Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chicago, 1953.

The Blue Ember sat behind a fake storefront on Halsted—a supply shop with peeling paint and a bell that never rang. You had to know the knock: twice, wait, once more. The door would crack, an eye would size you up, and if you weren’t trouble—or at least didn’t look it—you were let down the narrow stairs into the glow.

That afternoon, with the chairs stacked on tables and the lights turned low, the place still wasn’t quiet. Gabriel was fooling with the piano, Rufus plucking lazy notes on the bass. Jo hummed off-key while polishing glasses, and Ellen poured herself something stronger than coffee at the bar. The place never really slept.

Dean Winchester stood in the spotlight where he usually tore his throat out every night, rubbing down a beat-up microphone like it was holy when it was barely holding together.

Soundcheck was already ten minutes late.

He leaned against the stand, arms crossed. “Any chance Uriel shows up on time for once?”

“Not a chance,” Gabriel answered, dropping a riff on the keys. “You should thank him. Makes you look responsible.”

“Cute,” Dean shot back.

Rufus plucked another line and sighed. “You two gonna bicker all day, or can we rehearse?”

The door creaked, a rush of cold air following Uriel in. He stomped his boots, grinning wide. Behind him came another man—tall, beige trench coat, messy hair like he hadn’t cared enough to fix it. He carried a saxophone case like it held more than brass inside.

The room went quiet for half a beat.

“About damn time,” Dean said. “You bringing in strays now?”

Uriel ignored him and clapped the newcomer on the shoulder. “Everyone, this is Novak. Best damn sax I’ve ever heard.”

The man scanned the room with a serious face and walked forward like he belonged there.

Dean eyed the coat. “What is this, an audition or a detective convention?”

That got the faintest smile from Castiel. 

“Depends. You always greet new bandmates with insults?”

Gabriel laughed outright at the piano. Jo leaned on her tray, eyes lighting up. “Oh, he’s trouble. I like him already.”

Dean smirked, refusing to back down. “Bandmate’s a big word. Haven’t heard you play yet.”

“Then maybe stop talking,” Castiel said calmly, setting his case on a chair.

Ellen sipped her whiskey-coffee and chuckled. “Singer’s finally got his match. About damn time.”

Dean’s scowl slipped—not because of the jab, but because the guy said it so flat it circled back to cocky. Damn trench coat had teeth.

Uriel twirled his sticks. “All right, enough chest-thumping. Let’s play.”

Rufus laid down a slow bass line, Gabriel added a teasing melody, and Castiel raised the sax. The first note poured out—warm, full, easy. It filled the empty club like smoke.

Jo froze mid-step, tray against her hip. Ellen stopped mid-sip. Even Bobby, just walking out from the back, lifted his brows.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Bobby muttered.

Dean’s chest tightened. He didn’t want to admit it, but the sound hit straight through him—bold and clean, with a streak of play in it.

Castiel lowered the horn after a phrase, glanced at Dean, and asked, “Enough decoration for you?”

Uriel howled with laughter. Gabriel clapped like a proud parent. Jo whistled.

Dean tried to play it cool. “Not bad. For a detective.”

Castiel’s eyes flicked up, serious as ever. “Then pray I don’t quit my night job.”

Ellen raised her mug. “Careful, boys. Sounds like flirting.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Let’s do the real test.”

Gabriel leaned in. “What are you giving him?”

“‘Body and Soul’ for the slow,” Dean said, then added, “Keep it soft. Let’s see if he listens.”

Uriel counted them in—three brushes on the snare, a hush of cymbal. Rufus set the pulse. Gabriel folded in.

Dean hummed the shape of the melody without words—never sang full during soundcheck. He hummed once, twice, then cut his voice and tipped his chin at Castiel.

The note Castiel gave back wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was clean, placed right where it belonged. He didn’t show off. He didn’t run or plead. He spoke through the horn.

And he listened—to Uriel’s brush, to Rufus’s patience, to Gabriel’s hush—and then to Dean.

Dean found himself smiling before he realized it. He leaned into the stand and answered with a low line of hums. Castiel caught it, turned it, handed it back. Not a duel. A conversation.

Uriel’s eyebrow went up. Gabriel glanced between the two of them like he’d just witnessed a secret handshake. Bobby, leaning against the rail now, folded his arms and exhaled something close to a prayer.

The note faded. The neon buzzed, and the room remembered people were still breathing.

Dean cleared his throat. “You free nights?”

Castiel’s mouth curved into a smug little smirk. “I am now.”

Chapter Text

That night, the Blue Ember was alive.

Chairs filled, smoke curling, the air buzzing with voices and laughter that rose and fell like waves. The band barely had room to move—the front tables were packed tight, shoulders brushing, drinks sweating in the heat. Outside, Chicago stayed cold and gray. Inside, it was summer.

Dean stood at the edge of the stage, scanning the crowd with the half-smile he wore like armor. He caught Jo weaving between tables with a tray high above her head, Ellen barking at a drunk who thought he was charming, Bobby leaning on the bar like he owned the room—which, technically, he did.

“Full house,” Gabriel muttered, rolling his shoulders before settling on the piano bench. 

“Try not to screw up, Novak.”

Castiel adjusted his reed, expression as flat as always. “I’ll do my best. Maybe you should start by finding the right key.”

“Boys,” Rufus cut in, steady and low, plucking a note that hummed like a warning.

Uriel tapped his sticks together, grinning. “Relax. Let the man play.”

Dean stepped forward into the light, grabbed the mic, twirling the cord like it was part of the act. “Good evening, darlings,” he said, his rasp gilded by the mic. “You made all the right mistakes and ended up here. We won’t correct you.”

Laughter scattered like coins.

“We’ve got a new man with us tonight,” Dean went on. “Treat him kindly—or he’ll make you cry. Castiel Novak, on tenor.”

Applause, a whistle from the back. Castiel tipped his head once, not shy, not boastful. Ready.

