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There’s something special about the first day of your last year. Even at the tail end of his second degree, the feeling doesn’t wear out.
It might just be the old emotions making him soft, but Dean can almost admit he'll miss this place. It isn't little old Lawrence, but Manhattan made him just another face in the crowd. Makes it easy to slip into obscurity on busy streets.
He can't say that about home.
The first year he'd gone back home to a bombardment of neighbors, old classmates, and strangers getting in his face at every corner and grocery store.
He didn't bother trying after that.
Nah, city anonymity suited him just fine. He spent the summer working, got some cash to line his pocket, and avoided any and all hangers on.
So he worked. Fixing up broken doors and laying down new piping. Getting to work with his hands and earn some money while he’s at it. Him and a few others, Benny and Cesar most of the time, a few strays that float around campus rather than running off home for a few weeks just to suffer jet lag all over again.
It’s not bad. Hell, Sammy even comes up for a week, and they get to do the usual touristy stuff.
Not a bad way to live the college life.
He's humming to himself, Highway to Hell a familiar refrain while fixing up some window some freshie thought would be a good idea to try and pry open (0 to drunk freshmen everywhere; 1 to the architects). Benny carries the harmonies as always, deep, gruff voice a soothing backup to his, when Dean sees him.
From up on his little crow's nest, Castiel Novak doesn't look like much (Lies. All lies.), but Dean knows better. He can see the rat’s nest that the dancer calls a hairdo from a mile away, and today it looks particularly fucked.
God, Dean hates him.
Novak doesn't spare a glance his way (and he pretends that doesn't burn), strutting his ass past Dean’s hidey-hole.
Not that Dean cares.
Not one fuckin’ bit.
Benny just catches his eye and laughs, fucker, and Dean gives him the middle finger.
Business as always.
If there’s one secret he’s got, it’s that Castiel Novak is goddamn hot. Sun-scorchingly, mind meltingly, devastatingly handsome.
And Novak hates his goddamn guts.
Dean’s never even talked to the guy. Not really. Seen him around the halls as an occasional guest lecturer, the rare ballet he can snag a ticket for, but never talked.
And yeah, the guy flits across campus every once in a while, enough that he’s well-known to the dance troupe and their ilk (he doesn’t miss Masters cozying up every chance she gets), but he never really interacts with the Acting branch (except for Lisa, she’s cool) and Dean’s glad for that.
The one time they did talk, the guy looked down his nose at Dean so hard it was like he was being examined through a microscope and tossed like an old, chewed-up piece of gum.
(“You did dump coffee all over his pants, Dean” Charlie likes to remind him– not like it helps.)
The less he sees of Novak, the better.
“Cassie!”
He’s got a second to brace himself before one overly familiar French man nearly barrels him over in a hug that could be an OSHA violation. Castiel winces, his ankle throbbing under the assault.
“Bal.”
“Oh lighten up, old boy.” Balthazar smirks, pulling away from the octopus hold enough for Castiel to see the ever-present twinkle of mischief in the man’s eyes that promise trouble before pulling him into Balthazar’s quarters, door slamming shut behind them. “I didn’t think you’d take me seriously when I sent you that letter, but here you are! Not tiring of the glitz and glamor of the stage, I hope?”
“Never.” He scoffs. “I seem to recall someone spouting drivel about ‘a sabbatical is never untoward’, and here I am.”
“Indeed, you are.” His old friend grins, sharp edge dulling to a gentleness he so rarely saw these days. “It is good to see you, Cassie. Here I thought I'd have to drag you away on crutches before you took a break.”
The brace at his knee feels like an iron shackle, but he hides the bitterness in a laugh.
“No. No, not quite.”
Balthazar doesn’t ask, and he doesn’t explain. It works better that way, and the two spend an evening lounging in bed, talking and touching, before the world encroaches again and they slip back. Balthazar takes him around, and he sees the school in a whole new light. As a teacher, not a guest.
