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i.
The first thing he notices are his eyes, and that’s only because they’re practically glowing.
It’s dark out in the house, even on the front row, but Dean’s not in the house. He’s front and center, ridiculously bright lights shining down on him as the opening notes to one of his only solo dances in this show begin to play.
Dean can almost hear his best friend Jo’s voice telling him not to even dare looking out at that audience and fucking up, do you hear me, Winchester?
But how could anyone expect him not to? This is his hometown--the great Dean Winchester’s hometown! Sammy would be coming, all six feet and four inches of annoying brother that he is, and Mary with the kind eyes that Dean hasn’t seen in far too long.
He doesn’t dare think about his dad coming.
So he looks out into the audience, out toward the seats he’d reserved for his brother and mom near the front.
And, if Dean was more of an amateur, he would have tripped over himself at the sight of those eyes and, quite frankly, the smoking hot body attached to them. Dark hair, ruffled just so, stubble and--
He doesn’t look happy to be there. Dean would almost classify the expression on his face as a pout, but as he steps more into the light (where he really should have been originally, had he not gotten distracted) the man is out of his view.
It’s a bummer.
But then there’s the music that cues his start, that familiar thrum underneath his skin, listening and letting his muscle memory take over as he begins to move. The music is just a trickle of keys on a piano, the song Another Love by Tom Odell. Dean’s more of a classic rock kind of guy, but the song is nice, and perfect for the somber modern ballet he’s doing. He loves it, relishes in it, and promptly forgets all about the man a few rows back.
*
Until his next performance. Lost in the hugs and praise of his family (and the resigned disappointment that his father was absent, which went unmentioned by all. It was no secret that John was not exactly thrilled with Dean’s choice of career, and hadn’t been since Dean was a kid. Even now that Dean was, in his own less-than-humble opinion, pretty successful and damn good, he knew that John would never accept the choice), he’d forgotten all about the man. It made sense of course. Dean saw and met hundreds of people each day, many of which were attractive.
So the guy would probably have never crossed his mind after that, except for the fact that he was there, again, front row, his eyes wide with anticipation.
Before he has time to think about that at all, Dean’s starting.
This time, the man lingers in the edges of his mind. The company Dean dances for isn’t exactly cheap, and there aren’t exactly many enthusiasts to the point that they’d see the exact same show more than once.
Dean’s proven wrong when the guy is there again, front row, at the next day’s performance.
And the next one, all the way through closing night.
*
“Is he a stalker or something? Should I be worried?”
Dean sighs and tilts his head to hold his phone between his chin and shoulder as he hastily throws everything he can find into his suitcase (discarding items that must have belonged to some of his recent, ah, bedmates).
“Maybe? Probably? He didn’t seem like he was plotting against me or anything.” Though honestly, the thought had crossed his mind before Sam had said it.
“I dunno, I’d just forget it. You’re leaving to go back to New York anyway, right?”
“Yeah, the one I auditioned for last month is starting up, gotta start learning choreography. And I’ve been slacking on practice.”
“Dean, if you practice anymore you might actually die.”
“Yeah yeah, you know me.”
Dean hears a thud noise through the phone and is pretty sure Sam just banged his head on the wall.
“Yes, I do. So take care of yourself, jerk.”
Dean (reluctantly) makes a vague noise of affirmation, and then adds, “Bitch.”
*
“Becky, I need a favor,” Dean says and his voice is a bit more pleading than he’d like to admit. Becky, the stage manager, is more than a little bit intimidating. Not to mention she has a very strange and very worrying obsession with Dean’s brother.
They’re backstage after the last performance, and Dean would be buzzing with excitement at the end of this show, especially with him leaving to start on a new one, which is going to be touring across America soon enough. Emphasis on would be, because those stupid eyes are on his mind and Dean needs closure on whether the guy’s a stalker or not.
“Dean, while I’m flattered, you know that I’m deeply devoted to your brother,” Becky replies seriously, and Dean tries to convince himself not to run away.
“Um, I, that’s so weird, no, I just meant--” Dean sighs. This was a horrible idea to begin with. “What would I have to do to get you to find the name of someone in the audience?”
Just to clarify, Dean was well aware of how freaking stalkerish he sounded.
But, well, he’s probably still above the level of the man in question anyway.
Becky pauses, narrows her eyes in thought. “Why do you want to know?”
Dean admits, “This guy’s been in the front row for the past, I don’t know, five performances?”
“And you’re curious?” Becky smiles knowingly.
“Minorly freaked out,” Dean corrects.
“Can you really blame the guy though? You know you’re hot stuff, Dean, he probably just can’t get enough of you.”
Dean squirms until Becky finally sighs. “I’ll find what you need, if you set me up on a date with your brother. And you have to call him before you leave for New York.”
Dean groans internally. Sam would tell him it’s not worth it, tell him that he would absolutely never forgive you if you set me up with that crazy chick again just so you can get away with screwing your dance partner.
Well, this wasn’t so that he could get away with screwing his dance partner. Not this time, at least.
Sam would… Well, Sam would get over it.