They opened hot—no warm-up, no meandering. Uriel drove the rhythm like a stolen car, Rufus locked it down, Gabriel poured gasoline in arpeggios. Castiel stepped into his solo with the brightness of a story told past midnight, too good to cut short.

Dean sang like a man leaning out a window for air he couldn’t live without. He didn’t look at Castiel because the looking would say too much—because the city had rules about glances and silences and doors you weren’t allowed to open. So yeah, he didn’t look. He listened. He let the horn thread into his hunger and stitch it closed.

Two songs in, someone at a table near the bar said too loudly, “Sounds like the river after dark.”

“Sounds like sin,” someone else answered, softer, not unkind.

Jo winked at Ellen as she passed. “Those two are gonna kill us.”

Ellen smirked. “Only if they keep playing like that.”

On stage, Dean risked a glance sideways. 

Castiel’s eyes were already on him, steady and sharp, like he’d been waiting.

Dean almost missed the next line.

“Careful, detective,” he muttered between verses. “Don’t upstage me.”

Castiel didn’t miss a beat. “Then sing louder.”

Uriel snorted, almost losing the rhythm, and Gabriel had to hide a laugh in his chords.

The crowd didn’t notice. They were too busy letting the music carry them someplace they couldn’t go outside those walls—free.

By the end of the set, the air was hot and sticky, the tables emptying glasses faster than Jo could fill them. Dean let the last note linger, then lowered the mic, chest heaving.

The applause came hard and fast, filling the club to the rafters.

Dean shot Castiel a look. “Not bad.”

Castiel smirked, tilting his sax just enough to catch the light. “Told you.”

Dean laughed, shaking his head. Damn trench coat had teeth—and a hell of a sound.

🎼🎼🎼🎼

The narrow hallway behind the stage smelled like smoke and sweat, the paint chipped from years of boots and elbows. Dean tugged his tie loose, still buzzing from the set.

Castiel leaned against the wall, sax case at his feet, coat hanging open now. He looked less like a detective and more like he belonged.

Dean crossed his arms, still catching his breath. “So, Novak. You always come in, steal the spotlight, and act like you don’t notice?”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Did I steal it? I thought you handed it over.”

Dean barked a laugh, surprised. “You’ve got a smart mouth for someone auditioning.”

“I thought I already got the job.”

“Temporary hire,” Dean teased, though the grin gave him away.

Gabriel poked his head into the hall, rolling his eyes. “If you two are done making eyes at each other, some of us would like a drink.”

Uriel followed with a laugh. “Leave ’em be, Gabe. They’re rehearsing.”

Dean shot them a glare, which only made them cackle louder.

Minutes later they all crammed into the back corner of the club, glasses clinking under the low lights. Jo leaned on the table with her tray abandoned, Ellen poured generous shots “on the house,” and Bobby pretended he wasn’t watching like a hawk.

Gabriel lifted his glass. “To the new guy who doesn’t sound half bad.”

Uriel smirked. “Quarter bad, maybe.”

Castiel tipped his drink toward Dean, expression still maddeningly calm. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Dean shook his head, fighting a grin. “You’re impossible.”

“Efficient,” Castiel corrected. Then, after a beat, “And apparently… hired.”

The table broke into laughter. For a while, the music wasn’t on stage but in their voices, in the clink of glasses and the warmth that came from knowing they’d made it through another night together. Dean let himself lean into it—just enough to forget the world outside.

Chapter Text

The Blue Ember had emptied out hours ago. Chairs back on tables, lights dimmed low, the smell of smoke and gin still hanging like a memory.

Uriel had been the first to vanish—“got a date with my bed,” he’d said, twirling his sticks. 

Rufus followed with a grunt about an early appointment. Gabriel lingered just long enough to give Dean a knowing look, then vanished with a dramatic, “Behave yourselves—actually, don’t.”

Jo swept up the last of the cigarette ash, humming off-key as usual, while Ellen stacked bottles behind the bar. Bobby counted bills, grumbling, but his voice softened when Dean dropped a quick “good night.” By the time the front door clicked shut, the club was theirs.

Dean stayed on stage, mic stand tilted to one side, sleeves rolled up. Castiel was there too, sax resting against his knee, trench coat folded on a chair.

“You don’t go home?” Dean asked.

“Sometimes,” Castiel said, mouth twitching. “But I wanted to try something.”

Dean raised a brow. “You got something in mind?”

Castiel nodded, pulling out a scrap of paper from his pocket, folded soft at the edges. Notes scribbled, nothing polished. He set it on the piano.

Dean whistled low. “Well, look at you. Composer Novak.”

“Mock me later,” Castiel said, calm as ever. “Sing this now.”

Dean snorted but leaned in, scanning the lines. “You write like a priest. Can barely read it.”

“I was a priest once,” Castiel deadpanned.

Dean shot him a look. “You’re kidding.”

The smirk gave him away. Dean laughed, shaking his head. “You’re trouble.”

“Sing.”

Dean hummed the first line, cautious. Castiel lifted the sax and answered. The sound wasn’t showy—it was close, quiet.

Dean tried again, pushing the melody higher. Castiel caught it, bent it, and slid back something softer, as if teasing.

Dean arched a brow. “You playing shy on me, Novak?”

“Call it restraint,” Castiel said, eyes flicking up briefly. “Not everything needs to be shouted.”

Dean chuckled, low, and sang another line—this time stretching a note longer than it needed. Castiel answered with a curl of sax that wrapped around Dean’s voice like mist around a flame.

“Show-off,” Dean murmured.

“You started it.”

The back-and-forth grew longer, looser. Dean sang fragments of phrases, not whole lyrics, letting the words dissolve into hums and half-breaths. Castiel answered every time—sometimes matching him, sometimes twisting the note until it sounded like a sly grin.

Dean leaned on the piano, closer now, grinning despite himself. “You’re good.”

“I listen,” Castiel replied, tone even but eyes steady, unflinching.

