Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Castiel Novak shouldn’t be here. This isn’t his kind of thing. The crunching guitars, the rhythm of the drums that vibrates against the walls and the floor, the heat-and-alcohol-soaked bodies slamming against one another in the mosh pit. No, this isn’t his thing, not the kind of place he would ever willingly be found on a Saturday night.  

This is the kind of thing that Castiel had spent too many nights putting together, controlling, managing, miles and miles from home, while his own life fell apart. While his marriage crumbled into divorce papers and his kids forgot who he was. But, tonight, he’s not here to work. Not here to make sure some pop star doesn’t lose it on stage. He’s just here because he can be, because he’s a goddamn VIP now and he can do whatever he wants, go wherever he wants.

And wherever he wants is apparently this sold-out show in this too-small venue, where the biggest band on 66 Seals Management Company’s roster is playing an exclusive concert before the release of their tenth studio album. At least that’s what Castiel has been told. He never really paid much attention to Angel Sigils, except when there was some public-relations crisis involving lead singer Dean Winchester.

There were a couple of drunken backstage fights with opening acts. A couple of sex tapes. The whiskey-and-drug fueled orgy with a Canadian minor league baseball team. Castiel doesn’t know too many details, he’d tried to stay far away from all the controversies. Angel Sigils is managed by Fergus Crowley anyway, who makes a shitload more money than Castiel, and who people say could control Hell if it existed.

But Hell might be easier to control than Dean Winchester, who’s on stage flipping off someone in the crowd, sweat dripping from his hair and down his neck, moving his hips just enough to let everyone in the crowd imagine what he would look like fucking each one of them. Or maybe that’s just what Castiel is imagining right now. Sweat-covered Dean Winchester writhing underneath him, sweat-covered Dean Winchester giving into everything Castiel wants.

Castiel shouldn’t be here. This isn’t his kind of thing. But maybe it should be.

“This is the last song, are you going to the afterparty?” Bela Talbot doesn’t look up from her phone as she leans into Castiel’s ear, barely able to raise her voice above the music. She’s posting pictures to Angel Sigils’ Twitter account, Instagram account, swiping back and forth between the apps and scrolling through the comments.

“I don’t know.” Castiel wraps his fingers around the metal makeshift barrier that separates the stage from the pit. He isn’t sure why he doesn’t know what he’s doing after this. His other option is to go home to the empty apartment he’s been renting for the past few months and stare at the ceiling while trying to sleep.

“You should come.” She grips onto Castiel’s shoulder. “You could use some fun. It’s upstairs—VIP access only, you know. All paid for by Chuck fucking Shurley. Sometimes I’m not even sure that guy really exists.”

“Unfortunately, he does, I’ve met him. He doesn’t leave his office on the top floor very often. Usually only to fire someone important.” The president and CEO of 66 Seals doesn’t talk to Castiel much either. And Castiel has no desire to change that. Chuck Shurley is nothing but an asshole with a God complex.

“I guess a lowly social media manager like me isn’t good enough for Chuck to have a conversation with, right?” She’s still focused on her phone, the red haze of lights from the stage shining down on her face. “Anyway, every single comment on these pictures I posted is about wanting to fuck Dean Winchester.”

Castiel almost says something like, Yeah, I get it, but decides whatever fantasies he’s having right now are better left unspoken. So, he turns his eyes back up to the stage, to Dean Winchester sweating and banging his head and gritting his teeth before letting out a scream that’s maybe something close to what it sounds like when he comes.

The noise of the crowd doesn’t die down, not even a little, when the last shreds of guitar echo through Club Meteor. There’s still a roar of we love you, Dean, when the bright lights come on and the stage is nothing but deserted instruments and tangles of amplifier cords.

There’s only something close to quiet when the back doors open, and a rush of cool air from the lobby rushes in. Only a few fans linger on the beer-can-and-joint strewn floor, wandering around, maybe looking for a ride home, or someone to ride at home, something like that.

“So, you’re coming with me, right?” Bela pulls at the gold badge hanging around her neck. “It’s not every day I get to party with someone like Dean Winchester. My friends are jealous. Even my mom is jealous.”

Castiel slips his own phone from the pocket of his jeans. He’s not even used to being dressed like this at a concert. Usually, he’s working. Usually, he has on some neatly pressed suit and tie and trying to make sure nothing goes wrong. Usually, he has to act like a fucking professional. But the lack of text message notifications on his screen reminds him that no one needs him, and tonight, he can be whoever the hell he wants to be. Someone who goes to afterparties with Rock’s Most Notorious Bad Boy, or whatever the Spin magazine cover that’s framed in Crowley’s office had proclaimed Dean Winchester.

“Yeah, I’m coming with you.” Castiel glances down at his own All Access pass, hanging from a black lanyard adorned with the band’s pentagram logo. It’s the same symbol that so many people here tonight had tattooed into their skin. Going to parties with the talent was something Castiel tries to avoid. He’d always figured it was better not to witness the kinds of things that happen there.

Purple lights fill the stairwell leading up to a room identified only as The Lounge on a sign hanging crooked in front of it. Castiel stops somewhere midway, watching Bela’s heels as they continue up the stairs. She turns back to him, reaches her hand out toward him. “Come on, Cas. You deserve to have some fun. Let go for once.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Castiel wraps his fingers around the railing, pulling himself up another stair. He steps to the side, as someone he doesn’t know pushes by him, and waits for Bela to respond. From somewhere upstairs, there’s music playing. The electric guitars of the stage have been replaced by a thumping bass beat.

“It means you could use to have some fun. Are you going to deny that?” Her hair falls over her shoulder as she leans forward, and her silver earrings sparkle in the violet glow. “No? You’re not? So let’s go.”

Castiel knows she’s right. The past few months have been anything but easy. Meetings with divorce lawyers, court dates. A tour canceled by one of his biggest artists. It wasn’t Castiel’s fault that Ladyheart’s Vince Vincente had convinced himself he was possessed by the Devil, but the band couldn’t continue with a singer who was telling everyone Lucifer was living in his head.

At the top of the stairs, a man wearing a leather vest and hat lets Bela pass into the room without question, but motions to Castiel. “You on the list?” He’s holding a typewritten paper between his fingers.

“Cas Novak. I’m with the management company.” Castiel lifts his pass up from around his neck. “Do you need to see ID or something?”

“Nah man, I’ve heard about you. You just never show up at places like this.” He holds his hand out to Castiel. “I’m the Chief. Chuck Shurley hires me for all these events, to keep people in line.”

Castiel forces a nod and a smile. “I hope what you’ve heard hasn’t been too bad.”

“No, not at all.” The Chief steps aside to let Castiel pass. “But I can keep you in line later if you want. You know, you ain’t been had until you’ve been had by the Chief.”

Castiel doesn’t say no. It’s been a long time. It’s been so long that he can’t even remember what it’s like to be had by anyone. He could use it.

Dean Winchester is standing by the bar, doing shot after shot of something, a group of people surrounding him, cheering him on, doing whatever he wants them to do. Castiel knows one of them is Angel Sigil’s guitar player Benny Lafitte, who was the co-star of one of Dean’s leaked sex tapes. Another is actress Lisa Braeden, who Dean had a messy break u with over a year ago. Castiel isn’t sure why he remembers that.

“Fuck, he really is hot, isn’t he?” Bela is standing in a corner, her gaze lost on Dean.

Castiel finds himself more focused on the sweat still dripping off of Dean’s neck, the way his black shirt with the torn-off sleeves is clinging to his body, than anything else going on around him right now. “I think I need a drink,” is all he can think of to say to avoid answering Bela’s question.

The bartender says her name is Jo and she doesn’t wait for Castiel to order before passing him a glass full of amber-colored liquid. “You look like you could use this.”

“I definitely could.” Castiel lifts the glass to his lips, lets a sip pass down his throat. He stops himself from wincing as it runs through his insides. “That’s really strong.” He pours more of it into his mouth, letting it linger on his tongue before swallowing.

“Like I said, you look like you could use it.” She pours another glass for him and leaves it on the table. Castiel can’t even really remember the last time he had a drink, other than maybe a beer or two at some work dinner, to numb the feeling of the company he was forced to spend time with. But tonight seems like a good night to change that.

Glass in hand, Castiel turns back to Dean. He’s trying to do another shot, but someone is pulling him back. “Come on Dean.” Sam Winchester raises his voice over the music that Castiel realizes is being played by some DJ buried in the opposite corner of the room. “Enough.”

Sam doesn’t have the kind of reputation his older brother does. But he’d dropped out of law school at some point to become the drummer in Angel Sigils, leaving behind an almost-full scholarship at Stanford Law. Castiel remembers reading about it late at night in some article online while sleepless in another hotel bed and wondering what it would be like if he could just forget about his overpriced Cornell MBA and run off to be a rockstar.

“Cas, you actually came. Why?” Fergus Crowley taps Castiel on the shoulder with one hand, holding a glass of scotch in the other. “Why willingly subject yourself to this?”

“I needed to get out, I think.” Castiel struggles to pull his attention away from Dean. “And Bela made me.” He glances over at Bela, who seems to be stuck in a conversation with one of the interns who probably isn’t supposed to be here.

“Well, maybe you can convince Dean Winchester that he can’t back out of his interview on Happy Sunday America tomorrow morning? It’s promo for the new album release and he says he won’t do it, says the show sucks and everyone on it sucks too.” Crowley adjusts the collar of his suit jacket, lifts his scotch to his mouth.

“Well, he’s right, isn’t he?” Castiel leans back against the bar, where Jo slides him another drink. “Have you ever watched that show? The people are all fucking annoying. They smile too much.” Castiel replaces his empty glass with the full one.

“Yes, of course he’s right. But I need to go convince him to do the fucking interview.” Crowley pushes his way into the constantly changing circle of people that surround Dean. That circle quickly dissipates when Crowley pulls Dean away, into some booth on the other side of the room. From where Castiel is sitting, he can see only Dean’s smirk.

Castiel turns back to the bar, but Jo has moved on to serving Benny some blood-red cocktail. Feeling a little more than buzzed, Castiel finds his phone and places it down in front of him. Still no notifications, still no one looking for him. He opens up Twitter to the pictures Bela had posted on @angelsigils, clicks on them, zooms in on the veins on Dean Winchester’s neck, the way his lips brush against the microphone. Castiel closes his eyes, tries to deny to himself that he’s imagining what it would feel like to have those lips wrapped around his dick. He takes another sip of whiskey. Maybe if he gets drunk enough, he’ll forget all about being lonely and horny.

“I’m done with this shit.” Crowley drops his empty glass onto the table beside Castiel. “I can’t deal with this anymore.”

“No Happy Sunday America?” A wave of lightheadedness tells Castiel it’s time to stop drinking.

“He promised to show up. But everything is a goddamn fight. I’m not used to this. People fucking listen to me.” His British accent somehow becomes more apparent when he’s angry.

“I don’t think he listens to anyone.” Castiel pushes his glass away, the images on his phone screen now blurry. “So, good luck dealing with him tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you, Castiel.” Crowley ignores whatever the Chief is saying to him, disappears into the purple stairwell lights.

The music has died down now to classic rock being played through speakers somewhere overhead, and the room smells like cigarette smoke and weed and something else Castiel isn’t sure he’s ever smelled before. He picks up a napkin sitting in front of him, folds it until he can’t see the words Club Meteor written across it anymore. Swiping aside the pictures of sweaty Dean Winchester, he opens his text messages to the last thing Claire sent him. It just says, Sorry, Dad. I’m busy this weekend, maybe next weekend, I’ll let you know.

And Castiel knows it’s normal for a sixteen-year-old to want to go out with her friends instead of hanging out with her father, but it’s a reminder of why he’s here tonight, of why a bartender told him he looks like he needed a drink. He types okay, love you, and hovers over the heart emojis, struggling to decide what color to send. Claire hasn’t liked pink since she was in elementary school. Red seems too boring. He picks green and blue because he can’t decide between the two, and hits send, hoping there isn’t some meaning he doesn’t know about.

“Is someone sitting here?” It’s a voice Castiel has heard a lot of tonight. He turns to see Dean Winchester, strands of hair all scattered along his forehead, sweat still dripping on his neck. Castiel realizes maybe for the first time how warm it is in here, or maybe it’s just because Dean is standing next to him.

“No, go ahead.” Castiel slips further to the edge of his chair, trying to create space between himself and Dean.

Jo immediately returns, discarding the glass she had been wiping clean down at the other edge of the bar. “Anything you want.” She pushes blonde hair back from out of her face.

“I’m good, they cut me off.” Dean taps his hands on the table. “I’m supposed to be on TV tomorrow morning, I guess I can’t be too hungover.”

“I heard.” Castiel shifts in his seat again, this time his arm rubs against Dean’s tattooed skin. Castiel inhales sharply, trying to think of something, anything, to stop his mind from straying to too many things he’d like to be doing right now.

“Dean Winchester.” He holds his hand out to Castiel. “I’m the singer—.”

“I know.” Castiel considers having another one of those drinks. Maybe it would help him calm down, maybe it would stop him from embarrassing himself. “I’m Cas Novak, I’m—."

“You’re with 66 Seals, I know. Abbadon, Amara, Anael. You have a thing for managing singers with one name beginning with an A, I guess.” He sort-of smiles, his tattooed arm rubbing into Castiel’s again. “I’ve seen you around.”

“Ladyheart and Mark of Cain too.” Castiel isn’t sure if he’s only making things worse. He checks his phone, no response from Claire. No one needs him, not right now.

“Bad 80’s hair metal? Not your fault, I guess.” Dean turns his head toward the now-sparsely populated room. “So why are you still here? Crowley ask you to stay to keep an eye on me?”

“No.” Castiel finds himself watching Dean’s lips as he speaks, remembering the way they looked brushing against that microphone in Bela’s pictures. “I just have nowhere else to be.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling. Hey, didn’t you have a thing with Mick Davies from Men of Letters?” Dean leans closer to Castiel, eyes meeting Castiel’s and then moving down.

But Castiel really doesn’t want to talk about his post-divorce hookup with the singer of the British alternative metal band that ended almost as quickly as it had started. “I wouldn’t have really called it a thing. How did you know about that?”

“They played the same festival as us a few months ago, things get around, you know, if people want them to get around.” Dean shrugs, tongue running across his bottom lip. He slips forward on his chair, his leg dragging against Castiel’s. “But I’m good at keeping secrets.”

“Okay.” Castiel reaches for his empty glass, forces the last drop from the bottom into his throat.

“Look, you clearly don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here either. I have a condo not too far from here, overlooking Central Park. You want to be my excuse to leave tonight and I’ll be yours?” Dean is so close to Castiel now that Castiel can feel his breath, grazing across his own neck. “I need to get the fuck out of here, I need to get away from these people, before I have to go do this stupid interview tomorrow.”

Castiel looks back at his phone, vacant of notifications. He doesn’t have anywhere to be, doesn’t have anyone waiting for him at home. He doesn’t have a reason to deny himself anything Dean is willing to give him.

“Yeah, I do.” Castiel throws down a pile of cash onto the table for Jo. He isn’t even sure how much, he doesn’t care. He looks around to see who’s still here. Bela is still stuck with the intern who definitely wasn’t invited. Benny is still drinking his blood-red cocktail. Lisa Braeden is talking to the Chief.

No one is paying attention when Castiel follows Dean out of the room, into the purple glare of the stairwell. Castiel expects to stop himself somewhere on the stairs and turn around, expects the little voice inside his head to tell him he can’t do this, not with Dean. But the little voice inside his head is just telling him that he really, really wants to fuck Dean Winchester.

There’s a door in the back of Club Meteor that’s behind a black curtain. Castiel isn’t sure how Dean knows where it is, and he doesn’t ask, but it leads right into a dark alley. There’s a dumpster overflowing with beer cans and bottles, a couple of discarded signs from past concerts. A limo is already waiting, a man who quickly exits the driver’s seat and holds the back door open.

“Thanks, man.” Dean says to the driver, sliding into the backseat.  

“So, you must do this all the time, right?” Castiel sits down across from Dean, and Dean immediately switches sides so that they’re next to each other, reaching over to press the button that pulls up the divider separating them from the driver.

“Sneak out of parties to avoid people? Yeah, I do that all the time.” Dean leans his head back against the seat, and all Castiel can do is pray that he gets to run his mouth down Dean’s throat, that he gets to tear off Dean’s clothes, that he gets to feel Dean’s body all over his.

“No, take strangers home with you.” Castiel picks up an unopened bottle of champagne from the light-bordered table in front of him. On the label is some brand he’s never heard of. Probably something expensive the record company only gives to its favorite artists.

“Not really so much anymore.” Dean takes the champagne bottle, rolls it around in his hands, before shoving it back into the ice bucket in the center of the table. “I never drink this shit. Anyway, I just think it seems like you and I are maybe looking for the same thing.”

“Really, what’s that?” Castiel doesn’t believe that Dean Winchester could possibly want the same thing he wants right now.

Dean’s fingers are in Castiel’s hair now, pulling Castiel closer. And there are probably one hundred, or one thousand reasons, Castiel shouldn’t do this, but he lets Dean Winchester kiss him, lets his tongue slide between Dean Winchester’s lips. Castiel can still taste the whiskey in Dean’s mouth, and he lets his fingers grip Dean’s shoulder, digging into the black ink of the tattoo etched into his flesh.

“I guess I was right.” Dean runs his fingertips down Castiel’s face, kissing him again quickly as the limo slows to a stop on a neon-lit city street. This time it’s Dean who climbs out of the limo almost as soon as it stops, opening the door for Castiel.

“This building isn’t really me. It’s too much, you know. The record company hooked me up with it, so I just took it.” There’s a concierge who watches them as they pass by, probably because neither of them looks like they belong here. Probably because Dean is walking too close to him, probably because Dean walking almost against him, their hands almost touching.

There are too many buttons in the elevator, and Dean presses the button for the top floor. Castiel stares at his own reflection in the silver elevator doors, his disheveled hair, his jeans that are ripped at the knee, his faded black t-shirt. He would have tried to find something a little nicer if he’d known some rock star was going to invite him home.

Somewhere midway between the ground and the sky, Castiel says, “Why me?”

“Why not you?” Dean pushes Castiel up against the wall, holding Castiel’s wrists against the cold steel that surrounds them. He kisses Castiel again, presses his hips into Castiel’s. His hair is still hanging down into his face, brushing against Castiel’s cheek.

This is someone’s fantasy. Someone jerks off to the idea of running their mouth down Dean Winchester’s neck in an elevator, to the thought of his body crushed into theirs. And, right now, Castiel isn’t even sure any of this is real. Maybe he’s really passed out drunk at Club Meteor, maybe he’s having some alcohol-induced hallucination. Maybe he’s dead. He doesn’t even know anymore.

The elevator doors open into Dean’s living room. This isn’t like other rock-star apartments that Castiel has been to for dinners or meetings or whatever. There are no blown-up magazine-cover pictures of Dean on the walls, no platinum records displayed to remind everyone of his success. Just a Led Zeppelin poster that’s hanging slightly crooked above the couch, a television that’s much smaller than Castiel would have expected. There are two floor-to-ceiling windows, twinkling with the lights of the city.

“Nice place,” Castiel mumbles, as Dean’s hands move to his waist, and turn him around, and pull him closer.

“Yeah, I guess it’s fine.” Dean presses his forehead into Castiel’s, exhales against Castiel’s lips. “It’s better now, with you here.”

“You don’t even know me.” Castiel realizes his lips are almost touching Dean’s when he speaks, but he doesn’t do anything to stop it. He can feel a headache creeping in behind his eyes, and he isn’t sure if it’s all the whiskey he drank, or if it’s the rush of anxiety and shock and need running through him right now. He realizes he’s digging his nails into Dean’s bare arms, little indents in Dean’s flesh where his fingerprints sit.

“Okay. So, tell me something about you.” Dean’s hands move underneath Castiel’s t-shirt, tug at the waist of Castiel’s jeans.

Castiel tries not to embarrass himself. He tries to think of something to make himself sound interesting, tries to think of something that will make Dean Winchester want to be with him like this. But instead, he just says, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You mean you don’t know how to do this?” Dean’s fingers are still slipping under the button of Castiel’s pants.

“No, I know how to do this.” Castiel rests his hand on Dean’s, causing Dean to pause for a moment. “I don’t know what I’m doing with you.”

“I can answer that.” A small smile crosses Dean’s lips. “Anything you want to be doing.”

Castiel turns his eyes up to Dean’s, up to the strands of hair that no longer cling to his face with sweat, down to Dean’s lips that are wet with traces of saliva from whatever it was they were doing on the elevator. This is someone’s fantasy. Tonight, it’s Castiel’s.

He pulls at Dean’s t-shirt, tugging it up and over Dean’s head. And all Castiel can think right now is Fuck, he really is so goddamn hot, and he thinks he might lose his mind if he doesn’t have Dean right now. If he doesn’t have every inch of Dean Winchester against him. He drops Dean’s shirt onto the floor, gripping Dean by the waist, dragging Dean into him.

Dean doesn’t even try to resist. He lets Castiel take control of him, lets Castiel push him down onto the stark-white couch. He tilts his face up toward Castiel and starts to say something, but Castiel doesn’t want to hear it. Castiel doesn’t want to hear anything. His tongue fills Dean’s mouth, tangling his fingers in Dean’s hair. Dean rests his head against the back of the couch, giving in to the force of Castiel’s hands.

Castiel’s tongue trails down Dean’s throat, tasting the traces of sweat on Dean’s skin. What the hell are you doing? Castiel asks himself, but he doesn’t care about the answer. Because, for once, Castiel is doing what he wants. He’s kneeling on the couch, Dean’s hips in between his spread-apart legs. He’s sliding his fingers into Dean’s open mouth and moving his hand down Dean’s chest.

He reaches the edge of Dean’s pants, and his hand lingers there, knowing that if he goes any further, there’s no turning back. If he doesn’t stop himself now, he’s waking up next to Dean Winchester, lead singer of the biggest bands managed by 66 Seals, managed by Crowley. If he doesn’t stop himself now, and anyone ever finds out about this, he’s going to be out of a job in less time than it took him to crawl into bed with Dean.

Fuck it. Castiel has had a bad couple of months. A bad year. He could make up even more excuses to justify this to himself, but he can’t stand listening to his own thoughts anymore. So, he unbuttons Dean’s pants, pulls the zipper down. He slides back, his feet finding the floor just before taking Dean by the hand, pulling him off the couch.

Dean stands there, in the middle of his living room, hair hanging down over his face, jeans hanging open around his waist. He smiles at Castiel, the same crooked smile he gave from the stage, the same look in his wide-open green eyes that he gave the audience, challenging everyone to handle him, challenging everyone to fuck him. “You want to see my bedroom?”

“Yeah, yeah, I do.” Castiel is already following Dean down a long hallway by the time he gets the words out, following him past too many rooms and too many bathrooms for one person.

But Dean’s room is maybe the smallest of all, hidden off in the corner. There are piles of clothes on the floor, most of them black t-shirts, a couple of suits that Castiel couldn’t even afford to have hanging in his closet. On the dresser is the Grammy that Angel Sigils won a couple of years back for Best Rock Album. Castiel can’t remember the name of the album they’d won for, but he remembers Dean stumbling up the stage stairs drunk, thanking his father. Thanks John Winchester, for abandoning mom and me and Sam when I was four. Without you, I would probably have never been fucked up enough to write any of these songs. Castiel remembers the whole thing. It had been all over social media, maybe even some shitty cable television news stations. Chuck and Crowley were screaming at each other in the office the next morning, each blaming the other for letting Dean get on stage wasted out of his mind.

Next to the gold statue is a picture frame, a little boy with a blonde woman’s arm wrapped around him. Castiel has a million questions, like why Dean let his Grammy get so dusty, and whether the woman in the picture is Dean’s mother, but Dean is standing behind him, pulling his shirt off, kissing the back of his neck, pushing him forward until they’re standing in front of a full-length mirror that’s bolted to the wall.

Castiel looks away, down at the floor, because he’s afraid that if he looks at his reflection in the mirror, if he sees the way Dean’s hands are running down his stomach and into his pants, that little voice in his head that knows this is all wrong will wake up. But he loses control of all his thoughts and his reasons for anything when he feels Dean’s fingers slowly dragging his jeans down, circling the tip of his erection.

“You should watch, you look real fucking good making that face.” Dean’s lips brush across Castiel’s ear as he speaks.

“What face?” Castiel lets out a laugh, but it’s only to conceal the fear that maybe he looks ridiculous right now, maybe it’s obvious he doesn’t belong here with Dean.

“The one you make when I touch your cock.” Dean rests his palm firmly in between Castiel’s legs, and Castiel gasps into the air, lets his eyes roll back, lets his head tilt back onto Dean’s shoulder.

“Yeah, that face.” Dean’s mouth finds Castiel’s again while his hips grind into Castiel’s ass. “Lie down for me.”

Dean has a king-size bed but that’s the only thing close to extravagant about it. The dark gray sheets are unmade, tangled in a pile. There are three empty beer bottles on the nightstand. Castiel sinks into the mattress, kicking off his shoes with his feet. He pushes his jeans to his ankles, where his hands meet Dean’s, who finishes tugging them down onto the floor.

Standing over Castiel, Dean is all tattooed skin and messy hair. He runs his tongue across his bottom lip as he shakes his pants off his hips. And maybe Castiel should have expected this, but Dean Winchester is even fucking hotter naked than he is sweating and screaming on stage.

He drags his cock across Castiel’s, leaning over into a kiss that Castiel can barely reciprocate, the feeling of Dean against him is just too much. And when Dean reaches down in between their bodies, gripping his hand around both himself and Castiel at the same time, Castiel makes a sound he didn’t know he could even make. A sound that has never come out of him before. Like this was what he needed to survive, and he never even knew it.

Dean’s lips are relentless, and Castiel forgets he needs to breathe, forgets he needs anything other than Dean’s tongue in his mouth, forgets he needs anything other than Dean’s cock being jerked off against his own.

Forgets he needs anything other than Dean Winchester whispering, “I want you to fuck me,” in his ear.

Castiel’s eyes lose focus on the ceiling. He wonders again if he’s passed out at Club Meteor. Or dead. “Really?”

Dean releases his grip on their bodies, standing up just enough to rummage through the nightstand, dropping a condom and a purple tube of lube on the mattress next to Castiel’s arm. “Yeah, really.”

Sitting up, Castiel spreads his legs, pulls Dean in between them, pulls Dean on top of him again. Their legs entangle as Dean rolls back onto the mattress, fingers digging into Castiel’s shoulders, directing Castiel on top of him.

Suddenly, something changes, and Dean no longer looks reckless, he looks lost, pleading for something Castiel isn’t sure he can give him. His eyes are locked on Castiel’s, and he surrenders to every touch of Castiel’s hand. Castiel falls forward, into a kiss that traces down the veins in Dean’s neck, past the black ink on his chest, down through the trail of hair that leads to his cock.

Castiel takes Dean into his mouth all at once. Dean groans, hips hitching forward against Castiel’s face. He pulls at Castiel’s hair, holds Castiel’s head in place between his legs. Searching for the tube Dean had thrown on the bed, Castiel struggles against Dean’s grip to sit up. He inhales, and his lungs feel like they’re fighting for air, like he wants Dean so fucking much right now every nerve in his body might burst.

He slips a finger inside Dean, and Dean squirms, writhes on the bed, the light from the hall clinging to his body the same way the glow of the stage had done only a couple of hours ago. Castiel starts to slide another finger in, but Dean reaches down, grabs Castiel’s wrist. “I said I want you to fuck me. Fuck me already.”

Castiel nods, because he’s too goddamn excited to think of any kind of response. He’s never fumbled with a condom wrapper so much in his life, tearing the blue foil packet, throwing it down somewhere on the bed. He rolls the condom over himself, and the feeling of his own fingertips is almost enough to make him come right now.

Fucking a rock star is just like fucking anyone else, Castiel reminds himself. He’s already done this, once, when he fucked Mick Davies. Except Men of Letters only has maybe one hit song in the past ten years, and Dean Winchester was named Sexiest Rock Star Alive by People magazine last year. Castiel isn’t sure why he knows that.

“Cas, come on.” Dean reaches out, legs spreading apart even further. He rests his hand down on his own cock, like he’s aching for anyone, anything to touch him.

Castiel thrusts himself inside Dean, and Dean smiles, lifts his head off the bed, grinding his hips forward. Castiel almost can’t keep up. Dean fucks the same way he performs; chaotically, like he’s aching for anything anyone will give him. Like he’s ready to let himself belong completely to someone else.

Dean’s mouth searches for Castiel’s, meeting somewhere over their bodies. Castiel kisses Dean, but it’s a kiss that’s all messy and uneven, his lips landing on Dean’s chin and neck. His hands push Dean’s back onto the bed, holding them down, tangling his fingers in the beaded bracelets Dean is still wearing.

“Fuck, Cas, go harder,” Dean’s voice is breathless, and he moves all out of rhythm, his cock pushing up against Castiel’s stomach. “As hard as you want.”

Castiel’s hands grip onto Dean’s hips, shoving Dean against him while they fuck. He watches Dean’s body as the bed rattles underneath them, watches Dean close his eyes, arch his back off the bed. Watches every single little move Dean makes, his chest moving up and down as he breathes.

He gets too caught up in Dean, taking in every inch of Dean, and he realizes he’s completely still, hovering over Dean with their bodies still joined together. Dean pulls himself up, his hand resting on Castiel’s neck. “You need a break or something?” His eyes meet Castiel’s and refuse to look away.

“No, no I’m fine.” Castiel’s words are cut off by a kiss. It’s a slow, lingering kiss, that seems full of something that definitely shouldn’t exist between two people who don’t know each other. Dean’s gaze hasn’t left Castiel’s, not even when their bodies begin to move again, this time perfectly in sync with each other.

Sweat is dripping from Dean’s hair, down his face, and down his neck. He lifts his legs, causing Castiel to slip even deeper inside him, and against Castiel’s lips, he whispers, “Cas, Cas.”

Castiel knows he can’t hold out much longer. Knows that he’s about to lose it any second. He bites down on his lip trying to do anything, trying to feel anything, that will make him hold on just a few more minutes.

“Cas.” Dean moans Castiel’s name the same way he moans with his lips brushing against a microphone in front of hundreds of people who want nothing more than him.  He moans Castiel’s name in the way that makes people long for him. He moans Castiel’s name, and Castiel comes so hard he can hardly even remember what his name is.

“God—fuck.” Castiel puts his hands over his face, letting whatever words come to mind spill out of his mouth. He takes a step back onto the floor, still trying to figure out if this is all real, still trying to figure out how to breathe again.

But Dean, all naked and sweaty and spread out on the bed, runs his hands over his still-hard cock. He lifts his head. “Make me come.” It’s not a command. Dean’s words sound like begging, as if he thinks there’s some doubt in Castiel’s mind about what’s going to happen next.

Castiel drops to his knees, on the soft carpet beneath them, Dean’s legs surrounding him. He pulls himself in between Dean’s thighs. This time he swallows Dean down slowly, letting his lips pause along every inch, rolling Dean along his tongue, before taking him in completely against the back of his throat. But instead of writhing and squirming, Dean is still now, his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, panting and moaning and making little noises that make Castiel suck harder and harder, just to hear them more.

But when Dean comes, it’s quietly, his body quivering against Castiel, his fingers tightening their grasp on Castiel’s arm. Castiel stops, the taste of Dean trickling down his throat. His tongue licks away the traces of cum on Dean’s cock, before he rests his head on Dean’s leg. He stays there for a minute, or two, or maybe ten, listening to Dean breathe, feeling Dean’s fingers on his cheek and in his hair.

Finally, some kind of reality sinks back over Castiel. He shouldn’t be here. He knows he shouldn’t. But part of him doesn’t even care. “I should go clean up,” he mumbles.

“The bathroom’s right across the hall.” Dean pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Or are you sneaking out on me?”

Castiel shakes his head, uses the edge of the mattress to pull himself up, running his other hand across Dean’s stomach. “Do you want me to sneak out? Don’t you have to be on TV tomorrow morning?”

Dean laughs, turns his head into the twisted bedsheets beside him. “Yeah, so stay with me before I have to go deal with that bullshit. And Crowley. Unless, you know, you have somewhere else you need to be.”

“No, not at all.” Castiel lowers his voice, because it’s still almost too hard to admit.

The bathroom light is bright, and it reflects off the black-and-white alternating tiles. Keeping his eyes away from the mirror because he’s not ready to face himself, he throws the condom into the empty garbage pail and turns the faucet on. Water drips down his face and into his mouth, and he keeps telling himself, it’s okay, no one will ever know.

He finds Dean, still lying on the bed naked, his head on a pillow now. “Glad you’re back.” His hand pats the empty space next to him.

Castiel lies down, wrapping his arm over Dean’s chest. “Why would you want me to stay?”

“Why would I want you to leave?” Dean kisses him quickly, slipping closer on the bed until their bodies are touching. “That was fucking amazing.”

“Really?” Castiel can’t seem to hide his own shock tonight.

Dean just smiles, presses his finger to Castiel’s lips, and closes his eyes, leaving Castiel to his own thoughts. It’s so quiet up here, up so high above New York that he can’t hear the usual sirens, or watch the usual lights go by, like he can from his own fifth-floor apartment. There’s nothing but silence, nothing but Dean breathing in his ear.

There’s nothing, until the sound of his phone ringing startles him awake, Castiel doesn’t remember drifting off, can’t remember when he gave into unconsciousness, but he opens his eyes to sunlight and Dean still asleep beside him.

He stands up, realizing he never bothered to even put his boxers back on last night, and finds his phone in his jeans, still resting in front of the mirror. The screen says Chuck Shurley and Castiel almost drops it back down to the ground. It’s 11:00 am on a Sunday. He doesn’t know what the hell Chuck could want.

“Chuck—sorry, sorry, I was in the other room. I didn’t hear my phone.” Castiel rambles through excuses he doesn’t know he needs.

“Whatever, good morning. You’re the new manager of Angel Sigils.” Chuck’s voice is too loud. Castiel tries to lower the volume but it’s pointless, the sound of Chuck’s voice still hurts Castiel’s head. “Dean Winchester was a no-show at the studio for Happy Sunday America, and Crowley said he’s done with his bullshit, quit as their manager effective immediately. So, it’s all you now.”

“What—I can’t—they’re way bigger than any band I’ve ever managed. Why would you pick me?” Castiel’s feet drag along the carpet as he finds his way into the hallway, leaning against the wall. It’s cold against his bare skin.

“Don’t worry, you got this. I have faith in you.” There’s noise behind Chuck, maybe from a television or radio, but Castiel can’t tell what it is. “By the way, he has another interview set up for tonight. This one’s on Ashley Frank Tonight. Don’t let him miss it.”

“That awful reporter who just makes shit up half the time?” Castiel has only seen bits and pieces of the show, when it’s left on in hotel bars or lobbies of record label offices.

“Yeah, yeah. Make sure he handles himself okay.” The line goes quiet.

“I can’t—.” Castiel doesn’t bother finishing his sentence, there’s no one listening.

From somewhere in the bedroom, is Dean’s voice, quiet, tired, unsure. “Is everything okay, Cas?”

Castiel keeps his back along the wall, slipping against the door. Dean is sitting up in bed now. His hair is hanging down in his face, he’s rubbing his eyes. “No, you didn’t show up for your interview this morning. Crowley quit.”

“Good, he’s a pain in the ass.” Dean leans over, takes one of the beer bottles off his nightstand, staring down into it to see if there’s anything left. “No one gives a shit about Happy Sunday America anyway.”

“Right. I’m your new manager.” Castiel says, holding his phone down at his side, trying to ignore the fact that his clothes are still scattered all over the room.

“That’s awesome.” Dean drops the empty bottle back down on the bed and slides to the edge. He stands up, pulls Castiel against him. “So, let’s go take a shower, boss.”

Chapter Text

“I have to go.” Castiel is on Dean’s bedroom floor, trying to find his boxer shorts. The rug is soft under Castiel’s knees, and he searches through a pile of discarded clothes. The jeans and t-shirt Dean had on last night are entangled with Castiel’s own pants like some kind of confession.

“I have to go.” Castiel says it again, because he needs to convince himself that he can’t stay here with Dean. He needs a way to remind himself that he can’t crawl back into Dean’s bed and fuck him all over again.

“No, you don’t.” Dean is leaning against the headboard, the sheets still jumbled together at his feet. He shifts against the mattress, knees spreading apart just long enough for Castiel to know it’s an invitation. He’s trying his best to ignore Dean, trying his best to try to forget how damn good it felt to be inside of Dean.

But Dean is sliding across the bed, his feet hanging off the mattress. Castiel sits up, struggling not to watch the way Dean’s stomach moves when he breathes, the way he stretches backward, the sunlight from the window falling over his body. He runs his hand down his bare skin, as if he’s suddenly become aware that he’s still completely naked. “No one’s going to know if you stay.”

“I can’t.” Castiel finally sees the dark blue cotton of his boxers, almost hiding underneath Dean’s bed. He stands up, pulls the material to his waist, eyes still failing to focus on anything but Dean. “I want to. I really want to. But I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Dean’s feet slip down onto the rug and, before Castiel even as a fleeting chance to escape, Dean is dragging their bodies together. He’s warm, and his shape molds to Castiel’s without resistance as he pulls Castiel’s bottom lip with his own. His mouth guides Castiel’s, his fingers wrapping around Castiel’s wrists. “Why? You’re supposed to keep it professional now? Because you’re my manager or whatever?”

Castiel frees his hands, breaking away from Dean’s grasp, only to find himself running his fingers down Dean’s chest. “Yeah, something like that.” The first hints of an oncoming hangover-headache are creeping through his brain, and he can still almost taste all the whiskey or whatever it was he drank too much of last night. “You have to do this interview tonight. I have to make sure you get there. I have to make sure—.”

“That I don’t fuck up?” Dean turns away, to the window and the vastness of the sky above New York. He places his hands over Castiel’s, holds them in place, like he’s expecting Castiel to pull away. “Cause that’s what everyone expects, right? Because that’s what I do?”

“No, because fucking up is what I do.” Castiel feels himself step closer to Dean, even though every part of him knows he needs to do the opposite. But standing here in the glare of the almost-afternoon sun, Dean Winchester isn’t the come-fuck-me rockstar he was last night, or even five minutes ago. He’s clutching onto Castiel’s hands, something close to confusion crossing his face.

Castiel should know what to do. He’s managed pop singers on the verge of breakdowns who just need to get through one more show, one more photo shoot. Because they had to, because it was their job to do it, no matter what. But there’s something about Dean Winchester that makes all the things that Castiel has always thought were right seem completely wrong. “Look, fuck Happy Sunday America. I don’t know why anyone booked you for that anyway. And, tonight, Ashley Frank? She’s some tabloid reporter. Her show is bullshit. No one who actually likes you is going to give a shit about what you say. You just need to show up and get through it. Say whatever. And we’ll get through it.”