“Fine. Front row, around the middle but in different seats each time.”
“Got it,” Becky says and smiles sweetly. Then her eyes grow hard. “And I expect to hear a time and date by tomorrow morning. Make sure your brother knows he’s paying.”
Then she walks away and Dean realizes that he really owes his brother.
*
“His name’s Castiel Novak, he’s 26 years old, and his ticket purchases were all last minute except for the tickets to the first performance, which was actually bought under the name of Naomi Novak. Now, what time is your brother picking me up?”
ii.
Two Months Later
Dean’s feet are bruised and aching worse than usual, he had just finished rehearsing for roughly six hours, and it was opening night in New York. Two hour performance, collapse in bed, repeat for five days, and off to the next location.
It was ridiculously exhausting and, somehow, Dean loved it.
The choreography was actually a work of genius, considering it came from a no-name woman who’d been working her way up in the company for years. His partner, relatively well-known Bela Talbot was a complete bitch, admittedly, but she was a damn good dancer and she knew it. (They did start getting along a little better though, when Bela “jokingly” offered to have angry sex and they, well, they did.)
He’s got another hour before he has to be at the theater, and he’s feeling very much as if he’s going to pass out if he doesn’t get some coffee in his system in the next five minutes.
There’s a cozy coffee shop a few streets down from the studio where they rehearse, so Dean walks down. It’s already freezing even though it’s barely November, so he’s grateful for the heat in the shop. He gets a large cup of Americano and slips a sugar in.
One of the biggest things that frustrates Dean about dancing is the diet. It’s not as restrictive as a lot of people think, but it’s still pretty annoyingly balanced. Most of the time (not all the time, thank God), it’s all salads and yogurt and fruit and granola and wheat everything. Some days Dean would kill for a greasy cheeseburger with a ridiculous amount of bacon.
Most days, he’s just glad that nobody gets on him about his caffeine dependency.
He’s turning around from where he dumped a packet of sugar into the coffee when it happens, and Dean half thinks he’s dreaming because the last time he’d been seeing this guy everywhere was two months ago.
So maybe this Castiel Novak is a stalker.
But in this light, Dean can definitely tell that he is a damn good-looking stalker.
Then Castiel looks up and he blinks and his eyes widen fractionally, and then a lot more than fractionally. Then Dean spills his freaking coffee on his shirt and whatever weird spell between them breaks as he curses and turns to set the coffee (what’s left of it) on the counter and search for napkins.
A hand appears, clutching a handful of napkins and attached to apologetic and almost awestruck-looking face.
“Are you okay?” says Castiel, who is suddenly really really close and whose voice is deep and gravelly.
Dean takes the napkins gratefully and attempts to salvage the Zeppelin tee he’s sporting, but it doesn’t seem to do much good. “Thanks, I’m fine.”
Dean returns to dabbing at the coffee stain before giving up and tossing the napkins in the trash can. When he looks up again, Castiel is studying him in, well, Dean would say it’s admiration.
“Uh…” Dean trails off, not sure what to say.
“You’re a very beautiful dancer, Dean Winchester.”
“Uh,” Dean repeats.
Castiel blinks like he didn’t mean to say that, and blushes like he just remembered that that may have been considered weird.
“I apologize, that was… strange of me. I’m just,” he looks away, and his cheeks get even pinker, “a fan of your work, I suppose.”
“I know,” Dean blurts out and promptly winces; he really didn’t mean to say that. “I, you know, recognized you from the audience back in Lawrence.”
“Ah,” Castiel says with a smile. “You were wonderful in that.”
Dean wants to point out all the places he’d messed up, but luckily Dean stopped giving a damn about analyzing every flaw around the same time he started his focus on modern and contemporary ballet over classical. “Thanks, Castiel, glad you liked it.” His name feels strange in his mouth, long and foreign.
He doesn’t realize that it’s because he shouldn’t know it until a second later, and then he’s blushing too, and they’re both standing in the corner of a coffee shop blushing like teenage girls.
“I never said my name,” Castiel says, unnecessarily.
Dean coughs and wonders about the probability of something crashing into the store and eating him so he doesn’t have to explain.
“I, um, well, when you were there for a bunch of shows,” Dean says, and thinks about an escape route if this gets any worse, “I kinda called in a favor to find out who you were. Are.”
Castiel pauses and they both just sort of stare at each other, and then they’re both laughing.
“We’re a couple of crazy stalkers,” Dean says between laughs, sending them into another fit of giggles.
Suddenly everything’s a lot more comfortable, and Dean finds himself sitting down with Castiel and a new coffee (which Castiel insisted on buying for him).
“So are you gonna see the ballet tonight?” Dean asks in as much nonchalance as he can muster.
“Yes, actually. I have a sister who’s a reporter for the Times and I was visiting and thought I, you know, might as well.”
Dean grinned. “And is tonight the only performance you’ll be seeing this week?”
Castiel blushes again, which Dean discovers that he likes a lot. Which makes him wonder other ways he could make him blush, and just how far that blush stretches downward and--
“Okay, I might have tickets to three different ones.”