Dean hummed another phrase, softer now, almost daring. Castiel echoed it, lowering his horn just a fraction, his gaze never leaving Dean’s.

Dean smirked. “You always this obedient?”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth curved. 

“Obedient?” He played a sharper, cutting note, one that snapped through the quiet. “Not exactly.”

Dean laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Another line. Another answer. The rhythm between them grew tight, taut, less about the music on the page and more about the pull between singer and horn.

Dean meant to toss another tease, but the words stuck. He looked up—and froze. Castiel had stepped closer without sound, the air shifting with him, the horn lowering completely now. His hand rose, curling into Dean’s shirt, tugging him the rest of the way.

Dean had just enough time to breathe out, “Careful, detective—” before Castiel pulled him forward and kissed him hard, pinning him against the edge of the piano.

The kiss did not ask permission—it claimed. Castiel’s mouth moved against his with the certainty of someone who’d decided the risk was worth the fall. Dean’s hand flew to the piano for balance, the other curling into Castiel’s shoulder as if holding on for dear life.

The kiss deepened, rougher, breath mixing, heat sparking sharp in the quiet room. Dean’s head spun, his chest tight, every warning bell drowned out by the press of Castiel’s mouth and the scrape of teeth that made him groan low in his throat.

When they finally broke apart, Dean was panting, stunned. Castiel still had him by the shirt, eyes dark, lips swollen.

Dean laughed, breathless, trying for cool and failing. “Bandmate’s a big word, huh?”

Castiel’s smirk was quick, dangerous. “So is lover.”

Dean shook his head, still smiling, still caught. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

But he didn’t move away. Neither did Castiel.

The song lay unfinished on the piano, but that was the point—it had only just begun.

Chapter Text

The Blue Ember wasn’t full that night, but it didn’t matter. The smoke was thick, the band loose, the crowd easy. It was the kind of night where the music didn’t have to fight to be heard—it simply breathed with the room.

Dean leaned into the mic, crooning something slow, voice curling around the edges like velvet. Castiel stood at his side, horn in hand, eyes on him—not the crowd, not the notes, just him.

Uriel noticed first, grinning wide as he hit the snare. “Careful, Novak. Singer doesn’t like to share the spotlight.”

Castiel replied without lowering his sax: “Then he should sing louder.”

The crowd laughed, thinking it part of the act.

Dean shot him a look, half scolding, half grinning. Damn trench coat.

Between songs, Castiel leaned close enough for Dean to feel his breath. “You lose the beat when you look at me.”

Dean bit back a laugh, low. “Then stop standing in my line of sight.”

“Not a chance.”

Jo passed by with a tray, catching enough to smirk. “You two oughta charge extra for the flirting.”

Ellen, polishing a glass behind the bar, called back, “As long as they don’t scare off paying customers, I’ll allow it.”

A drunk near the back raised his glass, slurring, “Sounds like sin on a Saturday!”

Uriel hit a rimshot like a punchline, the crowd roaring. Dean forced a smirk, but the word snagged somewhere in his chest. Sin. Out there it was law. In here it was laughter.

The band carried on, lighter than usual, trading jokes as much as notes. It felt good. 

Too good.

By the time the last set closed, the room had thinned. Jo wiped down tables, Ellen rang up stragglers, and Gabriel tossed in a flourish so dramatic that even Rufus snorted. Dean and Castiel ended up lingering on stage again, a scrap of paper between them, melodies scribbled in Castiel’s uneven hand. They hummed and answered, laughed, until laughter thinned into silence and silence into something warmer.

Dean was leaning against the piano when Castiel stepped in close, shoulder brushing his. For a moment, Dean thought it might happen again—the kiss, the heat, the way Castiel grabbed him like he meant it.

But then Bobby’s voice cut through the hush:
“Shut it down.”

Dean froze.

Bobby stood at the door, face grim. “Word is they’re sweeping the block.”

The warmth in the room snapped cold.

Within minutes the lights dimmed further, bottles whisked away, Jo stacked chairs with a speed she didn’t bother hiding, Ellen killed the glow above the bar. Gabriel muttered a curse under his breath, Uriel rolled his shoulders like he could play it off, but everyone felt it—the weight of silence that wasn’t music.

The knock came heavy on the upstairs door.

Not the knock of someone who belonged.

“Go,” Bobby barked, and people scattered.

Dean didn’t think. He grabbed Castiel by the arm, yanking him toward the back hall.

“What—” Castiel started, but Dean cut him off.

“Just move.”

Bobby opened the front with the kind of calm that suggested inventory. “Evening, gentlemen.”

“Inspection,” the lead plaincoat said. 
“Licenses. Fire code. Morals.”

“Two out of three we print,” Bobby answered. “But sure.”

Dean and Castiel slipped up the narrow stairwell. The wood groaned beneath their feet, every sound too loud. In the alley, the night hit sharp—cold air, sirens echoing faintly two blocks over. A shadow passed across the mouth of the alley and Dean shoved Castiel deeper into the dark.

“Don’t stop,” Dean hissed, half-dragging, half-pulling.

They cut across another street, Dean’s pulse hammering. Every window looked like an eye. Every echo of boots like it might catch them. By the time they reached the corner under a lone streetlamp, Dean’s breath came ragged.

Castiel’s exhale fogged white. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Dean snapped, then softened. “C’mon.”

They climbed another flight of stairs, this one ending at a narrow door above a corner store. Dean fumbled the key, shoved it open, ushered Castiel inside.

The apartment was small—bare floorboards, a battered sofa, a stack of records leaning against the wall. Dean kicked the door shut, chest still tight.

Castiel looked around, then back at him, calm even now. “So this is your hiding place.”

Dean tossed his jacket onto a chair, rubbed a hand over his face. “Guess it is tonight.”

The room fell quiet except for the hum of pipes.
Dean crossed to the corner, pulled two glasses, and splashed whiskey into both. He handed one over.

Castiel accepted it, trench coat still hanging open, tie loosened. “Not bad for a sanctuary.”