“We?” Dean’s fingers slip through Castiel’s before he sits back down on the bed, still holding onto Castiel’s hands. “I know how this goes. You throw me out there, I get asked a bunch of personal questions I’m just supposed to answer, and then you and five other people bitch at me for what I said.” He pulls the sheets over his waist now, wraps them around himself. “It’s not you who has to get up there and worry about whether you’re saying the right thing.”

“So just say what you think they want to hear.” Castiel is used to doing this himself lately. Keeping things to himself, saying I’m fine, I’m great to anyone who asks. “You don’t owe Ashley Frank the truth.”

Dean releases Castiel’s hands, reaches to the nightstand again, picks up one of the empty bottles, stares down into it. “I need something harder than this to deal with her.”

“Okay, no. That’s definitely not a good idea.” If the first interview Dean does with Castiel as his manager goes anything like his drunken Grammy acceptance speech, Castiel knows he’s probably out of a job forever.

“I need something, okay? I’ll call my guy—.” Dean is still holding the bottle, shaking the drop of liquid that remains at the bottom.

“You’re not doing that either.” Castiel doesn’t even want to ask who the guy is, or what he’d give Dean for the right price.

Dean nods, his eyes moving up Castiel’s body. He adjusts the sheets on his waist, letting them fall slightly lower, until a light shadow of hair peeks above the edge. “Fine. You know, if you were Crowley, I’d ignore you, and get fucking trashed before this interview. But, for you, I’ll show up and try not to be a total asshole.”

“For me? Really? Why?” Castiel takes the bottle from Dean and places it back down on the nightstand. There’s a pile of notebooks, the top one is open, with what maybe looks like song lyrics scrawled across the lined paper. A pen with no cap is shoved half into the spiral binding.

“I guess I like you better.” Dean pulls himself up by gripping onto Castiel’s arm. He’s still holding the sheets at his waist with his other hand, but they’re sliding off his half-hard cock. He laughs, reaching into Castiel’s hair and using it to bring their faces together. He smiles before kissing Castiel again, leaning forward until their hips are pressed against each other.

Castiel tries to think of something else, anything else, to keep him from tearing the goddamn sheet off Dean’s body and throwing him back down on the bed. But not even the worst parts of his divorce proceedings or the most embarrassing moments of high school gym class can give Castiel the strength to break away from Dean.

“I don’t know, I kind of like that it’s your job to tell me what to do now. It’s pretty hot.” Dean’s lips move to Castiel’s neck. “So, I guess I’ll be a good boy and listen to you. For now.”

Castiel isn’t really sure he can survive this much longer. “Fuck. What are you trying to do to me?”

“It’s not really that hard to figure out.” Dean’s teeth graze against Castiel’s shoulder. “I’ll do whatever you want me to right now, too.”

“We can’t, Dean. I can’t.” Castiel is just saying words he doesn’t even mean now. He slips his fingers underneath the sheet that’s still somehow managing to hang along Dean’s waist. “We shouldn’t.”

“No one has to know.” Dean speaks the words like a song.

From somewhere on the floor, Castiel’s text message notification chimes three times without a pause. He doesn’t need to look to know who it is, he already knows from the sound. “Sorry. I need to answer this.”

Castiel had dropped his phone onto the rug sometime in between hanging up Chuck’s call and trying to find his clothes. It’s still there, face-down, by the foot of the bed, and when he picks it up, he feels a sense of dread coming over him, because this probably won’t be anything good.

Meg’s contact photo is still set to some years-old picture of her kissing Castiel at a wedding they were at, long before she told him their own marriage was over. Castiel doesn’t even remember who was getting married. Maybe it was her cousin, maybe it was his cousin. Or maybe her co-worker. Now Castiel is just trying to distract himself from reading the notifications on his screen.

Can you bring Jack to his soccer practice tonight? I have to work, got stuck on a big case. Where are you?

“Shit.” Castiel’s fingers hover over the keyboard but he doesn’t know how to respond. He could say yes, he should say yes. He should call Chuck back and just say he can’t make it to Ashley Frank Tonight. Tell Chuck to find someone else, someone better, to handle Dean Winchester.

But Castiel knows if he backs out of this, Chuck will probably fire him before he can even do the walk of shame to the subway. He hates himself as he quickly responds, I have to work tonight too. I’m really sorry. Tell Jack I’m sorry, and then looks back up at Dean and the sheet that’s somehow slipped even lower.

“Everything okay? Is that Chuck telling you that you don’t have to do this?” Dean tilts his head to the side, and all Castiel can think about is running his mouth up the veins in Dean’s neck again. “I know that’s what you want.”

“Yeah, everything’s great.” Castiel wonders if it’s obvious his words are a lie. “No, it’s not Chuck. I didn’t ask to get out of this and, even if I did, who the hell do you think I am? I have no power to say no. I just do what I’m told.”

“Now you know how I feel.” Dean runs his fingers down Castiel’s cheek, to Castiel’s lips. “So just tell me when and where to show up tonight. What I should wear, whatever.”

Castiel’s phone chimes again, and he takes his eyes off Dean just long enough to read Meg’s response. Really, Cas? Whatever, I’ll ask my dad to take him.  Castiel feels bad enough, now his 12-year-old son is stuck with the grandfather from Hell. Meg’s father never had a good thing to say about Castiel. For the first time, Castiel wonders if that’s because there really isn’t anything good to say about him. Nothing good to say about a guy who just told his ex-wife he can’t take their kid to soccer practice because he’s too busy with some naked rockstar.

“What are you talking about?” Castiel turns his phone screen to black. “Everyone knows you do whatever you want.”

“Really? Because you’re the first thing I’ve wanted to do in a while that someone hasn’t stopped me from doing.” Dean drops the sheet now, and Castiel tries but fails to keep his gaze away from Dean’s body. He’s almost relieved when Dean pulls on his boxers and jeans and makes his way past Castiel and out of the bedroom.

Castiel gets dressed quickly, his clothes wrinkled from spending the night crumpled on Dean’s floor. He sees himself in the mirror and he wishes he didn’t recognize himself. But he knows this is just who he is now. Someone who ignores his pissed-off ex-wife, shoves his phone into the back pocket of his jeans, and follows Dean down the hall.

The kitchen is all stainless steel. It’s spotless, except for what looks like a couple of rings left behind by glasses on the counter. Castiel assumes Dean doesn’t cook here or even eat here. It’s too clean, too perfect, too empty. Castiel only knows this because his own kitchen is the same way, just nowhere near as big and without all the expensive appliances.

Dean opens the refrigerator, and there’s nothing in it except for beer bottles and soda cans. He leans in as if he expects to find something, and all Castiel can do is watch Dean’s shoulder blades, Dean’s spine as he bends forward.

“You know, you can have someone bring you food. You can pretty much have someone do anything you want for you. Crowley didn’t tell you that?” Castiel taps his fingers on the counter. “You can get whatever you want whenever you want it.”

Closing the refrigerator door with nothing in his hand but a can of Coke. “First of all, that’s not true. At all. And second, I can buy my own damn groceries. I just haven’t had time, and I’m never here.” He opens the can and a spray of liquid jolts across his fingers. “I guess you’re stuck coming to the show we’re doing in Boston tomorrow night now too.”

Chuck never mentioned a show in Boston. But then again Chuck didn’t really tell him anything. “I didn’t know about that, but I guess so.”

“We’re going to have so much fun on the tour bus. In the hotel. Backstage.” Dean folds his arms across his bare chest, precariously tipping the can of soda he’s holding. “Anywhere you want.”

“Dean, last night was really fucking good. But I—we—can’t complicate this now.” Castiel still can’t take his eyes off of Dean’s body, even when he’s trying to force himself to say what he knows he has to.

“Fucking’s not that complicated.” Dean puts the can down on the counter. “No one has to know.” He says it again in that damn voice, the one he sings in, the one that makes an entire room want to do whatever he says. He holds onto the counter’s edge while walking around it, making his way to where Castiel is standing.

Castiel considers pulling away for maybe half a second. But that thought leaves his head almost as quickly as it entered. It’s his lips that touch Dean’s first, his hands that run up Dean’s arms, and into Dean’s hair. No one has to know, he repeats Dean’s words in his head, but he knows better than that. No one has to know, but someone always finds out.

Dean’s mouth pulls away from Castiel’s slowly, and his hands linger underneath Castiel’s t-shirt. “Anyway, so like I said, it’s your job to tell me what to do now.” He winks at Castiel, tugging on the edge of Castiel’s shirt before letting go, and leaning back on the kitchen table. The six chairs are all neatly pushed in, separated from each other by the exact same distance. Castiel assumes no one has ever sat in any of these seats, no one has ever eaten at the table where Dean is standing, his legs crossed, his bare foot taping against the floor. “So, tonight, when Ashley Frank asks me if I’m seeing anyone, I shouldn’t say I’m fucking my new manager?”

“Fucked.” Castiel doesn’t know if he’s ever sounded so insincere in his life. “Actually, no, definitely don’t say anything about you and me.”

“Yeah, right. Tell them what they want to hear, right? Whatever. Got it.” Dean folds his arms across his chest. “So, who were you texting? The person you were supposed to go home to last night?”

“No.” Castiel doesn’t want to get into details. He doesn’t want to have to explain his broken marriage, or how he’s pretty much a failure at everything but his job. And kind of a failure at his job too. “I have to find out what time you’re supposed to be there tonight. I’ll text Crowley—I’d call him, but I don’t want to talk to him about any of this right now.”

“You’re changing the subject, but okay. Yeah, I’m sure Crowley’s really pissed at me right now. I mean, if you talk to him, tell him it’s not like I fucked up and didn’t show up this morning on purpose. I don’t usually fuck up on purpose, just so you know. Sometimes, but not usually.” Dean stretches back, slipping his hands over his own stomach. Castiel wonders if this is all on purpose, or maybe Dean just can’t help being this fucking hot.

“Aren’t you Rock’s Biggest Bad Boy or some shit like that?” Castiel rests against the table next to Dean, tries to keep his hands to himself but finds his fingers on Dean’s thigh. “Rock’s Biggest Bad Boy shouldn’t be on Happy Sunday America. So, don’t worry about it. I’ll try to make sure you don’t get booked for crap like this anymore.”

“Bad boy, yeah. Something like that.” Dean speaks these words without feeling before turning to Castiel, and mumbling, “Like I said, I can be a good boy for you.”

“You’re going to make it really hard for me to do this job, aren’t you?” Castiel runs his finger across Dean’s bottom lip.

“Or I’m just going to make it really hard.” Dean sucks on the end of Castiel’s fingertip.

Castiel wants to lose control again. He wants to push Dean down, fuck him right here, on the glass table. He moves his hand down to Dean’s jeans, shoves his fingers underneath the denim. Dean groans, lying down on the table, hair falling back from his face, pulling Castiel’s mouth to his own.

Dean wraps his fingers in the material of Castiel’s t-shirt. “Tell me what to do, Cas.”

It takes everything in Castiel to sit back up, and say, “I’m going to go home and get ready for tonight. I’ll come back here in a few hours. You need to be ready for this damn interview by then.”

“So, you’re not going to join me in the shower?” Dean pulls himself up onto his elbows. “I get it, shower sex is complicated. Maybe some other time. Maybe in Boston.”

The thought of Dean, all wet and naked and soaped-up in the shower almost makes Castiel give up on all of this. “No. No—I mean, I want to, but no. I told you. I’m going to get ready for tonight, and you are too. And we’re going to pretend this never happened.”

“For now.” Dean unbuttons the top of his jeans, pulls them down just enough for Castiel to decide it’s definitely time to leave before he can’t stop himself again.

“I’ll be back in a few hours.” Castiel runs his hand down the front of his jeans and makes sure the outline of his keys remains. “You already know the kinds of shit she’s going to ask you. You’ll be fine.”

“I’m never fine.” Dean laughs, his feet finding their way back to the floor. Castiel doesn’t even know Dean and even he can tell he’s not really joking. “But, sure, whatever. I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Yeah, okay. Good, I guess.” Castiel feels his pocket for his wallet. At least he didn’t lose that. Just his mind when he wound up here last night. “I’ll see you then. Later. Whenever.” He isn’t sure he’s ever felt so awkward or flustered.

He tries not to look back at Dean as he finds his way past the overpriced appliances into the living room with the couch that probably cost more than all of the furniture Castiel has ever owned. He’s almost at the door when Dean pulls him back by the wrist. “Cas—hold on.”

Before Castiel can say a word, Dean is kissing him again. And it’s not the kind of kiss they shared in the limo on the way here. It’s not full of uncertainty and unfamiliarity. It’s full of a longing that Castiel doesn’t understand. Full of something that makes him sort of terrified right now. He tells himself it’s all in his imagination. Because there’s no way he can let what he actually wants right now happen.

He pulls his lips away from Dean’s just enough to say, “I really have to go now.”

“Sure, I’ll be right here when you come back.” Dean pushes his hair back from his face. His eyes are too damn green and Castiel can’t look at them anymore.  

So, he finds himself on the elevator, pushing all the wrong buttons. It stops on almost every floor. The reporter from New York Nightly News gets on somewhere around floor 10. Maybe it’s around floor 6 when a woman Castiel recognizes as horror movie star Tara Benchley steps beside him. Castiel only knows who she is because Meg used to be into those slasher movies. She used to make him watch them before they had kids.

Tara Benchley looks at Castiel like she knows he doesn’t belong here, and then looks back down at her phone.

He’s convinced everyone in the lobby knows. Convinced that every single person pushing through the crystal-clear glass doors with their iced lattes, oblivious to the world around them, knows what he did last night. That everyone knows Dean Winchester took him home, and completely wrecked him.

But there’s a man on the corner talking on a cell phone and he’s saying something about the stock market. A woman wearing huge red sunglasses is walking a little white dog who won’t stop barking. And Castiel realizes no one is looking at him. No one cares about him. If it was Dean out here on the street, wandering around in a daze, everyone would be staring.

Castiel scans his MetroCard three times before it registers the subway fare, and he finds the least occupied train car, and sits next to the bathroom door. The guy sitting across from him is reading a newspaper. Somewhere, someone is snoring. Leaning against the window, Castiel looks down at his phone. Claire still hasn’t answered. Meg hasn’t said anything since deciding her father would take Jack to soccer.

Listening to the sound of the subway tracks underneath him, Castiel tries to make a list of everything he needs to do now, everything he needs to get organized. His brain just keeps returning to last night, and the way Dean’s body felt dragging along his own. And that last kiss before he left this morning was too close to something that Castiel hasn’t felt from anyone in so long.

Part of him wants every single person on this damn train to know what he did last night. To know that Dean Winchester chose him to take home. He still doesn’t know how any of this happened and it doesn’t feel real, not here in this subway car that smells like cheap alcohol and sweat. Typical Sunday morning regret.

Castiel wants to feel guilt. He wants to believe last night never should have happened. So, he lies to himself, tells himself that what he did was all wrong. That he can’t let it happen again. He doesn’t even believe himself.

He stares at his phone screen, at the lonely blue text bubble he sent Claire and, suddenly, Castiel has never felt so alone and overwhelmed. He has managed to ruin his marriage, his relationship with his kids, and now he ruined what was probably his biggest break ever before it even began. There’s a panic building inside him that he doesn’t think he has felt in years. Something he hasn’t felt since he was brand new at this and he realized that he really didn’t have control over anything or anyone.

The subway doors are almost closed when Castiel realizes this is his stop. Somehow, he makes it out onto the concrete platform before escaping up the stairs and into the daylight. Here, there are no limos parked out on the street, no doormen in expensive suits waiting to welcome him home. Just an empty lobby where one of the elevators is roped off with yellow tape and there’s a handwritten Out of Order sign stuck to the doors. Castiel can’t remember when that elevator last worked. Maybe it never has.

On the seventh floor, someone has left a stack of pizza boxes outside the garbage chute and the music from the neighbor’s apartment is so loud it shakes the wall in Castiel’s living room. Everything Castiel owns is still in boxes. They’re all unorganized. Suits and ties shoved in with old t-shirts and sweatpants. He had packed quickly, throwing things from his dresser drawer while Meg told him he didn’t have to leave just yet. But Castiel doesn’t like to stay in places where he isn’t wanted.

Here, Castiel tells himself he needs to pull himself together. This job is all he has left. He can’t fuck it all up. Especially not with Dean Winchester. Even though fucking everything up with Dean Winchester sounds like all he wants to do.

The water in the shower is still cold when he gets in, but Castiel doesn’t want to wait, and it takes too long to heat up anyway. He throws his clothes on the floor, the same clothes Dean had ripped off him last night, and he stands under the rushing water. Castiel knows he’s washing away all the traces of Dean that are still left on him, and he hates it. He wishes he could be back in that bed with Dean last night, where nothing mattered and he wasn’t Dean’s manager, he wasn’t anyone. He was just a body for Dean to use for a few hours.

He brushes his teeth and shaves, wondering if all the stubble on his face somehow irritated Dean’s thighs. He feels bad, until he thinks about Dean looking down between his legs, remembering Dean sucking his cock. Castiel stops, shaving cream dripping off his chin. He can’t let himself think about this. Not if he’s going to function today.

There’s one suit hanging in Castiel’s closet. The only one he’d bothered to get dry cleaned since moving in. And he had only done that because country superstar Hope Lynn Casey had spilled wine all over him at some party. He lays it on the bed, tells himself he can do this. He can play manager to the hot rock star he’d banged last night.

Castiel wipes away water that’s still dripping from his hair and down his face and squints at the notification that has just popped up on his phone. Congratulations, I guess. It’s Bela. Castiel isn’t sure what she’s congratulating him on. The new job or the Dean Winchester sex. Bela always had a way of figuring things out. So, he ignores her for now, puts on his only clean suit and a tie he remembers Claire and Jack giving him for Father’s Day one year. It’s navy-blue silk and it keeps twisting around, but Castiel doesn’t care. He looks at himself in the mirror, pushes his hair from his eyes, and tells himself no one will notice the dark circles. No one will wonder why he looks like he barely slept last night. No one will wonder about the little red marks Dean left on his neck.

“Whatever, good enough.” Castiel smooths the wrinkles out of his jacket and picks up his phone. Congratulations on what? He hits send, and immediately worries about how she’s going to respond. To distract himself, he switches back to the last message he sent Claire, still unanswered, and tries to think of something else to say. But he doesn’t want to be her loser dad, or any of the other things she might call him to her friends.

On being Angel Sigils’ new manager. What did you think I meant? Bela’s text pops up much faster than he expected. There’s a pause that gives Castiel some relief. Maybe no one realized who was with him when he left that afterparty. He brushes his hair back with his fingers, tells himself to stop being so damn paranoid. He has a job to do, or something like that.

Now his phone is ringing, and he wants nothing more than to be left alone. It’s Crowley. Castiel knows he shouldn’t pick up, but he just keeps doing things he knows he shouldn’t do.

Castiel doesn’t even say a word before Crowley starts to speak. “So, Chuck put you in charge of Winchester? Good luck.”

“Yeah, thanks. Since when is someone too much for you?” Castiel struggles to hold his phone in between his ear and his shoulder while adjusting his tie.

“Dean Winchester is too much for anyone.” Crowley sounds like he’s laughing. “And you know how I don’t like it when people don’t listen to me. But the other reason is why I’m calling, because I just can’t deal with this shit anymore.”

“What?” Castiel realizes the buttons on his shirt are all misaligned. He almost drops the phone in the sink as he tries to fix them.

“Rumor is Ashley Frank has some bombshell she’s going to drop on Dean tonight. Her whole show is just tabloid shit, you know that. I tried to ask Dean last night what it could be. He said he doesn’t know and doesn’t care. I had some of my people do some digging and they can’t figure it out either.” Somewhere in the background of Crowley’s voice a woman says Come back to bed. “And I don’t need to deal with this crap. So, like I said, good luck.”

“Great, thanks.” But Castiel knows he’s just talking to himself.

Ashley Frank is a notorious liar. Most of the things she says on her show are debunked by fans on the Internet within ten minutes. Actors and musicians and whoever only appear on her show because, somehow, she’s the highest rated show in her Sunday evening timeslot. Probably because she’s such a terrible person and some people seem to like that.

Castiel puts his phone down on the counter, checking his shirt, fixing his hair, again running his fingers across the shadows of exhaustion under his eyes. His eyes meet his own in the mirror, and even he can tell that he looks like he’s on the verge of losing it. “Calm down. It can’t be that bad.”

Chapter Text

“I think it’s time for a new picture. How old is this one?” The doorman squints at Castiel’s driver’s license, tilting it under the dim lobby lights before dropping it back down on the reception desk. “Who are you here for again?”

Castiel ignores the much younger version of himself staring back at him as he shoves his license back into his wallet. “Dean Winchester.”

“Right. The rock star. I heard he was supposed to be on TV this morning and didn’t show up.” The silver-plated badge pinned to the doorman’s black suit says Jeff, and it hangs crooked next to a loose gold button. “My wife has a thing for him.”

“Yeah, a lot of people do, I guess.” Castiel wonders if this is supposed to be small talk. Whatever it is, he hates it.

Jeff gives some kind of raised eyebrow smile before picking up a phone and hitting a single button. Too much time passes, and Castiel starts to panic. Maybe Dean made some kind of escape, headed somewhere far away just to avoid this stupid interview tonight. Maybe he’s drunk and passed out. Or even worse, maybe he’s fucking someone else. Someone who isn’t Castiel.

“Yeah, his name’s Novak, that’s right. Okay, I’ll send him up.” Jeff nods, motions toward the elevators. “Maybe he has a thing for you too.”

“What?” Castiel drops his wallet on the floor, two pennies spill out by his feet.

“Relax.” Jeff is laughing now, glancing back at the surveillance monitor on his desk. “He just usually doesn’t sound like he wants company.”

Castiel bends down, adjusting the credit cards and an old doctor’s appointment reminder card that are falling from the leather slots. “I’m his band’s new manager.”

“Well, good luck to you.” Jeff reaches for the ID of a woman standing behind Castiel. “I hear he has quite a reputation.”

At least the elevator is an escape from the conversation with Jeff the Doorman. Castiel hits the button for the top floor three times before it lights up orange. He listens to the empty sound of the shaft surrounding him, echoing and squeaking, worrying that this is all going to be a disaster. That Dean isn’t ready for this at all. By the time the elevator doors open, Castiel has convinced himself that he’s going to be fired, that he’ll never work again, that Claire and Jack will realize their father is even more useless than they already thought.

“Hey.” Dean opens the door. His hair is still hanging down in his face, but he’s wearing a black button-down shirt, and jeans that are just tight enough to show the outline of his thighs. Castiel tries to keep his focus somewhere else. Dean’s eyes, Dean’s lips. None of these things are helping.

“You look good.” Castiel stumbles over his words, knowing he probably shouldn’t be saying any of this. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him. He never has trouble controlling himself like this. And he’s gotten used to swallowing down his thoughts, keeping everything to himself.

“This?” Dean brushes his hands down his shirt. “It’s okay, I guess. I just wear whatever Rowena tells me to wear.”

“Yeah, I’ve known Rowena a long time.” Castiel had spent more than a couple of nights hiding backstage at concerts and awards shows with rock-star stylist Rowena MacLeod, drinking too much and exchanging stories about the ridiculous demands of some one-hit pop singer.

“So, I got dressed for this thing tonight and I’m not completely trashed.” Dean creates just enough space in the doorway for Castiel to walk through, but not enough to avoid their bodies bumping into one another. “Just for you.” He smiles a little, pulling Castiel against him. “I missed you while I was in the shower though.”

He leans forward, his mouth seeming to search for Castiel’s. And, for a second, Castiel parts his lips, waits for what he can’t deny every single part of him is aching for right now. But something pulls him back to reality. Maybe it’s his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. “We have to keep it professional, remember.”

“You’re wearing a suit, isn’t that enough to make it professional?” Dean tugs on the collar of Castiel’s jacket. “You can keep the tie on.”

“No—no, that doesn’t make it more professional.” Castiel pulls away, with a fleeting image of Dean underneath him, of Dean yanking on his tie and pulling him closer while they fuck way too hard and way too loud. So, he reaches down for his phone, knowing whatever texts he’s getting will ruin his mood.

There’s a string of notifications from Chuck. You need to be at the studio at 5. 1200 6^th Avenue. Tell him he can’t fuck this up. Also, you can’t fuck this up Castiel. We don’t need a repeat of the Grammys. Don’t let him drink. Castiel considers just texting a “thumbs up” emoji but then decides Chuck might get pissed off about that too, so he writes okay and scrolls back to the text that he knows might break him right now.

Dad, you really can’t take me to soccer? I don’t want to go with grandpa. This sucks. It’s Jack. He had handled the whole divorce much worse than Claire. Or, at least, Claire was just better at hiding her feelings. She probably inherited that skill from her father.

I promise I’ll take you next time. Or as soon as I can. I’m really sorry. I love you. Castiel types quickly and slips his phone back into his suit jacket. Dean doesn’t need to know about the mess Castiel has let his life become. It probably doesn’t say much for his management skills. Castiel decides he needs to get his mind off himself. “I have to ask you something, It’s about this interview tonight.”

“What? Like you said, I’ll tell them what they want to hear. And smile, right? Everyone’s always fucking telling me to smile.” Dean is adjusting pieces of his hair that continue to fall forward anyway.

“I’ve never told anyone to smile.” Castiel has spent so much time trying to fake his own happiness he never considers making anyone else do the same. “But I talked to Crowley, and he said Ashley Frank is claiming she has some big story about you or something that’s going to come out on the show. And you just have no idea what it could be?”

Dean sits down on his couch, his body sinking down into the thick cushion as he smooths out his shirt. “Yeah, I know. He told me that last night too. I really don’t know, and I really don’t care.”

“No clue? Another sex tape? Pissed off ex? Dark secret in your past?” Castiel lets his phone fall from his pocket just enough to see if Jack answered him. Nothing. Now he has two kids who are ignoring him. “Something with your father?”  

“I mean, sure. It could be any of those things.” Dean leans back against the couch, tilting his head enough for Castiel’s eyes to trail over the veins in his neck.

Maybe they could skip Ashley Frank Tonight and stay here. Make up some story about how Dean was too sick or hungover or whatever to make it to any show today. Climb back into bed and fuck each other until they can’t even remember all the things they’re really supposed to be doing. Then the big news about Dean can be about how he blew off some interviews and spent the weekend in bed with some loser.

Castiel still isn’t sure what’s wrong with him right now. But he can’t stop thinking about unbuttoning Dean’s shirt, throwing it down on the floor. “Any of those things?” Castiel smiles even though he knows he should be telling Dean to figure out what the hell Ashley Frank is about to drop.

“Yeah.” Dean is focused on the raised ceiling above them, like he’s searching for answers staring off at nothing. “There were also those pictures I posed for—but that was years ago.”

“What pictures?” Castiel is pacing now. Partially to take his mind off the overwhelming urge to rip off Dean’s clothes, and partially to calm his own nerves.

“Let’s not talk about them.” Dean lets out a small laugh. “I doubt that’s it, anyway. Rhonda told me she’d keep those a secret. She wouldn’t want them to get out either.”

“Rhonda?” Castiel straightens out his own tie, fixes the collar of his suit jacket. He doesn’t know why he keeps asking for elaboration. He knows he doesn’t want an explanation.

“Rhonda Hurley. Just this girl I went out with a long time ago.” Dean leans forward, folds his hands in his lap, like he’s waiting to see if Castiel is going to have any kind of reaction.

“The mayor of New York? You went out with the fucking mayor?” Castiel stands in front of the window, staring out over the city. It’s all sky up here, the grassy oasis of Central Park far below. There are people, but they aren’t anything but tiny specs that disappear to the green blur after a few seconds.

“Well, she wasn’t the mayor then. Calm down. It was years ago now, and I doubt it’s anything with her.” Dean rolls his head along the back of the couch. “Who cares anyway?”

“Chuck cares, I guess.” Castiel watches the way the clouds move through the atmosphere, breaking apart into wispy shadows. It’s almost calming, almost makes him feel like everything will be okay. “I’m supposed to care. But really, I’ve been through shit like this so many times that I know unless you did something terrible, it might trend on Twitter for a while. People might say they don’t like you anymore. Your streams on Spotify or whatever might go down for a few days. But then someone else will do something else and everyone will forget about you.” Castiel turns back to Dean and leans against the windowsill.

“It took people a while to forget about the sex tape with Benny.” Dean is looking down, through the glass of the coffee table in front of him. “People still ask us to kiss on stage.”

“Do you?” It comes out all wrong. Castiel knows he sounds jealous. Probably because he is.

“I mean, sometimes. Just because, you know, that’s what the fans want.” Dean pauses and looks up at Castiel. “Me and Benny were over a long time ago, if that’s what you’re really asking.”

“It wasn’t.” Castiel glances back behind him, at the vastness of the world outside the window, like it can somehow hide what he knows is already obvious. “Well, I was. But as your manager.”

“Okay. Well, as my manager, you should know that, before last night, Lisa was the last person I was with. And that was like a year ago.” Now his eyes are locked on Castiel’s, and Castiel knows he’s waiting for some kind of reaction. He’s probably waiting for Castiel to laugh, assume he’s lying, say something like bullshit, because there’s no way that Dean Winchester hasn’t been dragged into bed by someone in over a year.

So, Castiel decides to say something Dean doesn’t expect. “Why? I’m asking as your manager.”

“I don’t know, man. Fucking random people when half the time I don’t know what city I’m in stopped being fun, I guess.” Dean stands up from the couch, trying to smooth out the wrinkles that have formed in the material, before making his way over to Castiel. He stretches his arms out to the borders of the windows, cornering Castiel nearly against him.

“So then why did you take me back here last night?” Castiel should probably try to escape. Nothing good can come of him being this close to Dean. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t even try to move. He lets Dean’s fingers run down his chin, lets Dean’s hips press against his own.

“Are you asking me that as my manager?” Dean pushes little strands of hair off Castiel’s forehead.

Castiel doesn’t answer. He can’t, because Dean’s tongue is in his mouth, and Dean’s hands are on his waist now, pushing him back up into the window, and there’s not a single thought in Castiel’s head right now that doesn’t involve ripping Dean’s designer shirt off him, and bending him over the couch.

He slips his hand over Dean’s lips, breaking their kiss abruptly. And when Castiel sees the look on Dean’s face—some mix of hurt and confusion—he regrets it immediately. “I’m sorry, I just can’t mess this up.”

“It’s fine.” Dean raises his own fingers to his mouth, running his fingertips over all the places that Castiel wishes he could kiss over and over again. “We can keep it just business from now on.”

“Dean—.” Castiel starts speaking but doesn’t even know what to say. He knows what he wants to say. That this can be their secret. That no one has to know. But he knows what he’s supposed to say. That he can’t do this. That they can’t do this. And he can’t bring himself to say admit it again.

“Don’t worry about it, Cas. Or should I call you Castiel? Or Mr. Novak?” Dean backs away, starts to walk back toward the bedroom. “I wouldn’t want to be unprofessional.”

“You should call me Cas.” Castiel reaches out to Dean, to pull him back, but he’s already too far away.  “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. To take a nap or something. Maybe I’ll sleep through this fucking interview too.” Dean mumbles, as Castiel feels his phone’s vibration against his leg again. And he only takes it from his pocket because he wants it to be Claire or Jack, wants to believe they don’t completely hate him.  

But it’s nothing but an unknown number. We’re sending a car to your apt. to drive you to the studio. Castiel doesn’t respond, because he doesn’t know how to tell the unknown number he’s already with Dean, already standing in Dean’s living room wishing he could forget about everything and pull Dean into bed again. Three little dots appear on the screen and Castiel wishes whoever this is would just go away.

This is Marv. Chuck Shurley’s assistant. Castiel knows he’s spoken to Marv once or twice in the office. He can’t remember the conversations, but he remembers that they made him decide to avoid Marv. Car will pick you up and then pick up Dean Winchester. Chuck wants you to get there early to get Dean ready.

Lingering by his bedroom door, Dean turns back toward Castiel. “What’s wrong? I haven’t even known you a day and I can tell when you’re all stressed out. Which has been most of the time I’ve known you, honestly.”

“Chuck Shurley is sending a car to pick me up, and then you. So how do I explain how I’m already here?” Castiel runs his fingers down his face. For the first time today, he realizes he’s exhausted. Of course he is. He spent half the night fucking Dean Winchester and now he can’t even think straight. “How would I even know where your apartment is?”

Dean stretches his hand out toward Castiel, spreading his fingers apart. “Give me the phone.”

“I’m not giving you my phone,” Castiel says, while losing his grip on his phone to Dean. He tries taking it back, tries ripping it away from Dean, but Dean is already typing something. Castiel knows this can’t be anything other than something career-ending.

He watches as Dean hits the arrow to send the text, wondering if this is going to get him fired by the end of the hour.

“Here.” Dean drops the phone back into Castiel’s palm. “For someone who says tell people what they want to hear, you don’t know how to do it yourself.”

Hey Marv.  No need to send a car to my place. I’m at Dean’s apartment. Helping him get ready for tonight early. Driver can meet us here. What time? By the time Castiel finishes reading the response, Marv has already answered.

Okay. 20 minutes.

“See? Easy.” Dean isn’t trying to head into his bedroom anymore. He’s just standing there, in his designer clothes, waiting for Castiel to tell him good job or something.

“How would I even know where you live? I didn’t even know you before last night and Chuck didn’t call me until this morning.” Castiel is rambling now, not even paying attention to a word coming out of his mouth.

“Most people don’t think that much about things. Marv, or whatever his name is, just told the guy to pick us up here. He’ll never think about it again. You, on the other hand, clearly overthink everything.” Dean reaches out to Castiel, adjusting the edges of Castiel’s collar, tightening Castiel’s tie.

“You haven’t even known me a day.” Castiel reminds Dean of what he said about a minute ago.

“Yeah, well I’m kind of good at figuring people out. I have to be.” Dean’s fingers fall away from Castiel’s neck and Castiel considers pulling them back. “Doing what I do—I have to figure out who I can trust right away.”

Castiel finds himself being distracted by Dean’s lips, before turning his concentration back to their conversation. “Do you trust me?”

“Yeah, I do.” Dean tugs on Castiel’s tie again, pulling him closer.

Castiel starts to give in to all he can think about right now. He leans forward, his mouth reaching for Dean’s. But he feels Dean push by him in the hallway, feels Dean’s shoulder brush against his own.

“Just business, remember?” Dean’s hand takes Castiel’s for a fleeting second, and Castiel wants nothing more than to take Dean by the wrist, tell him he’s right. That he should skip this interview tonight and they should just go somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Instead, Castiel follows Dean into the elevator. Dean closes his eyes, rests his head against the wall underneath the brightly lit screen displaying the weather and a scrolling news ticker. And Castiel wants to remind him that he’s Rock’s Biggest Bad Boy, that he shouldn’t be standing against an elevator panel looking like he’s about to give up on everything. But Castiel realizes that this Dean is probably the real Dean.

“It will be okay. Whatever it is.” The elevator doors open and Castiel grips Dean’s shoulder gently as they exit into the lobby.

The black car with darkened windows is already waiting outside the doors of Dean’s apartment building. There’s a man in a baseball cap and a worn brown jacket waiting by the hood of the car, tapping his fingers against it.

“Bobby—I’m so glad it’s you. Dean gives the man a quick hug, and the man reciprocates after more than a few seconds.

“I’m driving you to the Ashley Frank show? Whose bad idea was this?” Bobby opens the door to the backseat and glances at Castiel. “Was it yours?” The tone in his voice offers no explanation of whether his words are a joke.

“No. Definitely not my idea.” Castiel stands in place, considers apologizing to Bobby even though he’s sure he didn’t do anything wrong.

“Bobby, this is Cas. New manager.” Dean starts to slide into the seat. “Cas, this is Bobby. Bobby is the most awesome driver we could have gotten today.”

“What happened to the guy with the accent?” Bobby’s still holding the door open, his expression growing more irritated as Castiel continues not to move.

“He got sick of me.” Dean is motioning to Castiel, running his hand along the seat like some kind of silent summoning. “So be nice to Cas, he has to put up with me now.”

“He’s not as bad as he thinks.” Bobby closes the door as Castiel pulls his feet into the car.

Dean’s hand bumps into Castiel’s thigh. “Or maybe I’m worse.”

There’s too much traffic, even on a Sunday afternoon. They sit at red lights, and behind yellow taxis that just won’t move for way too long. Bobby mumbles curses every time someone walks in front of them texting on their phone.  

Finally, when they’re stuck behind a double-parked van, Bobby turns around, speaks over the classic rock radio station playing through the speakers. “Ashley Frank is a trashy tabloid show. I don’t like to see them making you do stuff like that.”

“It’s fine, Bobby.” Dean leans back in his seat, and the tips of his fingers are still touching Castiel’s leg. “Bobby’s been driving us around since we started out. He even drove the bus on our tour a couple of times. He tries to keep me out of trouble.”

“It doesn’t work.” Bobby honks at a truck that doesn’t move when the light changes to green.

Castiel slides his phone out of the pocket of his suit jacket. Still no answer from Claire. But there’s a text from Jack. Miss you, dad, is all it says. But it’s enough to make Castiel feel like shit. He writes back love you, but he knows it’s probably not enough to make up for not being at soccer practice today.

“So, you still have no idea what this is about?” Castiel doesn’t look at Dean, doesn’t look up from his screen, waiting for Jack to say anything.

“Nope. And it doesn’t matter.” Dean is stretching his seatbelt from his chest, smoothing out his shirt again, pulling at the wrinkles. “Just going to be lies.”

The headquarters of Veritas News is somewhere past the neon lights of Times Square, the silver tower surrounded by a barricade of scaffolding. The sidewalk is maybe as empty as a sidewalk can ever be on a Sunday afternoon in Manhattan. Bobby opens his door and starts to get out of the car. But he stops when Dean opens his own door, steps out onto the street. “Don’t get out and open the door for us. We can do it ourselves.”

“Just trying to do my job.” Bobby can only be described as grumbling in the front seat. “I’ll be waiting here to drive you both home when you’re done.”

Back home for Castiel has to mean back to his lonely apartment when he’d rather be back in Dean’s bed. Because Castiel has to keep it professional or something. He steps out of the car, onto the concrete and turns his face up to the skyscraper-framed sunlight above them. How bad can this be? It can’t be any worse than when Vince Vincente announced he was the Devil on The Late Show with Buddy Boyle and threatened to banish the audience to Hell.

