearly, but his posture spoke of weariness and tension. Dean swallowed hard, not at all sure what was happening or what he should say.

"You're his brother?" The guard eyed the newcomer skeptically, unconvinced.

"No." The silence stretched. Apparently, no further explanation was forthcoming. Dean fidgeted slightly, watching the stare-down between guard and student; he figured anything he said would redirect that tension back onto himself, so he clenched his jaw to keep from making any nervous wisecracks. The guard broke first.

"Keep your guests with you. Hall policy," he growled as he dropped his gaze and turned to stalk away. Watching him go, Dean fought the wild urge to sprint away in the opposite direction before the attention could be redirected at him. His rational mind tried to reassure him that, realistically, there was no way to know that he had been sitting and listening; he could have been sneaking out of another student's room, or even just fallen asleep in a common area by accident. But the other guy must have suspected something weird, for him to have vouched for him like that. What was his game?

Drawing himself up, Dean turned and forced a wide grin. "Thanks, man. I owe you one."

"You owe me more than one, I think. How long were you sitting here listening?"

Well. So much for any hope of escaping with dignity intact. Time for damage control. "I was just on my way out, really. Wasn't lying about my brother – he lives here, and I was hanging with him and his roomies. Heard you playing, and you were good, so I just, uh, slowed down a little. You know, while I was walking out."

"No. These floors creak, and footsteps are loud." The man stepped forward a bit out of the shadows, leveling an sharp, unreadable gaze at him, and the intensity of the suddenly visible blue eyes pierced Dean to his core. In that moment, he would have sworn this guy knew every wrongdoing he'd ever done, back to the time in grade school when he'd convinced his little brother that jumping from the roof was a good way to learn to fly. "You were sitting out here, listening. Why?"

Dean wanted to lie. He wanted desperately to make some excuse that would let him escape those eyes, run out the door, forget tonight had happened. A deeper part of him, though, wanted something different. That part of him wanted to make this right. He didn't want this guy thinking he was a creeper; he felt a strange, powerful need to explain himself. It didn't matter that this was a complete stranger. For unfathomable reasons, Dean felt reluctant to break a connection that the two of them hadn't even begun to build.

"I've been out here about an hour," he confessed in a rush. Then he winced and added, "So far. Tonight."

Blue eyes narrowed as the guy tilted his head in confusion. "Tonight?"

"I've heard you playing before, other times," Dean muttered, blushing. "Sometimes I stop and listen."

Anger flashed across the other man's face, and he rolled his eyes as he threw up his hands and spun away. "Wow. And here I was, thinking I was dealing with moderate levels of creepy. You know, closed doors generally indicate a desire for privacy. If I'd wanted a groupie, I'd have sold tickets." He strode to the piano bench and sat, keeping his back to Dean.

"Hey! C'mon, it wasn't like that!" Embarrassment mingled with rising irritation. "I'm not some kind of stalker! Dude, you play music in a public area of a building where hundreds of people live, and sometimes I happen to be here when you do. That's all. Before tonight, I didn't even know if you were a girl or a guy. I just…" He huffed, closing his eyes in frustration. "I wanted to listen. Shoot me."

"Why?" Now Dean was the one feeling confused, and he glanced up to see the other student eyeing him cautiously. "I mean, not 'Why would I shoot you?' I think we've covered why I might feel so inclined, were I a violent person." A lightning-quick flash in his eyes was the only sign that any humor, however dry, was intended in the deadpanned statement. "Why would you want to listen? Don't you have a radio? Maybe an eight-track player?"

Dean ignored the jab. "Don't play dumb. You know damn well you're good."

"So, what, free concert?"

"No! Just…" He sighed. "Look, I just have trouble getting my brain to shut off sometimes, and, well, the first time I heard you playing, it…it helped. I don't know why, but it did. And nights like tonight, like lots of nights, I know I'm not gonna get any sleep, because…" He jammed the brakes on the outpouring; this guy wasn't interested in his issues. "Well, I'm just not, which sucks. But whatever stream-of-consciousness-type stuff you've got going in here, when you're playing? Feels like it's picking through my messed-up thoughts somehow, making them quiet down for a while. I don't get it, but there you go. Maybe that makes me a psycho groupie, but I'm a nightmare-free groupie, so I'll take it."