Dean snorted. “Floor creaks, roof leaks. Real palace.”

They stood there, sipping in silence, the sirens outside fading, the world shrinking to four walls and the press of shadows.

Dean swallowed, the tension still buzzing under his skin. “You okay?”

Castiel’s mouth curved faintly, eyes steady. “I’m with you, aren’t I?”

Dean huffed a laugh, but his chest stayed tight. Because the real danger wasn’t the raid—it was standing in his living room, blue eyes steady, close enough to burn.

Chapter Text

“Don’t mind the mess,” Dean said, his voice still rough with leftover adrenaline. “It looks worse than it smells.”

Castiel slid off his trench coat and folded it over the arm of the couch. He looked around, taking in the crooked blinds, the stack of records, the sag in the sofa cushions. Then he met Dean’s eyes. “It smells like you.”

Dean huffed a laugh and went for the bottle, dropping onto the couch with a sigh. Castiel sat close—not pressed against him, but close enough that Dean felt the heat.

“Guess that makes you my first guest here after a police raid,” Dean said.

Castiel tipped his glass. “A first for me too.”

Dean chuckled, the tension easing. They drank in silence a while, the city muffled beyond the thin walls. Then Castiel pulled a folded scrap of paper from his pocket and set it between them. A few notes scratched in his slanted hand.

“You carry staff paper to raids now?” Dean asked, one brow raised.

“I had it before the raid,” Castiel said. “And I’d rather not waste it.”

Dean leaned in to squint at the lines, their shoulders brushing. “New addition. I guess I’m learning to read your chicken scratch.”

Castiel’s mouth twitched. “Sing it.”

Dean hummed the shape of the notes, rough, unpolished. Castiel listened, nodding once, and for a moment it felt absurdly normal—two men trading music on a couch like the world wasn’t outside waiting to eat them alive.

Dean let the sound fade. “Not bad, Novak. Could be a hit—if people can distinguish it from a grocery list.”

Castiel’s eyes lingered on him, calm and sharp. “Your voice drops when you’re nervous.”

Dean tilted his head. “Yeah? What would I be nervous about?”

Castiel didn’t answer. He set his glass down, turned back, and with no warning took Dean by the neck and pulled him in. The kiss landed sure and hot, nothing tentative about it.

Dean made a startled noise against his mouth, then gave in hard, the glass slipping from his fingers onto the carpet. Castiel pushed him back into the cushions, kissing him deeper, holding him there like he wasn’t letting go.

Dean’s hand found his jaw, rough and wanting. The kiss burned hotter, tongues sliding, teeth catching, until the couch creaked under their weight.

Dean groaned into his mouth. “Jesus, Cas—”

“Say my name again,” Castiel demanded, voice raw, lips already finding his neck.

Dean shivered, gasped it out, “Cas—” and the sound cracked into a moan when Castiel’s hand slid under his shirt, tracing the skin of his ribs.

The next minutes blurred. Dean yanked at Castiel’s tie, tore his shirt open enough to kiss bare skin, and Castiel pushed him deeper into the sofa cushions, grinding down until Dean’s hips rolled up helplessly.

Then Castiel’s hand slipped lower, unbuckling his belt with a swift pull. Dean barely had time to gasp before his cock was freed into Castiel’s fist—rough, relentless, merciless.

“Fuck,” Dean choked, head falling back against the couch.

Castiel didn’t stop. He worked him hard, then lowered his mouth, lips wrapping around him, tongue tracing him with terrifying focus. Every flick, every pull matched the sounds Dean couldn’t hold back.

Dean’s hand clutched the back of Castiel’s head, desperate, hips jerking. “Cas—stop, I’m gonna—”

But Castiel only hummed around him and pressed a wet finger against his entrance. 

That pushed Dean over the edge. His whole body shuddered, his voice breaking as his orgasm ripped through him, fierce and shaking.

He collapsed against the cushions, chest heaving, vision blurred. Castiel pulled back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark.

Dean laughed breathlessly, still reeling. “This couch won’t survive you.”

“Then take me somewhere it will,” Castiel said, standing to pull him up.

Dean stumbled, laughing low, until Castiel shoved him down onto the bed in the corner.

Dean looked up, flushed, hair mussed, a grin curling despite himself. “So you’re calling the shots now?”

Castiel climbed over him, deliberate, eyes burning. “Yes.”

The next kiss silenced any comeback. Castiel pinned him with his weight, one knee between Dean’s thighs, pressing until Dean arched up with a groan at the sensitivity. Clothes came off fast—shirts tossed aside, pants shoved down in frantic hands. The air turned heavy, the small apartment filled with the sound of their breathing.

Castiel’s mouth found his chest, his stomach, his throat. His hands held Dean firm, guiding, never asking, never doubting. Dean’s gasps dissolved into moans, curses swallowed by kisses.

“Cas—fuck—” Dean’s voice cracked, fingers clutching the sheets. He wasn’t used to giving in, not like this. But with Castiel above him, steady, sure, every push and grind making him hard again, he didn’t want anything else.

“Do you have lube?” Castiel asked, voice even huskier than usual.

Dean didn’t hesitate, sitting up slightly and grabbing the small bottle from his nightstand.

Castiel looked at him and positioned himself between his legs again.

“I want to see you use it,” he said with a growl.

Dean’s eyes narrowed, heat surging. He poured lube onto his fingers and began working himself open, gasping as he stretched.

Castiel watched, hand already stroking himself, breath uneven. He grabbed the lube Dean had tossed onto the bed and slicked himself quickly.

“Ask me for it,” Castiel told him.

Dean’s voice broke, shameless. “Fuck me… fuck me, Cas.”

Castiel didn’t hesitate—he pushed in hard, unrelenting, until Dean’s moans filled the room. The rhythm built fast, rough and consuming, broken only by kisses that swallowed their gasps. Castiel was all heat and certainty, holding him like he’d waited his whole life for this.