“Ah, there it is.”
“There what is?”
“The crazy stalker we know and love.”
“Oh yeah? And what exactly was this favor you called in to find out my name?”
Dean groans. “I promised the stage manager a date with my brother.”
“Sold your brother’s body for a name?” Castiel gapes, mockingly scandalized.
“Not his body, just his time,” Dean says, shoving Cas playfully.
Somehow Dean feels completely comfortable with the guy, which normally would have set off warning signs in his head, beep beep beep, back away slowly, do not get involved with and too good for you, never gonna happen, needs more than you can give.
Then Dean looks at his watch. “Shit.”
“What?” Cas asks, his head tilting in an oddly endearing way.
“I have to be back for the performance in ten minutes,” Dean said, already standing. If he walked fast, he could probably get back in five minutes, right?
Cas eyes turn earnest. “I’m sorry for keeping you.”
“Don’t apologize, Cas,” he says, the nickname slipping off his tongue before he realizes he’s saying anything. “’Sides, I liked talking to you,” he adds in a burst of honesty.
Cas smiles softly and looks down, shoves his hands in his pockets before looking back up at Dean through his lashes. “Do you want to grab dinner or coffee sometime? I mean, actually together, rather than like… this,” Cas says, stumbling over his words (adorably).
Dean pauses, mind racing to think of Bela and the other girls and guys he’s slept with in the last month alone, and realizes that he doesn’t remember a majority of their names.
And this guy, this semi-stalkerish yet fully-adorable and smart and way-too-good-for-Dean guy, is asking him out. On an actual date.
And Dean, well, Dean really wants to say yes, even though the idea terrifies him.
But he’s leaving New York before the end of the week, off to wherever the next round of performances were, and who knows if Cas would be at any of those performances as well or if Dean would ever see him again. He’s not sure if that idea is a relief or not.
It’s one coffee while they’re still here. Then they’d part ways and maybe that would be it, or maybe it wouldn’t.
Fuck it.
“I’d like that,” and he smiles because he’s sort of a dork and not at all feeling butterflies in his stomach.
“Good,” says Cas, and the little smile he gets in return makes it worth it.
*
When Dean performs that night and sees Cas there with a smile in the front row, he’s pretty sure his movements are just a little bit lighter.
iii.
Somehow the string of rehearsals and performances flew by without Dean knowing, and he’s leaving New York tomorrow.
Cas’s phone number, hastily scrawled on a napkin, is burning a hole in his pocket.
Maybe Dean should have given him his own number to avoid this. Because, Jesus Christ, he’s Dean Winchester, certified ladies’ man, certified gentlemen’s man, super flirt and ridiculously flexible, if you know what he means.
So it shouldn’t be this hard to call the guy.
His phone rings and he nearly drops it because he’s so smooth, then answers it in a slightly high voice.
“Hello?”
“Hey Dean, Mom wanted me to call to check up on you one more time before I fly back to California.”
Dean sighs. He’s being an idiot. “Hey Sammy, yeah, I’m alive. Leaving New York tomorrow, you know the drill.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“So when am I gonna meet that girl you’re hiding up in Stanford, huh?”
“Soon as you stop setting me up with Becky for a name. Was it actually worth it, Dean?”
“Well, actually--”
“Because she spent a good majority of the date talking about something called shipping.”
“Yeah, I’m a shit brother, I know.” Dean wants to bring up Castiel, but this is the point where he realizes he’s being an idiot. He doesn’t need his freaking brother to tell him to nut up. “I, uh, I got something I should probably do, so I’ll talk to you later, alright Sammy?”
“Alright. Bye, Dean.”
Dean hangs up. Breathes for a few seconds. Then dials Castiel’s number.
It rings three times before Dean hears Cas’s rumbling voice answering.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Cas, it’s Dean,” Dean supplies helpfully and then smacks a hand against his forehead.
“Oh, hello,” Castiel repeats, but at least he sounds pleased.
“I’m, uh, I’m leaving New York tomorrow and I was wondering if you wanted to, you know, do something. Get dinner maybe?”
Dean hears a long exhale that sounds relieved.
“Certainly. What time would work well for you?”
“Uh anytime really. My stuff’s packed for tomorrow and I don’t have anymore shows.”
“Would tonight seem too eager?”
Dean’s heart pointedly did not flutter.
“Sounds good.”
*
One thing Dean doesn’t like about being in a touring show is that he can’t take his baby with him. His gorgeous, 1967 Chevrolet Impala, black, hard top sedan, badass as hell. He would have loved to show it off, especially to Cas if he’s being honest, but instead Cas picks him up from the hotel he’s staying in with an honest-to-god Toyota Prius.
Maybe this whole thing wasn’t going to work out.
Except, then Cas started talking about a place his sister had recommended to him, especially since Dean had more or less demanded over the phone that they get something greasy and unhealthy even though he knew he’d regret it later.