“Dean Winchester?” A man who looks barely out of college and wearing a suit two sizes too big for him is standing by a reception desk. He’s holding a clipboard with a pen dangling off it. “I’m Adam—Adam Corbett. I’m an intern with Ashley Frank, I can bring you upstairs. Do you need anything? Something to drink? I’ll get you anything you need.”  He holds his hand out to Dean, and Castiel can see that it’s shaking slightly.

“No man, I’m good. Don’t worry about it.” Dean shakes Adam’s hand, holding it steady. “Thanks though.”

Adam mostly just looks confused. Maybe he isn’t used to celebrities saying they don’t need anything. Or maybe he’s just not used to anyone being nice to him. Castiel remembers feeling like that, years ago, when he first started in this business. Now, he’s just jaded and knows people are only nice to him when they want something.

“I’m sorry, sir. Are you Fergus Crowley?” Adam looks up from his clipboard to Castiel.

“No, he quit. I’m Cas Novak.” Castiel steps into the all-glass elevator. It feels like some of kind transparent tomb. Adam hits the button for “44” and Castiel can feel the pressure in his ears with each passing floor.

It’s been a long time since Castiel has even been close to anything this high profile. Lately, it’s been all local cable channels, barely known websites, and a few podcasts. And no one was ever threatening to expose some dark secret on any of those. But Castiel looks over at Dean, who’s just leaning against the wall, eyes focused on the rising numbers on an LED screen.

Castiel shouldn’t be more nervous about this than Dean. But if this goes all wrong, if this goes anything like the Grammys, Castiel knows he should just hand in his resignation. “So, what’s it like working with Ashley Frank?” Castiel glances toward Adam.

Twirling the string to his pen around his finger, Adam smiles. “It’s great.”

“Really?” Castiel glances at the paper on the clipboard, but there’s nothing but nonsensical notes, coffee orders, lists of names and sandwiches.

“She doesn’t even speak to me.” Adam speaks quietly as the elevator doors open. “It’s okay though, I know she’s busy.”

“Right.” Castiel just shakes his head.

A painted New York City skyline is the backdrop of Ashley Frank’s studio. There’s a fake pink sunset that almost blends in with the rose-colored couches in front of it. A couple of people with headsets on roam around on the thick white rug. The camera man is playing a game on his phone.

There’s a small gathering around the catering table, trays of salads and pasta arranged in a row. Castiel hasn’t eaten all day. The knot in his stomach won’t let him.

“You want something?” Dean motions to Castiel on his way toward the food. “The best part of these shows is usually just the food.”

“No, I’m fine.” Castiel tries to find somewhere to sit, somewhere he can be alone to try to text Jack and Claire again. But there are too many people here, and Castiel finds himself standing alone, staring at the empty rose-colored couches.

“You aren’t Fergus Crowley.” Ashley Frank pushes strands of long dark hair over her shoulder. She’s wearing a tight gold dress that shimmers under the studio lights, and the choker made of flower-shaped diamonds around her neck catches tiny rainbows of color. “You are cute though.”

“What?” Castiel can’t deal with this shit right now. “No—I’m the new manager.”

“Crowley gave up? Dean Winchester is too much for him?” Ashley raises her red-tipped nails to her gloss-covered lips.

“Something like that.” Castiel wishes he could grab Dean by the wrist, pull him out of here, pull him far away from here.

“And you’re the one who’s supposed to handle him?” She laughs, eyes moving up and down Castiel’s body. “Sorry you don’t look the type.”

“Don’t worry. I can handle him.” Castiel glances over at Dean, who’s holding a plate and talking to one of the production assistants. “Anyway, whatever game you’re playing—about some big secret you’re going to drop on him, you should cut the bullshit. Whatever you’ve made up isn’t going to work.”

“First of all, we don’t make up news here. We just elaborate on the truth.” She reaches out and grabs Castiel by the arm. “And what we have tonight, it’s 100 percent the truth. I confirmed it myself.”

“Then what is it?” Castiel pulls his arm away and takes a step backward. He can feel his anxiety taking over again, and he fights to control it. Crowley would never lose it like this. Crowley would never let Ashley Frank see him sweat.

“I’m not telling you. You’ll tell him and then he won’t be surprised. That doesn’t make good television.” Ashley’s heels scrape against the floor as she walks around Castiel. “He needs to be shocked.”

“I mean, we can just leave, and you won’t have a guest at all.” Castiel starts to walk toward Dean, even though he knows that dragging him out of here before the interview would probably be worse than whatever this revelation is going to be.

“He’s going to miss two interviews in one day? Not a good look. And he won’t even be here to defend himself when we talk about him then.” She smiles, as a woman approaches her with a makeup brush and a palette of blushes. Ashley leans into the strokes of the brush. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing you wouldn’t expect from Rock’s Biggest Bad Boy, or whatever they call him. I have to go. We start filming in fifteen minutes, so you don’t have much longer to wait.”

“Yeah, thanks, great.” Castiel rubs his eyes and finds his way over to the table covered in foil trays overflowing with food. He needs a drink, but all that’s there are cans of soda and bottles of water thrown in a huge bowl full of ice. Nothing that’s going to make this any less painful.

This could be worse. This could be in front of a studio audience. Like the whole Vince Vincente incident.

“Don’t look so nervous.” Dean is throwing an empty plate into a trash can next to the table. “I got this.”

“Do you?” Castiel watches Ashley Frank sitting on her couch now, going over whatever is written on her notepad. “Because whatever she thinks she has on you is bad.”

Dean takes a step closer to Castiel, this time reaching out to adjust the collar on his suit jacket. “I know I have this reputation as—well, whatever it is. And yeah, the fighting and the drinking and the sex, that shit is all true. At least, it was, for a long time. But if she says anything bad—like really bad—I’m not a terrible person, okay?”

“I know.” Castiel lifts his fingers to Dean’s wrists. But one of the production assistants is watching them, so Castiel quickly slips away from Dean. “I mean—I guess I know. I don’t really know you.”

“You probably know me better than most people at this point,” Dean mumbles as Adam Corbett approaches again, still holding his clipboard.

“Mr. Winchester, we need you up front. We’re going to start shooting soon.” Adam checks something else off his list. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, I’m still good.” Dean leans back to Castiel. “Well—let’s hope I don’t fuck this up too much, right?”

There’s an empty director-style seat off to the side of the set, and Castiel settles down in it, checking his phone again. Nothing from Claire, nothing from Jack. A good luck Novak from Crowley. A screenshot from Bela, with a long list of Twitter posts asking things like, why the fuck is Dean Winchester on Ashley Frank? And Ashley Frank is a fraud whose show should be canceled. Castiel isn’t sure what the hell Chuck was thinking. Maybe this is some plan to sabotage Dean.

Dean doesn’t belong here at all. He’s just sitting on Ashley Frank’s pink couch, shifting on the cushions. Some assistant is adjusting the lighting that falls on Dean’s face, and Castiel tries not to think about how Dean looks perfect in any light.

The Ashley Frank theme song plays over the speakers, and there are people rushing back and forth, extension cords dragging across the floor. From across the room, Ashley’s eyes catch Castiel’s, and she smiles like some kind of warning. He considers texting Chuck right now, telling Chuck he quits too. That he’s not cut out for any of these people or anything like what might be about to happen here.

Ashley is rattling off a bunch of statistics about Dean. How many albums Angel Sigils has sold, how many number one songs they’ve had on the Billboard Rock Charts, how many sold-out world tours they’ve been on. And Castiel wonders if this all gets to Dean’s head, but, for a quick second, Dean just looks uncomfortable, pushing his hair from his face, gripping the arm of the couch. He catches himself, though, looking up, tilting his head back, returning to being the person he was on that stage last night.

Then she leans forward, her gold necklaces tangling. “So, are a lot of the songs on this new album inspired by your relationship with your father? Like the last album?”

Dean is quiet for too long. Way too long for a live show. He takes a sip of water from the Ashley Frank Tonight coffee mug in front of him. “I think everything I write has to be influenced by my own life and experiences somehow, right? So, there’s nothing really directly about my father on this one. But I’m sure, subconsciously, things in my life make their way into my songwriting.”

“What is your relationship with your father like now?” She looks down at her notecards and then back up to Dean. Castiel doesn’t know much about Dean’s father, just what Dean said at the Grammys. Just that he’d abandoned Dean and Sam and their mother.

“My relationship with my father? We haven’t spoken in a very long time.” Dean says this with ease. Like it doesn’t bother him anymore. Castiel wonders how much of that is an act, perfected after years of people asking the same questions.

And part of him wonders if the bombshell revelation is something to do with Dean’s father, but Ashley doesn’t seem that interested in Dean’s response, except to add, “Like father, like son, right?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Dean starts to pick up the coffee cup again but puts it down almost immediately.

“Nothing.” She smiles at the camera, white teeth against dark red lipstick. “So, is there anyone special in your life right now?”

Dean’s eyes meet Castiel’s for a moment, but then look away. “No. I’m single.”

“That probably makes a lot of women very happy to hear.” Ashley is tapping her notecards against the couch cushions now. “Maybe you’ll meet that someone on this tour.”

Dean glances up at Castiel again but then back to Ashley. “Well, you know, it’s not easy meeting people out on the road.”

“I mean, you are kind of known for hooking up with people on tour.” She looks out into the non-existent audience, and smiles. This time, Castiel can see some of her lipstick has rubbed off on her teeth. He hopes it shows up on camera.

“I don’t like to kiss and tell.” Dean stumbles over his words and smirks all at once. “So, you didn’t hear that from me.”

“No, I didn’t.” Ashley is still looking out at the camera instead of Dean. She sits up straight against the couch, digging the red soles of her heels against the floor, like she’s full of anticipation. “Do you know Lydia from The Slice Girls? The all-women metal band?”

There’s a flash of something Castiel can’t describe in Dean’s face. A mix of confusion and recognition all at once. “Sure, we opened for them after our second album—years ago now.” Dean is twisting his fingers together, pulling on his shirt again. Little things that Castiel already realizes are signs that he’s panicking. Signs of the person he is under whatever image he’s tried to create for himself.

“Have you seen her since then?” Ashley isn’t looking at her notecards at all anymore.

“No? I don’t think so. I think The Slice Girls broke up not too long after that tour.” Dean taps his foot on the wooden planks of the stage. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine.” Ashley twirls her hair around her finger now. “But when she heard you were going to be on this show, she called. Had a message for you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Dean starts to stand up from the couch. It would have been better if he just hadn’t shown up to this interview at all. Walking out in the middle of it isn’t going to go over well with anyone.  

“Watch your language, this is a family show. And call your daughter.” Ashley speaks into the camera lens before turning her face up to Dean. “She’s been trying to reach you.”

“What? I don’t have a daughter. I don’t have any kids.” Dean sits back down on the couch, this time his face filled with nothing but regret. “I think we’re done here. I don’t need this shit.” He doesn’t move though. He just sits there and looks toward Castiel, like he’s looking for permission, or help.

Castiel stands up so quickly the chair falls backward. He isn’t sure who any of these people are. They’re all getting coffee, pulling cables, ignoring what’s happening on stage. He asks one man, who looks older than most of the others, “Are you the director of this shitshow?”

“No—I’m in charge of lighting.” The man glances to the rafters above, where brightly colored lights shine. “She’s. the director. Toni Bevell.” He points to a woman in a sleeveless black dress, her hair pulled neatly behind her. She’s standing next to the camera operator, lost in the scene playing out before her.

“What the hell is this? Cut the camera now. This isn’t an interview. You’re just playing games with him.” Castiel steps over tangled wires to stand in front of Toni Bevell. “You’re just getting off on this?”

She moves her eyes down Castiel, past his tie that’s become twisted as he climbs over film equipment, and laughs. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“I’m his new manager.” Castiel can tell Toni Bevell actually doesn’t give a shit about who he is, she’s enjoying this all too much.

Ashley’s voice echoes in the microphone that’s beside Castiel. “Are you denying you and Lydia had a thing while on that tour? And that she’s tried to reach out to you many times ever since and you’ve never responded to her?”

“I’m not talking about this with you. I’m getting the fuck out of here.” Dean is walking off the set and Castiel’s phone is already buzzing in his pocket. He knows better than to look at it right now. It’s probably Chuck calling him to fire him already.

“Her name is Emma. You should get in touch with her.” Ashley shouts after him. Castiel hopes they’ve cut to a commercial, or gone off the air, by now. Hopes they’re doing anything but airing this mess. But Castiel knows that no one is turning this off right now. He knows that Dean is probably trending on every social media site in the world. He knows there’s probably about 1,000 tweets about how Dean abandoned the kid he didn’t know he had.

Dean is halfway down the hall when Castiel finds him. He’s somewhere past the elevators, in a corner that glows red from an exit sign, when he finally stops, with nowhere else to go. He stands there for a few seconds, staring at the blank gray wall.

“Dean—she’s just a liar.” Castiel glances down the hall, but no one is coming. No one cares anymore, they’ve probably moved onto the next guest to humiliate. “She just says things for ratings and so people talk about her online.”

Castiel’s words are met with a silence that doesn’t end until Dean punches the wall. The sound echoes through the corridor, and the sheetrock bears a crack that seems to spread within seconds. Dean wraps his fingers around his hand, trying to cover the tiny smears of blood now dripping from his knuckles.

Ignoring the feeling of his phone vibrating without pause in his pocket, Castiel moves toward Dean, who’s starting to slump down onto the floor. And maybe Castiel has already been fired. Maybe he has five or ten or thirty texts telling him how he managed to blow this new job in a few hours. But, right now, something tells Castiel that what Dean needs is more important.

Sliding down along the wall to where Dean is crouching, Castiel turns to Dean, whose face is all red in the glow of the Exit sign. “You can tell me if it’s true. I’m good at keeping secrets too.”

“We had a one-night thing the last night of our tour together.” Dean leans closer to Castiel and, when he speaks, Castiel can feel Dean breathing against his neck. It makes Castiel feel something he knows he shouldn’t right now. “We were drunk, or on something—I don’t remember. It was awkward and bad, and we just got up the next morning, did the last show, and that was it. I never spoke to her again.”

“So did she really try calling you?” Castiel crawls to the edge of the wall, looking down the hall again. There’s a couple of PAs wandering around now, and Adam Corbett is standing with his clipboard looking confused or overwhelmed or a combination of both.

“She called me maybe a couple of months after. It was right around when I heard her band broke up, and I thought it was about that. I thought she was going to ask me for some favor. Because that’s why people call me usually, to ask for something.” Dean turns away now, rocking back and forth on his heels, folding his arms across his knees. “I thought the same thing when she called me a few times recently. You know—like I said, in this business, I can’t trust anyone. I never really trusted Crowley.”

“You’re not wrong, you know.” Castiel runs his finger along the crack in the wall, chipping away the paint. “I’ve seen it. Estranged parents, siblings, cousins, whatever, who just come out of nowhere when someone finally makes it. It’s like you get that one hit song and suddenly everyone remembers you. People who didn’t care about you want to be your best friend.”

“Like my father who ignored me my entire life calling me up one day and asking for $100,000 to help pay off his credit card debt?” Dean tilts his head, smiles, and shakes his head. “Actually, I guess I’ve been an even worse father, right?”

 “You didn’t know. That’s not the same.” Castiel can hear Adam Corbett’s voice down the hall, saying something like fuck her, she’s such a bitch. Castiel doesn’t need to ask whether he’s talking about Ashley.

“Yeah, it’s worse, right? I didn’t even pick up the phone.” Dean starts to stand up, sliding himself against the wall. “You don’t understand—.”

“Wait.” Castiel finally takes his phone from his pocket and pretends not to see the 39 missed calls and the text messages from Chuck that say What the fuck is happening, Why the fuck did you let him leave? He clears them all before unlocking his phone and going to his text messages. His okay, love you with the green and blue hearts is still there, waiting for a response.

“I sent this to my daughter last night before I left Club Meteor with you. She’s sixteen and I’m pretty sure she hates me.” He swipes to his other unanswered love you to Jack. “Jack is twelve and my ex-wife asked me to take him to soccer practice today because she had to work. But I’m here, because I know I had to be. Just like you had to be here. So, when you say I don’t understand, maybe I understand better than anyone right now.”

“So that was who you kept texting this morning?” Dean rests his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, digging his fingers in slightly. “Ex-wife and kids?”

Castiel just nods, listening to the sound of high heel shoes against the floor. He knows it’s those damn red-bottom shoes, coming to look for them. Ashley’s voice is loud, and it’s growing louder with every second. “This is all over Twitter already—that I fucking let him just walk out on me. It’s humiliating. Where is he? Get him back here.”

Dean reaches down to Castiel, taking his hand. “Come on.”

The stairwell beyond the neon red Exit sign is dark and narrow, and Dean brushes into Castiel as they make their way down two flights, three flights of stairs. Dean pushes a door with a yellow “41” painted on it, into another hallway and laughs. “It’s been a pretty long time since I’ve had to run from the press like this. And you’re not telling me to go back?”

Castiel knows he should be telling Dean to stop, to go up there and finish the interview. He knows that’s what Chuck would want, and what Crowley would have done. He glances down at his phone again, to the text from Bela: Shit, Cas, this is bad. Castiel doesn’t have an answer for her. He takes Dean by the wrist, leads him past offices that are Sunday-evening empty, to the elevator.

Pressing the “down” arrow, Castiel closes his eyes. “Please don’t let these doors open to Ashley Frank.”

But there’s no one there, nothing but vacant silver walls. Pulling Dean in with him, Castiel waits for the outside world to disappear before finally letting himself breathe again. He’s still holding onto Dean, who doesn’t seem to be making any attempt to step away.

“I’m such a fucking asshole.” Dean’s voice breaks as the words slowly fall from his mouth.

“You aren’t.” Castiel is watching the numbers drop. 35, 34, 33, 32, 31, 30. This feels like it could go on forever right now. All he can do is hope that they don’t have to stop for anyone else. All he can do is hope they get out of here before this gets even worse.

“What am I supposed to do? Tell me what to do—you’re my manager now.” Dean’s hand is now falling into Castiel’s. Castiel doesn’t know what to do, but he can’t bring himself to pull away. He finds himself wrapping his fingers around Dean, watching the numbers go lower and lower. 25, 24, 23, 22, 21.

“What do you want to do?” Castiel listens to the sound of the elevator motor whining as it descends.

“Call Lydia back. Find out the truth. Find out if I’m really a deadbeat father just like my own dad.” There isn’t any hesitation in Dean’s voice, no whispers of doubt. “But you know, Crowley would have told me to deny it as long as I could. Until there was fucking DNA evidence for everyone to see.”

“I’m not Crowley. Or Chuck.” The elevator opens to the lobby, and Castiel breaks his grip on Dean, leaning forward with his fingers along the rubber tracks to keep the doors from closing again. There’s a woman sitting at the reception desk, and a few other people in suits lingering around, checking their watches and phones.

The reception desk woman glances up when she hears their footsteps on the tiled floor. “Oh my god—Dean Winchester? I love Angel Sigils. You’re my favorite.” She starts to hold up her phone. “Can I get a picture with you?”

Dean moves toward her, ready to comply, but Castiel pushes him back. “I’m sorry, we have to leave.”

“Oh, yeah. I just saw some video from the Ashley Frank show on Facebook.” She puts her phone down, shakes her head. “Not really that surprising, I guess.”

Dean starts to say something, but Castiel tugs him toward the glass doors, out into night, that’s eternally bright from all the signs and screens and lights that surround them. There’s a row of yellow taxis, broken by the black car in between them. Bobby is already standing on the sidewalk, with the door to the backseat open.

A man with a camera starts to approach Dean, but Bobby steps in the way, blocking the flash from catching Dean. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I don’t think you have anything to see here.”

Castiel drags the door shut, sliding across the leather of the seat next to Dean. The sound of honking and the turn signal drowns out the silence. Bobby coughs. Dean exhales, rests his head against the window. Castiel’s phone keeps buzzing.

Things could be worse, Castiel tells himself. There must be some way they could be worse, but he really can’t think of one. He knows he’s completely fucked. He knows he should just quit now and run far away from this train wreck. But Castiel isn’t sure he’s ever needed anyone the way he needs Dean Winchester right now. 

Chapter Text

“You didn’t have to come back here.” Dean opens one empty cabinet, and then another, before finding a bottle of whiskey and glass. “You should go home and deal with your family.”

“Do you have a glass for me?” Castiel pulls a chair out from the table and places his phone in front of him before sitting down. He tries to ignore the notifications from Chuck still popping up. He only glances down to see if it’s Claire or Jack, even though he knows it won’t be. “I don’t really think my family wants to deal with me.”

“Tell me when to stop.” Dean arranges the two glasses on the table in front of Castiel, pouring liquid from some black-label bottle into each of them.

Castiel waits until there’s just a little too much whiskey in the glass. “That’s enough.” The liquid splashes from side to side along the intricate designs in the crystal before he lifts it to his lips. It even tastes like something Castiel could never afford.

Dean takes a step back, paces around the tiled floor in a path he seems to memorize quickly, shoving his hands in the pockets of his pants, pulling on the edges of his shirt, running his fingers through his hair and up along his head. “Fuck. What the fuck should I do?”

Lifting the other glass of whiskey to Dean’s fingers, Castiel says, “Maybe we should cancel the show in Boston tomorrow.”

“No. Too last minute. I don’t want to do that to people.” Dean pours the whiskey into his mouth and holds it there for more than a few seconds before swallowing. “I don’t want to let anyone down, you know? I guess more than I already have, right?”

“I’ve had artists cancel concerts for a lot less.” Castiel taps on his glass with his fingers. “Online feuds. Minor fights between band members. Shit like that.”

“I don’t do things like that.” Dean’s voice echoes into the glass as he speaks. “I don’t like to let fans down. Asshole interviewers and morning talk shows, yes. Fans, no.”

“Okay, then I guess we’re going to Boston.” Castiel hopes Jack doesn’t have another soccer game he needs a ride to, hopes Meg isn’t stuck at work for so long it becomes obvious what a terrible parent her ex-husband has become. He tries to remember if he even unpacked his suitcase since the last tour he’d been on. Some too-small venue tri-state area tour for some indie band he can’t even remember the name of. Ghostfacers, maybe. Or something ridiculous like that.

Dean sits down in the chair directly across from Castiel. His feet bump into Castiel’s under the table, and Castiel tries to pretend it wasn’t on purpose. But this table is way too damn big for it to have been an accident. “You really don’t have to stay. I’m okay.” He pours more whiskey even though his glass isn’t anywhere close to empty.

“No, you aren’t.” Castiel pulls the bottle toward himself, hesitating before replacing growing space in his own glass. “How could you be?”

“Because I’ve made myself be okay through a lot of things.” Dean leans back, tipping the chair slightly as he drinks. “So, if you just want to leave, it’s fine. I’m not going to do anything.” The whiskey runs into his mouth without pause and then he reaches out, across the table, for the bottle that’s still sitting next to Castiel.

Castiel knows exactly how this would end if he got up and left right now. He takes the bottle from Dean and puts it down on the floor beside them. “Maybe you had to make yourself be okay for Chuck or Crowley or whoever, but I’m not asking you to do that for me.”

“Why not? Isn’t that your fucking job?” Dean rests the glass down in front of him. “To tell me to pull my shit together and do what I’m told?”

“No, my job is to make other people think you have your shit together even when you don’t.” Castiel lifts the glass to his lips but puts it down before taking another sip. Suddenly the whiskey is the last thing Castiel wants. “And maybe also to stop you from drinking half a bottle of whiskey.”

“You helped. A little.” Dean pulls Castiel’s glass closer to him with one finger, picking it up and finishing what’s left. “Very little, whatever.” He rests his head down on the table, resting his hand  in his hair. “You know, when we were recording our first album, I was living with this girl Cassie. She was in journalism school at NYU. I’m not sure what she saw in me. Sometimes, she’d talk about getting married, having kids—you know?”

“Yeah, I know all about getting married and having kids.” Castiel wishes the whiskey bottle wasn’t empty. He might want to be a little more buzzed for this conversation

“Well, my example of that was my parents’ broken marriage. My father walked out on his whole family.” Dean pulls his face up just enough to rest his chin on his arm. “And I thought I’d be the same kind of shitty husband and father my dad was, so I broke it off. I never wanted a kid because I never wanted to screw someone over the way my dad did to me.”

The screen of Castiel’s phone is dark now. The messages from Chuck seemed to have stopped, and Claire and Jack are definitely not going to respond. “That’s not always the case, you know. My parents are still married. My dad’s great. If I called him and asked him for something right now, he’d say yes, without question. He’s always been like that. And, as you know, I am a fuck up.”

Castiel had always wanted to be like his own father, but he knows he failed at that a long time ago. He’s missed way too many games and concerts and school plays for that. Too many missed birthdays and holidays because he was on the road with some one-hit-wonder that was supposed to be the next big thing.

“Guess we’re both just fuck ups.” Dean sits up and presses his fingers to his forehead. “And now I have a fucking headache.” He leans against the back of the seat, stretching his neck, the collar of his shirt rubbing against his skin in a way that distracts Castiel from everything he should be thinking about. “I should have been more careful. I should have done a lot of things differently. Now I should go call Lydia, right?”

Tilting his phone until the screen flashes on, Castiel says, “It’s after midnight. I think you should wait until morning.”

“Too drunk and desperate to call now?” Dean’s hair falls across his face as he moves forward again, rocking his chair back against the floor.

“Maybe.” Castiel ignores the message from Chuck that pops up on his screen. You need to figure out how to fix this by the time you get on that bus to Boston. Noon tomorrow.

“I mean, I am drunk and desperate.”  Dean stands up from the chair and starts stumbling toward the doorway, catching himself on the counter. “Drunker than I thought, I guess.”

Castiel leaves the glass and his phone behind on the table and takes Dean by the arm. He knows Dean is probably fine on his own, but at least this is an excuse to be close to him. “I think you should just go to sleep—call her in the morning. Ignore whatever shit is going on tonight.” Castiel hasn’t even bothered to check any social media. It’s all going to be even worse than usual.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Dean pulls away but then turns toward Castiel. “Did you come back here because you just wanted to fuck again?”

Castiel backs up to somewhere near the refrigerator. He can hear it humming behind him. “What? No. I came back here so you didn’t have to be alone right now, after what just happened.”

Dean shakes his head, laughs, focusing on the floor before he looks back up at Castiel. “You don’t have to pretend to care about me.”

“Crowley was right, you really are a pain in the ass.” Castiel doesn’t move as Dean moves closer again. “I’m not pretending. I want you to be okay.”

“You know what? I’m better now than I was.” Dean’s fingers reach for the collar of Castiel’s jacket. “You mean that as my manager though, right?”

Castiel isn’t sure what he meant it as. A manager, a friend. Someone who has all kinds of feelings he shouldn’t be having. “Sure, as your manager.”

Dean’s kiss is unexpected and makes Castiel struggle for air before he gives in to it, his tongue pushing through Dean’s lips. He grips onto Dean’s shoulders, pulling their bodies closer together, falling back against the refrigerator. The handles are digging into his back, and he doesn’t even care. All he can feel and smell and taste right now is Dean. The whiskey in Dean’s mouth, the faint smell of shampoo in Dean’s hair. His fingers move down Dean’s chest, and he starts to slip the first button of Dean’s shirt through the hole.

He turns his eyes up to Dean, who looks tired, worn down from the past few hours. Maybe this is what Castiel needs right now, but it isn’t what Dean needs. “Sorry, I really didn’t come here for this.”  

Dean nods slightly, fingers clenching around the counter’s edge. “The way you kissed me back—that was as my manager, right?”

“Yeah. That’s all it was.” Castiel wants to hate himself right now for his lack of self-control. For doing the wrong thing when everything else is going wrong around them. But something about this feels so perfect, so right, he can’t even get angry at his own fuck up.

Castiel tries to move away, tries to escape being too close to Dean, but Dean takes him by the wrist and pulls him back inside what Castiel can only describe as some kind of hot rockstar forcefield. Dean’s fingers are under Castiel’s chin, tilting Castiel’s face back up toward his. “Sleep with me. You know, actually—sleep. Nothing else. You know, as my manager.”

“Yeah, I can do that. As your manager.” Castiel tries to find a way to make this seem okay, tries to convince himself that just sleeping in Dean’s bed is fine. Completely professional. Just so Dean doesn’t have to be alone.

Dean’s fingers move across Castiel’s mouth, pulling his bottom lip down. “Today wasn’t enough to convince you that you really don’t want this gig?”

“What if I told you that it was the opposite?” Castiel reaches up, pushes Dean’s hair out of his eyes, starts to slip away again. “Come on, I’m fucking exhausted.”

“I’d say you’re crazier than me.” Dean’s arm brushes against Castiel’s chest as he makes his way out of the kitchen, into the bedroom.

By the time Castiel gets into the bedroom, Dean is unbuttoning his shirt, throwing it down on the floor. He didn’t even bother to turn on the lights, but the glow of the moon somewhere high above the city casts shadows on the wall and across Dean’s face. Castiel tries not to let himself get distracted by the way Dean looks, standing over his bed, pants unbuttoned, running his hands down his face. You’re just keeping him company , Castiel lies to himself.

“Fuck.” Dean’s voice is so low that Castiel can barely hear him, He picks up his phone from his bed. “I really should call her—I still have her number from when she tried calling me—.”

“Not tonight.” Castiel takes the phone from between Dean’s fingers and places it down on the nightstand. “Go to sleep. And you can still cancel Boston if you want to.”

“I don’t.” Dean lets his pants slip down to the floor and sits down on the sheets, still tangled from the mess they’d made last night. “Are you going to sleep in that suit?”

Castiel looks down at his wrinkled button-down shirt and tie that’s somehow turned the wrong way. He drops his suit jacket down on the rug and finds his way onto the bed next to Dean. Sitting against the wall, Castiel places his hands in his lap, where he can be sure they won’t accidentally touch Dean.

“Can I have my phone?” Dean is lying down now, the sheets barely pulled across his stomach.

Castiel lets his eyes linger on the way the Dean’s chest moves up and down as he breathes, on the way his boxers rest along his hip bones. “No.”

“I just want to see what people are saying.” Dean rolls over onto his side, resting his fingers on Castiel’s arm.

“You don’t.” Castiel lets himself relax, sliding down against the wall and onto the pillow. He’s handled enough PR disasters to know exactly what people are saying. He knows exactly how people are tearing Dean apart from behind their keyboards. He knows how people are overanalyzing and assuming and accusing.

“Maybe things would have been different for me all these years, if I’d known, you know?” Dean’s eyes are half closed, and he’s gripping onto the material of Castiel’s shirt now. “Maybe she already hates me.”

“Stop.” Castiel’s hand slips off his own thigh and onto the bed between his body and Dean’s. This feels strangely comforting, lying here beside Dean, listening to Dean sigh against his pillow. Castiel tells himself again this is only business, that he’s doing this to give Dean the solace he needs to get through to tomorrow. Castiel knows he’s fucking kidding himself.

“Everyone hates me.” Dean is mumbling now, and his hand drops down Castiel’s arm, eventually falling on top of Castiel’s. Castiel thinks about pulling himself away, getting up, and going home. But there’s not a single part of him that has the willpower to get out of Dean’s bed right now.

“I don’t.” Castiel turns his face toward Dean’s and thinks about kissing him again. But that wouldn’t exactly be professional.

Dean’s eyes open just enough to glance up at Castiel. “Thanks for staying.”

“Go to sleep. Boston tomorrow, I guess.” Castiel feels Dean’s hand slide underneath his on the bed, feels Dean’s fingers in between his fingers. This all means nothing, Castiel reminds himself.  Dean needs someone with him tonight, and it could be anyone occupying this spot beside him.

It’s when Dean’s grip loosens that Castiel realizes Dean is finally asleep. He’s breathing quietly, his face half-covered by the pillow, and half-covered by his hair. Right now, it’s almost impossible to believe that the person sleeping next to him, in this room with nothing but a dusty Grammy and a faded picture of a little boy with his mother, is Rock’s Biggest Bad Boy. It’s almost impossible to believe that Dean is anything but lost and lonely.

Reaching down onto the floor, Castiel finds his phone buried in the material of his suit jacket. In the silence of Dean’s bedroom, Castiel opens up his photos, scrolls back a few years to some random day, to some random park where Claire and Jack are standing against a tree, both smiling, both completely unaware of any of the problems their parents were having even then. Or at least pretending to be completely unaware.

Moving through his pictures to the present, the pictures of Claire and Jack grow fewer and far between. They’re replaced with screen shots of Twitter posts about band’s he’s managed, pictures with already-forgotten bands, memes he doesn’t think he ever found funny.

Castiel swipes back to his texts, and to both Claire and Jack, he writes just I love you and hits send.

***

“You should sit in the back with me.” Dean is standing on the stairs of the tour bus, the smell of exhaust fumes heavy in the air.

It’s been so long since Castiel has done anything like this, so long he’s even managed a band with their own bus, that he’d almost forgotten how all of this works. “Yeah, sure, of course.”

This morning should have been awkward. Waking up in Dean’s apartment, watching him pack a suitcase while wearing nothing but a towel should have felt something at least close to wrong. Sitting quietly while Dean tried calling Lydia five times, the last time leaving a message that was only, Call me please , should have felt weird, maybe even intrusive. But instead, Castiel just felt like he was there because, for some reason, Dean needed him to be.

He'd resisted giving Dean another kiss before leaving, before taking the subway back to his own apartment and throwing some clothes into a suitcase, and before climbing into the back of Bobby Singer’s car next to Dean and pretending that they hadn’t spent the night together again. There had been bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Belt Parkway, to the empty lot where the tour bus was waiting.

Castiel is used to the kind of tour buses with narrow aisles and buckets of ice filled with cheap beer. This is different. The walls are lined with leather benches and there’s food and champagne and wine set out on tables that fill the space in between seats. There’s a widescreen television in the front, three different video game consoles, and a refrigerator that’s bigger than the one in his house—well, it’s Meg’s house now.

Benny Lafitte is lying down across one of the bench seats, holding his phone only a few inches from his face, but sits up when he sees Dean. “Hey, man, I saw the interview—you ok?”

“I’m fine.” Dean doesn’t pause on his way to the back of the bus. Not even when Sam motions for him to sit down next to him.

“Dean—,” Sam sounds something close to shocked at the way Dean doesn’t respond.

“I told you when you texted me this morning, I’m good. I don’t want to talk about it.” Dean finally sits down in the last section of the bus, by the steel refrigerator that’s built into the wall, and a window that’s shaded so darkly that not even a glimmer of sunlight shines through.

Castiel tries to catch up to Dean, but he’s stopped by Charlie Bradbury, the only member of Angel Sigils who had been a no-show at Club Meteor two nights ago. She’d just told everyone she wasn’t into parties, that she had better things to do. “I’m Charlie—I play bass. So, I guess you’re the new boss.”

“I don’t think boss is the right word.” Castiel adjusts the collar of his beige trenchcoat. It was the only thing he could find in his closet this morning that he thought looked anything like something someone who could handle this job would wear. But it’s too big on him, and it’s wrinkled in the back, and his own reflection in the window tells him he’s trying too hard.

“Well, you must be pretty good at your job because Dean is holding it together much better than he ever would have been with Crowley.” She glances back at the seat behind her, where Bela is holding a phone and a laptop, and shaking her head at both. “You know, with all the shit that people are posting online.”

“Yeah, I told him to stay away from that.” Castiel tries to pretend his attention isn’t entirely focused on Dean, who’s pressing his head against the window, closing his eyes, like he’s trying to shut all of this out.

“It’s the same shit you’d expect.” Bela looks up from her computer and lowers her voice. “You know, like, I always knew he was a whore, but I guess he’s also a deadbeat asshole. And I wouldn’t fuck him anymore, not knowing he’s like this .”

“Yeah, everyone has a lot to say on the other side of a screen.” Castiel knows most of it is probably much worse than what Bela had just read. He knows she’s not even telling him about the death threats, the loudly typed comments hoping for something terrible to happen to Dean. The kind of crap that people scroll by without thought.

“He’s not really okay, is he?” Charlie’s red hair is somehow even brighter under the overhead lights of the bus than it was on stage.

“Probably not.” Castiel traces the steps to where Dean is sitting and hesitates for a moment before sinking down into the soft leather. The smell of exhaust is even stronger back here, and Castiel breathes it in, his hand sliding along the seat to find Dean’s. No one can see them back here. Their touch is hidden by the table in front of them.

Dean glances down at where their hands meet. “You doing that as my manager?”

“Sure.” Castiel leans back against the wall as the bus starts to move forward. He’s almost relieved to be leaving New York behind, even if it’s for a day. One less night he has to spend alone in his apartment. One more night to find some excuse to stay close to Dean. Not that Castiel should even be thinking about doing anything like that right now.

“She still didn’t call me back.” Dean rests his phone down on the table in front of him. “She’s probably not going to, right?”

“Maybe she will.” Castiel places his phone next to Dean’s. “My kids never texted me back either. Last night—I texted both of them, said I love you. No answer.”

Dean moves slightly closer to Castiel, until their legs are pressed against each other under the table. “I don’t know, I remember being a teenager. I could be an asshole. My mom would say ‘I love you’ and I’d be like ‘yeah okay.’ So, it’s not you. That’s just how they are. I mean, how I think they are—I don’t know anything about kids.”

“I still think it’s me.” Castiel looks past Dean, at the darkened outline of the outskirts of the city that are passing by the window. He knows he’s supposed to be thinking of some way to make this all better, trying to think of some PR-spin to post online before the concert. But, right now, all Castiel wants to do is pretend he’s trying to watch the world go by through shaded glass, when he’s really just memorizing every inch of Dean’s face. The circles under Dean’s eyes, the way his tongue moves over his bottom lip.

The bus begins to pick up speed as it turns onto the Interstate, and Castiel feels some of the anxiety and nerves that have been wound up inside him all day start to fade. He decides that he can spend the next few hours on this bus, locked away from the world, trying not to wonder how far he could go with Dean and keep it all a secret.

“Chuck’s going to fire us both if we don’t do something right now.” Bela sits down on the leather bench across from Castiel. She’s holding her laptop precariously on her knees. “He says he texted you a bunch of times and you didn’t answer?”

Castiel laughs, because maybe he’s just as bad as his kids, just as bad as Lydia. “I haven’t really checked my phone.” That’s a lie. He saw the 47 texts from Chuck and hasn’t even bothered to read a single one.

“We have to post something on the band’s Instagram denying everything. He wants Dean to issue a statement saying the whole Ashley Frank interview was a setup and it’s all a lie.” Bela is already typing, pausing every few seconds. “I’m trying to come up with something, but everything I write sounds so—”

“Fake?” Dean has slid away from Castiel now, moving toward the other end of the table.