Dean came undone first, back arching, voice breaking, clutching at Castiel as if to anchor himself. Castiel followed, burying his face against Dean’s neck with a groan that shook him.

They collapsed tangled, sweat cooling, breaths still ragged. Castiel’s hand rested flat on Dean’s chest, grounding him, warm and tender.

“You didn’t have to hide me here,” Castiel murmured after a long while, voice quiet but firm. “But… thank you.”

Dean turned his head, pressed a kiss to his lips, a tired smile curving his mouth. “You’re bossy as hell, Novak.”

Castiel smirked, eyes already half-closed. “Get used to it.”

Dean laughed softly, pulling the blanket over them. For once, he didn’t care about the rules outside, or the risk waiting tomorrow.

For that night, in a city that didn’t want them, the world shrank to four walls, a blanket, and the promise of breath against breath.

Chapter Text

Dean woke first. The light through the blinds was weak, pale Chicago sun that never quite warmed the room, but it spilled across the bed enough to make him blink. For a second he didn’t move—just listened. The steady rhythm of Castiel’s breathing beside him, the weight of his hand still on Dean’s chest.

No regrets. Not even close.

Dean smirked, turning his head. Castiel was awake, eyes half-lidded, watching him.

“What?” Dean asked, voice rough.

“I’m hungry,” Castiel said.

“Hungry for what?” Dean asked with a smirk.

“I’ll fuck you over your kitchen sink after, but real hunger this time,” Castiel replied, kissing his neck.

Dean laughed, surprised, rubbing his face. “Great. First night here and you’re already a pain in the ass.”

Castiel’s mouth curved faintly. “You’re welcome.”

They stayed tangled longer than either would admit, until Dean finally dragged himself up to make breakfast. Coffee was bad—too thin, too bitter—but Castiel drank it like it was holy.

They shared stale bread toasted over the gas flame, butter spread with the back of a knife, and scrambled eggs.

“Best breakfast I’ve had in months,” Castiel said, serious as a prayer.

Dean snorted. “You need to raise your standards.”

When breakfast was finished and Dean was doing the dishes, he received exactly what had been promised. Castiel took him over the kitchen sink with a slow, steady rhythm that drove him half mad with how good it felt.

Dean was breathless when he turned around and kissed him, tangling his fingers tight in his hair.

“Do you have somewhere to be today?” he asked, while Castiel’s mouth trailed small bites down his neck.

“No,” Castiel replied, voice hoarse.

“Good,” Dean muttered.

Dean pulled him into the tiny bathroom, and between laughs and kisses, it took them longer than it should to manage a quick shower.

Later they ended up by the window, trading fragments of stories.

“I used to play with a small band back home,” Castiel said. “What I loved was teaching. And the church choir. But someone reported me—for misconduct with a man. After that, they threw me out. School, church, even my apartment. The whole town turned its back.”

Dean was quiet for a beat, then gave a crooked smile. “Small town, big hell, huh? Not like big cities are much safer.”

“Chicago gave me my first raid last night,” Castiel said with a faint laugh. “So maybe they’re even. And what does Bobby do with those inspectors? How is he still standing?”

“Money,” Dean said simply. “As long as you fill their pockets, they leave smiling. But sometimes they’ve got to justify themselves—arrest someone for bad behavior, make an example. Bobby tells us to clear out when that happens. One time Uriel got picked up just for looking at a cop the wrong way. Bad night.”

Castiel tilted his head. “Is it worth it?”

Dean’s grin was small but sure. “You tell me. What else would you be doing here?”

Castiel smiled, nodded once. “Bobby’s a good man.”

Dean’s voice softened. “Yeah. He practically raised my brother and me. After Mom died, Dad drank himself under. I used to come here to drag him home. One day Bobby asked if I wanted to help unload crates. That was it. My father disappeared not long after. Bobby told us to wait on the bar’s roof until he came back.” He paused, bitter smile tugging at his mouth. “Still waiting.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said quietly.

“Don’t be. I’m over it.”

“And your brother—Samuel, right? I heard his name the other day.”

Dean’s chest eased with pride. “Yeah. Our genius is in Boston, studying law.”

Castiel smiled faintly. “Definitely a good man, Bobby.”

They kept talking. They argued over Dean’s stack of records—classics or trash. They laughed more than they thought they would. For a few hours, the world outside didn’t exist.

By late afternoon, they were back at the Blue Ember. The club smelled like polish and stale smoke, the chairs back on the floor, the stage waiting.

Uriel spotted them first and whistled. “Well, well. Look who came in late, looking like they actually slept.”

Dean shot him a glare. “Shut it.”

Gabriel grinned wickedly from the piano. “Don’t bother hiding it, sweetheart. You’re glowing.”

Jo leaned on her tray, eyes sparkling. “Finally. About time someone knocked Winchester off his high horse.”

Dean groaned. “You people are insufferable.”

Ellen smirked from behind the bar. “And you’re transparent.”

Castiel stayed quiet, face unreadable, but when Dean glanced at him, he caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

They rehearsed, though it felt nothing like rehearsal. Dean sang lighter, freer. Castiel’s sax chased him, teasing, answering every note like they were having a private dance in front of everyone. The band caught it too—Uriel leaning harder into the drums, Gabriel flamboyant on the keys, Rufus shaking his head but smiling.

Dean grinned at Castiel, again and again. Castiel bit his lip, eyes dark with mischief.

Evening crept in. The front door opened, and the air shifted.

A man stepped inside—tall, sharp suit, every detail immaculate. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Bobby straightened at the bar. “May I help you?” he asked, voice low.

Dean felt Castiel stiffen beside him.

The man’s gaze swept the room, then landed on Castiel. “Little brother,” he said smoothly, silk over steel. “What a surprise, finding you here.”

The club went silent. The band stilled.

Dean’s gut twisted, the lightness of the day collapsing into dread.

And for the first time since stepping into the Blue Ember, Castiel looked cornered.