When he trailed off, Dean's irritation had evaporated as the awkwardness returned in force. The guy hadn't said a word while Dean confessed, turning away and not even looking at him. Dean knew that it was over, that the guy was going to go out and invest in a keyboard with headphones so he'd never have to deal with weirdo eavesdroppers again. So much for making it right, he thought in resignation. He started to turn toward the doorway to leave.

"Castiel."

Of all the things he might have expected the guy to mutter at him, that was definitely not on the list. "What?"

"Castiel. It's my name." The man turned around on the piano bench and studied him. "If you're going to be my groupie, you should know my name. You know, in case you want to print it on a tee-shirt."

Dean couldn't help snorting a small laugh. "I'd have to get you to spell it for me first." He paused, wondering whether the situation could yet be salvaged. "And I'm Dean. You should know my name, so you can apply for restraining orders. You haven't really made it big until you've had to file for at least one."

They considered each other from across the room, challenge weighing heavy in the air between them. Finally, Castiel nodded. "Maybe I'll hold off on the restraining order pending further investigation. You said you weren't betting on sleep tonight?" Dean nodded cautiously. "Neither was I. It appears we have that in common, then. I'll allow you to make up for eavesdropping by buying me a cup of coffee."

Castiel didn't know why he'd changed his mind. He had been so furious that one of the few luxuries he allowed himself had been interrupted; these days, he could count on one hand the moments during any given week in which he felt really relaxed, and tonight he had been robbed of one of them. Was it so much to ask that the wee hours of the night be his own to do with as he liked?

But this man, standing there in front of him, describing the clouds of noise blanketing his mind – the very same clouds through which Castiel fought his way every day – somehow managed to break through that fury. It was ludicrous; when Dean described his sleepless nights, hinting at insomnia and nightmares, he had no way of knowing that the entire reason Castiel was awake and sitting at the keys was to quiet his own angry brain. Looking into Dean's eyes, he'd seen a flash of sameness, and he couldn't hold onto his anger.

Not that he was going to let him off the hook easily. They were sitting in a booth in an all-night diner, sipping coffee that tasted as though it had been on the burner since lunchtime, and he was enjoying watching Dean squirm a bit. "It's a simple question, Dean. You've been lurking out there for weeks, by your own admission. You had to have been thinking something about who was playing."

"I'm telling you, I just didn't give it much thought," Dean said ruefully. "I figured you probably weren't a piano major – not that you're not good enough! Shit, that's not what I meant!" Cas had cocked an eyebrow, feigning offense, but he dropped it with a wicked grin when Dean looked like he was starting to panic. "Oh, whatever. I just meant that if you were studying piano for your degree, you'd probably be doing at least a little actual practicing – repeating things over and over, you know."

"I know what you meant," Castiel reassured him.

"Good, okay," Dean said. "Beyond that, I was more into what you were doing than who you were. For all I knew, you were the night janitor, or maybe a resident ghost. Wouldn't have mattered. I'd still have sat there." He shrugged and smiled apologetically.

"And now that you know I'm not?" Castiel was curious about whether seeing his face had changed anything about the perception of his music. His mind helpfully supplied a memory of Jimmy, painstakingly running through the etude drills assigned by their childhood music teacher, and he shoved the image away.

"Well, do I really know you're not? You could still be a very convincing ghost," Dean said with a smirk.

No, I'm just carrying one with me. Castiel grimaced, but Dean didn't notice.

They lingered over the bad coffee, taking occasional subtle glances at the clock hanging above the diner counter. After catching Dean doing so for the third time, Castiel realized that they were doing the same thing: putting off the moment when they would have no choice but to fall into their beds and pray desperately for a dreamless sleep. That realization made his decision for him.

"Dean, I'm not tired yet," Castiel lied. He was, but there was a difference between being tired and being able to do anything about it. "I think I want to go back to the hall and play a bit more tonight. If you'd like, you can join me, but only if you come in out of the hallway." Dean looked a little stunned by the invitation, so Cas eased the moment by joking, "I don't think the poor guard can handle another confrontation tonight."

Dean smiled. "Only because you broke him, Cas. He had that whole lecture thing going, and you robbed him of his moment."

Castiel caught the nickname, and he decided not to say anything about it. Nicknames were for friends, and friendships didn't figure prominently in that short list of luxuries. But, God, he was so lonely, and maybe, so long as he could just keep his focus, it wouldn't harm anything to let himself enjoy having that warm smile directed at him once in a while.