“No, I can do it. I’ll write whatever you want. I’m sorry.” She moves her laptop to the table and continues typing. This time she doesn’t take a break every few letters. Castiel wonders if she’s typing any actual words. “I’ll say they’re false accusations for ratings,” she keeps her eyes focused down on the screen. “I’ll say Lydia never called you.”

“We’re not posting any of that. Chuck can go fuck himself.” Castiel reaches out for the laptop, waiting for Bela to frantically close something she definitely doesn’t want him to see. He wonders what it is. Maybe a job application. Maybe porn. Maybe that novel she said she’d always wanted to write.

“You can tell him to go fuck himself. I’m certainly not going to do it.” Bela turns the screen toward Castiel. He deletes the only two sentences she’s written in the draft post, We’re writing to address the lies spread on Ashley Frank regarding Dean . We ask that you respect Dean’s privacy at this time , and he replaces it with See you tonight, Boston before spinning the keyboard back to Bela. “I’m sure you have a good concert photo you took somewhere on there. Use that for the post.”

“So we’re just going to ignore what happened? And deal with Chuck later?” The sound of the road underneath them almost drowns out her words. Somewhere in the front of the bus, someone is playing music. They play the first few notes of a song before switching to another. Someone else turns on a television. It’s the news. The real news about the real world, not the meaningless tabloid fodder that Castiel is supposed to care about right now. A reporter talks about wildfires and unemployment and interest rates.

“Yeah, I guess so. Because it’s no one’s business and maybe people should find something else to worry about.” Castiel has become an expert at ignoring things he doesn’t want to deal with. Apparently, his own children have taken after him.

Dean pulls the laptop across the table, out of Bela’s grasp. “Don’t post anything.” He slides into the corner of the seat, up against the wall, his fingers brushing against the keyboard, eyes focused down on the screen. “AngelFucker581 says that I should probably stop writing songs about my own shitty father since I’m even worse.” He pauses, shakes his head. “PrincessElsa8 says I should just give up on everything, I have no talent and I’m a terrible person.”

“Don’t read that shit.” Castiel closes the laptop, letting it click shut.

“Yeah, fine.” Dean pulls the black hood of his sweatshirt over his head. “But you know who reads that shit even though I tell her not to? My mom.”

Castiel tries to hide his smile. Rock’s Biggest Bad Boy is upset over what his mom might read on the Internet about him. “Just a bunch of assholes hiding behind a keyboard.”

Bela’s eyes meet Castiel’s and her expression is some mix of confusion and surprise, and she glances at Dean and then back at Castiel. “Okay, well, I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about, so I’m going to go sit and wait for Chuck to fire me. Actually, he’d probably have his assistant fire me, I’m not important enough.”  

“If Chuck tries to fire you, tell him I said that he should go fuck himself.” Little pieces of Dean’s hair fall across his face and any traces of the rockstar who took Castiel home with him two nights ago seem to have been erased by someone who looks vulnerable, confused, maybe even hurt. He pulls at the strings on his hoodie and presses his head against the window.

“I definitely won’t be saying that.” Bela picks her laptop up, pressing it against her. She gives Castiel a slight shake of her head before disappearing back to some area of the bus that’s too far away for Castiel to even see from here.

Castiel leans over and pulls the steel refrigerator door open. The shelves are completely full, cans of beer and soda and bottles of water occupying most of the space on the shelves. There’s a stack of wrapped-up sandwiches, a drawer full of fruit and pre-made salads. He lets one of the cans of beer roll into the palm of his hand, and then decides on the soda. He could use the caffeine anyway.

Last night’s excuse for hardly sleeping wasn’t nearly as good as the night before. Last night, he’d passed sleepless hours by trying to avoid whatever people were saying online about Dean by spending way too much time learning about Lydia Slice. That was the stage name she’d used years ago anyway, when she was part of the best-selling all-women metal band at the time. Her real name was Lydia Morrison, and she was born and raised in Seattle. She’d been inspired by 1990s grunge bands, Nirvana and Soundgarden and Alice in Chains, to start her own band when she was a teenager. The Slice Girls’ first album Harmonia was certified gold within a few months after its release. Some critics were disturbed by the frequent theme of killing men after fucking them found in their lyrics. Castiel had mostly skimmed those articles, half asleep, laughing to himself.

Lydia had quit music years ago, though, and disappeared from the public eye. There wasn’t much about her personal life online. Her Wikipedia page says she has a daughter, whose name and age are unknown. There were some pictures of her on The Slice Girls’ last tour showed her with long blonde hair, smeared eyeliner, black shirts adorned with skulls and rhinestones that spelled out things like Fuck Everything .

“What was the point of it all, you know?” Dean pulls Castiel’s attention away from the refrigerator. “Why have fucking Ashley Frank ask me about this all on live television? To get revenge on me for not calling her back?”

“I don’t know why.” Castiel realizes Dean has moved so close to him their legs are touching again. He can feel his breath shorten as Dean’s thigh brushes against his but then slips away. He finds himself slipping his own hand down into the sliver of space in between their bodies and searching for Dean’s grasp again, before realizing this is all wrong.

It had taken everything in Castiel last night to lie beside Dean and stop himself from pulling Dean closer, from putting his arm around Dean and telling him that things will be okay. It had taken everything in him to stare at the clock on his phone at 4 am and tell himself some lie about sleeping in Dean’s bed being some favor, something he was doing as Dean’s manager.

And, right now, it’s taking everything in Castiel to just sit here, next to Dean, and pretend that letting Dean play this show tonight is a good idea. He knows this is what Dean wants to do. That he doesn’t want to let down his fans, and that no one is going to be able to stop him. But Castiel has seen too many people push themselves through the aftermath of some controversy only for everything to come crashing down.

“You can still cancel tonight,” Castiel whispers in Dean’s ear. His lips are way too close to Dean’s face, and there are so many other things he wishes he could mutter to Dean right now. So many things he wishes weren’t now off-limits. He can’t fuck Dean while saying I’m doing this as your manager .

“I don’t cancel gigs.” Dean’s expression suddenly turns back to hot-rockstar. “It will be fine.”

Chapter Text

In a dark corner behind an amplifier and a pile of beer bottles and tangled wires, Castiel slumps down against the wall. The lull in noise from the crowd seems to be coming to an end as the stage darkens and fades to a red glow. Some of them are calling for Angel Sigils, most of them are just screaming for Dean.

The opening act had been some local band from Salem, and they’d finished their set a half hour ago. Castiel can tell there’s a growing impatience on the floor beyond the curtain as he clears a string of notifications from Chuck from his phone. Castiel knows he’s in trouble because he hasn’t done any damage control. He hasn’t forced Dean into issuing some statement, or some denial of what’s probably true. Castiel hasn’t done much of anything, except let his mind go places it shouldn’t while watching Dean pace the stage in his ripped jeans and sleeveless black shirt.

“She still hasn’t called back.” Dean rests his hands on the wall above Castiel. “I just want to know.”

“They all want you out there.” Castiel leans his head against the wall and listens to the voices that chant Dean, Dean , over and over. “They’ve already forgotten about everything.”

“I haven’t.” Dean crouches down, underneath the glare of the crimson lights overhead. He leans forward, until he’s only a few inches from Castiel. He pauses as the footsteps of some roadie pass by, and then he mumbles. “You’ll stay with me after the show? You know, as my manager?”

“I’m already fucking this up, you know.” Castiel tries not to look Dean directly in the eyes, because he knows he’s just going to say yes to anything.

“So, we can fuck up together.” Dean smiles and Castiel wants to kiss him so damn bad that he has to remind himself where they are. That all it would take is for one person to see them to ruin everything.

The crowd is even louder now, and a few notes of Benny’s guitar blare out of the speakers just beyond where Castiel is sitting. “You have to go.” Castiel slides down the wall, further from Dean.

“Yeah.” He slips his phone from the pocket of his jeans and holds it out to Castiel. “If she calls me, please answer—please keep her on the phone until I can talk to her.”

“You just met me a couple of days ago and you trust me enough with this?” Castiel runs his fingers over the plastic edges of the case.

But Dean is already heading toward the stage, disappearing into the lights. The shouts from the crowd drown out nearly everything now. The sound of Dean’s voice, low and almost aching, fills the room, quieting the room. There’s this thing he does when he’s singing, sort of a breathless moan that reminds Castiel of being tangled up with Dean in his bed. It reminds Castiel of the way Dean sounded when he lost all control of himself.

Castiel can’t think about these things anymore. He can’t let his mind stray to that night, or he’ll give in, find himself inside Dean all over again eventually. Closing his eyes, Castiel lets himself get lost in the way Dean screams, leading into the distorted sound of Benny’s guitar.  His own phone is still vibrating against him, and Castiel looks at it every time, hoping it’s Claire or Jack or even Meg. But it’s Chuck, reminding Castiel that he was probably never cut out for any of this.

A man in a jacket that says Road Crew in gold lettering offers Castiel something from the bottom of an orange bottle of pills. Castiel remembers the unanswered texts from Claire and Jack and starts to take one or two of whatever it is this guy is giving him, but then pulls his hand away. “You know what—no thanks.”

“Sorry, man, I thought you seemed like you might need something.” The man shoves the bottle of pills back into his jacket.

“People keep saying stuff like that to me.” Castiel leans back just enough to watch Dean on stage, his foot up on a speaker on the front of the stage, hips thrusting forward. Women in the front row reach up, trying to grab Dean by the ankles, but he’s just out of their reach.

Castiel turns his eyes down to Dean’s phone, still resting in his palm. There are no notifications on the empty black lock screen. All of those people screaming Dean’s name, but no texts, no missed calls.

He glances back up to the stage. There’s a pause in between songs, and Dean is lifting a water bottle to his mouth. Castiel loses track of everything around him, focusing only on Dean’s lips. There’s sweat dripping down Dean’s forehead, his shirt is already clinging to his body. He lifts the material off his stomach to wipe the sweat away, and someone shrieks, I love you , from the mosh pit.

“I love you too,” Dean says into the crowd. He says it like he means it, but like he doubts the words he’s responding to.

Sam’s drums quickly cut off the five other voices that tell Dean they’re in love with him, and the stage rattles from Charlie’s bass. Castiel loosens his tie and pretends that his attention is on everyone by Dean. But really, all he can do is stand here, and watch the way Dean tilts his head back. Castiel wants to run his mouth down Dean’s skin even just one more time, but he can’t do that as Dean’s manager, either.

“Don’t let Chuck find out.” Bela is standing next to Castiel suddenly, scrolling through pictures she seems to have just taken of Dean on stage.

“Find out what?” Castiel has always been a terrible liar. His mother still reminds him of that every time he tells her that he’s doing fine. His kids will probably remind him of that every time he promises he’ll show up to the next game, the next school event. 

“Okay whatever.” Bela is smiling, shaking her head. “Good for you.”

“It wasn’t—it’s not an ongoing thing. It happened once. And it didn’t mean anything.” Castiel can’t tell if it’s the stage vibrating from the music, or his own panic. “It was before Chuck called me and made me the band’s manager.”

“I wouldn’t say a word either way.” Bela runs her fingers over her lips, pretending to zip them closed.  “Anyway, this is going amazingly well after last night. So, Chuck should be happy.”

“Fuck Chuck.” The red lights fade to a purple and the first few notes of the song “Lebanon” begin. It had been number one on the rock charts for weeks and had pretty much secured Angel Sigils’ Grammy for Best Rock Album. Castiel knows it’s all about John Winchester, and how he abandoned his wife and kids, and he wishes that someone had suggested they take this off the set list tonight.

The music keeps playing but Dean never stops singing. His hands are wrapped around the microphone but his head is hanging down, hair over his face. Suddenly, he looks up, his voice shakes. “Sorry, I fucked that up—Benny start over.”

“Can’t sing it because you’re a deadbeat too,” someone screams from the crowd and a couple of people boo. Some others cheer.

“Fuck you.” Dean starts to walk toward the edge of the stage, positioning himself in a way that looks like he’s about to jump into the crowd. Benny is pulling his arm back, Sam is dropping his drumsticks to the ground and grabbing Dean by the arm.

“Deadbeat.” It’s the same voice from the crowd, but a few others join in. They chant it over and over. “Deadbeat, Deadbeat.”

“Just like your father.” Another person joins in.

There’s a roar of booing, a woman who is louder than everyone, says, “Leave Dean alone.”

But Dean is already off the stage, running past equipment, running into the shadows. Sam is behind him, “Come on Dean, we’ve dealt with shit like this before. Ignore them—they’re all wrong.”

Dean doesn’t even look at Sam though, he heads into the darkness and down a staircase. Sam starts to follow but gives up when Dean takes a few steps back up the stairs. “Don’t Sam—I just want to be left the fuck alone. I’m not going back out there.”

Now everyone is booing, shouting for Dean, stomping on the floor. “Goddammit,” is all Castiel can manage to say before pushing himself through a group of roadies, and past Sam, before heading down the stairs. “He’s not going to listen to me, but I’ll try.” Castiel speaks so quickly he isn’t even sure Sam heard a word he’d said.

There’s a big black door at the bottom of the stairs. The man who was supposed to be blocking it, a tall guy with a pink mohawk, steps aside for Castiel. “That was not the face of someone who’s getting back out on that stage,” Pink Mohawk says.

But Castiel doesn’t listen, he pushes the door open and feels the cold air against his cheeks. Dean is already walking down the alley, somewhere near the street up ahead. This is the second time in less than twenty-four hours he’s found himself running after a fleeing Dean Winchester. There’s no way Chuck doesn’t fire his ass now.

There’s a yellow light that falls over the alley from the streetlamps just beyond. Elaborate graffiti and paintings of old album covers line the wall of the buildings. Castiel grabs Dean by the wrist, pushing him against a spray-painted rendition of the cover of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon .

“What the fuck are you doing to me?” Dean grips Castiel’s shoulders. He moves Castiel back, but in a way that can only be described as gentle. He keeps his fingers on Castiel’s arms, digging into them not with anger, but with some kind of need.

“Get the hell in there and finish. I thought you didn’t like to let people down. And then you do this? Just walk off the stage because of a couple of assholes?” Castiel reaches up, puts his fingers on Dean’s wrist. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Dean pulls his hands away from Castiel, and slides against the wall, closer to the entrance. The dull sound of people screaming Dean, Dean is starting to die off now, replaced by the sound of cars passing by on the street. Dean turns his eyes to Castiel, and he shakes his head. “I thought you were different.”

“Dean—I’m sorry. I just don’t want you to ruin everything because of this.” Castiel doesn’t know what to say or what to do. The streetlight above them flickers.

The big black door opens and Pink Mohawk steps outside and lights up a cigarette. “People are leaving, you’d better get back in there soon.”

Dean lowers his voice. He pushes back his hair, sweat still dripping down his forehead. “Ruin everything? You mean for you? I don’t care. Why should I? I’m nothing but a deadbeat, like my father. He never cared about anyone either.”

“Dean—,” Castiel doesn’t even bother taking another step. Dean is already standing out on the sidewalk, hailing a white cab. “Dean, where are you going?”

Before slamming the cab’s back door, Dean leans back, smiles with his clothes still all stuck to his body. “To ruin everything.”

***

It’s 11:07 pm when someone tweets a picture of Dean doing shots at a bar called The Black Rose. Bela texts Castiel the picture, which is captioned, “ At a crap bar and Dean Winchester is here getting trashed ”, to Castiel at 11:14 pm. Dean is drinking something out of a clear plastic cup, surrounded by hands willing to give him more.

Sam is the first to get off the couch in the hotel lounge when Castiel shows him the first sign that Dean is alive in more than an hour. “I’ll go get him. This is nothing new for him, just so you know.”

“I’ll go. It’s my job now, right?” Castiel pulls his feet off the glass coffee table. He’s been sitting here, sinking into the cushions in the Four Seasons VIP room. A woman in a short red skirt has been trying to serve him little fried foods on a gold platter for a half hour now. Castiel has told her “No thanks” something like twenty times.

“He’s my brother.” Sam puts a can of beer down in front of him. “I should go.”

Castiel pulls Dean’s phone from his suit jacket. “I’ll go. I have his phone. And maybe if I fix this, Chuck Shurley might start to forgive me. I really don’t want to lose this job.”

Sam gives a slight nod. “Fine, I guess—but, just so you know, Dean is a good person. A really good person. I know he does stuff like this sometimes, but he’s always done everything for everyone his whole life. So, try to go easy on him, please.”

“I’ll bring him back here.” Castiel glances quickly at Dean’s phone again. The screen is full of notifications now, from Sam, Benny, and Charlie, all asking Dean, where are you? Are you ok? before they realized Dean had left with no way to contact him. There’s one that says Mom and it just says Dean, call me, I love you . Castiel pretends not to see it, he shouldn’t be reading this.

The Black Rose is only three blocks from the Four Seasons, but Castiel hails a cab anyway. He doesn’t have time to walk the streets, scrolling social media for more pictures of Dean playing drinking games. And Castiel doesn’t want all that time alone with his own thoughts.

“Where to? The cab driver turns just enough to make eye contact with Castiel.

“The Black Rose.” Castiel says it like he’s asking a question.

The cab driver seems to have an answer. “That’s the kind of place you only go if you’re looking for trouble.” He turns, little glimmers of the red streetlight getting caught in the gray of his beard. “Are you looking for trouble?”

“No—but it usually finds me anyway.” Castiel squints at the GPS map on the dashboard screen. They should be there in eight minutes, now nine, now seven. He isn’t sure he can stand being in this cab for that long. He tries to focus on the world outside, on a couple standing outside a café drinking coffee, on the man pushing a stroller down the sidewalk. But the cab driver is still talking, telling Castiel about the time he helped a guy named Don run from the cops after a fight at The Black Rose. And, once, after The Black Rose’s annual Halloween party, he drove home a man who claimed to be a vampire and a woman who desperately wanted to be bitten.

Castiel doesn’t say it, but he hopes that woman got everything she wanted with that vampire.

“So, what kind of trouble do you think is going to find you tonight?” The cab is pulling against the curb of a dark-colored building with a bright blue neon sign.

“The bad kind, probably,” Castiel says, opening the door. He pulls too much money out of his wallet and drops it into the cab driver’s hand.

A woman with a tight blonde ponytail is smoking a cigarette a couple of feet from the door. She digs the heel of her shoes into the concrete and smiles at Castiel. “I don’t know if you want to go in there. You know Dean Winchester? He’s in there, after just walking off the stage at some concert.”

“Actually, that’s what I’m here for.” Castiel slips through the open door into the barely lit bar. He’s immediately greeted by the smell of cheap alcohol and sweat and someone’s too-strong floral perfume.

Dean is sitting at a round table in the center of the bar. There’s a little black vase full of red flowers that’s surrounded by empty shot glasses. He looks up at Castiel, but then turns away, back to the bartender, who hands Dean another glass, and runs her hand across Dean’s shoulder. He doesn’t react, not even when her hand runs up through his hair. She bends down and whispers something in his ear, and he shakes his head. She looks pissed off, and her black hair sways as she walks away.

Castiel sits down directly across from Dean, pulling the still-full shot glass toward him. He takes a sip of what’s in the glass. Vodka. Maybe the strongest he’s ever had. Maybe way too strong. He lets a few more drops drip down his throat and places Dean’s phone down on the table. “You forgot this.”

Dean picks it up, turns it over, and squints at the screen. “Thanks. You can go now.”

“Not until you come with me.” Castiel ignores the group of women in the corner who have their phones raised towards them. He can tell they’re zooming in and out, trying to get the perfect shot of Dean Winchester and some guy.

“Are you going to drag me back there and make me record some apology? Do some stupid fucking interview where someone can maybe tell me I have another kid out there somewhere?” Dean collects the empty shot glasses and pulls them toward himself, searching each one for anything left. “I guess I was wrong about you. You’re just like the rest of them.”

Dean’s words hurt Castiel more than he expects them to. “I’m not. I’m not like them.”

“Whatever the fuck you say.” Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and leans back in the chair, finally picking his phone up and glancing at the screen. He starts to stand up from the table and stumbles, catching himself on an empty chair. Castiel stands up, grabbing Dean from behind, pulling their bodies closer together. For just a second, Dean tilts himself backward, letting his head fall into Castiel’s shoulder. The women in the corner take their pictures over and over again.

“Dean, you’re fucking trashed, let’s go.” Castiel can feel Dean’s hair brush against his mouth and his neck. “These people here, they just want to put more shit about you online.”

“Fuck you, Cas.” Dean moves forward, knocking into the table and sending one of the shot glasses down to the floor to shatter. He raises his voice above the indie rock music from a speaker somewhere above them. “You know what, fuck all of you too. Put that online.”

“Come on, Dean.” Castiel tugs Dean’s arm, trying to lead him to the doorway.

Dean tears himself away, pushing Castiel with enough force to make him trip into the wall that’s covered in posters of local bands no one has ever heard of and will never hear of.

Without thinking, Castiel turns and grabs Dean by the cotton of his shirt, twisting it until Dean’s hips fall into his. “What are you doing? Stop. This isn’t helping anything.”

Dean rests his hands on Castiel’s, turning his eyes down. “She didn’t call me back.”

“No.” Castiel tries not to think about the way there’s a little spot on Dean’s lips that shines under the bar lights. He tries not to think about how good it felt to kiss those lips. “She didn’t call you. But your mother did. And she wants you to call her.”

Releasing his fingers from Dean’s shirt, Castiel slips against the wall until he finds the door and finds the woman with the tight blonde ponytail outside. Her cigarette is gone, but her heels still scrape against the ground. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were here for Dean Winchester.”

Castiel feels Dean standing behind him, hands wrapping around Castiel’s waist. “He’s—I’m his manager. And he needs to go home.”

“Good luck with that.” She steps out of the way, clearing a path for Dean to walk.

Castiel hails another cab. This time, the driver has sleeve tattoos, and he turns as Dean sits down in the back seat. “Holy shit—Dean Winchester? I love your band.” He takes out his phone and turns it to the back. “Can we take a selfie?”

“Of course.” Dean leans in and smiles. Castiel can see himself, half cut off in the camera, pressed against the back seat, hoping this ride doesn’t last as long as the drive here.

For the next nine or ten minutes, Dean answers question after question about Angel Sigils’ upcoming album, their last album, his favorite food, whether he likes to listen to his own music. Dean doesn’t seem to mind answering the questions, “A good cheeseburger”, “No I can’t stand listening to myself sing” and suddenly seems much more sober than he had a few moments ago.

Castiel pulls out his wallet, but Dean pulls out his own. “Stop it, I’ve got it.” He hands what looks like three hundred-dollar bills up front and walks up the sidewalk to where two doormen scramble to open the door first. They let it close before Castiel is even inside.

There are a couple of people in the lobby dragging suitcases to elevators. Everything is marble and gold, and someone is playing a piano. The company doesn’t usually let Castiel stay in hotels this nice. Usually, it’s some chain hotel with a buffet breakfast and free WiFi that barely works. He knows he shouldn’t get used to this. He’s still waiting for his call from Chuck. The one that ends his career forever.

Dean’s walk is still staggered, and he drops his phone on the tiled ground. It’s then that Sam rushes over, from somewhere by the piano player. “Dean—are you okay?”

“I’m great.” Dean motions to Castiel. “Well, I was great until you sent him to come babysit me.”

“I’m going to bring him to his room.” Castiel rests his fingers on Dean’s shoulder blades, pushing him forward and toward the elevator bank.

“I’ll take him.” Sam somehow winds up standing in front of Castiel, blocking his path to the elevators. It would probably be a good idea for Castiel to let Sam be the one to take Dean to his hotel room. It would probably be the best idea Castiel’s had in days. He lets his hands fall away from Dean, trying to decide if he should head back to his own room or the hotel bar.

But Dean pulls him back while pushing Sam to the side. “Let Cas do it. It’s his job now, right Cas?” Dean sounds somewhere between angry and exhausted.

“Okay. Whatever. If you need me, I’m in the room right next to yours.” Sam shakes his head and walks back toward the piano music. Castiel wonders if Sam ever regrets giving up law school for this. Probably not.

There’s an elevator that goes only to floors 10-21, and Castiel hits the button for “20”, finding the key card they’d given him for Dean earlier tonight. You’re the manager, right? So I’m sure he trusts you with it , the man at the reception desk had said, and Castiel had responded, doubt it.

Dean ignores Castiel as the elevator ascends, humming to himself. Finally, somewhere just before floor 17, Dean looks up . “Bet you’re regretting this now, right?”

“No.” Castiel isn’t so sure about that right now. Maybe he’s denying to himself that he’d rather just be at home, alone between the empty four walls of his apartment.

The doors open to a row of suites, little gold-plated numbers next to each one. It’s quiet up here. The usual hotel sounds—televisions blaring, music vibrating the floor, laughing and yelling and sex—don’t seem to exist here. It’s just the silence of too much money.

Castiel scans the gray keycard in front of Suite 20-E. The light near the doorknob turns from red to green, and he pushes the handle in. He knows he shouldn’t walk inside, because he might never want to leave.

The fake fireplace is already turned on, its digital flames dancing against an electronic black background. There’s a big screen television mounted on a mahogany wall, just beyond a couch and chairs organized around a marble coffee table. The air is warm, and it smells like one of the candles Meg would always buy around Christmas. Cinnamon Candy Apple, or something like that.

He holds the door open for Dean, whose walk is still unsteady. “I’ll go now,” Castiel says, trying to hide the reluctance in his voice.

“I thought you were staying here tonight.” Whatever anger had existed in Dean’s voice had faded to something closer to fear. “As my manager.”

“I should go.” Castiel starts to pull the door closed behind him. “If you need me, I’m way down on the fourth floor. No suite for me, you know. You should lie down, sleep it all off.”

“Cas.” It’s all Dean needs to say to make Castiel turn around, and let the door shut the rest of the world out.

Dean reaches out, pulling Castiel against him. All Castiel can smell is the vodka on Dean’s breath, the sweat from the stage and the shitty ventilation at The Black Rose. “Dean, you’re upset and drunk. I need to go.”

“So now it’s not because you’re my manager, it’s because I’m fucked up?” Dean pulls on the waist of Castiel’s pants, causing Castiel to trip forward, their bodies nearly touching. “You can tell me that you just don’t want to be with me. You don’t need to make up shitty excuses.”

“You’re pissed at me. You told me I’m just like everyone else. You told Sam I was sent to babysit you—.” Castiel is silenced by Dean’s finger on his lips, moving down and dragging his mouth open. He tries to say something else, but suddenly all he can taste is Dean’s tongue.

“I guess I’m over it.” Dean is breathing against Castiel’s mouth, and Castiel tries to ignore how hard it’s making him.

He presses his hand to Dean’s chest, pushing him back up against a chair. “I need to go,” he says again, this time turning away from Dean. There’s no way Castiel is going to escape this if he keeps losing his focus on the way Dean’s hair is hanging down in his face, or the way his shirt has somehow become pushed up just enough to show a little sliver of skin on his stomach.

“Why?” Dean is standing there, leaning back against the chair, legs spread apart just enough for Castiel to imagine what it would be like to be kneeling between them right now.

And Castiel tries to think of an answer to Dean’s question. But he knows he’s going to go back to his empty hotel room with its king-sized bed and stark white sheets and fall asleep while some late-night comedy show drones on in the background. He has no one to call, no one to say good night to. No one to tell him that they can’t wait to see him when he gets home.  

“Why, Cas?” Dean says it quietly, the sound of the fake fireplace crackling sounds breaking through his words.

But Castiel knows there’s only one answer. He turns back to Dean, finally standing way too close to the space in between Dean’s legs. “Because if I stay, I know what’s going to happen. And then I’m going to keep giving myself permission to let it happen over and over again.”

“And you don’t want to keep doing that with someone like me, right?” This seems like it’s something Dean has been told before.

“No, it’s because I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop with someone like you.” Castiel feels like he can’t breathe, like he can’t even control the things he’s saying. His fingers rest on Dean’s thighs, pressing into the denim, before moving up to Dean’s face. He tilts Dean’s chin up just enough to kiss him, letting their open mouths linger against each other. There’s no way he can fight this anymore. “But no one has to know, right?”

“Who’s going to tell? Not me.” Dean mumbles, tugging on Castiel’s tie. “You and me—I think we both have some shit going on we want to forget about. This can be our way.”

“What, like a coping mechanism?” Castiel steps back as Dean moves his fingers to the buttons on Castiel’s shirt, undoing each one slowly, letting his fingertips brush against Castiel’s skin as he does it.

“Sure, we can call it that.” Dean pulls Castiel’s loosened tie, bringing their bodies closer. He bends down, letting his tongue trail down Castiel’s chest.

“Our secret.” Castiel closes his eyes, as he feels Dean grip his arms, leading him across the room and down onto the couch. He sinks back into the cushions, spreading his knees as Dean stands in between them. Castiel searches for that voice in his head that seems to have gone silent, waiting for something to tell him to stop.

But Dean is peeling his shirt off over his head, throwing it down onto the cushions beside Castiel. And all the bare skin and the tattoos are enough to make Castiel realize that there’s no part of him that wants this to stop.

Dean is already kneeling on the floor, running his hand up Castiel’s thigh. “Tell me what to do.”

“What?” Castiel can barely form a thought. He pulls himself up just enough to struggle with his jacket, shoving it down onto the couch behind him.

“You’re my manager, right?” Dean’s fingertips brush along the zipper on Castiel’s pants. “So, tell me what you want me to do.”

There are probably a million people who would kill to be Castiel right now. Sitting here with Dean Winchester begging for orders in between his legs. But Castiel’s not the kind of guy who is good at asking for what he wants. He’s actually not even that good at telling people what to do. But he knows what he wants. “Stand up and take off the rest of your clothes.”

“You’ve wanted to tell me to do that all night, haven’t you?” Dean rubs his hand along the bulge in Castiel’s pants before pulling himself up from the floor. He backs into the coffee table first, before catching himself. “Sorry, still a little buzzed I guess.”

“You don’t have to—” Castiel immediately starts to feel guilty. Maybe he really should have left Dean, let him sleep off the vodka.

“Shut up, I’m fine.” Dean thrusts his hips slightly before unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans. He pulls them down, stretching the elastic of his boxers over his erection, shoving the frayed denim down to his ankles. He nearly trips again pushing them off with his shoes. Against the background of the Boston skyline outside the window behind him, Dean stands in the shadows created by the make-believe flames. “Now what do you want me to do?” He puts his arms down at his sides, like he’s just waiting to give himself away.

But it’s the way Dean looks up from his own naked body that makes Castiel ache in a way he never has before. There’s something in Dean’s eyes that makes Castiel feel like he’s the only one Dean wants here right now. Something that makes Castiel feel like Dean needs him right now.

Castiel shrugs off his shirt and walks across the room, meeting Dean in front of the window. He rests his fingers on Dean’s waist, letting their bare stomachs brush against each other. “I want to take you in the bedroom.”

Dean’s forehead brushes against Castiel’s as he nods. His breath is short, and his voice cracks as he says, “What do you want to do to me in there?”

“I want to fuck you harder than you’ve ever been fucked.” Castiel isn’t sure whether he sounds absolutely ridiculous. He probably does. Dean is probably going to laugh at him. He deserves it.

Dean opens his mouth, comes closer to Castiel like he’s about to fall into a kiss. But his lips never reach Castiel’s, and he says, “I don’t know, I’ve been fucked pretty hard more than a few times in my life.”

“If that’s a challenge, I accept.” Castiel rests his hands on Dean’s shoulders, pushing him in the direction of the bedroom. “Come on, get in there.”

“So bossy.” Dean smiles while Castiel continues to lead him down the hall, into the pitch black of the bedroom.

Castiel runs his hand along the wall, turning on the light. It’s too bright, and he squints, trying to keep his attention on Dean while dimming it to a pale glow. “Sorry, I want to be able to see you. All of you.”

The sheets that Dean lies down on are the same stark white ones that covered the bed in Castiel’s much smaller room. There’s a mountain of pillows near the headboard, which is all curved gold bars. Too many things are gold in this room. The molding on the dressers. The lamps. If Castiel wasn’t in the middle of pushing Dean down onto the bed, he’d make some comment about how fucking gaudy this entire place is.

Dean sprawls out on the bed, his hand resting on his chest, lifting his head to Castiel. “Am I allowed to ask you to take off your pants now too?”

“Whatever you want.” Castiel unbuttons his pants, letting them fall off as he climbs onto the bed in between Dean’s legs. He feels like he can’t control anything right now. Like he can’t control his body, his thoughts, the things coming out of his mouth. “I want to taste every inch of you.” Castiel can feel his cock press against Dean’s, as his lips move from Dean’s cheek to his mouth.

With a small moan, Dean tries to kiss him back, but Castiel is already sucking on the skin on Dean’s neck, circling Dean’s nipples with his tongue. The smell of alcohol and sweat mixed with some probably expensive woodsy-scented cologne linger on Dean’s body, and Castiel’s hand travels along with his mouth down Dean’s stomach, finally resting his head in between Dean’s legs. He takes the tip of Dean’s cock between his lips, sucking on it only long enough to make Dean groan.

Castiel pulls away abruptly, which makes Dean let out a frustrated whine. He reaches out to Castiel, tugging on Castiel’s hair. “Don’t stop—please.”

“Be good and wait for it.” Castiel crawls on the bed beside Dean, until his hips are somewhere up near Dean’s head. Dean rolls onto his side to accommodate Castiel, legs around Castiel’s neck as Castiel’s tongue slips inside him.

Dean isn’t Dean Winchester Bad Boy Rockstar right now. He’s Dean Winchester, who’s writhing on a bed, begging Castiel for anything he can give him, pulling himself up off the bed just enough to take Castiel into his mouth.

Castiel knows he’s not going to last long if Dean keeps sucking on him like this, so he pulls himself away, rolls over on the bed and tries to catch his breath by staring up at the ceiling.

“The lube and condoms are in the bathroom. At least they should be, according to my Rider. Watch this be the one goddamn time they fuck up.” Dean is breathless, and he pulls at the sheets as he jumps off the bed and disappears down the hall for a moment.

Castiel wonders if he should care that he’s apparently lost any and all judgment he’s ever had. He wonders if can just blame the divorce and stress for making him lose his mind. But then Dean walks back through the doorway and throws a plastic tube down on the bed next to Castiel along with a black foil packet. “I think I’ve been good.”

“You definitely have.” Castiel pulls himself up using one of the headboard’s gold bars, as Dean lies back down beside him. “Turn over.” Castiel almost doesn’t recognize his own voice, or the way it sounds like a command.

“Anything you want.” Dean rolls onto his stomach. “Remember you promised you’d fuck me harder than anyone ever has in my life.”

For a second, Castiel panics. He’s nothing, no one, special. Especially not someone who can fuck Dean Winchester harder than he’s ever been fucked. Holding the tube in his hand, Castiel can’t remember how he got here, or what the hell he’s doing. But Dean is waiting, ass-up, his face half-covered by his hair. Pull it together, you coward , Castiel tells himself, taking a deep breath and trying not to choke on the air.

But this time, he doesn’t forget how to put a condom on or squirt too much lube out all over the place. He slides a finger inside Dean and wraps his hand around Dean’s cock. The bed squeaks as Dean pushes his body back into Castiel’s hand, with the same rhythm Castiel uses to jerk him off.

Castiel can feel his own precum dripping down his dick at the same time he feels little droplets on his fingertip from Dean. “I’m going to fuck you now.” Castiel lets his hand move up Dean’s ass, spreading Dean apart.

“Please.” Dean lifts his head from the bed. “Please, I need you so fucking bad right now.”

You really shouldn’t do this , something inside Castiel’s head finally reminds him. But it doesn’t matter, he’s already inside Dean, shoving him forward with such force on the bed that his face is buried in the sheets, his teeth clenched on the white 1000-thread organic cotton.

Castiel climbs up further on Dean, moving his hand from Dean’s cock to his wrist, holding him down on the bed. The gold poles of the headboard slam into the wall, and something in the nightstand rattles. Castiel wonders if it’s the Bible. He kind of hopes it is.

He bends just enough to kiss Dean’s shoulders, but it’s not even enough. He bites lightly into Dean’s flesh, something that makes Dean whimper against the mattress. “Cas, Cas.” Dean repeats it over and over and Castiel doesn’t know how much longer he can keep going.

Dean stops squirming, pulls himself away from Castiel, rolling over on the bed. “I want to watch you fuck me.” His hands are in his soak-sweat hair, and he brings his knees up, legs on each side of Castiel.

Seeing Dean lying there, all spread out, waiting for Castiel again, makes Castiel feel too many things he doesn’t even want to understand right now. He reaches down, takes Dean’s hand into his own, and kisses Dean while slipping back inside of him. It’s a kiss that doesn’t belong here, in the middle of a coping mechanism. It’s too slow and too long, there’s too much tongue, and way too much eye contact.

Dean’s hand pulls Castiel’s back to his cock, wrapping Castiel’s fingers around him. Castiel complies, his hand sliding along Dean while they fuck. Castiel isn’t sure which one of them keeps moving harder and faster, or if it’s both of them at the same time. He also isn’t sure which one of them comes first, or if they come at the same exact time.

Castiel is louder than Dean, even though he doesn’t mean to be. He moans, his body shuddering and quivering against Dean’s, at the same time Dean’s warm cum spills down his hands. Dean puts his hand over his face and lets out a long gasp. “Cas, Cas,” he whispers, lifting himself up and falling back down on the bed.

Cum drips down Dean’s stomach and onto the 1000-thread organic cotton. He reaches out for Castiel’s hand, taking it into his own, kissing it. “We got the expensive sheets all fucking dirty.”

“Good.” Castiel collapses down onto the bed next to Dean, pushing stray hairs out of Dean’s face. It leads to another moment that feels like something it shouldn’t. Dean tilting his face into Castiel’s hand, Castiel running his fingers across Dean’s lips.

“I’ve already decided you’re the best manager I’ve ever had, by the way.” Dean runs his hand down his body, wipes away the cum, as he sits up. “I’ll be right back.”

The door to the bathroom shuts, and Castiel tries to focus on the water running, the toilet flushing, instead of reminding himself that he did precisely what he told himself he wasn’t going to do. Instead of thinking about how damn good every single moment with Dean feels. Instead of thinking about the next time, even though there shouldn’t be a next time. 

In the distance of the hotel suite, Castiel can hear a phone ring. It’s not his, not his ringtone. He hears Dean rush out of the bathroom, the ringing getting louder as Dean approaches the bedroom. “She’s calling me back.”