Chapter Text

The Blue Ember pulsed that night like a living thing. Smoke curled in lazy halos around the ceiling fans, glasses clinked nonstop, and the crowd leaned close to the stage as if they couldn’t get enough.

Dean stood at the mic, sleeves rolled, sweat shining at his temples. He let his voice drag low over the room, playful, rough-edged, the kind of singing that dared you to get closer.

The band caught the energy—Uriel pounding the snare with a grin, Gabriel tossing in flourishes that made half the crowd laugh, Rufus’s bass steady as a heartbeat.

And Castiel—he played like he owned the air itself. Every note from his sax was smooth, tempting, sliding right under Dean’s skin. He didn’t glance at the audience. He didn’t need to. He had Dean’s attention, and the pull between them was so electric it felt like another instrument on stage.

Jo slid between tables with her tray, smirking at Ellen.

“They’re not fooling anyone.”

Ellen poured whiskey, eyes on the stage.

“They don’t look like they’re trying.”

The crowd fed on it. A couple near the front leaned into each other, whispering about the way the singer and the saxophonist never looked away for long. When Dean let out a low laugh between verses, Castiel matched it with a riff that made the room cheer. It was more than music—it was a flirtation set to rhythm, and everyone knew it.

Dean leaned back from the mic, tossing Castiel a grin.

“Careful, detective. You’re gonna have the crowd proposing marriage.”

Castiel didn’t lower the horn. He just raised an eyebrow, eyes locked on Dean, and the answer came in the next phrase—a run of notes that sounded dangerously close to a dare.

Uriel nearly choked laughing. Gabriel shook his head. The club roared.

Dean’s chest tightened. For the first time in years, singing felt like breathing.

The set ended in a storm of applause. Dean bowed low, grinning as the crowd shouted for more. Castiel dipped his head slightly, as if the ovation belonged to someone else.

But in that city, nothing ever stayed safe for long. Dean remembered that strange visit from before—Castiel’s voice low as he explained who the man in the sharp suit had been. Lucifer, his oldest brother. Runaway from their town years ago, not for loving the wrong person but for stealing from the town treasury. “I didn’t even know he was in Chicago,” Castiel had said, voice tight. “He only said he wanted to see if the rumors were true—that a Novak could still play.” Then, with a strange little smile, Lucifer had told him: let’s keep in touch.

Dean hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.

He leaned into the mic, pulling himself back into the moment.

“You’ve been a damn fine crowd tonight. Go drink, go dance, go sin—we’ll still be here when you come crawling back.”

Laughter and cheers rolled over the room.

And then the front door slammed open.

“Police!”

The word cracked like a whip.

For half a second, the room froze. Then chaos. Chairs toppled, glasses shattered, someone screamed. People scrambled for the back stairwell, knocking each other over. Jo shouted for them to move faster, Ellen cursed as she shoved bottles under the counter, Bobby barked orders no one heard.

Dean’s heart lurched.

Two uniforms shoved through the crush of bodies, searching. Between the smoke, the panic, the blur of movement—they fixed eyes on Castiel.

There was no time to move when one of the sergeants seized him, wrenching his wrists behind his back. His saxophone hit the floor with a metallic clang, rolling in a helpless circle.

Dean lunged.

“Let him go!”

A fist caught his chest, shoving him back. He fought forward again, but Bobby’s hand locked on his arm.

“Don’t!”

Dean thrashed, eyes locked on Castiel.

“He didn’t—he’s not—”

Castiel stood between the officers, shoulders squared, face unreadable. But his eyes—steady, calm, fixed on Dean even as they dragged him toward the door.

“Cas!” Dean roared, tearing against Bobby’s grip.

Over the crowd, he saw him mouth one word: Dean.

And then Lucifer stepped in, smooth as silk, murmuring something into the ear of a sergeant. He straightened his cufflink, his expression one of cold satisfaction. His gaze slid over the chaos, pausing on Dean just long enough to let the message land: this was no accident.

The uniforms shoved Castiel out into the night. The door slammed.

And suddenly, it was over.

The Blue Ember stood wrecked—tables overturned, broken glass glittering on the floor, a chair splintered against the wall. Jo was shaking, Ellen’s face pale, Uriel cursing under his breath. Gabriel sat at the piano, silent for once, hands limp at his sides.

On the stage, the saxophone lay where it had fallen, bell dented, keys bent, mute.

The silence was unbearable.

Dean staggered forward, staring at the instrument as if it might still breathe. His throat ached, words caught useless in his chest. For the first time in years, the club wasn’t alive.

It was hollow.

It was empty.

And Dean knew it wouldn’t sound the same again.

Chapter Text

Dean didn’t sleep. Not the first night, not the second. He barely ate. He only ran.

Every corner of Chicago knew his boots by then. He stormed into precincts with his voice raw, fists slamming on counters.

At the first, a cop smirked. “We don’t keep lists for your kind.” The window slammed in his face.

At the second, a younger officer looked away, shame flickering across his features, and whispered, “Walk away, sir. For your own good.”

At the third, Dean nearly swung his fist when laughter followed him out the door.

Between stations, he checked bars that lived in the cracks of the city—the ones like the Blue Ember, half-hidden, all rumor. Some men turned their faces. Some muttered excuses. Others told him flat-out: “Stop asking. They’ll notice.”

Dean didn’t care. They could notice all they wanted.

By the third day, his throat was raw, his jacket heavy with rain, his stomach empty but knotted too tight to feel hunger. He staggered through streets lit only by broken neon and the wash of headlights. Everything blurred—the puddles, the gray sky, the faces that weren’t Castiel.

Then he saw him.

At first, Dean thought his mind was finally snapping. A figure at the corner of Halsted and Lake, hair plastered to his forehead, shirt wrinkled, hands shoved deep in empty pockets. No saxophone. No trench coat. Just Castiel, thinner than three nights ago, pale under the streetlight.

Dean’s heart stuttered, then slammed hard in his chest. “Cas,” he whispered—then shouted it, his voice cracking wide open. “Cas!”