Then they’re eating and talking about absolutely everything, and Dean’s learning that Cas has an older brother (a chef) and a younger sister (the journalist here in New York) and that Cas is a high school teacher in Kansas City (teaching AP English and Humanities) and he guiltily listens to pop music and watches Doctor Sexy, MD. He tells Dean that his mother always dragged him to ballets that he never particularly cared for until he saw Dean.
“She actually hates contemporary ballet and was disappointed in your stray from traditional classic ballet,” Castiel laughs. “She’s actually a big fan of yours. Should I be jealous?”
“Maybe, Cas, you better look out.”
Dean surprises himself by telling Cas about Sammy the hotshot Law major at Stanford (on a full-ride, thank you), and his mom (who makes the best damn apple pie you’ll ever have the good fortune of tasting) and how his dad (the picture of hetero-masculinity) didn’t support him being a dancer, about the crazy-strict schedules of ballet that he has a love-hate relationship with. He talks about his love for classic rock and classic cars, and about how he got into dance.
“It was a second grade field trip to Kansas City and, being my father’s son, I thought it was lame as hell. Then, second to last dance of the show, there was a fog machine, and they danced to an orchestrated version of Stairway to Heaven by Led Zeppelin. I was kind of a goner at that point.”[1]
As strange as it seems, the thing that’s weirding Dean out the most right now is that he doesn’t want to only get in the guy’s pants.
I mean, fuck yeah, he does. But he also wants to do stupid things, like hold hands and make him smile as much as possible and marathon all the sci-fi movies Cas has never seen and freaking cuddle on the couch for Christ’s sake.
And that, well, that’s terrifying.
*
On the ride home, Dean’s messing with the radio (he can never find the classic rock stations when he’s in a new city) when he hears piano notes and a familiar voice. He pauses before recognizing it as that Tom Odell song he’d been dancing to when he first saw Cas.
Not that Dean, you know, took notice of that. That would be completely dorky and unlike him at all. Dean doesn’t mention it, for obvious reasons, but he smiles softly.
Still, they don’t talk about the fact that they’re not sure when they’ll see each other again, although Dean’s pretty sure they both want to.
When Cas pulls up to Dean’s hotel, he pauses and turns to him. “I’ll call you?” Dean doesn’t think he meant to phrase it as a question.
“I’ll look forward to it,” Dean says and he’s kind of surprised when he realizes he means it.
Their eyes lock, as they seem to have been doing a lot, and Dean really wants to kiss him. Like, really wants to. But if nothing else, Dean is a gentleman. Somewhat. He leans forward and presses a kiss to Cas’s cheek, feels the rough stubble there and pulls back with a smile.
Cas’s eyes sparkle mischievously. “You call that a kiss?” he asks and then he grabs the back of Dean’s neck and pulls him into a real kiss, Dean taking a beat too long to respond and move his lips against Cas’s. His tongue barely darts out to lick at the seam of Cas’s lips before Cas is pulling away with a smile and Dean has no idea what just happened but he definitely liked it and wants it to happen again, like, as soon as possible.
Instead, Cas says, “Goodnight, Dean.”
Dean Winchester, picture of beauty and grace, constantly seeking perfection in the long, elegant lines of ballet, practically stumbles out of the car and up to his room, where he flops on his bed. He’s glad he had the chance to shut the car door before he could hear Cas start laughing.
There’s a pretty good chance Dean is a goner.
iv.
Dean is hundreds of miles away from where he last saw Cas, just finishing opening night at their new location--Cincinnati--and collapsing on the hotel bed when Cas calls him.
It’s possible that that is the first time that Dean’s breathed properly since leaving New York, and it’s possible that Dean has been wondering when Cas would call, if he would really call at all, and what he would say.
Yes, it’s stupid. And yes, Dean’s being an idiot.
“Hello Dean,” is the first thing he hears after he gracefully fumbles for his phone (trilling an 8-bit version of Back in Black that he is quite pleased with) and answers it in what he hopes is cool and not awkward.
“Hey, Cas.”
“I apologize for not calling yesterday, I assumed you were busy with travel like I was.”
“Oh, yeah. I was, you know, pretty busy,” Dean says. Slick. Smooth. Cool as ice.
Castiel immediately sounds apologetic. “Is now a bad time? I’m sorry if I’m interrupting anything.”
“No! I mean, no, I just finished a performance, I’ve got the whole night.”
“Oh,” Cas says, and Dean thinks he can hear the blush spread across his cheeks. “Good.”
“So how was your first day back?” Dean asks, and is actually curious about the answer.
“Hell, honestly. I leave them with a sub for two days and suddenly they’ve forgotten everything they’ve learned the past three months. Barely half of one of my English classes remember what we even discussed in the last few lessons,” Castiel sighs. Then he huffs a small laugh at himself. “I shouldn’t complain though. How about you?”
“My day? Same as ever. Hour long class, six hour rehearsal--my mom called from home to yell at me for pushing too hard again--performance, the usual.”
“I wish I could have been there,” Castiel says, and the way it rushes out makes Dean think he hadn’t meant to blurt it. “The performance, I mean.”