“You ready, Cassie?”
“No, but I doubt I'll ever be.”
“That’s true enough.” Balthazar says, and Cas can see the pain in it. Some he put there. The same, he’s sure, is reflected at Balthazar in his own.
Lost chances. Broken dreams and failed endeavors.
“Try not to fuck the whole board while I'm gone, would you?” Balthazar chides, and he shrugs, waving the man off with a grin.
“No promises, old friend. Though I expect quite the recollection of sordid details when you get back.”
“Oh that, I can guarantee, Cassie.”
Dean grins, high-fiving Charlie as she walks up, the redhead giving him the usual trekkie salute and hug combo. “Red, long time.”
“And who’s fault is that, Handmaiden?” She snarks, flaming hair a beacon in the muted browns and muddy oranges New York lives in during fall. “Ever heard of the reply button? Right next to the attach file bit?”
“Yeah, you and your newfangled tech.” He grins, ducking out from a badly planned noogie and retaliating.
“Oh, hell no! Fuck off, Winchester,” Charlie squeaks, and the game is on, the two running round the grounds before falling into a heap of giggles.
“Alright, alright, I yield– mercy, my Queen,” He says, waggling his eyebrows just right to get her cracking up before hauling them both to their feet with leaves stuck in their hair and dirt smeared in their clothes.
“As you should. It’s unbecoming of a handmaiden to rise above their station,” Charlie scoffs, but the grin doesn't fade.
Their routine falls into place, seamless as always. Charlie gets the beginning of year paperwork, Dean scopes out the dorm and grabs essentials and keys, and they meet up back in the middle.
Choosing Charlie as his roommate was a no brainer, and ever since they both barely survived freshman year without setting fire to the building, they stuck together like glue.
“Had fun fixing up old lead pipes all summer?” Charlie asks, tossing her bags willy-nilly before flopping boneless onto the couch. Dean grins, taking in the room on a quick 360: two bedrooms, an attached bathroom, and a decent kitchenette.
Better than the freshman dorms, that's for sure.
“Hardy har har,” He grouses, leaving his bags on his bed before checking out the kitchen. It wasn’t much, a tiny half-fridge, microwave, hot plate. But, hell, they had a coffee maker and that was worth its weight in gold around here. “You’re just jealous. I made bank fixing spackle and tacking windows closed so freshmen can’t fall out the first week.”
“Damn right I am,” Charlie says, “If only I could be convinced to give up my cushy IT gig that pays….oh, how much was your weekly again?”
“Shut up.”
“You guys hear that old Bal is taking off?”
Dean grunts, more focused on the burger in front of his face– his friends a flurry of motion and noise around him, catching up after weeks apart– but Charlie latches on immediately, laser eyes locked on Garth. “Permanent styles?”
The lanky kid shakes his head, “Nah. Heard Rowena mention something about a tour of Italy and lots of wine. More like a year off to chill out, take some vacation time.”
Kevin nods, “The guy seemed a little stressed last semester.”
“Stressed? More like frantic,” Lisa chimes in. “We all thought he’d fly the coop and just quit after Ruby’s crap. We’re lucky it's just a mid-life crisis and a sub for a year.”
The mention of Ruby sends a shudder through the group, Benny wincing visibly and Garth's gummy smile dimming.
“Yeah, but that means they have to replace him with someone, right? Or will Rowena be covering up for him?” Kevin hums, stealing a strawberry off Jo’s plate and getting smacked for his trouble.
“Doubt she’d have the time, cher,” Benny points out. “Woman’s got her fingers in more pies than reasonably possible, another 5 courses would be a bit much even for her.”
Kevin cedes his position with a shrug, poking at his wilting salad. “Still, dunno who they'll get that won’t be a complete mess.”
The memory of Novak sauntering into campus flashes in Dean’s eye-
And he hopes against all hope that he’s wrong.