Chapter Text

Castiel can’t find his underwear. He realizes this is the second time he’s been in this situation since meeting Dean and that it’s probably not going to be the last. Pulling the sheet off the bed and wrapping it around his waist, Castiel tries to slip by Dean in the doorway. But Dean, who still hasn’t bothered to cover up any part of himself, stands in front of Castiel, blocking the path to the other room.

“Stay,” Dean mumbles, lifting his phone to his ear.

Castiel stumbles back onto the bed, letting the blanket rest on his hips. Dean sits down next to him, taking part of the material that’s covering Castiel and stretching it over himself. “Hello?” The voice Dean uses to answer the phone is so much softer and uncertain than the way he speaks on stage and during interviews, that Castiel wonders if Lydia will even recognize it.

Lydia’s voice, though, is clear and loud and completely drowns out any other sound in the room, even though the speaker of Dean’s phone. “So, this is what it took to get you to call me back? It wasn’t enough for me to just leave you a voicemail? I had to go leak it to fucking Ashley Frank?”

Castiel starts to get up again. This isn’t a conversation he should be listening in on. He doesn’t even take a step away from the bed when he feels Dean’s arm across his chest, pushing him back down. Castiel closes his eyes and lies down. He can feel the wet spot underneath him, against his back, but he’s too exhausted to care. 

“So, it’s true?” Dean sounds like someone who really doesn’t want to know the answer.

“Of course it’s true.” Lydia’s response is slightly muffled now. “I tried to tell you. You ignored me. You live in your own goddamn world where you’re a big rock star and no one else matters, right?”

“Well, that part isn’t true.” Castiel speaks quietly but Dean turns around anyway, shaking his head. Dean can’t take a compliment, but Castiel shouldn’t be giving them either.

“You tried to tell me? You called me a few times with over a decade in between and then you had some fucking tabloid reporter tell me on tv?” Dean’s voice is still low, but his hand is clenched on the bed, pulling the sheet that’s on his lap into his fist. Finally, he throws the phone down on the bed, hitting the speaker button, before resting his head in his hands.

“I tried to tell you at first. But then, I thought about it, and I decided it was probably better not to get you involved. You know, with your reputation and everything.” She laughs, which causes the phone to make a static sound. “But Emma started asking questions recently. Asking about her father. So, I told her.”

“And finding out that a piece of shit like me is her father didn’t make her stop asking questions?” Dean doesn’t lift his head, and Castiel starts to reach out and put his hand on Dean’s back, in what he knows would be a useless attempt to comfort Dean, but he stops himself. Mindless sex is one thing, all this emotional stuff is another.

“No, she wants to meet you. At first, I told her no.” There’s a long pause on the other side of the phone and Dean lifts it from the bed, tilting it enough for Castiel to see the call is still connected.  “But then I got an opportunity to do something I never thought I’d get to do again. Record a new album and go on a world tour. And I figured, what better time to give her a chance to get to know you better?”

It’s suddenly so quiet that Castiel can hear someone’s footsteps above them. A helicopter off in the distance. His own stomach gurgling. Dean finally looks up, turning to Castiel as if he’s expecting Castiel to give him some sort of explanation.

“What are you talking about?” Dean is still watching Castiel. Castiel just shrugs, even though he’s certain what Lydia is about to ask.

“Emma would like to come stay with you and get to know you while I’m in London recording for the next few weeks.” Lydia sighs into the phone. “I’ve told her that you’re busy, and that this really isn’t a good idea. I’m not even sure I want her with you—you know, I’ve kept up on all your, incidents, I guess.”

Dean mouths “Fuck,” to Castiel but says, “I’d be happy to.”

“You would?” Lydia’s tone softens suddenly. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.” Dean’s grip on the bedsheet has loosened, but his eyes are searching Castiel’s. Castiel knows that every answer Dean has given Lydia is probably the opposite of what Chuck or Crowley would have told him to give. All the wrong answers for Castiel’s career. All the same answers that Castiel would give himself. So Castiel nods, and Dean finally seems to breathe again.

“Maybe I was wrong about you.” Lydia doesn’t sound like she believes her own words. “Or maybe you’re just doing this, so I don’t you don’t get any more negative press.  Either way, it’s what Emma wants so I’ll contact your assistant when—.”

“You don’t need to contact my assistant. Just text me when she’s ready.” Dean hangs up the phone and throws it back down on the bed. It lands somewhere on Castiel’s legs before sliding down onto the floor.

“I need a fucking drink.” Dean stands up, the blanket falling off his body. “They should have put something in the kitchen, I’ll be right back.”

Dealing with Vince Vincente thinking he’s the devil seems easy compared to this. Anything seems easier than dealing with this. Castiel untangles his legs from the sheets, nearly tripping as he stands up and pulls Dean back towards him. “You don’t need a drink.”

Castiel expects Dean to get pissed off all over again, to tell him to fuck off and leave. But Dean doesn’t fight back, giving in to Castiel’s grip on his shoulder. “I really screwed up now, right? How am I supposed to do all the shit I have to do with a kid around? Not only do I get to be a shit father, I can fuck up everything for the band too.”

“Things can be canceled. Dates can be changed. Your band will understand. Other people don’t have to know the reason.” Castiel picks up his pants from the floor. His underwear are still missing but that doesn’t matter right now. “If it helps, I would have done the same thing. So, I can deal with Chuck and whoever else needs to be dealt with.”

Dean is bending down, dragging something out from underneath the dresser. “Here are your underwear. Not sure how they got here. And thanks, but I still need a damn drink. Or three. I’ll be right back.”

Castiel lets the elastic of his boxers hang off his finger before slipping them back on, up to his waist. There’s a twinge of pain in his stomach, and Castiel realizes he can’t remember the last time he’s eaten, or the last time he’s even had anything to drink that wasn’t alcohol. “You may need a drink, but you’ve already had enough of those tonight, and I need some damn food.”

“So, order room service. They’ll bring it right up if I call.” Dean is pulling his shirt over this head. “I’m sure there’s a menu around here somewhere.”

Castiel doesn’t really want to eat filet mignon on the 1000-thread organic cotton sheets where he just fucked Dean Winchester, or in front of the fake fireplace, or anywhere else in here. “No, it’s like two in the morning. Let’s go find some all-night diner and get something good to eat.”

Dean smiles, stumbling slightly as he steps into his jeans. “You know how many years it’s been since I’ve just gone out to eat in some diner? Am I even allowed to do that? Usually, it’s all planned out. I’m told where to go, who to go with.”

“Are you allowed to go eat? Did you just ask me that? What the fuck did Crowley do to you?” Castiel is searching for the rest of his clothes in the dim light. “Yes, you’re allowed to go eat in some diner with me.”

Dean pushes his hair back from his face. There’s a certain expression of sadness in his eyes that Castiel immediately identifies because he can relate to it. The kind of sadness that comes from knowing that trying to have even the slightest bit of hope is probably damning.

“You know what?” Dean takes a step back toward the doorway. “That actually sounds better than that drink.”

***

There’s a stillness to the streets that Castiel doesn’t expect. There’s a couple walking down the sidewalk, holding hands. They’re laughing, pulling each other closer. Castiel remembers when it used to be him and Meg, together, in the middle of the night. Coming home from some late-night movie, barely making it in the door of their first apartment together before they were all over each other. A wave of sadness, or maybe disappointment, probably both, passes through Castiel. He turns to Dean, who is standing beside him. He wishes he could take Dean’s hand into his, but this is all a secret, and that’s all it will ever be.

A cab passes by and Castiel starts to walk toward the road, to get the driver’s attention. But he feels Dean pull him back toward the darkened windows of the building behind them. “There’s no one around, let’s just wander around until we find something. I don’t get to just wander around very often, you know?”

“Fine with me.” Castiel follows the path of streetlights to the corner of the road. “I like wandering.”

“What else do you like?” Dean pulls the zipper up on his sweatshirt and continues past sleeping storefronts, and office buildings deserted for the night.

“What do you mean?” Castiel catches their reflections in a window. His shirt is wrinkled, creases all along the material from being crumpled on the floor. Too many buttons are still open, leading from his neck to his chest. His hair is a tangled mess, strands crossing each other all over the top of his head. Dean is walking close to him, almost too close, and Castiel wonders if it’s obvious they just fucked. Probably not. No one would think Dean Winchester would want to be with Castiel in his messy, kind-of cheap suit.

“I mean, I don’t know anything about you. Well, I know you were married and have two kids, managed some metal bands and pop stars, you don’t tell people to smile, and you worry about everything too damn much.” Dean tilts his face toward Castiel as he speaks, one of his fingers running along the side of Castiel’s hand. “But who are you, Cas?”

Castiel isn’t sure who he is anymore. He used to be a husband, a father. Now he’s some divorced guy struggling to keep a job he’s less than mediocre at, and whose kids won’t even answer his text messages. “I guess I’m trying to figure that out.”

“Yeah, I guess we all are.” Dean shoves his hands into his pockets and turns his face up to the buildings above. “You know what I miss? Stars. I’m always in big cities, and there’s too much damn light. I used to see stars in Kansas when I was a kid.” 

“You take a lot of tour buses across the country. They don’t let you stop somewhere to see some stars?” Castiel doesn’t even remember the last time he’s even looked up at the night sky.

“No, they really don’t. And I’d never ask anyway. Can you see me asking Fergus Crowley if we could pull over so I could look at the fucking constellations?” Dean quickens his pace as he walks. He sighs, his breath creating a small cloud of white that quickly evaporates in the almost-cold air. “Just like I would never ask him if I could go walk the streets looking for something to eat in the middle of the night. He’d say it wasn’t good for my reputation or some shit like that.”

There’s a lonely lit-up window on a corner up the road, and a sign that’s still too far away to read. Castiel catches up to Dean as they cross the street, Dean finally turning his eyes back down from the washed-out sky. “I have all these people who tell me they’ll do whatever I want, whenever I want. Get me anything I want. But sometimes all I really want is to just be, I don’t know, normal.”

“Being normal kind of sucks though.” Castiel steps onto the curb in front of the Sunnyside Diner. There’s a table occupied by two women in blue hospital scrubs, and another by four kids that Castiel guesses are probably local college students from their Boston University sweatshirts and hats. He stops in front of the door, hesitant. If Chuck’s not going to fire his ass for all the other things he’s done, maybe this will be the reason. Setting Dean Winchester free.

Dean reaches around to the door, pulling it open. Even from outside, it smells like coffee and French fries. This is a bad idea, it’s too public. The few people who are here are too many. But Castiel is starving, and Dean looks too hot not to follow into the warm air inside the diner. “I don’t know, if you’re normal, you don’t seem so bad.” 

“Two?” A woman in a button-down yellow shirt with her hair twisted into a braid pulls two menus off the counter behind her. She glances back at Dean. “Wait, aren’t you Dean Winchester from Angel Sigils?”

“I’m just Dean right now.” His voice is quiet, and he turns to Castiel. “And yeah, just two.”

The college students grow silent when Dean walks by, and then one of them whispers something across the table. They laugh and turn back to their phones. It makes Castiel nervous. He doesn’t know what could be so funny. At first, he tells himself they’re probably laughing at him. At someone like him even being within ten feet of Dean. But then Castiel realizes no one even knows he exists right now. They’re all looking at Dean.

Red leather bench seats are on each side of the booth where the waitress places the menus.  “Well, just Dean, I loved your last album. It helped me through some bad times.”

“That means a lot to me.” Dean sounds surprised. Castiel isn’t sure why. He assumes people say things like that all the time.

The table wobbles when they sit down, rattling the salt and pepper shakers placed in the center. Dean grips onto the shiny metal edge, holding the table still, as he leans forward across it. “You’re right, this is better than eating room service food in that hotel.”

“I know.” Castiel flips through the pages of the menu. “I think we both needed to get out of there awhile.”

“Right, because I fucked this all up for you. I’m sorry I said yes. I don’t know what I was thinking. I just couldn’t say no.” He pauses for a moment, saying “Thanks,” as the woman in the yellow shirt pours water into their glasses. Waiting until she walks away to continue. “She’s my kid, and I just want to get to know her if I can. I know Chuck is going to give you shit for this.”

“Why are you so worried about me?” Castiel can’t even decide what he wants to order. He can’t remember the last time he felt this hungry. Sex with hot rock stars does that, maybe. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t know how to be a father.” Dean’s hand moves closer to Castiel’s on the table. “You have two kids. What am I supposed to do?”

Castiel leans back against the seat. He isn’t sure how this night somehow turned from pulling Dean Winchester out of some shitty bar to fucking him in some overpriced hotel room to giving him parenting advice. “Honestly, I don’t think anyone ever really knows what to do. No one’s ever really ready to be a parent. You just try your best. And, as you know, my best isn’t so great, so I don’t know if I’m who you should be talking to about this.”

“I think you’re probably a lot better than you think.” Dean’s fingers are searching for Castiel’s now. Castiel looks over at the college students and the women in blue scrubs, but no one is paying attention.

Castiel lets Dean’s hand rest on top of his. “All I can say is that, when my kids were little, people used to say, ‘oh it gets easier when they get older.’ But really, it doesn’t. It just gets different, and sometimes even harder. Like sometimes they hate you for divorcing their mom and working too much.”

“They don’t hate you.” Dean lets the menu pages cascade shut, causing a wave of air to blow his hair across his face. “You know what? If someone asked me if I hate my father, I’d probably say yes. I mean, he just walked out on us one day, and my mom had to struggle to work and take care of me and Sam without any help at all. But do I really hate him? No, even though he’s terrible.”

“So, they still like me even though I’m terrible?” Castiel knows he should move his hand away from Dean’s, but he can’t. Something about being with Dean, like this, feels too good to stop, even though he knows it’s all wrong.

“No, that’s not what I meant at all. You’re not terrible. Your kids love you.” Dean seems nervous as he speaks, lowering his voice, turning his head toward the college students who seem to be getting ready to leave. “And, you know, I don’t think you’re terrible, for what it’s worth.”

Castiel is still watching the way Dean’s fingers trace over his. “Is this a date?” He regrets the words as soon as he says them.

“Do you want it to be a date?” Dean leans across the table now, and it’s almost hard for Castiel to hear him under the sound of the music playing from some speaker above them. Castiel knows this song. It’s Abaddon’s “The Devil Made Me Do It.” He hates this song, and he heard it hundreds, maybe thousands, of times when he was on tour with her.

But even he has to admit the rhythm is catchy and it’s going to get stuck in his head. He tries to ignore it. “It can’t be a date, right? Even if I want it to be?”

“Why not?” Dean stops, pulls his hand away abruptly when a shadow falls over the table. The woman in the yellow shirt is back, this time with a notepad in hand. Castiel is pretty sure she’s the only one working here tonight.

“What can I get for you?” She shakes her head, her fingers clutching a blue pen. “I’m Carmen, by the way, and, I’m sorry, I can’t believe you’re here. We can get you anything you want, even if it’s not on the menu.”

“I’ll have the cheeseburger and fries. And a beer.” Dean pauses, and his eyes find Castiel’s. “Actually, just a Coke.”

Castiel has barely even looked at the menu. He’s been too busy staring at Dean for the past ten minutes. “I’ll just have the same thing,” he says, as Dean’s leg bumps into his under the table.

“You’re the easiest customers I’ve had all night.” She smiles, but there’s a tired sadness in her eyes as she tears the sheet of paper from the pad. “Be right back.”

The college students are gone now, the only other people are the two women in scrubs. They’re laughing, their forks hitting their plates as they eat. There’s local sports memorabilia on the walls, and even though Castiel doesn’t know a thing about sports, he tries to distract himself by reading about athletes he’s never heard of.

“So, why not?” Dean’s fingertips have found their way over to Castiel’s hand again. “We just fucked in my hotel room, and this can’t be a date?”

Dean makes a good point. Castiel turns his focus to the window now, at the empty streets and the glow of the streetlights outside. “This can’t be a date because I’m your manager.” He watches the headlights of a SUV pass by down the lonely road, trying not to look back at Dean when he speaks.

“It’s 3 a.m., this can be whatever the fuck we want it to be.” Dean’s fingers slip away from Castiel’s now and he sits up against the back of the red leather seat. He takes a sip of water, and Castiel finds himself distracted Dean’s lips against the rim of the glass. The women in the scrubs are still talking, laughing, oblivious to Dean. Castiel lets himself relax. Maybe this can be some kind of secret date.

“Just so you know, if you weren’t with me tonight, I’d probably be passed out drunk on the floor of that hotel.” Dean is twisting his napkin into shapes now, folding it into triangles. “I don’t know how to say this, I’m not good at, I don’t know, feelings. But I’m falling apart right now. Lydia was one night that I always thought had been a mistake. And now I find out I have a kid who wants to know me?”

Dean pauses, now twisting the napkin around his fingers, the tips of them turning white from the pressure. “Actually, I’d probably be something far beyond drunk right now if it weren’t for you. So, thanks for keeping me together.”

“That’s my job.” Castiel pulls the napkin away from Dean and crumples it down onto the table.

“It’s not though.” Dean’s elbows are resting on the table now, his hands folded in front of him. Right now, eyes still slightly bloodshot, hair still all sex-tousled, Dean is a kind beautiful that Castiel can’t even describe. A kind of beautiful that apparently makes Castiel forget any kind of good judgment at all.

“It is.” Castiel arranges the utensils on the table. Fork, knife, spoon. Or is it spoon, knife, fork? He doesn’t know. He had to look it up online every time he tried to help Meg set the table for some holiday dinner. He’ll never have to do that again and, for some reason, he feels some kind of disappointment.

“Okay, but it actually isn't. Your job is to make me do whatever gets Chuck Shurley the most money. Make sure I don’t do anything too crazy. Like agreeing to meet the kid I never knew I had.” Dean slips his hands off the table as Carmen puts a dish that’s overflowing with French fries in front of him. He smiles and says, “Thank you,” and Castiel worries that Dean’s smirk is too much for anyone to handle.

Castiel’s plate doesn’t have quite as many fries. He doesn’t think that’s a coincidence. “Enjoy,” Carmen says, but she doesn’t take her eyes off Dean until she turns to walk away.

“Well, then I kind of suck at my job, as you have probably realized.” Castiel pops the cap off the bottle of ketchup, letting it spill out onto his plate. “But, if me being here is helping you, then at least I’m doing something right.” 

Castiel worries that came out wrong, or Dean will interpret it to mean something that it shouldn’t mean, even though that interpretation would be entirely correct. He shouldn’t like Dean as much as he does. He shouldn’t feel an ache through his body every time Dean touches him, like he needs more of Dean, or all of Dean.

“Why do you care?” Dean takes a bite of his burger. “Damn, this is way better than hotel food.”

“Because I just care, is that bad?” Castiel smears the ketchup around on his plate with a fry. Suddenly, he feels more panicked than hungry.

“I didn’t mean that. I’m not used to it.” Dean takes another bite, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Anyway, so are you going to tell me anything about you?”

Castiel forces himself to start eating just to delay having to think of an answer. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know why Dean Winchester would have any interest in knowing anything about him. And he can’t think of a single good thing about himself right now. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.” There’s that damn smirk again. The one that would probably get Castiel to do anything Dean asked.

“You’re right. This burger is much better than hotel food.” Castiel swallows, trying to ignore the way Dean’s eyes are searching his.

“Okay, I guess I’ll go first. I was born in Lawrence, Kansas. I have a brother named Sam. My mom’s name is Mary. My dad walked out on us a long time ago. A lot of people don’t know that I have a half-brother named Adam. I don’t really know him either. Apparently, I don’t know a few people I’m related to.” He moves his glass of Coke closer to him, looking down at it like it’s some kind of reminder of what he isn’t doing right now. “I’m in a pretty well-known band, but sometimes I wish we weren’t so well-known. I like writing and playing guitar.”

Castiel takes another French fry from his plate. It’s his turn and he still doesn’t have anything to say. “I’m from upstate New York. Ithaca. My parents are both college professors. I have two brothers, Michael and Gabe. One’s a doctor, one’s an investment banker. And then there’s me. I went to school for art. Couldn’t really find a job after graduation, so I went to business school because I wasn't sure what to do with myself, and then I stumbled into this, somehow.”

“An artist? Hot.” Dean holds his burger near his mouth but then puts it back down in his dish. “Do you still, I don’t know, do art?”

Castiel used to be a damn good artist. But he can’t remember the last time he drew or painted or designed anything. “No, work and life got in the way. I met Meg when she was a lawyer for some band I was managing. We got married, within a year or so we had Claire, then we had Jack, and I was traveling all over all the time.”

“Maybe you can draw me.” Dean winks before he returns to eating.

No one has to know . Castiel reminds himself when he starts to imagine Dean sprawled out on some bed while he sits across the room with a sketch pad. And maybe no one has to know about meaningless sex or nude artwork but that’s not all Castiel wants right now. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him, but he knows he likes Dean way more than he should. “So, if it’s 3 a.m. and this can be whatever the fuck we want it to be, what do you want it to be?”

“It’s a date,” Dean answers without hesitation. “I think we could both use it right now.”

Under the table, Dean’s knee bumps into Castiel’s thigh and it reminds Castiel of how, an hour ago, their naked bodies were all over each other, their legs and arms all twisted together. The thought of it starts to make Castiel hard, and he tries to ignore his mind wandering to having Dean all over again by changing the topic. “You’re okay with all of this, meeting your daughter, getting to know her?”

Dean takes the final bite of his burger and waits for a man and woman to pass by with Carmen, who finds them a seat somewhere in the corner. “Am I okay with it? No, it scares the shit out of me, but I need to do it. I want to. But you’re going to have to teach me about having a teenage daughter.”

“My teenage daughter is awesome.” Castiel remembers the unanswered text messages, and how much he’s messed everything up lately. “She’s creative and funny and I wish I could make things better between us.”

“I guess we both have work to do.” Dean pushes his plate to the side as Carmen stops at the edge of the table again.

“Anything else or just the check?” She reaches for Dean’s plate. The beaded bracelets on her arm rattle together. They say things like love and badass and mom .

“I’m good. Cas?” Dean is cleaning the table with the napkin Castiel had crumpled up earlier.

“No, no I’m full.” Castiel realizes he’s eaten almost his entire burger and all the fries on his plate. He wonders if his stomach will regret this 3 a.m. cheeseburger in the morning.

The woman and man seated in the corner are all over each other. Sitting next to each other, the woman stretching her leg over the man, the man’s hands getting caught in her hair. Castiel looks away, and back up at Carmen as she drops the check in the center of the table.

Dean glances over his shoulder at the couple and tilts his head toward Castiel. “Want to do that right here? There’s barely anyone in this diner, but we can take bets on how long it will be until it winds up on the Internet. My guess is eight minutes.”

“Let’s not find out.” Castiel reaches for the check, but Dean pulls it away from him.

Dean pulls a black credit card from his wallet. “I guess when you’ve had multiple sex tapes leak, a couple of pictures of you kissing your manager doesn’t seem like a big deal.”

In the tip line of the receipt, Castiel can see $1,000 written in messy blue ink. “Are you leaving her a thousand-dollar tip?”

“Yeah, she deserves it, right? Working alone here all night. I can afford it, don’t worry.” Dean drops the pen down on the table. “My mom waited tables in a place kind of like this in Kansas after my dad left, and something like this would have helped us out a lot.”

Castiel starts to slide out of the booth, his eyes still avoiding the corner couple, who seem to be looking at a menu together now. There’s a feeling of relief when he realizes there’s still no one else here, no one watching them. No one to share their secret date.

The streets are even emptier now. Dean trails behind Castiel as they retrace the path they took to get to the diner, still looking up at the sky that’s blurred out from the city lights. Castiel tries to focus on the sidewalk, and on finding their way back to the hotel, because if he keeps watching Dean like this, he’s going to have to admit to himself that he’s starting to feel something for Dean that goes beyond wanting to fuck.

Feeling something for Dean is the last thing Castiel will let himself do right now. He’s having enough trouble trying to do his job. Sex is one thing but looking at Dean Winchester and seeing someone who’s just trying to see the stars, seeing someone who isn’t Rock’s Biggest Bad Boy at all, is more than Castiel can handle right now.

“I’ll talk to Chuck.” Castiel considers taking a wrong turn, getting lost with Dean somewhere that no one can find them. But that’s probably going too far, after the sex and the middle-of-the-night date they’ve already had tonight.

“You don’t have to. This is my shit to deal with.” Dean catches up to Castiel, their shoulders bumping into each other. “I’m used to getting yelled at.”

“So am I.” Castiel steps onto the gravel of the road. The lights of the Four Seasons are finally visible, and this is probably where they should pretend to part ways. This is probably where they should pretend that they haven’t been together all night.

But Dean is still walking next to him when they cross the street. Dean is still walking next to him when they pass by the same potted plants and fire hydrant that Castiel remembers passing when they left. Dean is still walking next to him when they pass the dimly lit parking garage. 

“Hey, Cas.” Dean’s fingers are wrapped around Castiel’s arm, and he’s pulling Castiel up against the bricks of the building.

Castiel doesn’t resist. He lets Dean push him up against the wall, lets Dean’s fingers run down his face. “Yes.” Castiel tries to make this single word sound like a question, but it comes out like an agreement to comply with whatever Dean is asking him to do.

Dean kisses him, and it’s sloppy and reckless, lips running down to Castiel’s throat. A car passes by and Castiel finds himself pressing his hands against Dean, knowing he should push Dean away but pulling him closer instead. You need to stop , Castiel tells himself, but his hands are on Dean’s waist, and he needs Dean’s lips against his like he needs air.

“Sorry, tonight has somehow been both the worst and best night I’ve had in a really long time.” Dean lets his mouth break away from Castiel’s. “And all of the good parts were because of you.”

The entire world could be watching them and Castiel probably wouldn’t care or notice. His lips search for Dean’s, finding them almost immediately as Dean’s hands tangle in his hair.

“I’m going to get you in trouble,” Dean sighs into Castiel’s mouth.

“I think you might be worth it,” Castiel mumbles, fingers digging into Dean’s waist, crawling up inside the material of Dean’s shirt.

“You shouldn’t stay with me tonight, right? I want you to, but it’s probably not a good idea.” Dean steps back and starts to walk toward the hotel’s glass doors, letting Castiel’s hands slip off him slowly.

“It’s not. But I’m going to anyway.” All Castiel can do is hope that no one sees him, because then it’s all over for him. He turns his face up to the sky, but he can’t make a wish when there aren’t any stars.

Chapter Text

Somewhere near the border of Connecticut and New York, Castiel is pulled out of unconsciousness by the constant feeling of someone tapping him on the shoulder. He knows it’s not Dean, because the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Dean curled up on the seat across from him, shifting in his sleep.

“What is this? It’s all over social media this morning.” Bela holds her phone up to Castiel’s face. It’s nothing but a blurry mess of colors until she moves it back a few inches.

It’s a picture from last night at the Black Rose, Castiel dragging Dean toward the door, his fingers wrapped around Dean’s arm. Maybe they look a little too close. Castiel knows he can explain it, though. They were fighting, he was struggling with Dean to get him out of there. They definitely didn’t go back to Dean’s hotel room and fuck or anything like that.

“He was drunk, and I made him leave that bar.” Castiel tilts his head back against the seat and starts to let his eyes close again.

“Sorry, I meant this one.” Bela swipes on the phone screen. He expects to see the parking garage, Dean pinning him up against the wall and kissing him. But it’s just Dean leaning over the table, his hand almost resting on Castiel’s.

It was probably one of those college kids. They must have been paying more attention than Castiel thought. “We went out to eat. Is that not allowed?”

“Do you hold hands with everyone you go out to dinner with?” Her eyes glance over to where Benny and Sam are sitting. Benny is wearing headphones. Sam is reading a novel that looks longer than all the books Castiel has had time to read in the past decade or so combined. Neither of them care about this conversation.

“We weren’t holding hands.” Castiel takes Bela’s phone and enlarges the picture, focusing in on the table, where his fingers appear to be nearly resting on Dean’s. “I swear we weren’t. We were just eating and talking.”

Bela slips the phone back into her hands and places it down on the seat in between them. The blue glitter case catches little flecks of light that shine from overhead. “I just want this to work out for you. You deserve it.”

“You mean, the manager job? Or something else?” Castiel watches the way Dean stirs in his sleep, the way stray pieces of hair fall into his face. The sound of the bus’s tires against the rough road seems to momentarily wake him up, but he falls right back to sleep.

“The job. And whatever is going on between you and him.” Bela smiles just a little and lowers her voice.

“I don’t think both those things can work out.” Castiel wishes they could, but he knows that’s impossible. He can maybe fool people into thinking he’s a decent manager for a while. But he’s sure that, whatever this is with Dean, is nothing more than something fleeting. Dean will be over him soon enough, onto someone better. Someone rich and famous and beautiful, who can also afford to tip people in diners $1,000.

“Why not?” Bela pulls the sleeves of her sweater over her hands. It makes Castiel realize it’s cold in here, and the vent above them is blowing chilly air down onto them. “With all these tour dates and all this press coming up for the new album, the two of you will be able to spend lots of time together.”

“Yeah, about that,” Castiel slides down in his seat, trying to hide from what he’s about to say next. “I’m going to have to talk to Chuck about rescheduling some of those dates.”

“What? Why?” Bela says this a little too loud, and Sam looks up over his book, but quickly turns away. “Chuck isn’t going to let you reschedule tour dates and interviews. No one is going to let you do that.”

“Dean wants to spend time with his kid, I think that’s a damn good reason, right?” Ironic words coming from someone who hasn’t spent any time with his kids lately. No wonder they haven’t bothered to text him back. Castiel sinks a little further down. The first thing he’s going to do when he gets back home is go see Claire and Jack, he has to, after all the fucking up he’s done lately.

“Well, yes, but Chuck’s not going to agree.” Bela lowers her voice to something close to a whisper. “You know how many kids Chuck has?”

“I didn’t know he had any.” Castiel can’t remember Chuck ever mentioning any kids. There aren’t any pictures hanging up in his office, no yellowing-at-the-edges crayon drawings made a decade ago by a kid who wasn’t yet old enough to be disappointed in their parents, like the ones Castiel still has up in his own office.

“He actually has five or six. He just kind of abandoned them. Doesn’t talk about them. Sends a check when they need it.” Bela always seems to know everyone’s secrets. Castiel just hopes she doesn’t tell anyone what she knows about him.

“Where’d you hear this?” Castiel really isn’t surprised to find out that Chuck is even more of an asshole than he realized.

“Marv told me. You know, Chuck’s assistant? He’ll tell you anything if you take him out to eat. He likes waffles.” She rolls her eyes and picks her phone back up from the seat next to her. “You know, I’m not lucky enough to go out to dinner with Dean Winchester.”

Dean half-opens his eyes and runs his fingers down his face. After a couple of minutes, he finally pulls himself up in the seat. “Shit, I really did drink too much last night, my head is killing me.”

“I have Advil in my bag.” Bela starts to stand, gripping onto the back of the seat as the bus goes over a bump in the road.

“I’m sure someone here has something stronger than that.” Dean slides to the edge of the seat and turns. “Hey, Benny,” he says, but Benny seems lost in whatever is playing in his headphones.

Castiel isn’t sure what “something stronger” Benny has, but Dean seems to suddenly reconsider what he’s asking for. “You know what, I’ll take the Advil. Thanks.”

When Bela is somewhere by the front of the bus grabbing her bag, Castiel leans over and mumbles, “There are pictures of us in that bar and at the diner all over the Internet. So, expect me to maybe get fired even before I can tell Chuck about postponing the tour dates, and everything else.”

Dean smooths the sleeve on his red and black plaid flannel shirt, pulling the unbuttoned cuff down to his wrist. He’s wearing the same jeans that Castiel had taken off him last night, and if Castiel thinks too much about last night, about the way Dean felt against him, he won’t be able to think about anything else.

“I think if he was going to fire you, he would have fired you.” Dean’s knee brushes against Castiel’s. Castiel is pretty sure it wasn’t an accident, but he can’t let himself get too excited about it. “Chuck’s not exactly known for keeping his thoughts to himself.”

“Maybe he’s just busy. Or maybe he fired me already.” Castiel reaches into his duffel bag, thrown on the floor beside him, and pulls his phone from the pocket on the side. He lets the screen flicker on, to a text message notification he first assumes probably is Chuck, telling him to get his ass off this bus right now, in the middle of the interstate.

But it’s Claire. Love you too. Are you around tonight? Can we have dinner? The text was sent over an hour ago. Castiel feels guilty, immediately panics and convinces himself that Claire has probably changed her mind since texting him, decided she has better things to do than hang out with her loser father. His fingers hover over the keyboard, trying to decide what to say, but knowing he needs to answer her soon. Of course, where do you want to go? What time should I pick you up?

Bela is back, digging through her black canvas bag, taking out 3 lipsticks, her wallet, a bunch of hair ties, before finding the white bottle. She lets a couple of pills spill out onto Dean’s palm. Dean tosses them into his mouth, easily swallowing them. The whole thing turns Castiel on, and he isn’t sure why, he just knows it probably shouldn’t.

But when his phone vibrates in his hand, Castiel forgets about everything else. We can just go to the pizza place by our house. 6 is fine. Castiel spends way too long reading the words our house over and over. Claire still thinks of it as their house . They’re still a family. Castiel knows that probably none of that is true, Claire is too smart to believe that. She probably didn’t mean anything by it.

“Everything okay?” Dean is leaning forward, his hand way too close to Castiel’s leg. Bela has disappeared, probably back to the front of the bus where Charlie is sitting.

“Yeah, my daughter just wants to go to dinner tonight.” Castiel quickly types, see you then to Claire, and hits send.

“You should go. I told you I’ll talk to Chuck.” The green of Dean’s eyes catch the light that fights to shine through the darkened bus window.

“It’s my job to do this, to manage this band, schedule and re-schedule things. Don’t worry about it, we’ll be back in the early afternoon, and I’ll go into the office.” Castiel wonders if he even has an office left, or if Chuck just fired him without telling him.

Dean suddenly switches seats, sitting down next to Castiel, so close that their thighs brush together. “So, I guess those pictures showing up online mean we can’t—you know—anymore?” He whispers it into Castiel’s ear, and Castiel can feel Dean’s breath on his neck.

“No.” Castiel knows his answer should have been yes. “It just means we have to be more careful. No more middle of the night dinners for a while, I guess.”

“There are better things to do in the middle of the night anyway.” Dean’s fingers are on Castiel’s arm now, crawling up Castiel’s wrist and under the sleeve of his shirt. The feeling of Dean’s fingertips on his skin immediately makes it hard for Castiel to breathe. He should be able to control this, he should be able to calm the fuck down and stop thinking about Dean Winchester’s dick.

But Castiel somehow loses every ounce of common sense when it comes to Dean. He turns to Dean, his eyes falling to Dean’s lips. “Like what?”

“The things I want to do to you aren’t really appropriate to say in public.” Dean tilts his face toward Castiel’s. And all Castiel wants to do is kiss him, so he slides back, closer to the window, creating distance between them that somehow feels wrong. So, he finds himself slipping back toward Dean, hoping that Benny is still wearing his headphones and Sam is still lost in his book.

“Our secret, right?” Castiel’s hand slides along the leather seat until it finds Dean’s.

“You’re not being very careful.” Dean speaks quietly, but he doesn’t move his hand.

***

Castiel has the corner office. That’s supposed to mean he’s important, but, here, he’s pretty sure it means the opposite. The window rattles relentlessly when the wind slams against it, and someday, Castiel thinks the glass will surrender, and scatter everywhere. Maybe it’s a good thing he probably won’t be working here much longer.  

The red light on his phone tells him he has a voice mail, but when he presses the button to listen to it, a robotic voice tells him he actually has 37 messages, so he decides not to listen to any of them. Instead, he sits down on his overpriced ergonomic office chair that’s really the most uncomfortable chair he’s ever had, and he opens up Twitter on his phone and types Dean Winchester into the search bar.

The first thing that comes up is the picture of Castiel sitting with Dean in that diner, way closer than any manager should be sitting to the lead singer of the band he’s managed for less than a week. “Don’t read the comments, Cas,” he says out loud to himself, while scrolling through the comments.

Who is that? He’s pretty hot. Do you think they’ve explored each other’s bodies? They’re definitely fucking. Do you think he’s the next one to star in a Dean Winchester sex tape?

And if Chuck Shurley wasn’t suddenly standing in the doorway of Castiel’s office, Castiel would probably be laughing at the thought of himself in some leaked rock star porno.

“Is now a good time?” Chuck is already sitting down in the seat across from Castiel, his foot up on Castiel’s desk.

“Of course.” Castiel puts his phone facing down in front of him. There’s never going to be a good time for this, but he can’t let Chuck know that.

“Since you’ve become manager of the biggest band this company has as a client, the lead singer has had a disastrous interview on a major news show, walked off stage at a sold-out concert, and you had to pull his drunk ass out of a bar last night.” Chuck folds his hands in his lap. “Somehow, instead of it ending in a story about him finally losing it completely, you got him to sit down and eat a burger with you. And it looks like he doesn’t completely hate you.”

“Sorry, what?” Castiel must be misunderstanding something. Chuck doesn’t sound as pissed off as Castiel expected him to be

“If this had happened with Crowley, Dean would have probably destroyed his hotel room after walking off stage, or someone would have found him half-dead in a gutter outside that bar. Or maybe just all-the-way dead.” Chuck swerves from side to side in the chair, kicking the back of Castiel’s desk with his shoe. “And you know how much money we’d lose if that happens? Sure, the initial posthumous release of the new album would be huge, but people would move on right away.”

Castiel isn’t sure how he’s supposed to react. Telling Chuck to go fuck himself probably isn’t going to go over very well. He tries to think of how to say that in a nice way. “So that’s what you’d care about if something happened to him? How much money you’d lose? That’s pretty fucking horrible.”

“I said how much we’d lose, Castiel.” Chuck’s tone now has an edge of annoyance. “Not just me. And this album release, and the tour, we get a nice cut of the profit. So, it’s in our best interest for him to not completely fuck himself up over this whole kid thing.” Chuck pauses for a minute, glancing back at the streaked glass of Castiel’s closed office door. “Why does he even care? Did you tell him we can probably make this all go away with a check? That’s what I do.”

“I don’t think that’s something he’s interested in. He could write his own check if that’s what he wanted to do.” There’s no way that Chuck is going to agree to postponing the tour or anything else to give Dean time to be with the kid he never knew he had. No way that Chuck isn’t going to throw him out of his own office for even asking. But Castiel is going to anyway. He promised Dean he would, and Castiel has broken enough promises lately. “We need to reschedule some of the tour dates so he can spend time with his daughter while her mother’s out of town.”

Chuck laughs. At first it’s a quiet laugh, but it grows into something that crawls up Castiel’s spine and makes him cringe.