Dean smiles to himself. “Next time I’m near you, I’ll reserve you some seats, yeah?”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Cas offers, and it takes Dean a minute to recognize the words as his own from the night of their date.
It takes a few minutes for them to adjust to being with each other while not being with each other, but soon enough they’re talking again, about anything and everything. They both take turns to further detail their respective days, then they’re trading questions about their careers and sharing more familial anecdotes. Dean finds that he still loves talking to Cas, and he still thinks Cas’s voice is just about the hottest thing ever.
They talk long into the night until each reply is sleepily mumbled after long pauses, both of them drifting off in the lapses.
“I have to wake up way too early tomorrow morning,” Cas murmurs at some point past three.
“Me too. Sorry for keeping you,” Dean says, hoping (through his half-asleep haze) that Cas wasn’t just staying on the phone because he didn’t know how to politely hang up.
“Don’t apologize, Dean, I like talking to you.” His voice is a little bit slurred from being half asleep.
“I like talking to you too,” Dean says, suddenly more awake than he had been just moments ago as he feels his stomach flip (over-dramatically, in his opinion.)
Cas hums absently. In just a few minutes, Dean hears the sound of gentle, quiet snoring and he chuckles to himself.
“Night, Cas,” he whispers, and hangs up.
*
The same thing happens the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that, and so on. It’s not until the head make-up artist comments on the circles under his eyes that are starting to reveal themselves and Dean finds himself refusing three of Bela’s blatant offers of pretty damn good sex that he realizes.
He’s with Cas. Like, actually with him. Dating, boyfriends, partners, relationship. Long distance, at that, and he’s actually pleased at the thought of being with Cas.
And also, you know, wildly terrified.
See, Dean’s not good at relationships. Sex, he can do. Random anonymous hook-ups, sure. Fucking someone (usually the lead opposite him) in a show he’s working on, definitely.
But whatever this thing is with Cas? It just isn’t something he does.
It’s about the time that Cas usually calls though, so Dean takes the fear attempting to rise in his stomach and forces it into a deep, deep corner of his mind.
Turns out, Dean doesn’t have to say anything.
Even after Dean tells him that he reserved tickets for him when they go to Kansas (in only two weeks), Cas sounds distracted over the phone, and he’s sure he sounds the same. They’re barely into their phone call when Cas cracks.
“Dean, I…” he pauses, and Dean can picture him narrowing his eyes and tilting his head in thought. “I’m trying to avoid cliche, but. I just need to know. What… are we?”
“What do you want to be?” Avoid the question, that works.
“I enjoy spending time with you, Dean, even just on the phone. And I would be interested in continuing to pursue a romantic relationship with you, if you wished to.”
Dean flashes back to when Cas had kissed him the other night, remembers how Cas’s hands immediately flew up to the back of his neck before he’d pulled away with that smile.
Dean would definitely like to relive that.
And he likes talking to him, and he’s honestly interested in everything Cas does just as Cas is with him and, well.
“I… think I’d like that.”
Dean hears relieved laughter bubble up from Cas’s end of the phone and he feels something warm rising in his chest. Something fuzzy and wonderful that he hadn’t felt since, uh, since....
Dean ends the conversation early and finds himself sitting alone on his bed, staring at nothing.
He’s in over his head. People like Dean don’t get love, or whatever it was Dean was starting to feel inside him, and people like Dean most certainly don’t deserve people like Cas.
If Cas went to the show, he’d have to be introduced to Mary and, officially, to Sam. Dean would tell them that Cas is his boyfriend.
Dean froze, shook his head, and refrained from grabbing the alcohol. He needed to think. Just a couple of days to think, surely Cas would understand.
*
When Cas calls the next day, Dean sends him to voicemail and feels like shit about it. Then, since he doesn’t have a show tomorrow, he goes to a bar and gets drunk off his ass. When he manages to stumble back to his hotel room, he’s got two texts from Cas.
The first, Are you okay?
The second, Call me if you get the chance. :)
The emoticon is cute and clearly tacked on as a second thought, and Dean thinks he’s possible the worst person ever.
Which is exactly why Cas deserves someone better. Someone who won’t flake out at the sign of long term commitment, someone who doesn’t spend almost their whole day out practicing ‘til his feet bleed, someone who’s not used to easy, one-night, drunken, meaningless sex. Someone with a career that will last him until after he’s thirty. Someone not Dean.
Dean just isn’t good at this.
He shuts his phone off and sleeps more horribly than he has in a while.
*
Dean doesn’t have a show later that night, so really he should be wrapping up practice early and letting himself rest, but instead he finds himself dancing all day. He’s not even rehearsing at this point, reverting back to when he was a teenager and was dancing for fun or to forget. It’s nice, this kind of dancing, just listening to the music and going with it. His feet only hurt like hell when he thinks about them, and in his own mind, the sky isn’t getting darker as long Dean doesn’t look out the window.
His phone starts ringing and he ignores it. He couldn’t quite bring himself to turn it on silence.
He’s a pathetic human being. A coward. Most of all, an asshole. The idea of being in a relationship with someone was so terrifying to him that he had to shut everyone out, get like this, couldn’t even pick up the phone and explain it all to Cas. He deserved that, at least. An explanation for this.