The size of the campus doesn't distract from its limited staff and student population, so by the time Crowley and Balthazar crowd him into the secondary auditorium, he’s already run into quite a few familiar faces.
Some are more friendly than others. He winces, recalling Metatron’s rather vehement refusal to allow Castiel near his department after their last falling out. And really he was being petty, considering how much of that fiasco was his own fault. Castiel barely had anything to do with it.
“Can’t believe you got the man fired.” Crowley chortles. “Really, tricking him into talking shit about his manager on the intercom. I can’t imagine knowing you as a teenager, Feathers.”
“Me neither.” Castiel says. “I’d probably have set you on fire.”
“Most likely.” Balthazar agrees, and his friends cackle.
“I don’t know why you find that so funny.” He frowns, and the two wave him off, dragging Chuck into the conversation with a quick wave.
He stares out at the small crowd, students still filtering in after lunch, and stops short.
No.
Bright green eyes. Dirty blond hair.
Freckles like constellations.
He doesn’t know much about Dean Winchester, outside of his mother’s illustrious career followed by his father’s immediate spiral after– but he does know he’s stunning, and kind, and absolutely adorable when flustered.
Granted, he learned that in the aftermath of being drenched chest down in burning hot coffee– he’s not sure anything he said was exactly kind; he was more focused on not getting second-degree burns.
He’d seen him around a few times afterward… but what can you say after a disastrous encounter like that?
So… he didn’t.
This, he thinks, will suck.
Fuck.
“What?” Charlie asks.
He wasn’t wrong.
Wait.
“Said the inside thing out loud again, didn't I,” He grimaces, staring straight ahead at the stage and refusing to meet Charlie’s eye. He ends up staring directly at Mr. ‘I'm-better-than-all-of-you-bow-before-me’ prissy pants Novak.
“Uh-huh.”
Professor Balthazar goes on and on about sabbaticals and exploring the world and finding inspiration in nature as his replacement frowns, and Dean can see Professor Crowley giggling in the back. The man finishes his speech and ducks off stage, pausing for a moment to press a touch to Novak’s shoulder before skittering away– probably to start an orgy or three.
Principal Chuck laughs and starts off into another tangent, but Dean’s already tuned him out.
He has to see Novak every day.
The whole year.
“Dude.” Charlie says, “Stop ignoring me.”
And he has Charlie on his ass.
“Dean. You can’t just act like I’m not here! I know that look,”
He’s not going to survive. Not a chance.
He hazards a shrug at Charlie before looking back at the stage, finding blue eyes on him before Novak slips backstage.
“Dean!”
Waking up at Juilliards without Balthazar's dumb bed head greeting him is a novel experience.
He’s taken over the flighty man’s quarters for the year, and it still hasn’t quite sunk in.
He’s a professor.
True, It’s a temporary position, but the idea has been rattling around since he took his first fall at the tail end of ‘the nutcrackers’ tour. A nasty fracture and too much time laying down can make a man go mad.
He’s close to coming up on thirty. Most of his contemporaries; Balthazar, Rowena, Anael, retired not long after, or were forced into submission by nature’s hand.
His most recent injury, a nasty ankle twist and wrist fracture gained after a hard tumble saving their Prima from vaulting off the stage, has him sitting out of the season for the first time in many, many years.
What would his mother say? He shudders at the thought.
But thoughts of Naomi Novak, for good or for bad, were best left for late-night drinking or nightmares. Not even then, if he was being honest.
Making his bed, sheets folded down carefully, he wonders if he’s making an insane choice.
The call from Balthazar was a welcome surprise, still in his hospital bed and reeling from the shock, but it was a siren’s call. A temptation too hard to ignore.
Juilliard is the pinnacle, the best of the best– and most never reach its doors.
He graduated at the top of his class, even with his family's legacy looming large in his shadow. Managed to make a name for himself.