His legs moved before he could think. He nearly slipped on wet pavement, stumbling as he ran. By the time he reached him, Dean’s breath was tearing out of him in gasps, his hands already gripping Castiel’s shoulders, pulling him in, holding on like a drowning man.

Castiel staggered back a step, then closed his arms around him, tight, firm, no hesitation. His face pressed into Dean’s neck, rain dripping off both of them, mixing with salt from tears Dean refused to admit.

Neither spoke for long moments. The rain was their witness, hammering down, drowning the city around them.

When Dean finally pulled back, his hands framed Castiel’s face. “Are you hurt?” His voice was hoarse, desperate.

Castiel shook his head, calm despite everything. “No. Just… tired.”

Dean searched him, eyes burning. “I thought—I thought they’d—” He couldn’t finish.

Castiel leaned into the touch. “I’m here.”

Dean kissed him then, hard, too hard, all the fear and fury and relief crashing together. Castiel met it full, no restraint, no hesitation, kissing him back like they’d lost years instead of days.

The kiss ended with a soft exhale from both of them. Dean laughed raggedly, his forehead pressed to Castiel’s. “You stupid son of a bitch. You scared the hell out of me.”

Castiel’s mouth curved faintly. “You shouldn’t have looked for me. And we shouldn’t be doing this here.”

Dean barked out a laugh, bitter and breathless. “Yeah, well. I’m not good at staying away. And I don’t fucking care anymore.”

They walked together through the rain, not speaking much, just brushing shoulders like they were proving the other was real. By the time they reached Dean’s apartment, both were soaked through. Dean stripped his jacket, shoved Castiel toward the couch, and dug out what little food he had left—bread, a wedge of cheese, two apples gone soft at the edges.

They ate like kings.

Dean poured whiskey, set the glasses between them, and dropped onto the couch beside him. Castiel sat silent, staring out the rain-smeared window. Dean studied him in the dim light: the cut of his jaw, the exhaustion in his shoulders, the steadiness in his eyes even now.

“You don’t look like a man who just got out of a cell,” Dean said finally.

Castiel tilted his head. “And how do they look?”

Dean’s throat tightened. “Not like you.”

Silence.

Then Castiel’s voice, low: “Lucifer sent Bobby a message. Support for some ‘special cargo’ coming in from the bay. They need a place to run the transfers, and it seems Bobby’s is suitable. He looked me in the eye and said there would be no more problems like this one—if Bobby collaborates.”

Dean exhaled, running a hand over his face. “Fucking bastard.”

Castiel turned, fixing him with that same quiet that drove Dean crazy. “I’m sorry.”

Dean let out a breath that tasted like whiskey and rain. “Don’t you dare apologize for something you didn’t do.”

“Dean,” Castiel said his name with a look Dean didn’t want to understand.

Dean kissed him with all the strength left in his body. He wasn’t going to let him say what he knew he was about to say.

“Don’t say another word. We’ll talk to Bobby in the morning,” Dean murmured, breathless.

Castiel looked at him for a long moment, then nodded.

They changed, they went to bed, and made love with careful hands and soft kisses. The future could wait. That night was theirs.

Castiel whispered fragments of songs in his ear—unfinished notes, pieces of his own. Dean’s eyes burned with unreleased tears, but he didn’t give in to goodbye, didn’t give in to the sorrow of what might come. He just murmured his confession, heart laid bare, and Castiel received it fully.

When Dean’s eyes finally closed, he heard the whisper against his neck: I’m in love with you too.

Chapter Text

“You both have to leave the city, and I wish I could do it today. But my contacts are still sorting things out,” Bobby said, his rasp cutting through the quiet of his office.

Dean stood stiff in front of the desk. “What are you talking about, Bobby?”

“While you were running yourself ragged, I found out what’s going on.” Bobby’s eyes flicked to Castiel. “Your brother’s a son of a bitch who thinks he can bribe me. But a rookie mobster isn’t gonna take down what I’ve built for years. Don’t worry about the club. Worry about yourselves. You both need to be out of Chicago until things calm down.”

“I’ll leave,” Castiel said, voice low. “Dean doesn’t have to pay the price.”

“Like hell,” Bobby snapped before Dean could. “Neither of you is staying. You leave tomorrow. No show tonight. I’ll line up replacements. Pack what you need. I’ll let you know where you’re headed.”

“Bobby—” Dean started.

“Don’t ‘Bobby’ me, boy. Take care of yourselves. Out there, you won’t have this place watching your back.”

He rose and left the office. The silence he left behind pressed heavy.

Dean turned to Castiel. He didn’t need to think. “I’ll go wherever you go.”

“Your music,” Castiel said, voice heavy with worry.

“I’ll sing for you,” Dean murmured, grin tugging at his mouth. “Your beautiful songs—even with your godawful handwriting.”

Castiel’s laugh broke, soft and sharp all at once. He looked at him for what felt like a lifetime before kissing him hard, the words pressed into Dean’s lips: “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Dean Winchester.”

Dean smiled against his lips. “Hey, no need to get sentimental. I already said I’ll go with you.”

Castiel kissed him again, sharp, biting at his lip until Dean moaned.

They had a plan.

🎼🎼🎼🎼

Bobby knew a guy who knew a guy in New York. Trains, maybe a freighter, maybe papers. Dean wrote the list twice, folded it into his pocket, touched it every five minutes like a charm. Castiel didn’t need to see it; he knew it by heart.

Back from the Blue Ember, they walked the city like they were already gone—hands close without touching, talking nonsense to keep the fear away. Dean ranted about the worst diner coffee on the South Side; Castiel argued that he’d had worse in a church basement. They shared a cigarette under a busted awning and laughed when the rain killed it. For a few blocks, they were just two men with a future.

“We should go to Europe,” Dean said, eyes bright. “You’ll hate it, which means you’ll pretend not to. I’ll sing in a language I don’t speak.”

“You hardly speak this one,” Castiel replied, and Dean snorted.