It’s been six days since Dean’s talked to Cas, one day since Cas seemed to give up. Two days since Cas’s casual texts—updates about his day, mostly—turned to concerned texts of Are you okay? and then into annoyed ones of You could just tell me if you don’t want to talk to me. A few hours since Cas had texted just Okay and had said nothing since.
It isn’t that long at all, really. Still, Dean knows he’s a colossal dick and he should be apologizing to Cas and telling him that he knows he’s a colossal dick.
Instead he’s dancing. His phone silences and his movements stop for what seems like the first time that day. He turns off the music, not realizing how loud it’d been turned up, before crossing the room and sitting on the ground, almost collapsing into a cross legged position leaning against the wall. He grabs his phone and opens it.
The missing call is from his mom, for which he feels even more guilty. There are no other messages and Dean refuses to open up Cas’s last text and stare at it. (What did okay even mean?) With a sigh, he taps on the button to return the call. After two rings, Mary picks up.
“Oh, Dean, I’m glad you called back!”
“Hey mom,” he says, trying to mask how exhausted he sounds.
“You’re coming back to Kansas next week, right?”
“Yeah, I reserved two tickets for you guys since Sam won’t be coming.” He always reserves two (or three when Sam is in town), even though John rarely comes. He doesn’t know why he lets himself do it and get his hopes up, but it always feels like he can’t not.
“Oh good, thank you. I was going to make pie, if that’s okay with you?”
“Sounds great, mom.” He smiles, his head leaning back against the wall. He does have that strict diet, but there’s not a chance Dean will ever pass on a slice or three of his mother’s chocolate chess pie.
There’s a pause, and Dean curses to himself. He should know better than to think he can get anything past his mom.
“What’s wrong, Dean?”
“Nothing’s wrong, just tired. Dancing all day.”
“I thought you had short practices on Saturdays.” Dean can practically hear her eyes narrow. “You need to take care of yourself. You can’t be practicing all hours of the day, it’s not good for you.”
“It wasn’t practice, it was my kind of dancing.”
That’s how Mary had started to refer to it when Dean was younger. His kind of dancing, the kind that was just for him because he loved it, the kind without all the pressure to be perfect.
“Oh,” Mary says. “That’s good. Did you eat?”
Dean paused. He thought he had. “Yeah I had an apple this morning.”
A long sigh on the other line. “It’s nearly eight o’clock.”
“Huh, well would you look at that,” Dean says absently. Now that she mentions it, he really is hungry.
“What is bothering you so much that Dean Winchester forgot to eat lunch on his day off? And don’t you dare tell me nothing is the matter because I know you. I raised you, and I love you. So?”
Dean considers, very briefly, lying again, but decides he’d rather not feel the wrath of his mother.
“It’s, uh, there’s this guy.”
Mary waits patiently, silently, and Dean’s grateful. Mary’s never been the type of mom to constantly ask him when he’s going to settle down and get her some adoptive grandchildren. She just wants him to be happy.
“And I really like him, and he likes me, I guess.”
Doesn’t sound like a problem when you put it like that.
“And we were starting to get sort of serious, um, kind of long distance boyfriends.”
This was too much chick flick for him.
“And I fu—I messed it up.”
Mary is silent for a moment, waiting for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “How did you mess it up?” she coaxes.
“I guess I—“ he sighs. This isn’t a conversation he wants to have with his mom, for Christ’s sake. He decides to just let it tumble out of his mouth, get it out fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “I don’t usually do the relationship thing, and I’m usually fine with that, and then this guy, we go on one and a half dates and I’m kind of crazy about him and he was going to come to see the performance in Kansas and I just freaked out, because I don’t usually do this and he deserves way better than someone who forgets to feed himself and isn’t home most of the time and spends too many hours in the studio.”
It’s only quiet for a split second before Mary says simply,
“You need to call him.”
Dean clutches the phone and chuckles inwardly at how Mary always makes things sound so much easier than they are.
“I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“You said you like him.”
Dean thinks of blue eyes crinkled in a smile, a deep laugh that always came out in a surprised huff. “Yeah.”
“And you know that you messed up.”
Dean stares down at his feet. “Yeah.”
“So tell him that, and apologize. If that’s what you want. You know I just want you to be happy.”
“Yeah, I know you do.”
“So… be happy. And don’t be afraid. I know you aren’t fishing for compliments but you are kind and loving and dedicated and loyal to anyone that you let get close to you. This guy would be so lucky if you let him in. He couldn’t possibly do better than you, Dean, you hear me?”
Dean finds himself smiling as he replies. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Hey, I’m just the voice of reason. You’re the one who actually has to get him back. And when you do, you better make sure he comes to that show next week so I can meet him officially.”
“I’ll do my best,” he says, letting out a huff of laughter.
Then he calls Cas. He tries to control his breathing as the dial tone rings, and rings, and rings, and.
It goes to voicemail.