Despite the whispers. The rumors. The cruelty of his classmates– the jealousy that rolled off them in waves, a missile aimed at his head.
He doubts they’d envy him if they knew the reality of being a Novak.
‘Stand straight, Castiel, and never look them in the eye. Weakness is beneath a Novak.’
He sighs, his mother's ghost an unwelcome intruder even now.
It feels too good to be true. He’s done everything. Hit every goal and accomplishment he wanted.
And it still feels like he’s falling from high with a broken parachute.
He makes it an entire week without thinking about Novak.
A record. Then again, it’s not like he’s had to try.
Juilliard was built to make or break you, and well into his fourth year, Dean knows the process. Swimming up to your eyeballs in class work and still trying to ‘make up extracurriculars’ in their spare time makes most of the class population abandon the world for textbooks.
And they said he’d have it easy memorizing lines.
Most of the schedule isn't that bad. Sure, private coaching would be tough and the actor presentation was damn nerve-wracking, but nothing he hadn't expected.
But the spring and autumn project, that’s a whole ‘nother kettle of fish.
“I don’t get it.”
“What’s new ‘bout that?” Benny scoffs, meeting Dean’s death glare with a raised brow. “It's a merger class. Nothin’ that exciting, brother.”
“A merger class. For one of our two big projects of the year.” He repeats.
Benny shrugs.
“Dude! We have to work with the Dance group. Who thought that was smart? This is something Metatron cooked up in his meth lab, I swear,” he grumbles, staring at the class roster.
“Yeah, right. Like Broadway ain’t a whole thing about mixing the two.”
“Oh, shut it.”
Benny goes to slap him upside the head. Dean dodges with a middle finger raised high, Benny trying again with a laugh.
“You can’t escape him forever, cher!”
God, fuck his friends.
“Don't know what you’re talking about, Laffite!”
“Like hell you don't,” Benny rolls his eyes, “So you have to see him for the project class. Not the end of the world. He’s a teacher, you’re not gonna be working with him. Plus, Crowley is your main guide. Just pretend he’s in his speedos when you’re presenting or something.”
“Dude!”
Professor Singer helps him set up the first day, repeating Chuck’s inane script of “all in being a welcoming environment, Novak” before tossing in a “don’t let the scamps run you over too bad” at the end.
From then on? insanity.
He assumed that college students might be a bit more restrained than the usual high school peers he was used to.
The dance division are a spirited bunch, he’ll give them that.
Rowena seems more amused by his floundering than anything, though she manages to stop laughing long enough to give him a few pointers in the right direction.
“The wee scamps are just pushing to see how far they'll get with you, lad. Push back. Don’t be afraid to hurt their feelings. They’re a strong bunch. Not unlike raising tykes. But then again, Fergus would say I'm not much about raising a child either.”
That was a discovery in itself. He’s not sure if he should be shocked that his ex works with his mother or how she looks 20 years younger than him, but all Crowley said on the matter was a firm “Don’t ask, feathers.” and that was that.
He really doesn't want to tell Crowley that he also slept with her, and if he’s lucky, he’ll never have to.
After a few weeks, things settle down. He falls into a normal ebb and flow of the day to day. Teaching, planning lessons, doing physical therapy.
The wrist brace comes off, and the knee brace stays on.
When he’s not in class, he sees the Winchester boy around campus (How can he not? There’s only so much space, and he’s not blind), flitting between buildings amongst his friends. Castiel recognizes Lisa among them, a smart girl in one of his masters courses.
They seem close.
And no, he is not jealous. Ridiculous to even think about it.
He just–
Well.
It wasn’t worth mentioning.
“You’re pathetic.”
Unfortunately…
“And how is that, Crowley?” He scowls, tearing his eyes away from the gaggle of students (who had started a water balloon fight in the quad in the past hour, spreading slowly over the entire courtyard. They’d already caught Ms. Hanscum in their fire).
“You’re mooning.”
“You’re unhinged.”