“You’re kidding me, right? We don’t cancel tour dates for some kid. Do you know how pissed off the fans would be?” Chuck stands up from the chair and starts to pace the room. “And then we might get hit with cancellation fees from venues. And who knows what else. A bunch of lawsuits, probably. No way, Castiel. No fucking way. And if Dean put you up to this, tell him to come talk to me. If he’s going to risk the contracts we have so he can go try to play dad to a kid he isn’t even sure is his, you tell him I’ll make sure his band never plays a single gig again.”

“Aren’t you afraid of all the money you’d lose then?” Castiel leans back in his chair, and it starts to tip backward. He catches himself, letting it hit against the floor. “That’s all you care about, right?”

“That’s all you should care about too, Castiel. Or do you care about something else? You two look awfully close in these pictures.” Chuck crosses his arms across his chest and steps back against the wall. He ignores the gold record hanging there, knocks it crooked, and doesn’t bother to fix it.

“What? No. He’s a person, not a profit machine for you.” Castiel picks a pen off his desk and twirls it around his finger. He needs to keep somewhat calm. He needs to act like someone who really wasn’t way too close to Dean Winchester in those pictures. “And he really wants to do this, to spend time with his kid. You’re going to deny that to him so that you can make some more money?”

“Yes, and so are you.” Chuck pulls the door open but lingers in the doorway. “So, if he really wants to hang out with some kid, you need to find a way to either talk him out of it or keep him happy enough to make sure this album release and tour is a success.”

“Or what?” Castiel should know better than to ask this question. He knows he’s not going to like the answer.

“Or you’ll be out of a job and a career.” Chuck clearly takes pleasure in saying this, evidenced by the grin that spreads across his face. “You know I’ll do it too. This has to be the biggest album release Angel Sigils has ever had. But don’t worry, I’m sure Dean will do everything you want him to. He’s known for that. Good luck.”

When Chuck is gone, just a figure moving down the hall, Castiel drops the pen on his desk and then follows by resting his head down on top of the pile of unread mail. He’s promised Dean he would do this, and he fucked it all up. There’s no way Dean doesn’t kick him out on his ass for this.

Castiel spends a minute or two staring at the wall, at the crooked gold record in its glass case. He tries to come up with some explanation for Dean, some way of telling Dean that trying to convince Chuck to reschedule the tour was just another failure to add to Castiel’s growing list of failures. But the only explanation is Chuck’s wallet. Castiel starts to straighten the crooked frame but decides to leave it. It doesn’t matter. Somehow, it seems more fitting this way.

His door starts to open again, and he wonders what bullshit Chuck is coming back to tell him now. But it’s Bela, still wearing the same black jacket she’d been wearing on the bus today, holding a cup of coffee and her phone precariously in the same hand.

“I take it that didn’t go well,” she says, placing her cup down on the desk. “Chuck looked pissed when I saw him in the hall.”

“No. Like you predicted, he said no to rescheduling any dates.” Castiel can still see his reflection around the gold record, blurred around the edges. “Told me I either deal with this or I’m done here, basically.”

“So, are you just going to tell Dean no to doing what he wants?” Bela takes a long sip of her coffee. “I’m sure he’ll really listen to you.”

“I’m not going to tell him no.” Castiel turns away from the crooked gold record, and back toward the rattling window. “I’m going to let him get to know the kid he never knew he had and get through this damn tour and all the press.”

“How are you going to do all that?” Bela puts her coffee cup down on the desk and glances back out the glass door. It’s empty now, except for a couple of interns whose names Castiel can’t remember, who are standing in the hall looking at each other’s phones.

“I have no fucking idea how I’m going to do it, but I have to.” Castiel runs his fingers along the windowsill. The metal molding is cold, and the shadows from the buildings across the street block out the hazy sunlight.

“Because you have a thing going on with him?” Bela’s eyes are on Castiel, but he doesn’t look back at her, he keeps his focus on brushing away the dust that’s accumulated in the window crevices. It’s a distraction from admitting that everything she’s saying is right.“Look, Cas, I’m not going to tell anyone about it. I never would, but come on, he’s Dean Winchester. He’s not going to be happy with you if he doesn’t get what he wants.” Bela’s voice is low, almost a whisper under the hum of the light above them.

“He’s not who you think he is.” Castiel grips onto the back of his chair, digging his fingers into the leather. “The stuff people say about him isn’t true.”

Bela reaches for her coffee cup, but then stops, letting her hand fall back down to her side. She taps her nails against the desk and sighs. “You’ve only known him a couple of days. He walked out of a TV interview, stormed off stage during a show, and you dragged him out of a bar trashed. Are you saying he doesn’t live up to his reputation?”

“He had reasons for all of those things.” Castiel isn’t sure whether he really believes that, or whether he’s fallen so hard for Dean in a few days he’s convinced himself of lies.

“In the past, if some pop star or washed-up hair metal singer had walked out of a major interview, you’d never be making excuses for them. You would have made them finish that interview, and that concert.” Bela is right, but Castiel doesn’t want to admit it. So, he paces back and forth behind his desk again, distracting himself by watching the line of taxis accumulating at a red light twenty-two stories below.  

“No. I mean, look at the shit that’s happened to him over the last few days. Wouldn’t you act the same way?” Castiel finally looks up at Bela, expecting to see something from mild disapproval to wild disagreement, but she’s just sitting there, nodding her head.

“Of course I would.” She smiles, picking up her coffee cup to her lips. “Which is why I’ll help you try to pull this off.”

***

This is the American dream, or something like that. A neatly manicured lawn in the suburbs, a three bedroom, two bathrooms, house surrounded by shrubbery and a paving-stone path. This was Castiel’s life once, what he came home to every day, but it’s all gone now. The deed signed over to Meg in the divorce proceedings.

It still feels like home here to Castiel, even though it probably shouldn’t. It still feels like his living room, his kitchen, his family. So, he has to stop himself from unlocking the door with the key he still keeps in his pocket and walking right inside.  

Meg’s car isn’t in the driveway, so Castiel parks there out of habit. He always parked on the right side, under the tree, so the birds would shit on his car instead of hers. Even though the whole driveway is empty, he parked there anyway, and those damn birds are still chirping from high up in the branches.

Before walking up the stairs, Castiel picks up the hose that’s lying across the driveway. He doesn’t want anyone to trip on it. At the start of the blacktop, right in front of the garage, pressed into the cement are Claire and Jack’s handprints. They’re small, from years ago, when Castiel and Meg had gotten everything repaved. Sometimes, he wishes he could go back to that day, when things felt easier. When everything wasn’t such a mess.

Castiel rings the doorbell, which feels weird and awkward in a way that he tries to ignore, and he waits. He can hear Claire’s footsteps as she walks toward the door, opening it to the foyer that Castiel used to walk into every day when he got home from work. But now he just stands here, waiting.

“You’re allowed to come in.” Claire steps to the side, her black boots dragging across the Welcome mat.

“Okay. Where’s mom?” Castiel still hesitates before finally stepping up into the doorway.

“Soccer practice with Jack.” She shrugs, walking back toward the living room, where she picks up a black tote bag emblazoned with a drawing of a cat sitting on a pentagram.  “Don’t worry, she knows you’re coming. She said it’s fine.”

On the coffee table, there are papers scattered around Meg’s laptop. Castiel can tell what they are even from across the room. Legal briefs and case law. The haphazard pile lets Castiel know that Meg is stressed out, working late. That’s the only time her stuff is ever out of place. “Is your mom okay?” Castiel tries to ask this nonchalantly, like he doesn’t care that much. But he still worries about Meg, being overworked, stressed out, trying to do everything for everyone on her own now.

But if Castiel ever confessed to any of that, Meg would ask him why he never worried like this when they were married, and he wouldn’t really have a good answer.

“I guess so. She seems tired. She’s working on some big case. She complains about it a lot.” Claire picks up a pair of keys and throws them into her bag and pulls her blonde hair up haphazardly with a clip shaped like angel wings. “She falls asleep on the couch reading over papers or whatever every night.” She picks up her phone from the coffee table. “You want to go? I’m hungry.”

“Sure, pizza?” The sunlight catches the mirrored picture frame that’s still on the mantle above the television. Castiel and Meg smiling at their wedding. He isn’t sure why she still has it up. She probably didn’t even realize.

“Yeah, that’s good,” Claire says this quietly, without looking at Castiel, which he knows means something is bothering her.

Castiel always lets Claire connect her phone to the radio in the car when they drive. He likes to listen to whatever she likes now. Sometimes, she’ll play a song by someone managed by 66 Seals, someone Castiel knows is a terrible person, but he keeps it to himself because he doesn’t want to ruin the music for Claire. He’s had that happen too many times to himself.

But today, Claire doesn’t connect her phone’s Bluetooth to the speakers. She just sits quietly in the passenger seat, playing with the zipper on her jacket, leaning her head against the passenger side window.

“How’s school?” Castiel brakes at a red light, glancing over at Claire but then turning his eyes back to the road.

She doesn’t answer until the light turns green. “Fine, I guess. It’s school, you know? Same as usual.”

“Yeah, I know.” Castiel turns into the parking lot of Rinascita’s Pizzeria. It’s as crowded as he remembered it being on all the nights he’d run in there to pick up dinner for a family that he somehow managed to lose. He manages to find one spot in the corner, where the Mercedes parked beside him is crooked, its tire over the line.

“I like art class though. That’s about it.”  Claire shuts, the door, drags her feet across the ground to the back of the car.

“Yeah, I think that’s all I liked too.” Castiel shoves his keys into the pocket of his jacket. Sometimes he feels bad that Claire is so much like him. Sometimes he wishes she wasn’t like him at all.

It’s always a little too loud in Rinascita’s. A kid bangs the side of a glass with a spoon. A man laughs above the sound of the conversations. A mother yells at a little blonde boy to stop hitting his sister.

The hostess shows them to a table in the corner, covered by a white and red checkered tablecloth. Claire sits down first and waits until Castiel sits down to drop her phone in front of him. On the screen is the same picture that Bela had waved in his face earlier today. “What is this? Dean Winchester?”

Castiel doesn’t know what to do or say. He crumples a napkin in his hand and clenches his fist around it. “I’m his new manager. His band’s new manager.”

“Holy shit, Dad. Really?” She pulls the phone back in front of her. “That’s awesome.”

“You like Angel Sigils?” Castiel had never heard Claire mention them. But Claire doesn’t tell him much anymore.

“Yeah, you know, Dean Winchester writes a lot of songs about his family breaking apart when he was a kid. I listened to those songs a lot when you and mom were first getting divorced.” She looks down, back at her phone and then smiles. “Sorry, I mean, congratulations. That’s a big deal.”

“I guess.” Castiel puts his own phone down on the table, to see a text message from Dean. Fuck Chuck Shurley , is all it says. Chuck must have told Dean that there was no way in hell he was postponing any tour dates. Shit. Castiel should have been the one to tell him that.

“You know my friend Alex? She saw this picture today and thought you and Dean Winchester were dating.” Claire laughs, but she looks like she’s looking for an answer.

“What?” Castiel stands up, fumbling with his hands to make sure his wallet is in his pocket. “I’ll go get us some food, just plain cheese, right?” He remembers the time he accidentally ordered her a slice of vegetable pizza and she was mad at him for two days.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Claire looks back down at her phone and starts texting someone.

Barely paying attention to anything he’s doing or saying, Castiel somehow manages to order four slices of pizza and two Cokes, and take them back to the table. He’s too busy trying to decide if Claire has figured it out, or if Meg did and put her up to this. Either way, he’s convinced everyone in the world knows about what he’s doing with Dean Winchester.

Maybe Claire doesn’t even have a friend named Alex. But then he remembers that she’s one of the girls that Claire had asked him to drive home from some Halloween party last year, and that she got fake blood from her vampire costume all over his car. Or, maybe, Castiel is just paranoid.

Claire pulls a paper dish that’s already saturated with grease. “Alex thinks Dean Winchester is hot. I told her he’s old. You know, he’s like almost your age now.”

“Right.” Castiel takes a bite of pizza but isn’t sure he’s even hungry.

“This means you’re going to be super busy though, isn’t it? Touring again?” Claire swallows and leans back against the chair. It feels like it wasn’t that long ago she was sitting at restaurant tables with crayons, trying to do the maze on some kid’s placemat. Now, she’s looking at him like she suspects everything he’s quietly trying to deny.

“I guess so. I’m trying to reschedule things. So that everyone has more time.” The question reminds Castiel of just how much he messed up everything, and how much he messed up for Dean today. He looks back down at his phone, realizing he still never answered Dean’s text.

“Jack misses you.” She takes another bite of her food and washes it down with a sip of soda. “He was pretty sad when you couldn’t take him to practice the other night. You should try to do something with him. Just you and him.”

Maybe, in some other life, Castiel was stabbed in the heart. Because he knows what he feels right now is like a knife digging into his chest. He puts his head in his hand for a moment, turning his eyes from Claire’s. “I had to work.”

“I know. Mom told me.” Claire drops the crust of her pizza on her plate. “Jack was disappointed though.”

“Is this why you wanted to have dinner together tonight?” Castiel has almost forgotten about Claire asking about whether he was on a date with Dean Winchester. This is much worse.

“I mean, kind of.” Claire is playing with the cap of her soda bottle. “And maybe I missed you too. A little.”

“You know what happened between mom and me had nothing to do with you or Jack, right?” Castiel rests his hands on the table. His cell phone is still quiet. Dean hasn’t said anything else. Castiel starts to worry about Dean, off somewhere on his own, spiraling again.

“I know but that doesn’t make it suck any less.” Claire pushes strands of blonde hair from her face. “Sorry, I’m just telling the truth.”

“Don’t apologize.” Castiel forces himself to take another bite of pizza even though all the regret and guilt has killed his appetite. “You’re just telling the truth.”

“Are you?” She smiles a little. Castiel recognizes that smile. It looks like Meg’s, when she doesn’t believe him at all.

“About what?” Castiel is just eating now to distract himself, to stop himself from talking too much.

“Never mind.” There’s that damn smile again. “You’re going to take me to an Angel Sigils’ show right? You better.”

“Of course.” Castiel is sure that Chuck will have something to say about it, but whatever. “Next time they’re in New York.”

“Alex will kill me if I don’t bring her too.” Claire is texting again, and at least this gives Castiel a chance to pick up his own phone and quickly type Are you ok? to Dean. But there’s no answer. Not even three little dots to let him know that Dean is alive.

“Sure, she can come too.” Castiel isn’t even sure what he’s agreeing to. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and drops it into his plate. Someone is laughing loudly in the corner, and someone is banging a fork into a plate, and Castiel suddenly wishes Claire had chosen someone a little quieter to tell him how badly he’s fucking up his life and his kids. “You want to go anywhere else? We can go to that comic book store you like and see if they have anything new.”

She shakes her head and finishes her soda. He wonders if she thinks he’s just trying to buy her forgiveness now. “I have an English project due tomorrow. I’m almost done, but I should get home and finish it. Maybe you, me, and Jack can go to the movies or something this weekend?”

Castiel realizes he doesn’t even know where he’s supposed to be this weekend, or whether he’s going to be in some other city or state. “I’d like that,” is all he says.

Standing up from the table, Claire shoves her hands into her pockets. “Me too.”

The crooked Mercedes is gone, and Castiel is convinced there’s a scratch on his car that wasn’t there before. This time, Claire connects her phone to the Bluetooth, and Dean Winchester’s voice comes streaming out of the speakers.

“I like this song.” Claire turns the volume louder. It’s “Lebanon.” Angel Sigils’ Grammy-winning song about Dean’s shitty father.

“Is it one of the songs you listened to a lot?” Castiel comes to a stop in a line of traffic. It’s evening rush hour, all the people returning from their city jobs to their families clog the streets. The same way Castiel used to do every day, before Claire related to songs about broken homes.

“Probably the most,” she says, and Castiel tries to tell himself it doesn’t mean anything as he steps on the gas, turning off the main road, where there are fewer cars, and more houses decorated with flowers and basketball hoops.

The two-block drive to the house that Castiel used to call home feels like it takes four hours instead of four minutes. Or maybe even longer, once “Lebanon” ends and “Faith,” begins. The religious metaphors and euphemisms for sex in Dean’s lyrics don’t seem to bother Claire, who’s back to texting. But Dean’s breathless moaning is all too familiar at this point, and Castiel turns off the radio.

“Oh. Sorry.” Claire doesn’t even look up from her phone. “Mom likes that song. She says it’s hot.”

Castiel pretends he didn’t hear that last part, and that he doesn’t know his ex-wife thinks that the guy he’s been fucking the past couple of days sounds hot when simulating an orgasm. He just keeps driving, until he reaches the driveway of 44 Briarwood Place, the address he still accidentally types into internet order forms sometimes.

Meg’s car still isn’t here. “Do you know when Mom and Jack will be back?”

“No.” Claire opens the door. “Usually, they go out with the team for ice cream or something. It’ll be a while.  So, we can all just do something this weekend, right?”

“Yes, of course. This weekend.” Castiel tries to sound like he doesn’t already know something will inevitably ruin any plans he makes.

“Sounds good.” Claire bends back down into the car, throwing her bag over her shoulder. “Love you, Dad.”

“Love you too.” Castiel isn’t sure Claire really means what she’s saying, but he doesn’t want to overthink it. So, he sits in the car, listening to the engine running, watching to make sure Claire doesn’t have trouble opening the door, watching to make sure she gets in okay. He sits in the car, remembering when she would babble along to whatever song was on the radio from her car seat. When she’d hold his hand walking up the stairs to their house. He sits in the car until she comes to the window, giving him a thumbs up with one hand and motioning for him to go away with the other.

Castiel distracts himself from his own memories by remembering that Dean still hasn’t answered his Are you ok? text. It’s probably nothing. Everything is probably fine. Castiel doesn’t even believe the lies he tells himself. Dean is probably with someone else, he probably has someone else in his bed, someone much better than Castiel. Or maybe he’s gone down his usual path of destruction, maybe he’s completely lost it.

It's his job to make sure Dean is okay, Castiel tells himself, to justify typing Dean’s address into his phone. Only 49 minutes to Dean’s apartment. It’s not like Castiel has anything better to do than spend another night at Dean’s.

This isn’t being careful, though. And Castiel knows he can’t take any more chances. No more getting caught too close to Dean in public. No more kissing in the shadows of parking lots where anyone could be watching. Or Castiel needs to learn some self-control and stop winding up in Dean Winchester’s bed.

***

“You again?” Jeff the Doorman still looks as confused by Castiel’s decades-old ID picture as he did the first time he saw it. “Are you guys, like, together or something?”

“No, I told you. I’m his manager.” This is the last thing Castiel feels like dealing with right now. The exhaustion of the past few days, and spending an hour in traffic, is starting to hit him hard. He just needs to go upstairs, make sure Dean is okay, and then go home to his apartment. He needs to go to sleep in his own bed. Alone.

“Uh huh.” Jeff the Doorman picks up the phone receiver, coiling the wire around his fingers, before hitting the button for Dean’s intercom.

No answer. Jeff the Doorman hits the button again, glancing at Castiel. “Don’t worry, he’s here—I saw him come in earlier today and he didn’t leave.”

That information makes Castiel even more worried than he’d been the entire drive back here.

“Can I just go up?” Castiel’s brain is racing at this point, imagining every single horrible scenario possible.

“I could get fired for that.” Jeff is still holding the phone up to his ear. His silver badge now hangs next to a loose thread where a gold button had once loosely swayed.

“No one’s around. I’m not going to tell.” Castiel slips his driver’s license back into his wallet. “Please. He could be in trouble or something.”

“You know what? Go ahead. Because if something’s wrong, I don’t want to be the one blamed on the fucking internet for not letting you help him.” Jeff turns back to his monitors. “Not a word about this to anyone though.”

“Of course not.”

The elevator ride to Dean’s apartment feels longer than the car ride with Claire. And when the doors open into Dean’s living room, there’s nothing but empty, expensive furniture and the hallway light casting a glow on the floor.

“Dean?” Castiel walks down the hall, past empty dark rooms, following what sounds like the springs of a mattress.

This shouldn’t hurt as bad as it does. Dean’s not his, this was never anything serious. Castiel was never going to be someone who mattered to Dean.

There’s a dim light on in one of the bedrooms and Castiel knows he shouldn’t walk any further. “Dean?” he says it again, but doubts Dean wants to answer him.

He approaches the doorway, to find Dean kneeling on the bed, trying to pull a sheet over the mattress. He’s wearing headphones but doesn’t seem even close to startled when he turns to Castiel.

“I’m sorry, I got worried when you didn’t answer me. Or the doorman.” Castiel doesn’t step forward, he still feels like he went too far, crossed over a boundary that wasn’t his to cross.

Dean throws the headphones down on the bed, standing up. He’s wearing a sleeveless white shirt, and Castiel tries not to start thinking about what it feels like to dig his fingers into the skin on Dean’s arms.

“No, I’m sorry. Lydia called me. She needs to leave for London tomorrow. She wants Emma to stay here.” Dean runs his fingers through his hair, and then down his face. “I was trying to clean up. This place is a goddamn disaster. I can’t be a father. I can’t even make a fucking bed.”

“You know, you can pay people to do this for you.” Castiel finally allows himself to enter the room.

“Do you pay people to do things for your kids for you?” Dean shakes his head and pulls the wrinkled comforter up to the pillow.

“No, I just don’t do the things I should be doing and fuck up.” Castiel finds his way up to the head of the bed, and pulls the fitted sheet down over the mattress, stretching the elastic into place. “I’m sorry I couldn’t change Chuck’s mind. We’ll figure this out. This whole mess, this tour, everything.”

“Fuck him.” Dean pulls Castiel closer. “I didn’t expect you to come over, I thought we needed to be more careful.”

“We do. But I guess no one can see us here, right?” This isn’t how Castiel should be responding. He should be telling Dean they can’t do this, that they have other things to worry about right now.

“No, they can’t. So I can do this.” Dean kisses Castiel slowly, his tongue pushing at the edges of Castiel’s lips. “Hey, Cas. Promise me one thing. Don’t let me fuck this up.”

Castiel opens his mouth against Dean’s, lets his hands move down Dean’s bare arms. He isn’t sure how to stop someone from doing what he himself keeps doing over and over. “I promise I won’t.”

Chapter Text

Castiel’s alarm goes off at 6:15 am. The feeling of Dean Winchester’s legs all entangled with his own is too good to ruin with whatever ridiculously annoying ringtone blares in his ear. So, Castiel turns it off, and rolls over to block out the dawning sunlight. Dean stirs and breathes softly against his pillow. Little strands of hair fall across his face, and he mumbles, “Don’t go.”

“I won’t.” Castiel didn’t really need all the excuses that Dean had given him last night to convince him to stay. Someone might see you if you leave now . I think it’s raining out. I hear the subway sucks at night. All Castiel needed was an invitation to crawl into Dean’s bed again, pretending this was all about helping Dean drift off to sleep, to find himself here. This is the last place in the world he should be right now, but the only place that feels right.

Castiel’s alarm goes off again at 7:15 am. This time, with a more urgent sounding ringtone. He can’t remember setting it but, then again, sometimes he feels like he can’t remember a lot of things lately. He squints at his phone screen, his eyes still blurry from sleep. There’s an email from Marv Armstrong called Itinerary. Castiel moves his thumb to click on it, realizing he never even knew Marv’s last name, but he’s interrupted by Dean’s lips on his neck. “Good morning,” Dean sighs into Castiel’s ear.   “We should just stay in bed.”

“I should check the Itinerary or whatever this is.” Castiel feels Dean pulling the phone away, leaving quick kisses on Castiel’s neck at the same time.

“Fuck the Itinerary.” Dean lifts his head.  “I’m supposed to meet the kid I never knew I had this afternoon and try to be a father when I never had anyone to show me what that even means. So, I really don’t care about the Itinerary.”

Castiel puts his phone down somewhere in the mess of sheets. He should be telling Dean to shut the fuck up and do whatever Chuck is telling him to do, but instead, Castiel runs his fingers through Dean’s hair and across his lips. “What Itinerary?” Castiel smiles.

“You might be worse than me.” Dean tugs on Castiel’s t-shirt. Actually, it’s Dean’s t-shirt. Castiel had borrowed it last night to sleep. Its collar is stretched loose, and it’s made by some designer whose name Castiel can’t pronounce. The gray cotton is softer than anything Castiel could probably afford to own, but the feeling of Dean’s hand sliding up Castiel’s chest feels even better.

“Maybe.” Castiel lifts himself up just enough to pull the shirt over his head and throw it down somewhere beside the bed. But it’s not maybe . Castiel is definitely worse than Dean. Dean is supposed to be the one breaking the rules, refusing to do what everyone wants him to do. It’s Castiel’s job to stop Dean from doing this, not enable him. But, Dean’s right, fuck Chuck’s Itinerary, this is too damn good to stop.

Dean’s fingertip circles Castiel’s nipple, trailing down to the elastic waist of his sweatpants. These are Dean’s too, but they’re not some overpriced luxury brand. They’re worn and loose, making it easy for Dean to slip his hand inside. “We should have some fun now, because I don’t know when the next time we’ll be alone will be.”

“Yeah, kids tend to get in the way of that.” Castiel closes his eyes, trying to clear his mind of everything but the feeling of Dean’s fingers wrapping around his cock. He doesn’t want to think about Chuck’s Itinerary or how he’s probably never going to be able to get a job ever again once everyone finds out about how he ruined everything trying to make Dean Winchester happy.

But Dean’s lips are moving up Castiel’s chest now, to his neck, and up to his mouth. And Dean’s tongue is slipping between Castiel’s teeth, his hands tangling in Castiel’s hair, his fingers getting stuck in strands while pushing Castiel further into their kiss. And Castiel isn’t sure he even cares if he ever works again, because feeling Dean against him like this, feeling Dean dragging their bodies closer and closer together, makes Castiel forget about the things he’s always been good at remembering.

Once, Castiel never even needed a calendar to remember tour dates, interview schedules, promotional photoshoots. He’d remember the date, time, and location, the little details that he’d need to remind some pop star about before some late-night television appearance. Now Castiel doesn’t even know where he’s supposed to be this afternoon, or tonight, or tomorrow, because he can’t stop giving in to Dean Winchester’s dick.

Grinding his hips into the feeling of Dean jerking him off, Castiel tries to breathe, but just finds himself gasping into Dean’s open mouth, swallowing down the air Dean exhales. Castiel pulls at Dean’s shirt, struggling to lift it off, but getting distracted by the feeling of Dean’s skin underneath. He runs his fingertips up Dean’s spine, up to Dean’s shoulder blades, until all he can feel and all he can taste is Dean.

Dean pulls away from their kiss, but Castiel chases him, biting gently at Dean’s bottom lip. “You still owe me that shower.” Dean sits back, his hand slipping out from Castiel’s sweatpants. “We can finish this in there.”

Castiel groans, aching from the feeling of Dean’s touch abandoning him. He wants more, and he squirms on the bed, reaching for Dean, who has already slid off the mattress and made his way to the door. Castiel knows he should be embarrassed, wanting anything, wanting someone, so goddamn bad. But this must be normal for Dean. Everyone Dean has ever been with has probably writhed on some bed or floor, begging for another minute with him.

“Are you coming?” Dean is dropping his shirt onto the floor, letting his boxer shorts join it there seconds later. He laughs, “Or I guess—do you want to be coming?”

Almost stumbling off the bed, Castiel follows Dean into the hallway, reaching out, and gripping Dean by the waist. Castiel holds Dean’s body against his own, kissing his neck and shoulders, finding himself so goddamn hard through his sweatpants that he can’t wait to get them off. Somehow, Dean knows exactly what Castiel wants. Leaning back, Dean shifts his hands to the elastic of Castiel’s pants, shoving them down to somewhere near Castiel’s knees.

Dean rubs his ass against Castiel’s erection, taking Castiel’s wrists and pulling them in front of him. He moves Castiel’s hands down his chest and stomach, and in between his legs, directing Castiel’s fingers to the tip of his cock. “I like it when you touch me there, just like this,” Dean mumbles, tilting his head back against Castiel.

“I’ll do anything you want.” Castiel knows that’s probably completely true. He’d agree to anything Dean asked him to do.

“I just want you.” Dean takes Castiel’s hand, squeezing it as he turns to face Castiel. “That’s all I want right now.”

Castiel nods, pushing Dean into the darkness of the bathroom, and up against the black and white tiled wall. Dean lets a quiet groan fall from his lips when Castiel’s bare skin finally touches his. For a few seconds, Castiel doesn’t move, doesn’t even try to kiss Dean. He just stands here, breathing in every second. The way Dean feels against him, the way Dean’s eyes never stray from his own. Castiel can barely think, barely make sense of any of this.

“What’s wrong?” Dean runs his finger along Castiel’s bottom lip.

“Nothing’s wrong.” This still doesn’t feel like reality. Castiel tries to pull himself out of his daze. “I still don’t know why someone like you would want this with someone like me.”

“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.” Dean rests his hands on Castiel’s shoulders, turning him toward a mirror that takes up most of the wall above the counter. This bathroom is probably bigger than the bedroom Castiel used to share with Meg. It’s probably bigger than his whole apartment now. The shower is encased in glass, and there’s two stairs leading to a bathtub that’s all black marble. This décor was definitely not Dean’s choice.

Castiel lifts his eyes to his own reflection, his body highlighted only by the glare of the hallway. Dean’s face is buried against his neck, and Castiel can feel Dean’s breath against his skin. It makes him feel like everything finally makes sense and he’s losing his mind all at once. He reaches up into Dean’s hair, tangling it around his fingers, pulling on it until Dean lifts his head.

Their eyes meet in the mirror and Castiel looks away, because the more he watches Dean, the more this feels like some kind of hallucination.

But Dean’s fingers tilt Castiel’s chin up, and Castiel has no choice but to look at the shadowed image of himself staring back at him. “I just mean you’re this rock star—.”

Dean doesn’t let Castiel finish his sentence. “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean either.” Wrapping his hand around Castiel’s wrist, Dean pulls Castiel toward the shower, opening the glass door. “Unless you don’t want to do this with me.”

The force of the water spraying from the faucet leaves little droplets across Castiel’s skin as Dean steps into the shower. He doesn’t say another word, he just stands there, his hair becoming drenched, dripping down his body.

There have been too many times over the past few days when Castiel knew he should say no. When every part of his brain was screaming at him to stop winding up against Dean Winchester. But, right now, Castiel knows he can’t say no. He doesn’t even try to tell himself that there’s a way out of this.

He steps into the shower, shoving Dean up against the wall, shoving his tongue into Dean’s mouth. A gasp that turns into a laugh falls from Dean’s lips, but he doesn’t resist. He lets Castiel’s hands run all over him, lets Castiel hold him in place, steam rising around them. The way Dean gives in to every little request of Castiel’s fingers as they move up his body only makes Castiel want this more.

Castiel traces over the lines of Dean’s tattoos with his fingertips, gripping onto Dean’s arms as he pulls their hips together. Kissing Dean until they both seem to run out of air, Castiel reaches down, but finds Dean’s hand pushing his out of the way.

Dean wraps his fingers around Castiel’s cock, jerking him off, never letting their lips break apart. The water turns from warm to hot to almost too hot, but Castiel barely notices, barely cares. He slides his hand down Dean’s chest, down in between Dean’s legs. But before Castiel can do anything, Dean has taken Castiel’s hand, placing it on his own erection, groaning into Castiel’s mouth.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks, swallowing down the water that’s dripping down his face.

“Fuck, yes I’m okay.” The light from the hall catches the green of Dean’s eyes and he leans back, letting the shower rush over him, thrusting his hips against Castiel, fucking himself into Castiel’s hand while he tries to keep his fingers around Castiel’s dick. “More than okay.”

Dean’s hair is stuck to the side of his forehead, and he inhales, his lips slightly parted. Like some kind of reflex or instinct, Castiel kisses Dean again, and even he knows it’s in a way that’s too much, too soon. In a way that people who are lovers, or something like that, kiss each other. In a way that people who have way too many feelings for one another kiss.

“Sorry.” Castiel steps back, letting his hand fall slightly away from Dean.

“For what?” Dean reaches up to the back of Castiel’s neck, bringing their lips together again.

“For kissing you like that,” Castiel mumbles through the water that’s still falling over his face. “I’m sure everyone kisses you like that though, right?”

“No, no one kisses me like that.” Dean pulls Castiel’s body back to his. The feeling of Dean’s cock brushing against his own makes Castiel forget what he was worried about, makes Castiel forget how wrong this is. It makes Castiel forget about everything, really, and his mouth searches for Dean’s again through the stream of water between them.

But Dean tilts his head back, his lips just grazing Castiel’s. “Stop saying you’re sorry and fuck me.”

Castiel almost apologizes again but quickly gets distracted by Dean’s fingers running down his stomach to the tip of his cock. “Right here?” Obviously, Dean means right here, in the middle of these glass walls, in the middle of a bathroom that probably costs more than Castiel makes in a year. It’s hard enough for Castiel to think when Dean is touching him, let alone asking to fuck in the shower.

“Yeah, right here, Cas.” A slight smile spreads across Dean’s lips. “Unless you want to stop this now.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I couldn’t stop if I tried. And I’m not going to try.”

Dean pushes Castiel up against the wall, before slipping past him and exiting the shower, obscured by the steam that’s covering the glass. Castiel watches the hazy shape of Dean’s body, moving through the bathroom in the almost dark, a cabinet slamming shut before the door opens again. And even though there’s barely any light, all Castiel can see is Dean Winchester, naked and hard and dripping wet, holding a tube of lube.

Castiel reminds himself of the Itinerary he’s ignoring, and all the other emails that Marv Armstrong is probably sending him, because if he doesn’t think of something else, he’s going to come all over himself before he even touches Dean again. But Dean interrupts whatever distraction Castiel is trying to come up with in his own head, by taking him by the wrist and dragging him closer. “I can kiss you like that too, you know.”

Dean’s mouth is chaotic and slow all at once, his tongue running along the edges of Castiel’s lips. His hand runs up Castiel’s arm, and he rests his fingers on Castiel’s neck. And for a moment, they don’t move, they don’t speak, they just breathe into each other, Dean gently pulling at Castiel’s bottom lip with his teeth when they break apart.

“Shit,” Dean drops the lube into Castiel’s hand. “Why are you so fucking good at that?”

It takes a minute for Castiel to catch his breath, nearly letting the tube slide out from between his fingers. He isn’t sure how Dean Winchester is asking him why he’s good at anything. “I don’t know,” Castiel whispers into Dean’s mouth, struggling against the urge to kiss him again.

Maybe Castiel really should stop all of this right now. Not because of the job, or because someone might catch them, but because the things he feels right now aren’t things he’s allowed to feel for Dean. They’re things he promised himself he’d never feel for anyone again after the ink dried on his divorce papers.

But Dean is dropping to his knees, the water still spraying over his face, swallowing Castiel down, and all Castiel can do is try to convince himself that this is just sex. That he’s just using Dean and Dean is just using him. When the feeling of Dean rolling his tongue around Castiel’s cock isn’t enough to make Castiel forget about the kiss they’d just shared, Castiel pulls on Dean’s hair, directing him to stand up. “I want you, right now.”

“You have me.” Dean smirks, stepping away from the stream of water, and sitting down on the ceramic floor of the shower, holding his hand out toward Castiel, lying back as Castiel follows.

Castiel tells himself that Dean’s words mean nothing, as he kneels on the ground between Dean’s legs, the water still spilling down his back. This is probably a bad idea, and it’s probably the most uncomfortable position Castiel has ever tried to fuck anybody in, and Castiel considers suggesting that maybe they go in the bedroom or the living room. Somewhere not so wet and dark.

His thoughts are suddenly silenced by Dean pushing himself up just enough to kiss Castiel again, gripping Castiel’s arm. Castiel falls forward, somehow getting even harder when his dick rubs against Dean’s. It’s another one of those goddamn kisses that tricks Castiel into believing that this is supposed to be happening, that this is right when it’s really all wrong.

Castiel tries to pull his mouth away from Dean’s as he tries to squeeze the lube out onto his fingers. Dean’s lips chase his though, refusing to end their kiss, and Castiel accidentally lets too much lube spurt out, onto his own body and Dean’s.

“Fuck, sorry.” Castiel is sure that Dean thinks he’s a complete mess, that Dean is probably wondering why he ever got involved with Castiel. He tries to wipe away some of the liquid dripping down Dean’s skin, but Dean pulls Castiel’s fingers toward him.

Dean moans as soon Castiel touches him, but he’s silent when Castiel slips inside him. His eyes are locked on Castiel’s, and their bodies move together, in some kind of perfect rhythm. And Castiel tells himself not to kiss Dean again, not to let himself be fooled into thinking this means anything.

Reaching up to Castiel, Dean digs his fingers into Castiel’s arm, trying to bring him closer. Castiel resists at first, thrusting himself into Dean, closing his eyes, running his hand along Dean’s cock. But he finds himself falling on top of Dean, letting Dean guide their mouths together again. The distraction of Dean’s lips causes Castiel to slow down, to grind into Dean with a pace that lets him focus on Dean’s tongue somewhere near the back of his throat.

Dean’s legs are wrapped loosely around Castiel, keeping their bodies bound together. His hands are moving up Castiel’s back and into Castiel’s hair. Little droplets of water spray across Dean’s face, and Castiel wipes them away. In between their bodies, Castiel jerks Dean off, and Dean writhes underneath him, gasping for air in the middle of their kiss.

It’s Dean who comes first, all over himself, all over Castiel. The friction of Castiel’s stomach against Dean’s causes the cum to smear all over their skin. Dean exhales, holding his mouth still for a moment, before returning his lips to Castiel’s, like they’ve always belonged there.

This doesn’t mean anything. It’s just fucking. Rock stars fuck all the time and move on to a new town in the morning.  Castiel can do that too. He can get out of this shower and pretend that this doesn’t feel like it’s what they both needed their entire lives.

Castiel tries to use that thought to hold himself back, to keep going, but Dean’s tongue moving recklessly in his mouth is what ruins Castiel’s chances of lasting any longer. When he comes, he whispers, “Dean, Dean” almost involuntarily against Dean’s kiss, before sliding back onto his knees, the water still running down his back.

He waits for Dean to say something, anything, but Dean just lies there, silent, breathing unsteadily, running his fingers through his soaked hair. Castiel rests his hand on Dean’s knee, down to Dean’s ankle, his body still trembling, almost aching. Even the sound of the faucet has turned into a dull drone that Castiel no longer recognizes.

“What are we doing?” Dean sits up, resting his hand on Castiel’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I know we shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t have stayed last night.” Castiel starts to stand up, trying to find relief in the fact that this really doesn’t mean anything to Dean, but Dean pushes him back down onto the hard floor.