“This is Castiel. I don’t know quite what I should say here. Am I supposed to—“ the recording is cut off by a long beep and Dean laughs fondly. What he’d said to Mary was true—even though they’d only been on one real date, Dean was crazy about him.
“Hey, Cas. It’s me. Dean. Listen, I know I’ve been a complete dick. Could we talk? Call me back.”
That’s all he can do for now.
*
The next day he tries again.
“Hey, Cas, it’s Dean. I don’t know if you got my last message. I guess I’d deserve it if you’re ignoring me but I’d really like a chance to apologize. Call me?” Sunday, 12:39 am.
And this is how it keeps going.
*
“Cas, I know I shouldn’t have just stopped like that. It was a douche thing to do, but I just freaked out. I mean, I really like you. I really like you and it freaked me out and that was selfish of me. And I know we were kind of new which makes it all fragile but I feel like we didn’t even get the chance to get started. I’m sorry. Would you just call me?” Sunday, 9:22 pm.
*
“It’s me, Cas. We just arrived in Kansas. The performance is on Wednesday. I don’t know if you remember or care or plan on going but I’d like to see you so we can talk. Would you pick up the phone? Please?” Monday, 4:32 pm.
*
“Hey, Cas. I hope you aren’t just deleting these. I guess I partially do because I’m being chick flick as hell but… I know I fucked up, but I thought we were kind of good together and. Fuck, could you give me another chance? I swear I know how to not be a douchebag if you’ll just let me prove it. You deserve better than me, I know that, but I care about you and I’m trying to let myself be happy for once. You don’t have to call me back, you don’t have to say anything. Just, would you come to the performance? One performance, then I’ll stop bothering you.” Tuesday, 8:02 pm.
*
Dean tried. He tried and that’s all he can do. The rest is on Cas.
Which is, honestly, really freaking stressful because the amount of strings he had to pull and favors ask for just to add one dance onto the program for the night was ridiculous and Cas might not even be coming, Cas might not even recognize the significance of the song, Cas might not care, Cas might hate him.
But he’s trying. And either way, Mary is going to be in the audience, so there’s that.
He’s warming up and he can’t concentrate. In a few hours, he’ll either have a chance to make up with Cas, or confirmation that he’s got to move on.
Maybe this is why he’s never done relationships before. This is beyond stressful.
But, if everything works out, it’ll be worth it.
*
The first piano notes are starting again and Dean’s mind is buzzing. This is it. The tiny little apology that Dean managed to get together before he makes his real one. His only opportunity to make sure Cas stays after the performance so Dean can talk to him.
Assuming he’s even in the audience, Dean’s brain helpfully supplies.
He’s walking on stage now. He probably shouldn’t look out in the audience—it will throw him off, he could mess up if Cas isn’t there, or if he is, or—but he has to know.
His eyes scan as quickly as they can and—there he is. In the front row, just like he always had been before and he’s watching Dean and their eyes lock so quickly that Dean can’t tell what he’s seeing in them but—
It all happens in the span of a few seconds, and then Dean is off, dancing.
It’s not a special dance, just something Dean choreographed himself. He’d had to call in favors to be able to perform it, but the higher ups were actually thrilled to be able to showcase Dean more. There’s some perks, at least, to being a successful ballet dancer.
While the dance isn’t anything specific toward Cas, the song is. Another Love by Tom Odell, and maybe Cas won’t even recognize it, maybe he doesn’t care, maybe it won’t make a difference.
But it means something to Dean, at least.
He lets his body speak for him, and hopes that Castiel will understand.
*
“Dean, you were incredible!”
That’s Mary, grinning ear to ear and looking positively thrilled.
“Thanks, mom.” He knows he’s being rude, distracted as he is. He gives her a half-hearted hug as he scans the lobby area for the familiar shock of dark hair. Most of the room is empty, except for those few still mingling, since most cleared out long before Dean had changed and finished up backstage and long before he was free to come out. It should be easy to find Cas here but that’s only if he’s actually there.
He can’t find Cas anywhere. His heart feels heavy and sinking until, near the bathrooms, he sees a familiar face—not the one he’d been searching for, but one he truly never thought he’d see at one of his performances.
“Dad?”
John makes his way over to them and offers what could potentially be a smile.
Mary is beaming, and Dean, Dean just doesn’t know what to do. He feels dizzy.
“I—thank you for coming but, I. I need a minute.” He sees his parents exchange a look but he chooses to ignore it as he walks toward the main doors to push his way outside.
Cas didn’t forgive him. He wasn’t forgiving him, and his dad was at his show and he didn’t necessarily look proud but he was there. That should be good enough. Why couldn’t Dean accept that? Why did he have to be selfish? Why’d he have to want everything?
He barely leaned against the outside wall of the building for two seconds, letting out a long exhale into the cold night, when a voice startles him.
“Kinda stuffy in there, don’t you think?”
Dean jerks his head toward the voice. He hadn’t even noticed in his haste to breathe fresh air.
“Cas.” He says his name like a sigh of relief, which it sort of is
“Your dancing was beautiful,” Cas says softly.
“Thank you.”