“Sam’ll visit,” Dean added, softer. “He always finds me.”

Castiel’s mouth curved. “Then we’d better be someplace worth the trip.”

They cut down Halsted, then into quieter streets where the rain turned pavement black as piano lacquer. The city hummed—a tired trumpet from a window, neon buzz, the hush of tires. Dean glanced at Castiel and felt something steady root under his ribs. Not luck. Not safety. Decision.

He squeezed Castiel’s hand once. “Tomorrow.”

“Tonight we breathe,” Castiel said.

So they did. They walked, they breathed. They let themselves imagine a room with open windows and no locks inside.

Two blocks from Dean’s place, the street thinned. One flickering lamp, more shadow than light. Dean knew the cut-through. They’d used it a hundred times. Castiel slowed. Dean felt it.

“Another block,” Dean said. “Then left.”

“Dean,” Castiel murmured.

Shapes slid out of the dark. Then more. Hats low, coats slick with rain. A black car idled at the far end.

Dean’s stomach dropped. “Back up.”

“Easy, boys,” one man said, voice bored. “We just need a word.”

Castiel shifted a fraction, just enough to place himself ahead of Dean.

“You lost?” Dean asked, voice steady.

“Found,” the man replied, smug. 

“Walk,” another ordered, jerking his chin deeper into the alley.

Dean did the math—three in front, maybe one behind. No way out. He shifted, but Castiel’s arm pressed him back. Don’t.

“Listen,” Dean tried. “There’s money. We can—”

The first punch hit high, near his ear. Flash, roar. He staggered against wet brick. Someone laughed close.

Castiel didn’t flinch. “Leave him,” he said evenly. “You want to make a point? Fine. Take it from me.”

“Cas—” Dean reached, but Castiel caught his wrist, squeezed. Their eyes locked.

“Breathe,” Castiel said.

The next swing landed hard in his ribs. The sound emptied the alley. Dean lunged, throwing himself into it, fist to jaw, elbow to gut. Too many. Hands yanked him back, arms wrenched wide.

Castiel stood a moment alone, rain dripping, chest heaving. He looked at Dean—a flicker of apology—and then went back in.

It was stubborn, not fair. He blocked one blow, took another. The man with the bored voice stepped close, drove something hard into Castiel’s side. Castiel folded, breath gone, dropped to one knee.

“Stop!” Dean roared, throat tearing. “Stop!”

For a second, they did.

Castiel lifted his head, eyes finding Dean’s. He pushed up, shaking, still standing.

“Enough,” the bored man muttered. “Message delivered.”

He moved past. Castiel’s hand snapped out, gripping his coat—one last refusal. The man’s face hardened. The next blow came low, mean, under the ribs. Castiel gasped once, short and sharp. His fingers slipped.

Dean wrenched free, lunging, catching him as he fell. Cold water, knees to brick, arms full of him.

“Cas.” Dean’s mouth was everywhere—temple, cheek, throat. “Hey. Look at me.”

Castiel did. Barely. “I’m here,” he breathed, ghost of a smile.

The men faded into shadow. A voice lingered: "Men like you don’t walk free."

Dean didn’t hear it. He heard only the whistle of Castiel’s breath. “It’s okay,” he lied, pressing hard at his side. “I’ve got you. We’ll make it.”

Castiel blinked slow, kind as ever. “Dean,” he whispered. His hand clutched Dean’s shirt. Words came in fragments. “Wherever you go… let the night remember me.”

Dean’s face crumpled. “Don’t you do that. Don’t—”

Castiel’s hand lifted, clumsy but deliberate, brushing Dean’s cheek. “That’s the song’s end.” His touch lingered, a faint caress. “Sing.”

Dean pressed his forehead to his. “I will. I swear it.”

Castiel exhaled like setting down a heavy case. The tension eased—not surrender, arrival. His fingers loosened. Rain kept falling.

“Cas.” Dean’s voice broke into something small. “Cas, please.”

No answer.

Dean sat in the alley, holding him, until the lamp flickered out and the rain thinned to mist. 

Finally, he kissed him one last time, soft and stubborn. Then he stood, carrying him out.

The Blue Ember shuttered early that night. Ellen turned chairs, Jo swept glass with a face carved from stone. Bobby locked the door and leaned his forehead against it before moving. On stage, the mic waited and did not call a name.

Chicago slept badly. Rumors spread faster than trains.

And in the weeks that followed, in basements and back rooms, musicians passed a melody from one to another. Soft at first, then louder when they saw who cried. They called it a hymn, because no other word fit. Someone added the only line that mattered.

Wherever you go, let the night remember me.

The city remembered. The Blue Ember remembered.

Dean never spoke of the alley.

And one day, he was gone.

Chapter Text

The Blue Ember never closed for long, but it was never the same. The tables came back, the music returned, but the heart of it—the pulse that made strangers lean close and believe in something impossible—had gone quiet.

Some nights, Ellen swore she could still hear the sax if the bar was empty enough, one low note curling out of the dark. Jo left a glass at the corner table for months, polishing it every shift. Bobby stopped talking about it altogether.

Dean lasted longer than anyone expected. He sang again—hoarse, rougher than before—but he never stayed on stage once the set was done. He slipped out back, into the night, carrying silence like a second skin.

And then, one night, he was gone.

The stories started quick. A singer in Paris with a voice that could break your ribs. A man in Madrid who never began a song without whispering to the floorboards first. In a small club in Rome, a stranger who sang Body and Soul like it had been carved straight out of him.

Always, before the first note, he lifted a glass and said the same thing:

“To an angel.”

No one knew his name. Some swore it was Winchester. Others said he had no name left, only songs. But the melody remained, passed from player to player like a secret prayer.

Wherever you go, let the night remember me.

And so it did.

Chapter Text

The lights dim, but the song never ends.

🎤 A new rhythm begins — louder, bolder, and very much alive.

#Reincarnation · #Soulbond · #Rock · #2025