“That’s not what I meant. It’s not what I meant at all.” The tone of Dean’s voice changes, suddenly seeming on edge. He slides closer to Castiel, until their lips are almost touching again. “I meant, all this secrecy. Saying we should be more careful. Maybe we should just be together. Who gives a fuck what Chuck says?”

Castiel does. Or, at least, he has to pretend that he does. Even when Dean fucking Winchester is sitting here wet and naked and saying that they should be together. And the only response that is fighting to escape Castiel is of course we can be together , but he’s saved by a voice from Dean’s intercom.  

“Mr. Winchester, Benny Lafitte is here to see you. He says it’s important.” It’s Jeff the Doorman. Castiel already recognizes his voice, probably a sign that he’s been staying at Dean’s way too much.

“Shit.” Dean grips onto the door handle and pulls himself up, stepping out onto a plush-looking bath mat, his body dripping all over the ground. He bends over to grab a towel from a rack beside the shower, wrapping it around his waist and heading to the doorway. “I need to let him in. It’s Benny.”

Benny. Sex-tape Benny who still makes out with Dean on stage sometimes. Because the fans want it, or whatever. Benny, who maybe still has feelings for Dean. Or maybe Dean still has feelings for Benny. Castiel sinks down under the running water.  “Don’t let him know that I’m here.” Castiel is sure that Dean doesn’t hear him.

“Yeah, he can come up.” Dean’s response to the intercom is loud and clear even over the shower.

Dean returns just long enough to drop the clothes that Castiel had scattered all over the apartment onto the bathroom floor, dropping his towel and replacing it with boxer shorts and a t-shirt. “Get dressed.” Dean makes a slight grin. “Unless you want Benny to know we were fucking in the shower.”  

Castiel doesn’t think Benny should know that he’s here at all, but he listens to Dean anyway, turning off the shower and making his way out of it before pulling a towel around him. It’s soft, so soft that Castiel never wants to take it off. But he dries himself quickly, throwing the towel down in the corner on the same sweatpants and the same t-shirt he’d had on earlier, the sweatpants and t-shirt that belong to Dean. He wonders if Benny will recognize the clothes. He wonders if Benny ever wore these same clothes.

The mirror reminds Castiel that he’s a mess. His hair is wet, sticking up in the air, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. He isn’t sure if he has. Trying to ignore his reflection, which feels like it’s mocking some version of him that used to have his shit together. Some version of himself that wouldn’t fuck a rock star in the shower.

He rests his elbows on the counter, putting his head into his hands. Now would probably be a good time to read that Itinerary email, but his phone is still in Dean’s bedroom, and Castiel doesn’t want to walk through the living room, doesn’t want to face Benny. So, he just stands there, listening to the water still trickling from the faucet to the bottom of the shower, the sound of the pipes falling back to sleep in the walls.

“What are you doing, man?” Benny’s voice is loud enough to let Castiel know that he has no idea that someone else might be here. But Castiel immediately assumes that, somehow, that Benny knows everything, and that this whole conversation is about Dean sleeping with their new manager. “You asked to cancel the tour? And interviews? Don’t you want people to care about the album release?”

There’s a long pause, broken only by the sound of footsteps, and then Dean. “Of course I want the fucking album to do well, but this is my kid, what am I supposed to do? I wanted time to meet my kid.”

“The kid you didn’t know you had until a few days ago.” Benny’s soft Southern accent comes out even more than usual. “The kid you don’t even really know is yours? Did you even ask for some kind of proof?”

“I have enough.” Dean sounds uncertain. “Whatever, though, Chuck said no to all of it, so I’m just doing what everyone wants me to do. So don’t worry about it, I won’t fuck things up for you or anyone else.”

“Look, Dean, it’s not that. It’s not the tour and the album I’m worried about the most, it’s you. You don’t seem like yourself since all of this happened. Actually, since Castiel Novak happened.” Benny’s voice grows louder now, and Castiel almost shuts the bathroom door, but then remembers that he’s making a shitty attempt at trying to hide. “What the hell is he even doing anyway? Crowley never would have let you even consider doing shit like this. And he never would have let Chuck find out about it.”

“You know that’s because Crowley and Chuck don’t give a shit about us, right?” There’s a twinge of annoyance when Dean speaks now, that Castiel already recognizes. He’s definitely been spending too much time with Dean to know him this well after only a few days. “As long as they’re getting paid, they don’t care about us.”

“And Cas Novak does?” Benny is laughing, and Castiel can tell he’s pacing back and forth across Dean’s living room.

“Yeah, I think he’s different.” Dean sounds further away now, and the refrigerator door opens and closes. “You want a beer?”

“It’s not even noon.” Benny’s response is quick, almost disapproving. “And you think he’s different? Why? He’s just like the rest of them. Come on, you usually don’t get fooled that easily.”

Castiel slumps down against the wall, bringing his knees up to his chin. He’s nothing like Chuck, or Crowley. At least, he doesn’t think he is. Sometimes he’s not sure of anything.

“Maybe you should talk to him yourself.” Dean is standing in the doorway of the bathroom now, his hair still creating little paths of water wherever he walks.

Castiel raises his eyes to Dean but stays silent. He’s a secret, and it needs to stay that way.

“Please come talk to him,” Dean whispers. “Please tell him you’re not the asshole he thinks you are.”

“What are you doing?” Castiel mouths the words, but no sound comes out. “I thought we were supposed to be more careful.”

Dean holds his hand out, reaching for Castiel. “Please.”

Even Dean’s touch feels all too familiar already, but Castiel tries to ignore it. He lets Dean pull him off the ground and direct him down the hall. It’s a long enough walk that Castiel has time to panic, to try to think about all the ways this can go wrong. All the ways that this will ruin everything. He’ll never get to take Claire to that concert he promised her. He’ll probably be banned from concerts forever.

But he slides up the wall until he’s standing, ignoring his better judgment or really any judgment at all, and follows Dean down the hall. They pass Dean’s room, and the empty guest room they’d spent too long trying to fix up last night. Dean had wanted to make sure everything was perfect, and Castiel had just gone along with it, even though he’s the last person to know anything about being perfect.

Benny is sitting on the couch, sinking down into it, his black jacket hanging open over a flannel shirt. He doesn’t look that surprised when he turns his eyes to Castiel, and then to Dean. Castiel’s hair drips down onto the rug, following the path of droplets left behind by Dean.

“That was fast.” Benny glances toward the window, squinting at the sunlight, and then back at Castiel. “Even Dean and I knew each other a couple of weeks before we started—.” He stops abruptly, like he suddenly regrets the words that are coming out of his mouth. “You know what? None of my business.”

There’s a silence that Castiel tries to break almost immediately. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to fuck things up. I just wanted to make things right.”

“By pissing off our fans?” Benny crosses one leg over the other, leaning back against the back of the couch. “Do you know what you’re doing? At all? I mean, a lot of the bands you’ve managed have broken up or faded into obscurity, right? That’s what I hear. So, you’re going to do the same thing to us? That your goal?”

Benny isn’t wrong but Castiel isn’t going to admit that to anyone but himself. But he can’t let this be another one of his failures.

Dean crosses his arms and stares down at the ground. “This isn’t about Cas. I’m the one who fucked up. I fucked up a whole bunch of times. I guess it finally caught up to me.”

“I’m pretty sure we’ve all fucked up a whole bunch of times.” Benny slides forward on the couch. “I’m fucking up right now.” He takes a deep breath, gripping onto the coffee table like he needs it for support. “Chuck sent me to talk you out of whatever it is you’re trying to do. Told me to come over here and make sure you know not to screw this all up. But I’m not doing a very good job, and I don’t think I ever meant to.”

“Since when do you listen to Chuck fucking Shurley?” Dean sounds angry now. “I never thought you of all people would be afraid of him.”

“Everyone is afraid of Chuck Shurley.” Benny laughs but doesn’t loosen his grip on the table. “He makes the rules, right?”

Something about people thinking he’s afraid of Chuck Shurley annoys Castiel more than it should. Of course, Castiel is afraid of Chuck Shurley, but he remembers when he wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything. When he was young and stubborn and thought nothing could hurt him. When he thought he could be someone. “He just thinks he does. I mean, what’s he going to do if we don’t do everything he wants? You’re the biggest band we manage.”

“So he won’t be mad if we just skip The Late Show with Garth Fitzgerald tonight? He’ll be okay with us just blowing it off?” Benny seems to relax now. Probably because he knows Castiel is about to prove he really is terrified of Chuck. Raising his phone, Benny holds up the email labeled Itinerary. “Did you both forget? It’s on this. We go on at 7:30 tonight. We should probably rehearse or something, but we don’t seem to do that anymore.”

“Shit, I can’t.” Dean pulls at strands of his hair. “Emma is supposed to come over later today. We need to cancel. I can’t just leave her here alone.”

“Why can’t she come with us?” Castiel squints at Benny’s phone to see the next thing on the list, but Benny lets his screen go dark. “There’s no reason she can’t come with us.”

“I don’t want to drag a kid to some stupid late night talk show. It didn’t work out so well for me the last time, you know?” Dean paces in front of the window, blocking out the New York skyline. “Maybe we shouldn’t show up.”

“No, you probably shouldn’t do that again.” Castiel wishes he could go back to a half hour ago, when he was kissing Dean in the shower and nothing else seemed to matter. Now someone is actually asking him to do his job, and he’s not sure he can do anything but screw this up.

***

Castiel types and deletes a text to Claire six or seven times before sending it. Can you come to a show with me tonight? No, that just sounds like he’s begging her, and she’ll probably just think he’s being annoying. Hey, do you want to come to the Late Show tonight, Angel Sigils is playing? No, there’s no way she’s going to say yes to that. Teenagers don’t even watch shows like the Late Show . Maybe Claire has never even heard of Garth Fitzgerald.

He decides to just be honest. Angel Sigils is on the Late Show tonight. You’re invited, so is Alex. You just have to keep Dean Winchester’s daughter company. Let me know.

He waits for a response, sitting back in a little wooden seat at a little wooden table in a coffee shop across the street from Dean’s apartment building. A few feet from him, Benny is drinking some kind of latte, scrolling through what looks like Twitter on his phone.

Castiel chokes down his own coffee. He’d ordered it black for a reason he can’t explain, even though he hates his coffee this way. Maybe he just feels like he shouldn’t be allowed to enjoy anything right now.

Benny pauses on the picture of Dean and Castiel practically holding hands in that Boston diner two nights ago. “None of my business,” Benny says, and keeps scrolling.

Pretending to ignore Benny’s comment, Castiel reads the fancy script on the menu drawn on a chalkboard hanging above the counter, even though he’s done this so many times in the past hour, he has it memorized. The Soup of the Day is tomato bisque. The Sandwich of the Day is chicken and avocado, with lettuce and tomato, on a whole wheat wrap.

The woman behind the counter has her dark blonde hair piled on top of her head in some kind of messy bun, she’s humming a song that Castiel can’t place while arranging pastries in the display in front of her. A man in a suit types furiously on his laptop in the corner, sighing every few minutes and checking his watch.

“What the hell are you doing?” Benny’s coffee splashes out of the mug when he puts it down on the table.

“I don’t know, just sitting here?” This wasn’t a good idea. They had just wanted to leave Dean alone when Lydia came over with Emma, so Benny and Castiel had found the nearest place for coffee. Maybe they should have found some place with alcohol instead. Drinks might have made this less awkward. Or maybe Castiel should have just gone home.

“That’s not what I meant. I meant letting him do this. Meet with this kid, he’s only going to get hurt.” Benny runs his fingers along the short hairs of his beard. “And I have a feeling you don’t want to see him get hurt.”

“I don’t. But he wants this. I’m his manager but I’m not going to tell him he can’t do what he wants.” Castiel takes another sip of coffee. “I think too many people think they own him.”

“I agree with that, but I don’t see this going well.” Benny turns toward the window that’s decorated with a nearly translucent painting of flowers. The colors reflect on his face. “Sorry about what I said before, though, about the other bands you managed.”

This time, when he takes a sip, Castiel’s coffee doesn’t taste so terrible. Maybe it’s because nothing could be worse than this conversation.  “You were just telling the truth.”

“Nah, I was being a dick.” Benny smiles, tapping his fingers on the rim of his coffee cup. “And I don’t like being a dick. I never thought I’d wind up like this. A rock star. I was just playing in a jazz band in New Orleans one day, and the next day, Dean Winchester is asking me to join his rock band. And how do you turn down Dean Winchester?”

Castiel certainly isn’t someone who can give advice on turning down Dean Winchester, so he doesn’t answer Benny’s question. “How did you think you’d wind up?” Castiel always wonders about people’s lives turning out differently than they’d expected. Probably because he doesn’t know how he ended up here, in this coffee shop, talking about his life choice with a rock star.

“I don’t know. Playing in dive bars on the weekend for fun, maybe owning a restaurant.” Benny seems caught in an image of what this imaginary life would be like. “How about you?”

“I went to art school. So, maybe graphic design. Or teaching.” Castiel picks up a spoon and turns it over, watching the lights from the ceiling dance in the curves of the silver.

“But here we are, I guess.” Benny glances back at Castiel and then into his cup. “Could be worse. I could be sitting here with Fergus Crowley, or Chuck Shurley. You’re not so bad.”

“Thanks.” Castiel manages a smile. Maybe he can convince Benny Lafitte not to completely hate him.

Glancing back down at his phone, Castiel sees the text from Claire pop up. Are you asking me to baby-sit Dean Winchester’s daughter? He can just hear her saying it, slightly annoyed and excited at the same time.

Castiel chooses honesty again, because Claire always figures out the truth anyway. Sort of, but no. She’s not that much younger than you.

Claire’s response comes almost immediately. Yeah, I want to come. Alex too. Can you pick us up?

Right, they need a ride. Castiel has to somehow fit that in with everything else. Okay I’ll be there at 5 . He has no idea how he’ll be there at five.

“You look worried or something.” Benny lifts his cop to his mouth. “Is that Chuck texting?”

“No, it’s my teenage daughter. She’s going to come tonight. So that Emma has someone to keep company.” When Castiel says it, it doesn’t sound like the good idea he thought of earlier today.

“I know this is what Dean wants. You know what, I know this is what Dean always wanted. A family.” Benny leans forward, lowering his voice, even though the woman behind the counter is lost in a book she’s reading. “But something about this just seems not right, you know?” He pauses, shaking his head. “But I guess that’s none of my business either.”

There’s a long silence that Castiel tries to fill by organizing the sugar packets in the little ceramic dish on the table. Dean always wanted a family. Maybe that’s why he’s so willing to accept all of this, why he stayed up half the night fixing a room for a kid he never met.

“You looked at the rest of the schedule for the week, right?” At least Benny’s changing the subject to something else Castiel doesn’t want to talk about.

“No. I still didn’t open the email.” Castiel is pretty sure he started to open the Itinerary email about ten times and got distracted by things like texts from Bela asking him if he’s okay and random news notifications that seemed more interesting than Marv Armstrong telling him what to do.

“So, we’re in Philly tomorrow night. D.C. the night after that.” Benny makes some kind of smirk, and Castiel can’t tell whether he’s pissed off or whether he just thinks Castiel’s apparent incompetence is amusing. “Sold out shows, too. No one told you any of this? Does Dean even remember?”

“Well, I guess they told me in that email that I didn’t read.” Castiel does his best to try to hide the complete panic that’s spreading through him. There’s no way Dean is going to want to do two sold out shows, two nights in a row, right now. Benny was right all along, Castiel ruins every band he manages, ruins everything he touches.

“It will all be fine,” Castiel says, mostly in a failed attempt to reassure himself. And Benny just laughs.

Chapter Text

Castiel is late picking up Claire, and then he’s late getting to Studio 25 at 30 Rockefeller Plaza. He only knows he’s late because Claire tells him he was supposed to be there ten minutes before he got to their house, or her house, or Meg’s house, or whatever it is now. He would have driven here faster if he’d been alone, but Claire and Alex were in the backseat, talking about their Pre-Calculus teacher Mr. Harding, who is apparently the worst teacher in the history of the world. Castiel is pretty sure that Claire calls all her teachers the worst in the world.

The parking garage is full, and Castiel leans against the back of the seat, breathing in the air that smells like a mixture of old rainwater pooling on the concrete and gasoline from idling cars and SUVs. “But I reserved parking online,” Castiel mumbles, holding up his phone to show the attendant some confirmation with a code to scan. He probably fucked this up somehow.

“Yeah, sometimes it lets you reserve parking even when the lot’s full. Sorry, man.” The attendant takes a sip of his Diet Pepsi and starts to walk back into his booth.

“I’m supposed to be at this thing for work, I don’t have time to find parking. I’m already late.” Castiel rests his head on the steering wheel. There’s no way he can pull off an entire tour when he can’t even be on time for some late-night comedy show. He lifts himself up from the seat just enough to pull his wallet from his pocket. He has two twenties and a couple of fives. “Look, this is all I’ve got, I just really need a damn parking spot.”

“Dad, we can just find another lot and walk.” Claire is scrolling on her phone in the backseat. “There’s another lot down the block.”

Castiel grips his fingers around the wheel. He can feel little beads of sweat on his neck, and he can feel his breath grow short, and he struggles to swallow the air. “No, no there’s no time.” He realizes he sounds angry. He had only meant to sound anxious, but it comes out all wrong.

“Okay, Dad, whatever. I was trying to help.” Claire sits back in the seat. Castiel watches her roll her eyes in the rear-view mirror.

“Look, I’ll park it somewhere, give me the keys.” The attendant takes a step back toward the car, his bright yellow reflective jacket glowing under the lights that line the ceiling of this concrete box. “I don’t want your money.”

“Thanks.” Castiel opens the driver’s side door and pulls himself out of the car, letting his keys fall into the attendant’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” The attendant pushes his way past Castiel and into the car, as Claire and Alex start to walk up the winding ramp toward the street. “I’m sure I can cram it in here somewhere.”

“Great.” Castiel follows Claire and Alex, making his way toward the setting sunlight. They walk a few feet ahead of him, mumbling to each other.

“When’d your dad become such an asshole?” Alex is pulling a mirror compact out of her bag, fixing her hair while she walks.

“I don’t know.” Claire’s response is so quiet Castiel can barely hear her. “Maybe since he got this new job. Or maybe he just always was. Maybe my mom’s right after all.”

Now Castiel isn’t just overwhelmed with anxiety, he feels like shit too. He dragged Claire here, asking for her help, and now she’s agreeing with Meg about what an asshole he is. He should just give up, go home, and forget about all of this.

But he keeps walking, following Claire, until they reach the street. A black limousine is parked out in front of the building, in front of a fire hydrant. Castiel knows immediately who always rides in the back of that limo. Chuck Shurley. “Fuck,” he mutters, scraping his shoes against the ground as he nearly stops himself from going any further. Chuck Shurley being here is probably the only thing that could make this even worse.

Claire glances over her shoulder at him. Her glare turns into something softer, probably because he looks just as bad as he feels right now. “Dad, it’s going to be okay. Do you know where we’re going?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Castiel quickens his pace. He really has no idea where he’s going. But he’s getting used to this feeling. It’s how he feels most of the time now.

The gold-framed rotating doors open up into a marble lobby, where painted murals loom over the elevator banks and the reception desk. Castiel starts to reach into his pocket to find his drivers’ license, but a man he now recognizes as Marv Armstrong is approaching him, phone in hand, and a white earbud hanging from his ear.  “Castiel, you’re finally here. Chuck’s already upstairs and he wants to know why you’re late.”

“Traffic.” Castiel can’t think of a better reason. He can’t admit it’s because he’s struggling to keep it together.

“And I didn’t realize it’s Bring Your Daughters to Work Day.” Marv runs his fingers through his graying beard. “Chuck will be thrilled. He’s already thrilled that Dean has his daughter—or who he thinks is his daughter—here.”

Claire rolls her eyes, and Castiel should probably tell her to stop, but he smiles instead.

The elevator ride to the studio is so many levels above the ground that Castiel’s ears pop, but at least it makes Marv a little harder to hear. He’s still saying something about Chuck.

“Who cares about Chuck or whoever that is, where’s Dean Winchester?” Alex’s eyes never stray from her phone screen when she speaks.

That’s pretty much what Castiel is thinking, he just can’t say it.

Dean Winchester isn’t in his dressing room like he’s supposed to be. He isn’t in the green room either. Castiel finds him sitting on a couch in a break room next to a girl who isn’t any older than Claire. He’s holding a Nintendo Switch, squinting at the screen, while pressing buttons. “I really suck at this,” he laughs, until he sees Castiel. “Oh, I think I’m in trouble now.”

“Not with me.” Castiel leans against the doorway. “I’m Cas—the band’s manager. You must be Emma.”

She nods and smiles. She’s wearing a black t-shirt with a skull made of little sparkling beads that reflect the ceiling lights. Her fingers pull at the frayed tears on the knees of her jeans. She looks kind of lost, Castiel knows because he’s used to feeling lost himself.

“We’re playing Super Mario and hiding from Chuck, I heard he’s around.” Dean goes back pressing buttons on the Switch. “Not sure why. He never really comes to things like this.”

“I think he’s probably checking up on me. He doesn’t trust me.” Castiel knows Chuck is just watching him, testing him to see when this all explodes. “Whatever, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried.” Dean glances up at Castiel and puts the Switch in his lap once their eyes meet. Castiel realizes he must look a lot more nervous than he feels when Dean says, “But you clearly are so—Emma, I’ll be right back, okay?”

Dean starts to pull himself up from the couch. His jeans aren’t torn and he’s wearing a black suit jacket over a green t-shirt. Castiel isn’t sure if this is Dean’s attempt at cleaning up, or Rowena’s instructions.

But Emma stands up first, lifting her patch and pin covered tote bag to her shoulder. “Actually, I’m going to go check out those desserts they had in the other room and then go find somewhere to watch the show.”

“My daughter Claire and her friend are here, if you want to go hang out with people who are much more fun than us.” Castiel had brought Claire to the front row of the theater before he had wandered backstage looking for Dean. He isn’t sure if Claire is still mad at him, but she at least seemed impressed with Castiel’s ability to get her good seats. “They’re sitting front and center.”

“Awesome. I thought only old people were here.” She brushes by Castiel, giving him a smirk that immediately reminds him of the expression Dean makes when he’s pretending that he’s an asshole.

Dean is quiet for a few moments, his focus down on the video game that he’s still half-heartedly playing. A couple of television crew members pass by in the hall, and someone is laughing in another room. It’s eerily calm here, and Castiel starts to feel like that could only mean something terrible is about to happen.

“Chuck’s looking for you, Cas.” The words Castiel had expected to hear are spoken by Sam Winchester, who slips past Castiel and sits down next to Dean. “I’m not going to tell him where you are, but he’ll find you eventually. You know, because he’s Chuck.”

“Well, I’ll just wait here until he does.” Castiel shrugs, sliding along the wall, out of the doorway and into the room. “How are things going with Emma?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” Dean’s eyes turn from Castiel to Sam. “She’s funny and smart. How the hell is she my kid? And I feel like I need a fucking drink, because I know I’m going to mess all this up, so part of me is like, why not be drunk doing it? But, I know I can’t. So, I’m just trying to keep it together.”

“This will be fine.” Sam leans against the back of the couch, sinking into it. “Have you ever watched this show? Garth Fitzgerald isn’t exactly Ashley Frank.”

“Great, so no more kids I don’t know about?” Dean runs his fingers through his hair, tangling it so that it’s no longer neatly combed. Stray hairs fall across his forehead. Hair and Makeup probably won’t be happy about that.

“More like what’s the best prank your band mates have ever played on you.” Sam’s voice lowers and his expression changes, and Castiel can feel someone standing beside him.

He doesn’t need to look to know who it is. Chuck Shurley has a presence that Castiel can feel from across a room. And not in a good way.

“Castiel, let’s talk. In private.” Chuck doesn’t bother to look at Castiel when he speaks, he just turns and expects Castiel to follow him.

So Castiel doesn’t move. He watches Chuck walk down the hall thinking Castiel is right behind him, watches as Chuck turns and looks something close to betrayed when he realizes Castiel hasn’t taken a single step. And then Castiel laughs to himself, because he’s too afraid of letting Chuck realize just how much he’s enjoying this.

“Castiel, we need to talk. Now.” This time he disappears into a room with a sign that says VIP Only in Sharpie marker.

Castiel has never considered himself a Very Important Person so he lingers outside the door, knowing it’s probably only going to make Chuck even more mad. Which is exactly what he’s going for.

“What the fuck are you doing, Castiel? I told you I need to talk to you.” Chuck emerges from the shadows of the room.

Castiel shrugs, turning on the light in the room before closing the door behind him. There’s nothing in this room that seems Very Important at all. Just a beat-up looking couch with a glass table. A package of Oreo cookies sits open next to a copy of Variety magazine. There are posters thumb tacked to the wall, all advertisements for Garth Fitzgerald’s sold-out comedy shows in Los Angeles, Phoenix, Austin, Minneapolis.

“This is Garth’s private room.” Chuck walks over to the couch and sits down, pulling two cookies out from underneath the blue plastic wrapper. “You want one?”

“No. Are we supposed to be in here? Probably not.” Castiel leans back against the door. At least this way he can hear if someone is coming.

“I can be anywhere I want.” Chuck smirks, twisting one side of the cookie apart from the other before taking a bite. “But I wanted to let you knowthis was going to be an easy interview and show for Dean before you went and let him do what he wanted. Questions like, so what do you like to eat when you’re on tour. But now that you’ve gone and made things complicated, I’ve done the same.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? This is the Garth Fitzgerald Show . He has a sock puppet named Mr. Fizzles.” Castiel realizes he knows way too much about this show, probably from passing out in hotel rooms late at night and letting the television drone on in the background.

“I talked to Garth’s people. I told him to make sure Garth has a couple of questions about everything that’s happened this week—the Ashley Frank bombshell, the drunk bar pictures all over social media, what it’s like to meet the kid you never knew and never wanted and be stuck with her.” Chuck puts the other half of the cookie into his mouth whole, chewing and smiling at the same time. “They agreed, because they know it will be good for the ratings. That kind of shit will be shared all over the Internet, more people will watch this stupid show. You know, the ratings have sort of tanked lately.”

“Why are you such an asshole?” Castiel tries to hide the panic that’s running through him now. Dean doesn’t need another disaster this week, especially not on national television again, or in front of Emma. “Why would you intentionally try to fuck him over?”

Chuck crosses one leg over the other, smoothing out the edges of his shirt that hang from under his suit jacket. There’s some kind of design on it, maybe flowers or leaves. Whatever it is, it’s hideous and probably cost more than Castiel makes in a week.

“Because he didn’t listen to me, and neither did you. He doesn’t need some kid to hold him back with this tour. He has enough of his own problems. But you went and let him bring her here anyway.” Chuck folds his hands in his lap. “So I’m going to make things really fucking difficult for you. And I’m not that worried, because the only thing people like more than Rock’s Biggest Bad Boy is Rock’s Biggest Bad Boy having a very messy, very public breakdown. That shit will make album streams go off the chart on Spotify.”

“I think you just get off on being a dick, don’t you? Fuck you.” Castiel opens the door just enough to find his way back out into the hallway, where Charlie Bradbury looks up from her phone. The smile she’d had on her face from whatever she was looking at quickly fades.

“What’s wrong? You look stressed.” She leans closer to him. “Is everything okay?”

“No, not really.” Castiel walks down the hall, away from the VIP Only sign, and back to the room where Dean and Sam had been sitting. But it’s empty, except for the Nintendo Switch that’s resting on the arm of the couch. “Shit, where did he go?”

“They told us to go warm up. I told them I’d be right there. Then I got distracted by the Internet.” She turns off the screen on her phone and slips it into the back pocket of her jeans. “What happened?”

“Chuck is doing everything he can to make this all go wrong for Dean. For all of you really.” Castiel can hear Dean’s voice from somewhere out on the stage, followed by the sound of Benny’s guitar. “He wants Garth to ask Dean all these questions about what happened this week, with Emma, and I have to stop them.”

Charlie shakes her head, looking down the hall toward the music, as if to make sure she hasn’t been caught being here instead of where she’s supposed to be. “Let him ask.”

“I don’t want him to have to deal with this shit. I don’t want him to have to go through this again.” Castiel wonders if he sounds too worried, if he sounds like he cares too much for a manager.

“I’m serious. Let them ask him what they want.” Charlie starts to walk down the hall, pulling on Castiel’s suit jacket and dragging him with her. “Everyone treats him like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Dean is smart. He can figure it out. I promise you.”

She lingers just near the entrance to the sound stage, where someone from the crew points at his watch. Charlie ignores him, and leans toward Castiel, her red hair falling over her shoulder. “Look, Garth is interviewing all of us at once. I won’t let anything happen. If it starts to get bad, I’ll find a way to fix it.”

The music comes to an abrupt stop, and Dean slips through the curtain. Castiel finds his eyes running over Dean’s body, and he reminds himself he can’t act like this in public. Charlie looks anything but surprised.

“Charlie, where did you go? We’re the first interview after the monologue.” Dean tries to raise his voice over the opening theme song, playing from the speakers above them. “I just want to get this over with so we can all go home.”

“I was talking to Cas,” Charlie ducks into the shadows behind a woman wearing a headset and drinking a larger-than-extra-large cup of coffee. “Chuck’s trying to sabotage you and told Garth to ask you about Emma, and all the other shit that happened this week. Cas was going to try to stop them, but I told him you could handle it.”

Dean is quiet for a moment, and Castiel isn’t sure if he’s angry, upset, confused or some combination of all three. Applause erupts from the audience, followed by laughter, but Castiel didn’t hear the punchline.

“Don’t stop them.” Dean runs his hands across his face and someone from makeup immediately runs over, reapplying whatever was on his cheeks with a fluffy black brush. He looks tired and resigned to this. “Fuck Chuck Shurley.” He pauses, as the makeup artist leaves, and more laughter from the audience fills the silence. “I’m not going to fuck this up, right?”

“No, you’ll be fine.” Castiel instinctively reaches out for Dean’s hand. Dean doesn’t stop him, even when it’s obvious that Charlie realizes what’s going on. “Chuck’s just playing games.”

“That’s what he does. That’s what he’s always done. He plays games with people. Tries to humiliate them.” Charlie leans forward, checking her reflection in a mirror that’s hanging near the stage entrance. “And no one ever tries to beat him. Like he’s some kind of fucking God.”

“Have you ever considered maybe I am some kind of God? At least in this business?” Chuck is standing by a disconnected speaker, a pile of tangled wires at his feet. “And I do like to play games, but you guys are on like, right now, so I’ll have to wait until later.”

Garth Fitzgerald’s voice cuts Castiel off before he can even start to speak. “They’re the biggest rock band in the world, and their new album Phantom Traveler comes out this month.”

The screams from the audience are so loud, Castiel can’t hear anything that comes next. But some intern rushes Dean and Charlie onto the stage, and it’s just Chuck and Castiel left, standing in the leftover glow of the glaring lights.  

“I can play games too.” Castiel takes a step away from Chuck, finding a spot where he can see Dean without some camera in the way. He’s smiling and waving to the crowd, but there’s a hidden panic behind his eyes, that Castiel has seen too many times in the past few days.

“Is that a threat?” Chuck is smiling. “I hope it is.”

Castiel waits for the screams of Dean, Dean to fade. “You’re pathetic. You get off on thinking people are afraid of you.”

“Should I fire you now or later tonight?” Chuck puts his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are.”

Castiel turns back to Chuck. There are cookie crumbs on the collar of his shirt, and his tie is crooked. “You want to fire me? Go ahead. Do it, right now.”

Chuck doesn’t say a word.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Castiel shakes his head and tries to hide a smirk of satisfaction that comes with knowing that, maybe Chuck is the one afraid of him.

On stage, Dean is sitting on Garth Fitzgerald’s couch, one leg crossed over the other, and Castiel can tell how hard he’s trying to look like he’s completely fine, trying to look like he doesn’t expect the worst.

“So, you guys have had quite the week.” Garth Fitzgerald is known as the nicest guy in late night. There’s no way he’s going to try to give Dean another round of humiliation. At least, that’s what Castiel keeps telling himself.  

“I think it’s been fine.” Dean smiles, gives the camera that look that would make anyone do anything. “I mean, I had a couple of surprises I guess, but good ones, right?”

Benny, who’s sitting on the couch next to Dean leans forward and exchanges a glance with Garth, who nods. “And now you have the new album coming out and the tour. Is this album different than the previous ones?”

“Yeah, it’s heavier.” There’s a relief that falls over Dean’s face, Castiel can see it even from here. “And it’s better because I didn’t write all the lyrics this time. Charlie co-wrote them with me, and she’s a much better songwriter.”

“No, that’s not true.” Charlie’s eyes meet Castiel’s across the stage and she smiles. “Dean’s the best songwriter I know.”

“You guys have been around a long time. What’s the secret?” Garth flips through index cards that he hasn’t looked at once.

“Well, Sam’s my brother so he’s stuck with me whether he likes it or not.” Dean lets out a laugh, looking over at Sam. “But the real reason is because we all like each other. I love being on the road with these three. They’re family. And we also have a new manager who’s awesome.” There’s a loud clap from somewhere in the audience, and Castiel thinks it’s from somewhere near where Claire is sitting but she’d probably never admit it was her.

Behind Castiel, Chuck is muttering to himself. Castiel can’t really make out what he’s saying, but he can tell he isn’t happy.

“I guess you’re not as powerful as you think,” Castiel says, but Chuck is already on his phone, walking down the hallway, raising his voice above Sam telling a story about when he was a kid, and thought he could fly like Superman, only to break his arm. Dean had driven him to the ER on his handlebars.

Sam’s story somehow turns into Benny talking about the time the entire band went to a Halloween party at some club in L.A. dressed up as their favorite comic book characters, and no one knew Dean was there until he finally took his Batman mask off. He’d spent the rest of the night signing his autograph on napkins and taking pictures with half the people there.

Castiel leans against a wall and finally lets himself breathe. Maybe they can actually pull this off. Maybe Chuck isn’t really going to be able to ruin him.

“You guys are going to play a song from the new album?” Garth puts his index cards down now, as the band starts to move to the smaller stage where they had been rehearsing earlier. Castiel watches as Dean takes the microphone, his voice drowning out the harmony of people screaming his name. Castiel lets himself get lost in Dean for too long, until a tap on his arm pulls him back to reality.

“That guy, Chuck, he’s a real asshole.” A dark-haired woman in a black suit is standing next to Castiel. “Who the fuck does he think his to tell me what Garth should ask?”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Castiel wonders if there’s anyone who actually likes Chuck.

“It’s fine, I knew it was coming. Bela Talbot warned me about him.” She rolls her eyes, lined with dark shadow. “I’m Ruby, one of the head writers. Bela and I have been friends for years. We help each other deal with the many people like Chuck Shurley in this business. He told me to have Garth ask questions like Ashley Frank would. Fuck Ashley Frank. We don’t need to do shit like that for ratings. Garth isn’t about hurting people.”

“Thank you.” Castiel has spent most of his career convinced that everyone is against him. That everyone is just looking for ways to help him fail. For once he doesn’t feel like that.

“Just watch out for him. From the ten minutes I spoke to him, I can tell he’s out to get you.” Ruby glances from the stage and back to Castiel. “And I think he’s out to get Dean Winchester even more.”

***

You’re taking our 16-year-old to an after party? Castiel reads Meg’s text message in her voice. She’d say it like a statement, because she would know that Castiel already knew that Claire should be at home. It’s a school night. She has homework to do. She doesn’t really like being with her father all that much.

It will be fine . We won’t stay that long. Castiel doesn’t even want to be here. He’s sick of being in the same room as Chuck Shurley. Castiel had hoped Chuck would have left after he didn’t get his way but, here he is, drinking chardonnay and talking to a group of interns about the trip he took to the French Riviera last year.

But Castiel has to be here, because if he leaves now, before this thing has barely started, Chuck will have something to say about it.

Okay . Meg’s response is quick, and it’s missing the little heart emojis she used to include sometimes. She always used the purple one.

Castiel isn’t even sure where Claire went, even though there aren’t many places to hide in this restaurant. The last time he saw her, she was with Alex and Emma, trying to avoid the adults by sneaking off to a table in the corner. He can’t blame her, Castiel wishes he could avoid most adults too.

Except Dean, who looks like he’s been trying to escape every conversation that people have been pulling him into for the last half hour.

“Do you want something to drink?” The bartender is clearly annoyed that Castiel has just been sitting here, taking up space.

“Just a Coke.” Castiel feels like he’s yelling over all the conversations, and he’s too tired to do this. The bartender looks even more annoyed. “Sorry, I’m driving.” Castiel shrugs, unsure of why he’s explaining himself. He shoves a twenty-dollar bill into the tip glass just because he feels like he’s being judged.

There are hands on his shoulders and Castiel doesn’t need to turn around to know that it’s Dean. He’s gotten used to the feeling of Dean touching him. Leaning over into Castiel’s ear, Dean whispers, “How do we sneak out of here?”

“You and me? I can’t. Claire and Alex are here. And Emma.” Castiel isn’t sure what the hell Dean is doing, if he’s already abandoning Emma for whatever he thinks he can get out of Castiel.

“All of us. What did you think I meant?” Little pieces of Dean’s hair brush against Castiel’s cheek, and it makes Castiel’s mind wander to all kinds of things it shouldn’t.

Castiel turns so that he’s facing Dean, even though they’re way too close together considering how many people are around. “You just want to leave? I don’t even know if your ride is here.” He checks his phone. No text from Marv, nothing from Bobby. “I can go outside and check, I guess.”

“Didn’t you drive here? You’re my ride.” Dean smiles, his hand finding Castiel’s somewhere in the shadows below them. “Look, Emma and I took the limo here. I’m not an expert on kids, but I could tell she fucking hated it. I don’t want her to think this is who I am, some asshole who gets driven around in limos, with people waiting on me. I want her to know that I’m just some normal person who’s in a band. We can come with you to drive the kids back home.”

Castiel takes a long sip of soda, and glances back at Chuck, who’s still bragging to interns. “You want to take a ride to the suburbs in my Chevy Impala?”

“You know, my father had a Chevy Impala—” A woman with a tray bumps into Dean, forcing him to move closer to Castiel, so close their hips are nearly touching. Castiel can’t be this close to Dean without wanting to drag him into bed.

“I know. You have a song about it. ‘Baby.’” Castiel puts his glass down on the bar. He’s obviously paid more attention to Dean’s music than even he realizes. “But mine’s not a 1967, and no one ever gave me road head in the driver’s seat. It’s a 2018 with a trunk full of my kid’s soccer equipment and some Goldfish crackers that have been lodged in the seats for years.”