It’s quiet for a moment, both of them just looking at each other, and Dean doesn’t know how he’s supposed to start this conversation.
“Did you get my messages?”
“Yes.”
Dean takes a deep breath. “I was an asshole. A dick, and I don’t deserve you because you’re so awesome and great and I’m a douchebag who ran away as soon as I realized we were getting committed and I’m sorry. I swear to god, Cas, I care about you and I want to be with you and even though I can’t promise I won’t fuck up again, I promise that I’ll tell you if I’m having issues. I’ll talk to you. We barely got started, Cas, but I really like you and I don’t want it all to stop now.”
Cas watches him with a soft expression in his eyes before saying, “Yeah, you were kind of a dick.” They both huff out laughs before Cas continues, “But I like you too. And as long as you talk to me instead of freaking out and running away, I would very much like to be with you.”
Dean’s face splits into a grin. “Thank god.”
Cas laughs before stepping forward as Dean does the same. They meet in the middle, toe to toe, eyes locked. Dean’s hand flutters upward to cup Castiel’s cheek.
“Is this okay?”
Cas nods ever so slightly in response, eyes flicking between his eyes and lips, and then Dean is leaning down the inch or two he has on Cas, closing the last bit of space, brushing their lips together in something soft and fleeting before pressing into a real kiss, firm and sweet and perfect. Cas’s stubble is rough where Dean’s hand is guiding their mouths together, his lips soft as they move against Dean’s own, just the slightest flick of tongue. Dean’s hands drift down to his waist to pull them closer together, Cas’s arms winding around his neck, tangling in his hair as Dean guides them so Cas’s back is against the building’s wall.
Which is when he remembers they’re in public.
He pulls away, just barely, keeping their foreheads leaning against one another. Cas’s eyes search Dean’s face, like he doesn’t know quite which part of him he wants to look at most. Dean lets himself press another brief kiss to the corner of Cas’s mouth, both of them breathing more heavily than before.
“You remembered the song,” Cas whispers. Dean feels his breath against his lips and shivers.
“It’s kind of a sad one to designate as our song, but it’s, you know, significant.” He moves a hand from Cas’s waist to scratch at the back of his neck sheepishly but Cas snatches his hand and laces their fingers together between them.
“No, it shows devotion. That even though you’ve been with others, you want to put what you have into this relationship.” He hesitates, “Is that… what you meant?”
Dean grins in answer before pulling away, but not dropping Cas’s hand.
“Stop me if I’m moving fast here, but my parents are inside. Are you okay with, uh—“
“I’d love to meet them, Dean. You spoke highly of your mother.
“She’s awesome, and she’s gonna love you.”
Dean guides him back inside, the room much less stifling than it had been. Mary and John see them; when John sees Cas, he looks confused, but Mary just looks ecstatic.
Dean realizes that their lips are probably red from kissing, their clothes a little rumpled hair messy and flushed, but he decides he could not care less.
“Mom, Dad, this is,” he glances at Cas, “my boyfriend, Cas. Castiel Novak.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Winchester,” Cas said, extending a hand. Dean almost swoons. God, he’s perfect.
Then Mary rushes forward and pulls an alarmed Cas into a tight hug. “Just call me Mary.”
He pulls back and turns to John, offering a (slightly less sure) hand for shaking. “You have a very talented son.”
John looks over Cas once, twice, then glances at Dean before finally taking Cas’s outstretched hand. “Yeah, I do.”
Dean almost does a backflip.
Yeah, everything is gonna be fine.
v.
Three years later
“You’re gonna be fine.”
“Of course I am. It’s only the most important performance of my life, right, what’s there to worry about?”
Dean is freaking out. He’s pacing around backstage without a shirt on for god’s sake, and Castiel is all calm words and soothing touches. Honestly, Cas is just all around perfect, but Dean already knew that. Knew it long enough ago that he’s got a tan line on his finger where a ring is covering a thin strip of skin and--
“You are so talented, Dean Winchester. You’re going to blow them all away,” Cas insists, and Cas is the only person who can just look into Dean’s eyes and say something like that and for him to really listen. Then he adds, “Not to mention that you’re overreacting.”
He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous. He hasn’t gotten more than passing pre-show jitters in years.
Maybe it’s to do with the fact that Cas’s brother Gabriel is gonna be there, and his sister Anna, and--oh yeah, his parents.
“I’m not overreacting,” Dean mumbled and pretended for his own sake that he was not pouting.
Cas pulls Dean closer, puts a hand on his chest, right over the spot where Castiel is inked onto his skin surrounded by wings, just one of a few tattoos he’s gotten over the past few years. (His personal favorite is the one on his right arm, that says “Another Love”. So he’s a romantic, sue him.) Dean leans forward to capture Castiel’s lips in a quick kiss.
“I love you, Dean, but you have to go make sure you’re ready and I have to find my seat.” He pulls away reluctantly.
“Front row?” Dean asked, as if he wasn’t the one to make sure of that.
“Wouldn’t be anywhere else.” Didn’t he know it. “You’ll be great.”
And, well, he was.