“That sounds perfect. Let’s get the fuck out of here.” Dean pulls on the collar of Castiel’s suit jacket.

Chuck’s eyes meet Castiel’s, and he smirks, gives Castiel a wave that’s more like a judgment, before going back to trying to impress the interns. Castiel sighs, shakes his head. He shouldn’t be leaving so soon. Neither should Dean. “I’ll go get the kids,” Castiel tries to mumble, but it’s probably too loud anyway.

Claire is sitting against the red leather of a booth in the corner. She’s passing her phone to Emma and Alex over a plate of half-eaten French fries. Emma leans forward and says something that makes both Claire and Alex nod, and glance in Castiel’s direction. Paranoia sets in, and Castiel wonders if Claire is telling them something terrible, if Emma will tell Dean all the bad things Claire probably has to say about him now.

“Hi.” Claire smiles, looks up from her phone, turning the screen off before Castiel can see whatever she was looking at.

“I think we’re going to go now. All of us.” Castiel starts to glance behind him, to make sure it’s not Chuck looking over his shoulder.

It’s Dean. Which explains Claire’s smile, and the way Alex is straining her neck to look around Castiel. “Yeah, Cas—well, your dad—offered to drive us all home.”

Claire stands up and grabs her bag from the seat beside her, and Alex follows. “Nice. Let’s get out of here,” Claire says, slipping out from the booth.

“Me too?” Emma is still slumped in her seat, playing with the zipper on her hoodie.

“What? Of course.” Castiel wishes Dean hadn’t come over here. It’s probably only attracting more attention to them. “We just need to get out of here without my boss seeing us.”

“We should use the back door.” Emma motions toward the back of the restaurant, to where a red neon Exit sign points down a hall. “I’ve seen a few people go out that way.”

“Yeah, including Garth Fitzgerald with the guitar player.” Claire starts walking to the exit without hesitation. “They looked pretty close.”

“Benny and Garth?” Castiel steps aside to let Dean go past him with Emma. He scans the crowd, but no one’s watching. Chuck has his back to Castiel now, and he’s talking to Sam Winchester, who doesn’t look very invested in the conversation.

“I told Sam to distract him for us.” Dean shrugs, his arm sliding along the wall as they make their way to the end of the hall that turns toward a dark colored door. The window is frosted, covered with crisscrossing wire that blocks out the destination, but Dean opens it anyway.

Castiel expects an alarm to go off, or for some security guard to come and drag Dean back inside where Chuck wants him. But it’s an empty alley with some garbage cans, and Claire is already on her phone, following the map on her screen. “Come on, the parking garage is this way.” And something about the way she walks, like nothing can stop her, that reminds Castiel of Meg, and he doesn’t know whether to be proud or kind of sad.

“Are we going to take another limo?” Emma trails behind Claire, her heels dragging on the ground. “There were too many photographers when we got out.”

“No, just a car. Nothing fancy.” Castiel is checking his own phone, making sure Chuck isn’t texting him already. But the only notification he has is a thumbs up emoji from Bela, in response to him thanking her for whatever she’d said to Ruby, whatever had stopped Garth from asking Dean those questions.

“Rock stars just sneak out of parties and get rides from their managers?” Claire stops under a streetlamp, the glow of her phone screen map shining on her face.

“Yeah, why not?” Dean glances both ways and starts to cross the blacktop toward the parking garage. “I don’t want to be at most of the parties I have to go to.”

At least it’s dark enough that none of the people passing by recognize Dean. The last thing Castiel needs is for Chuck to see him helping Dean escape yet again.

“Wait.” Alex stops just before stepping onto the curb behind Claire. “Aren’t you like always partying?”

“Doesn’t mean I want to.” Dean waits for Castiel to catch up to him on the sidewalk

The path down into the parking garage is steep and poorly lit, and the headlights of a car barrel up it. Castiel is too busy checking his phone to realize, until they’re too close.

“Watch out.” Dean steps in front of all four of them as the car passes by.

A “thank you,” is Castiel’s first reaction, for making sure that Claire and Alex are okay, his second reaction is to wish Dean wasn’t jumping in front of cars to save people. And it’s not because he’s worried about what Chuck will do to him if something happens to Dean. “Be careful, please.”

“Pay attention to where you’re going.” Dean turns, his eyes move to Castiel’s lips, but he looks away quickly.

Castiel digs through his pockets, finds a crumpled ticket with the number 502 on it, and hands it to the attendant. “Isn’t that that guy from that band?” The attendant squints in the darkness.

“What? No, I’m not in a band,” Dean says, pacing on the concrete floor. “Must have me confused with someone else.”

“Guess so.” The attendant steps out of the booth, twirling Castiel’s keys around his finger. “I’ll be right back with your car.”

He disappears down into the garage, the sound of jingling keys fading into the distance. “Do you get recognized a lot?” Emma is pacing behind Claire and Alex. “I know my mom’s in a band too, but no one ever really recognizes her.”

“Just sometimes.” Dean responds quietly, and slowly, like he’s trying to figure out what Emma wants to hear. What he’s saying is definitely not the truth.

The hubcaps of the Impala’s wheels reflect the flickering lights overhead as the flight attendant rolls to a stop and opens the door. Castiel holds out a twenty-dollar bill as a tip, in exchange for his keys, but Dean gets in the way, with a fifty. He takes the keys and starts to walk toward the driver’s side door. “I’m driving.”

“What? No.” Castiel reaches over, tries to grab his keys. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t get to drive, like, ever. And I miss it. So, I want to drive us all home.” Dean opens the driver’s side door.

“Dean Winchester is going to drive us home?” Alex probably thinks she’s whispering to Claire, but Castiel can hear her over the sound of the car’s engine.

“Yeah.” Dean climbs into the driver’s seat, pushing the seat back slightly. “Just tell me where we’re going.”

***

This probably violates every single company policy that Castiel has never read. Probably the terms of more than a few contracts, too. But Dean is happy, his fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, driving through the passing lights of the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. “I can’t even remember the last time I got to do this,” he says, somewhere near the exit.

The red glare of brakes reflects on Dean’s face as he slows down behind a line of cars. He smiles at Castiel. “Don’t look so nervous, Cas. I know how to do this.”

“I’m not nervous.” Castiel manages a laugh, rolling down his window, just enough to let a fresh stream of air into the car. That’s a lie. Castiel is panicking about three or four different things, none of which are Dean’s driving skills.

It’s the way Claire looks over at him from the backseat that makes him wonder if she’s onto him. If she’s caught onto the way he can’t keep his eyes off Dean, or the way he laughs every time Dean makes some stupid joke. If she’s going to go home and tell her mother everything.

“This is better than the limo.” Emma is sitting behind Castiel, and he can feel her shift in her seat as she speaks. “Much better. I don’t think I can get used to being driven around in something like that and having all those people taking my picture all the time.”

“It’s not always that bad.” Dean changes lanes, accelerating past a line of cars stuck behind a stalled SUV. “Just, you know, this week it has been a little worse. I won’t let them bother you though.”

Claire is on her phone again, which shouldn’t surprise Castiel. Claire is always on her phone. But she looks up at him, motioning with her eyes, and he feels a vibration against his thigh.

He tilts his phone toward the window when the text from Claire illuminates the screen. She really doesn’t want to be here. She’s miserable. She wants to go home. Alex and I feel bad for her.

At least Claire’s look of concern has nothing to do with Castiel. That’s what Castiel is going to tell himself anyway. It’s only for a couple of weeks while her mother is in London . Castiel thinks that’s what Dean had told him, but his memory hasn’t been so great these past few days.

She seems to think it’s for a lot longer than that. She was complaining about her mom’s British boyfriend, and how he wants her mom to move there with him. Claire’s response is followed by an emoji of a blonde girl shrugging.

Castiel turns to Claire, who looks up from her phone now, and makes some expression that’s between confusion and a frown. Whatever is going on here, Castiel can’t deal with it. Not now. He has to get Dean through Philadelphia tomorrow night, D.C., and everything else that he should probably remember. And he’s pretty sure he’d promised he’d take Claire and Jack to the movies this weekend, a promise he’s almost certain he’s going to break.

Rolling up the window so he can rest his head against it, Castiel closes his eyes. He struggles to swallow a breath, doing his best to keep all his anxiety down inside him. He can’t fuck this up, not for himself, not for Claire and Jack, not for Dean, and not for Emma, who just wants to go home. His phone buzzes again and there’s a new email from Marv Armstrong. Philadelphia Itinerary. Castiel flips his phone over and focuses out the window, at the litter-strewn grass that lines the side of the Grand Central Parkway. Whatever is in that email will have to wait.

“You good?” Dean lifts his hand from the steering wheel and reaches toward Castiel, but immediately stops, turning away.

“Yeah. Just tired.” Castiel listens to the sound of the road underneath the car. It calms him, it has to. He can’t let Dean know he’s panicking.

“They don’t let you drive?” Claire asks, leaning forward onto the console. “You don’t have a garage full of expensive cars?”

“I have a couple of cars. But most of the time, I’m on the road, and it’s a tour bus. Or a limo. And sometimes, I just want to do this.” Dean taps on the steering wheel. “So, thanks to your dad for letting me drive his car.”

“Just don’t tell Chuck.” Castiel wonders if Chuck has a list of all the things he’s going to fire Castiel for at this point.

“Calm down, no one’s telling Chuck anything,” Dean says, as they head down the exit ramp. “Your father worries a lot, Claire. You should tell him to stop worrying so much.”

“He’s always been like this.” Claire taps Castiel on the shoulder. “See, Dad, Dean Winchester tells you to calm down too.”

“Great.” Castiel shakes his head, as Dean turns onto a house-lined street. It’s a stark difference from where they were, in the middle of Manhattan, only 45 minutes ago. A woman jogs down the street. A man walks three dogs on leashes. The tiny one keeps trying to fight with the big one.

“It’s this one,” Claire says, as the Impala rolls to a stop in front of the driveway where it used to live.

“You can drop me off here too.” Alex starts to open the back door. “Thank you, Mr. Winchester.”

“Please. It’s just Dean. Mr. Winchester is my father.” Dean turns toward the backseat. “And Claire, I’ll keep telling your dad to calm down.”

“Good. He needs it.” Claire is sliding out of the car. “Hey, Emma, you can text me whenever. We should hang out again sometime.”

Castiel watches as Claire walks up the paved path, missing the days when this was his home, missing when things were easier. “You sure you’re okay?” Dean rests his hand on Castiel’s arm now.

“Yeah. You want to drive back?” Castiel should probably be taking the keys from Dean, but he isn’t even sure why.

“Am I allowed?” Dean starts making his way back down the street but then leans over to Castiel at a stop sign. “I’m just giving you a hard time. It’s been a long day, sorry.”

“So, are you guys, like, together?” Emma slides into the middle of the backseat. “Or something like that?”

“No.” Dean’s voice echoes Castiel’s.

Fuck. Castiel opens the window again, swallows down the air. He wonders if Claire has the same question. “No, no I’m his manager.”

“Yeah, I know you are.” Emma leans back, pulling her bag onto her lap. “But I mean, good for you, if you are together.”

Chapter Text

Castiel is silent during the drive back into the city. Dean changes the subject, asking Emma about school, about what she likes to do in her free time. Play video games, watch anime, write. Her friends all like to make TikToks but her mother doesn’t let her go on social media. “I’m the only kid in my class without an Instagram,” she says. “My mom’s kind of strict.”  

“You’re not missing anything, I kind of hate social media.” Dean slows down, approaching the traffic to the Tunnel. “It’s an easy way for people to leave me comments about how much I suck.” He laughs a little, but his voice cracks at the same time.

“So, what do you like to do when you aren’t on tour?” In the rearview mirror, Emma’s eyes look from Dean to Castiel. “Both of you.”

“I don’t feel like I have much free time anymore.” Dean picks up speed as the cars begin to move in front of them. “But if I did, I don’t know, I used to like to read when I was a kid. Maybe I’d do that. And I like doing this, driving, maybe I’d just go on a really long road trip.”

“What about you?” Emma leans forward and looks at Castiel.

“I used to like to draw, and paint, and stuff. I don’t do that now.” Castiel realizes how sad that sounds.

“Being an adult sucks even when you’re famous, I guess.” Emma slides back against her seat.

Castiel realizes he’s nodding in agreement involuntarily, so he turns back to his phone and finally opens the Philadelphia Itinerary email. They have to be on the bus by noon. Dean has an interview with some local news station at 5:15, and then some podcast at 6:30. They go on at 8:30. Even reading it makes Castiel more exhausted than he already feels. He rests his head against the seat, closing his eyes, letting himself drift off into half-consciousness, ignoring the unwelcome sounds of Manhattan that have returned. The honking, the sound of someone yelling on a street corner, fade away as he lets the rhythm of the stop and start traffic lull him away.

“Cas, hey, wake up,” is the next thing Castiel hears. Dean is gently shoving his shoulder. “You can’t drive home like this.”

Castiel opens his eyes to an underground parking lot. The first car he sees in the washed-out light is a Ferrari, then a Rolls Royce. This must be Dean’s building. These are the kinds of cars people who live there drive. “I’ll be okay.”

“Do you know how many bedrooms are in my apartment?” Dean opens the car door. “You can take one of them instead of trying to drive home half asleep.”

Dean steps out of the car, opening the door for Emma. Castiel starts to ask for his keys, which are still dangling from Dean’s fingers, but he can feel the heaviness of his eyelids. Maybe he can just sleep here in his car.

“Cas, get out of the damn car. You’re not sleeping in it.” Dean is pulling open the door. He turns to Emma. “He’s very stubborn.”

Castiel climbs out of the car, pushing Dean to the side. There’s a red Lamborghini parked next to them, and Castiel hopes that his 2018 Impala doesn’t offend the owners too much as he follows Dean and Emma past a security booth and to glass doors that open when he waves a key card in front of them.

There’s more security inside the building, but they barely look up when Dean walks by and says, “They’re both with me.”

“You know I’m probably fine to drive now, I can just go.” Castiel stands before the open elevator doors as Dean steps inside. “Give me my keys back.”

“I don’t know, you kind of look like you’re about to pass out.” Emma is making the same expression as Dean, a mix of annoyance and amusement.

“Look, I’ve had enough bad press for the week.” Dean is holding the elevator open, his hands wrapped over the black rubber of the entrance. “I don’t really need my new manager falling asleep at the wheel in the middle of Manhattan.”

Dean’s eyes are pleading, and Castiel realizes that Dean is worried about him. Worried that something might happen to him. He remembers the way Dean kissed him early this morning, the way it felt like they were meant to be kissing like that. Castiel tells himself he’s being delusional but gets on the elevator anyway.

“Oh, this is one of those fancy elevators that tells you the news and weather.” Emma is watching the television screen on the wall. “Do you like this place?”

“It’s a little too much.” Dean presses the button to his floor. “I guess it’s just temporary.”

Castiel closes his eyes, pressing the back of his head up against the cold silver wall. The days of barely sleeping and endless anxiety must be finally catching up to him. He used to be able to handle this, when he was younger. Except when he was younger, he wasn’t up all night banging the lead singer of any band he was managing.

“It has so many floors it makes my ears pop,” Emma says, and Castiel realizes he must be immune to that feeling now, from traveling up too many skyscrapers, too many towers to pointless meetings.

Once the elevator doors open into Dean’s apartment, Emma’s phone starts ringing. “It’s my mom, I’m just going to go in the bedroom, okay?"

“You can call it your room now, if you want.” Dean walks into the living room, turning toward Castiel. “Here’s your keys before I forget to give them back. You can pick any room, there are four empty ones.”

Castiel wants to pick Dean’s room, but he knows he can’t, not tonight. “Thanks.”

“I have clothes you can borrow.” Dean is acting like Castiel doesn’t know that already.

“I’m fine.” Castiel is too tired to worry about changing. He’s too tired to worry about anything right now, at least, that’s what he tells himself. “I’ll take the bedroom next to yours.”

He shouldn’t have said it that way. He’s probably making it obvious, confirming Emma’s suspicions. He should have just said, I’ll take the bedroom on the right , or I’ll take the room down the hall , or any other way he could have worded it. And now he’s just overthinking everything. “I’m going to go lie down.” Hopefully, sleep will clear his head.

The room next to Dean’s is empty except for a bed with a fitted sheet, and a window with its blinds open to the vast skyline of the city. Throwing his suit jacket down on the floor, Castiel sits down on the edge of the bed and slides his phone from his pocket just as a text message lights up the screen.

It’s Jack. Dad, I’m getting a Student of the Month Award. There’s a breakfast tomorrow at 10. Can you come?

Without thinking, Castiel responds, I’ll be there , but he doesn’t know how he’ll be there. He rests his head down on the mattress, and decides he’ll figure it out in the morning. He’ll figure everything out in the morning.

***

There’s a blanket draped over Castiel when he wakes up, and his suit jacket is on a hanger in the open closet. There’s still nothing but darkness shining in from the sky, and Castiel finds his phone underneath him. It’s 3:03 am, and the only sound Castiel can hear is the dull whisper of voices on a television.

His back hurts from whatever curled-up position he’d fallen asleep in, and he wonders if that means he’s getting old. He has to go to the bathroom, and he wonders if that, too, means he’s getting old. He lets his feet find the floor, and stumbles through the room, following the little path of light that signs from underneath the door.

Castiel flips the switch in the bathroom, the glare hurts his eyes, and the memory of the things he did with Dean here come rushing into his brain. He tries to push them away, glancing at himself in the mirror, at the image of his wrinkled button-down shirt and his tie hanging loosely around his neck.

He tries to be as quiet as he can, washing his hands quickly, opening the door slowly. Down the hall, the flickering blue reflection of the television dances against the wall. Castiel follows it, to where Dean is sitting on the couch, in sweatpants and a t-shirt, all traces of Rock’s Biggest Bad Boy gone, his hair hanging down in his face, his eyes blankly focusing on the screen.

“Dean?” Castiel keeps his voice low. He doesn’t want to wake Emma.

“Hey, you should be sleeping.” Dean reaches for the remote, turning the volume lower. “Philly tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah. Are you okay? Did you give me a blanket?” Castiel leans on the arm of the couch but slides down next to Dean after a few seconds. He’s like a fucking magnet to Dean and he doesn’t even care.

“Yeah, I came and tucked you in and hung up your clothes.” Dean smiles, resting his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Thanks for staying.”

“You didn’t give me much of a choice.” Castiel tilts his head toward Dean. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Dean shifts his body on the couch, moving closer to Castiel, and slips his hand down to Castiel’s leg. “No. Today was really hard. Every time I said anything to Emma, I just worried it was the wrong thing. I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel like a fuck-up, I am a fuck-up. And Chuck, what, wants me to fuck up even more?”

Castiel turns his eyes toward the television, the screen filled with a car commercial. A truck barrels up a mountain and then drives down a city street. 

“You’re not a fuck-up.” Castiel is afraid to look at Dean, afraid this might go too far.

“If I’m not, it’s only because you’re here.” Dean’s hand is still on Castiel’s leg. “You know what I would have done if this happened, and you weren’t here? What I used to do when I felt like this?”

“No.” Castiel has some idea, probably a pretty good idea, of what Dean used to do, but he doesn’t want to say it. He places his hand down on top of Dean’s and says nothing else, hoping that Dean knows he can tell Castiel whatever he wants.

Dean looks down, spreading his fingers so that Castiel’s can slip through his. “I probably would have called Charlie up, asked her to stay here with Emma for the night. Then I would have gone out and found some bar and gotten so trashed I couldn’t remember who I was, and honestly, probably it wouldn’t have stopped there.” He pauses and turns his eyes to Castiel. “People used to just give me shit, and I’d take it. Wouldn’t even ask what it was. I woke up in places, with people, and I couldn’t remember how I got there.”

“Well, I’m glad we’re here, together, right now.” Castiel can hear Dean breathing slowly, nervously.

“Yeah. Me too. So thanks for staying.” Dean leans forward, his lips starting to search for Castiel’s. But he stops, suddenly, slides back on the couch. “Probably shouldn’t do that right now, I guess.”

“No, probably not.” Castiel runs his fingers down Dean’s face, and Dean turns into Castiel’s touch.

Dean takes Castiel’s hand into his, kissing the back of it. “That’s good, for now, right? Anyway, there’s another reason I didn’t go off the rails tonight. My mom’s flight gets in at 10 am in the morning.”

“Your mom?” Castiel suddenly panics at the thought of meeting Dean’s mom. Maybe she won’t like him, maybe she’ll tell him to get a new manager. A new boyfriend. But Castiel isn’t Dean’s boyfriend anyway so she wouldn’t say that.

“I didn’t want Emma to miss school because of a tour date. I didn’t want to be dragging her all over, I didn’t want her to suddenly be thrust into, well, the kind of shit I deal with. So, my mother, who is ecstatic about meeting Emma, told me she’d stay here for a couple of days.” Dean seems to have involuntarily moved closer to Castiel again. “And it will get Chuck off your back.”

“Nothing’s going to get Chuck off my back, but it’s probably better for Emma. And you didn’t say anything wrong tonight, you know. To Emma. I think everything you said, I think it was the right thing.” The hum of the television, the silence of the world outside, is suddenly blaring. Castiel knows he shouldn’t feel like this so soon. He shouldn’t feel like he needs Dean the way he does right now. “I think you’re a lot better at this whole thing than you think you are.”

“I don’t know how to be a father. All I can do is try not to be my dad.” Dean turns the volume on the television up just enough to hear it. A weary-eyed looking reporter is about politics. Castiel tries not to look surprised that Dean is watching World News Tonight at three in the morning.

“My dad forgot my birthday every year. On my fifteenth birthday, my mom handed my dad a piece of cake and he asked what it was for.” Dean glances at the television and then back at Castiel. “Emma’s birthday is February 3. I’m not going to ever let myself forget that.”

“You aren’t your father.” Castiel feels himself sinking into the couch, pressing his arm against Dean’s. Sitting here in the middle of the night, beside Dean, staring mindlessly at the television, somehow feels perfect. Right now, Dean isn’t some rock star, and Castiel isn’t his manager. They’re just two people with insomnia, sitting next to each other, watching a report about the crashing stock market.

“My mom wants to meet you too.” Dean says this quietly, like he’s afraid it’s something Castiel doesn’t want to hear. “I told her about you, sorry.”

“You told her what about me?” Castiel isn’t sure he wants anyone to know their secrets.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her I’m sleeping with my new manager. Just that I have a new manager and I really like him.” Dean rests his head against the back of the couch, turning to Castiel. “I didn’t tell her that I really, really like you.”

Castiel isn’t used to acting on impulse. He’s used to overthinking everything, everything he does, everything he says. But whatever control he usually has doesn’t seem to matter when he’s with Dean. He knows damn well that, right now, he shouldn’t kiss Dean. But he does it anyway. He presses his lips to Dean’s and then slips his tongue into Dean’s mouth when he realizes Dean isn’t resisting.

Without thinking, Castiel moves his hand to Dean’s waist, his fingers playing with the strings on Dean’s sweatpants. He pulls on the elastic, runs his fingertips along Dean’s skin. Dean sighs, and Castiel can feel it against his chin, and against his throat.

“We shouldn’t,” Dean mumbles. “I mean, I really fucking want to, but we can’t tonight.”

“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry.” Castiel struggles to pull himself away. “I should probably go back to bed.”

“You can stay and keep me company.” The light of the television falls over Dean’s face. “We don’t even have to say anything to each other.”

“You never really have anyone to keep you company, do you?” Castiel remembers what it used to be like, to just have someone who was his, someone who was just there for him.

“Sam.” Dean is flipping through the channels now, his head slowly finding its way to Castiel’s shoulder. “You know, if I called him, he’d be here. But, you know, all my life I’ve tried to be his big, tough, older brother. And I don’t want him to see me like this or think he needs to take care of me. He already tries to.”

“Benny and Charlie would be here too, if you asked them.” Castiel turns his face toward Dean, into his hair. He kisses Dean’s forehead, runs his fingers down Dean’s cheek.

“I know they would.” Dean’s hand reaches up, and finds Castiel’s, gripping onto it for more than a few seconds. “But you’re here.”

“I am.” Castiel wraps his arm around Dean. What Castiel feels right now is everything he shouldn’t feel. It’s not real, he tells himself. He isn’t falling for Dean this hard, this fast. He isn’t really sitting here wondering if he has some kind of future with Dean. He isn’t crazy enough to believe that this, sitting on Dean Winchester’s couch at almost four in the morning, is something they could have night after night.

“The new music would do really well if I just went off the rails, though.” Dean laughs quietly against Castiel’s chest. “Right before our third album was released was when my dad called me up about that $100,000 credit card debt. You know what I did? I had my lawyer get him write him a big fucking check, for even more than he needed. He didn’t even say thank you. He didn’t say anything.”

“I’m sorry.” Castiel almost feels guilty for having a father who was always there for him, who would never do the kinds of things John Winchester did.

“Yeah, so was I. And I was out in L.A. doing press. Wound up at some party at Jeb Dexter’s house. You know that asshole fake magician with all the leather who thinks he’s a rock star?” Dean is whispering now, glancing down the hall like he’s worried about Emma hearing something.

“The one with the eyeliner and fire that shoots out of his hands?” Castiel had fallen asleep in front of the television one night after fighting with Meg, he’d woken up in the middle of some Jeb Dexter special repeating on some obscure cable network. Guitars blaring while Jeb was lifted into the air on wires, arms out like he believed he was some sort of god.

“Yeah, that guy. I don’t know why I was there. I just wanted to be somewhere.” Dean pulls himself up slightly but holds Castiel’s arm in place around him. “I got so fucking messed up that night. I just wanted to forget it all. I didn’t even care what happened to me. At some point, I passed out on the lawn, half-naked, and I don’t even know how I got that way.” Dean smiles but there’s a sadness in his eyes all at once.

“I woke up in the hospital, but not before people took pictures of me sprawled out on the lawn, sent them to TMZ or whatever shit was big at the time. It was pretty humiliating.” Dean sinks back down into the couch. “But the album was huge, because people love to watch someone fall apart.”

“I don’t.” Castiel is doing everything he can not to pull Dean against him, not to kiss Dean, not to mumble confessions that should never be spoken. “Not at all.”

“Because I think you understand what that means. I think you understand what it means to fall apart.” Dean sighs against Castiel’s mouth, and his tongue slips in between Castiel’s lips.

But Castiel fights against everything inside him, against every part of his body that wants this, wants Dean, so goddamn bad. “We shouldn’t, right? Not tonight.” He pulls away from Dean.

“We shouldn’t. You’re right. I know you’re right.” Dean slides down the couch, resting his head on Castiel’s thighs. “Sorry, sometimes I have trouble controlling myself when I want something.”

Castiel tangles his fingers in Dean’s hair, and across the stubble on Dean’s chin. He still doesn’t know how he can possibly be something that Dean Winchester wants. And Castiel doesn’t know how he became someone who can barely control himself when he wants something, too.

“I didn’t used to.” Castiel traces along Dean’s jaw with his fingertip. “But now, I don’t know what’s happening to me.” He lets his hand wander onto Dean’s neck, and then underneath the collar of Dean’s t-shirt. Maybe he just never wanted anything this bad. Maybe he never wanted to just lose himself with someone the way he wants to lose himself with Dean. “I really think I should go to bed, before I talk myself out of this whole ‘we shouldn’t’ thing.”

Dean nods and sits up. He kisses Castiel, lets their lips linger recklessly together for a few seconds, before standing up and turning toward the hall. “Good night, Cas. We can have trouble controlling ourselves some other time.”

***

Somehow, Castiel shows up to Jack’s school a half hour early. Probably because he didn’t sleep at all last night once he found himself alone in Dean’s guest room, staring up at the ceiling, wondering how the hell he’d wound up there. Wondering how the hell he’d wound up with all these feelings for Dean Winchester. Wondering why the hell it seems like Dean Winchester might feel something for him, even if Castiel doesn’t know what that something could be.

Castiel had spent most of the night wishing he’d just drift off, but every single thought that crossed his mind kept him awake. He’s doing a terrible job at this whole managing thing. There’s a whole list of things the band needs to do before the show in Philadelphia tomorrow, and Castiel hadn’t read or even cared about most of it. He’s doing a terrible job at everything, and at 4:30 in the morning, there’d been nothing to do but think about all of it.

  Just after sunrise, Castiel had gotten out of bed to find Dean in the kitchen with bags of groceries, wearing a baseball cap half-pulled down over his face. He’d gone to the store on the corner, said no one recognized him with his hat and sunglasses on, and bought enough food for Emma and his mother for the next couple of days. When Castiel had asked if Dean needed help making breakfast, Dean had smiled and said he used to make eggs or waffles for Sam every day before they’d gone to school when they were kids, because their mother went to work long before they had to get on the bus.

They had kissed quietly, quickly, by the refrigerator, before Castiel had forced himself to leave. Before Castiel he could fuck this all up, before Castiel had almost let the wrong words slip out of his mouth. The words that he’d repeated in his head over and over when he’d told Dean he’d see him later, on the tour bus. I think I love you . Castiel needed to keep all that to himself, because he knows he’s just going out of his mind.

So, he’d driven home, taken a too-long shower where he’d spent most of the time standing there, the water flowing over him, telling himself he can’t do this. He should probably just quit, before this whole thing with Dean goes too far.

And then Castiel had decided, why quit, this has already gone way too far already. Why not just let it go even further, because Castiel no longer knows how to stop himself.

At least he’d gotten here on time, though. At least he hadn’t fucked this up too. At least he isn’t giving Jack a new thing to hate him for today.

There’s a knock on the passenger side window Castiel, and it pulls him away from his thoughts. It’s Meg, waves of her long dark hair creating a shadow on the dashboard. She looks confused, or angry, or maybe both, Castiel isn’t sure. She pulls on the door, but it’s locked.

Castiel doesn’t really have to let her in. He doesn’t really have to listen to her anymore. He tells himself these things for a split second, while hitting the button to unlock the door.

A rush of air flows into the car when she opens the door. Her skirt gets tangled in her legs when she sits down, and her heels dig into the floormat. “What are you doing here? How did you even know Jack was getting an award?”

Castiel wraps his fingers around the steering wheel, because it gives him something else to focus on. “Jack texted me last night and asked me if I could come.”

“Fuck, of course he did.” She tilts her head back against the seat. She’s still wearing the amethyst birthstone necklace that Castiel had given her years ago. Maybe she just forgot he was the one who’d given it to her. “I’m sorry, I told him not to ask you.”

“Why?” Castiel presses the button to roll down the window. He needs some air. Or at least to feel like he isn’t suffocating.

“Because he thinks if he forces us to be in the same place, we’re going to get back together. And because he misses you.” She doesn’t look angry anymore, just sad. “He was upset you took Claire last night and not him.”

“He’s twelve. I didn’t think he’d be interested.” Castiel squints up at the sky, at a flock of birds flying in formation overhead.

“He wasn’t. He just wanted to spend time with you.” Meg pulls down the sun visor and checks her makeup in the mirror. “I thought maybe the divorce would make you slow down, make you make more time for them. But now you’re managing this big rock band, and I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“I’ll be here, I promise.” Castiel checks his phone. It’s almost 10 am, it’s almost time to go inside where he can escape this conversation. “I told Claire I’ll take them both to the movies this weekend.”

“Will you? Or is Dean Winchester going to do something to fuck that up?” Now, Meg’s tone has an edge of anger hidden in it. “Do you even know anything about him? The sex tapes, and the drinking, and the drugs. And now the kid he didn’t know he had? That’s what you’re dealing with? I’d fucking quit, I don’t care how hot he is.”

“He’s not like that. Not really.” Castiel tries not to sound too defensive, tries not to sound like he likes Dean too much. He knows he’s failing.

“Yeah, okay. I saw those pictures of you with him, in some bar, and in some diner. Lilith sent them to me.” Meg turns toward Castiel now, and he knows she’s watching his every expression, to see how he’s reacting. “She asked me if there was something going on between you and him.”

“So, because Lilith says it, you think it’s true?” Lilith was Meg’s best friend since law school, and she’d never liked Castiel.

“No. You just looked pretty fucking close with him.” This argument feels like every single argument they’d had leading up to the divorce. It feels like every day that led to the inevitable. “It’s none of my business what you’re doing with him. But he drove our daughter home last night? In your car? All I’ve ever heard about him is how he’s reckless and crazy and now he’s driving our kid around?”

“He’s not any of those things though. It’s just bullshit.” Castiel opens the driver’s side door. “Come on, I don’t want to be late.”

He meets her around the front of the car, and out of habit he reaches out to take her hand, but pulls back right away, shoving it into his pocket. Meg doesn’t realize, or pretends not to notice, and makes her way around a couple of parked cars, until she steps onto the walkway to the school. Castiel follows behind, trying to create enough distance so that people don’t think they’re still married. Or together. They probably look like they’re together anyway. Castiel doesn’t know what to do.

“You know, I watched Garth Fitzgerald last night. Actually, I usually leave it on every night. Background noise while I’m trying to get through the day’s work emails.” Meg stops by the door with a sign that just says Middle School Administration in big white letters. “The band sounded good, you know. And Dean Winchester, he looked fucking hot as always, despite that Ashley Frank interview earlier in the week. Which I also saw.”

“Yeah, last night was a good night, I think.” Castiel keeps walking toward the main entrance of the school, where other parents are already standing, all looking down at their phones.

“I guess you’re a pretty good manager though.” Meg crosses her arms across herself, crushing her tote bag against her stomach. “Just don’t get caught sleeping with him.”

“It’s not like that.” Yes, it is. It’s exactly like that. Castiel stares down at the cracks in the sidewalk, so Meg can’t see his expression. She’ll know he’s lying.

She shakes her head and gives him a look that’s half rolling her eyes and half smirking as she rummages through her bag for her wallet. “Whatever you say, Cas. You need your ID to get into the school, just so you know.”

“Right.” Castiel can’t remember the last time he was here. Maybe it was Claire’s 8 th Grade Graduation. Or maybe Jack’s Middle School Orientation. Then he remembers, he bailed on going to that at the last minute, because he had to be on a tour bus with some one-hit wonder.

“You really didn’t have to come today.” Meg starts to walk into the building, sliding her hand along the door. “I’m sorry Jack bothered you.”

“He didn’t bother me.” Castiel places his driver’s license into the open palm of a school security guard.

Castiel hates this. He hates having to explain his presence to Meg. He hates that Meg clearly thinks that this is some kind of obligation for him. He hates all of this, and he wants to be here and disappear all at once.

The School Library is decorated with quotes like Reading Will Take You Anywhere . Castiel knows there was a time when he used to sit in places like this, when he thought he was smart, when he thought he could do anything with his life. Now he’s sitting here next to his ex-wife, hoping she hasn’t really figured out that he’s fucking the rock star he’s supposed to be managing, trying to figure out when the last time he even saw his son was. He shifts in his seat, and his phone falls on the floor.

Meg bends down to pick it up, the screen flickering on. Castiel immediately panics, worrying about what she might see. But there’s nothing but a notification that it’s about to rain in 13 minutes. Meg puts the phone down in his lap and turns as Jack walks into the library.

His hair is longer than Castiel remembers, and he’s definitely taller. He sits down next to Meg, but leans forward, toward Castiel. “You’re actually here. Thanks.”

“Of course I’m here.” Castiel puts his phone down on the seat next to him, upside down, just to stop himself from looking at it. Nothing is going to happen if he doesn’t look at it for fifteen minutes. He has it all under control. Dean is waiting for his mother back at his apartment. He’d wanted to go meet her at JFK Airport but had then decided that he didn’t want to subject his mother to whatever paparazzi photos would be posted all over social media. Sam is meeting them there. Sam and Dean are meeting Castiel at the tour bus a little before noon. It will all be fine.

Maybe if he keeps telling himself that, it will come true.

“I just thought you’d be working.” Jack shrugs, turning as a man in a wrinkled button-down shirt and turned-around tie walks into the front of the room. He looks even more disheveled and tired than Castiel. He probably didn’t spend the night in a rock star’s apartment though.

He introduces himself as the school’s principal, Mr. Wyatt, and says, “You should all be very proud of your children, and yourselves, for doing such a good job.”

Castiel hasn’t done anything for Jack, for a long time, and he’s definitely not proud of himself. He fights the urge to check his phone again, just to make sure nothing has happened. Just to make sure that Dean isn’t trending for something Chuck decided to make up. But Meg nudges him with her elbow, as if she can read his thoughts, and that is horrifying enough to make Castiel pay attention.

Max Adams wins Student of the Month for Social Studies, Stacy Evans for Math, Eliot Clark for Science. Jack wins for English, and Mr. Wyatt says that Jack is one of the most talented writers he’s seen. Castiel claps along with the other parents, trying to remember the last time he read anything that Jack wrote. Maybe never.

Castiel wonders if he’s the worst parent in the room. He feels like it. He feels like the worst parent in the world right now. Krissy Chambers wins Student of the Month for Spanish. Her father shouts, “Yeah, Krissy,” from his squeaky plastic chair. Krissy Chambers looks like she’s never been so embarrassed in her life.

Mr. Wyatt congratulates everyone again, invites them to stay for bagels and coffee. Castiel glances at his watch. It’s getting late, he should leave. He still has to go back to his apartment, pick up his suitcase. He still has to do a million other things he can’t remember right now.

“Do you have to go?” Jack stands up from his seat. “It’s okay.”

“No.” Castiel has to go, but he isn’t going to tell Jack that. “Come on, I need some coffee anyway.”

Meg taps him on the shoulder and pulls him closer. “Thanks, it means a lot to him that you managed to come out here. I know you’re busy.”

“Yeah, well, you’re busy too. I need to do more. I promise, after this tour is over, I will.” Castiel joins a line of parents pouring coffee into paper cups. Jack is already at the front of the line, talking to Max or whatever her name is, and eating a donut that has sprinkled powder all over his white t-shirt.

“Sure.” Meg is pouring a packet of sugar into her coffee. “Once you’re done with Dean Winchester?” She opens the container of milk and lets it splash into her cup. “Sorry, I’m giving you a hard time. The kids would like that a lot, they’d like to do more things with you.”

“I’ll take them out this weekend too.” Castiel tries to picture all the itineraries in his head, tries to remember if someone told him he was supposed to be somewhere at sometime.

“Don’t tell the two of them that if you’re just going to have to bail.” Meg sounds like she’s already decided this is exactly what will happen.

“I’ll make sure.” Castiel takes a sip of his coffee, which is bitter and so hot it burns his tongue, and realizes he left his phone next to where he’d been sitting. He navigates around a circle of teenagers to his chair. Picking up his phone, he turns it over, expecting to see nothing but some notification that the rain has stopped, but there’s a text from Bela.

  John Winchester is coming to the show tonight .