“And you’re deflecting.” Crowley smirks, chuckling as Castiel snarls. “I know you, Feathers. Got a wing bent out of shape over green-eyes over there?”
“No. And that’s none of your business, anyhow.”
“Oh, please, darling. As much as you hate to admit it, I am your best friend outside of the French knob. That you’ve slept with both of us is irrelevant.”
God, he can feel the headache brewing behind his eyes. “The point, Crowley.”
“The point,” Crowley says, “Is that you’re stalling. Shit or get off the pot, sweetheart.”
“He’s a student.”
“Never stopped you before.” Crowley cackles. “Or was that just my mother being an exception?”
“You’re a boor.”
“And you’re a slut. Tit for tat, love. Get your shit together and admit you want to jump the boy’s bones, would you? Before we all die waiting.”
He squints, taking in Crowley’s shit-eating grin. “You made a betting pool again, didn't you?”
Crowley’s grin turns into a smirk. “Clever Lassie.”
He jumps, and Crowley barely dodges, ducking under the closest archway. “Ah-ah! Wasn't me that started the bet this time, Feathers!”
“Your mother, then.” He growls. “Or Ms. Hanscum.”
“Wrong again!”
He shrugs, palming a water balloon from one of the many baskets the students had set out across the quad. “Then?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
Crowley pauses, emotions flitting across his face too fast to keep track of. Castiel would bet this month's salary that Crowley was recalling the lovely Armani three piece that he’d ruined by shoving the man into a chocolate fondue fountain.
He’d do it again.
Crowley hasn’t moved, and he’s getting tired, so he shrugs; raising the bulging balloon over his head before the man breaks.
“Fine, fine!! It was Balthazar, you bloody bastard!” Crowley shrieks, arms up in a pre-emptive block. “Now put that thing down before you ruin another piece of my already dwindling wardrobe!”
“Thank you.” He drops the balloon in the grass, the projectile rolling down the slope harmlessly. “Wasn’t that better?”
“Take your self-righteousness and shove it up Chuck's ass, Novak,” Crowley grumbles, and Castiel has to fight not to break into laughter, lips twitching out of the flat line he’s fighting to keep.
“Right back atcha, Fergus.”
“Bloody ballerinas,” Crowley runs off, dumb cape flapping behind him.
Okay. So maybe he had been… a little over the top about having to take a class with Novak.
Two months into the semester and halfway to their autumn exhibition; and he’s barely made eye contact with the guy outside of lecture questions. Novak looks at him the same way he does any other student, except when Dean messes up on a question. Then he gets the ‘you’re still here’ glare before the professor moves on. He grits his teeth and gets back to learning the lines to his bit for West Side Story while the group grumbles around him. Tessa’s spinning Brady in a fancy fox trot that Dean wouldn’t attempt on his life, weaving a path between Gadreel, Anna, and Meg where they’re going over lines. Most of the autumn session has been pretty predictable– if boring, but he at least got a solo bit.
He’s not sure if it’d be the same for the spring.
The performance goes off without a hitch.
He wasn’t worried- Maria was a good song, and he doesn’t have anything too complicated to do when it comes to the choreography, but still, getting it over with was another worry off his checklist. Half the year over and only a semester left before he’d be done.
It didn’t feel real.
He’s spent so many years working for this that now that he’s almost here– he doesn’t know he if he wants it anymore.
And that’s terrifying.
Luckily Lisa and Anna drag him out with the others before he can spiral for a night on the town, plying him with tequila before they end up on the dance floor and he forgets that there’s anything to worry about at all.
“Good morning.”
The class groans, and Castiel grins, seeing their hung-over faces in the cold light of day. “Did you have a good weekend?”
Meg flips him off from the back, and Talbot’s doing quite the imitation of a slug, but otherwise the rest seem alright, outside of the general attitude of death. Winchester seems the worst off, clutching a coffee cup close to his chest and inhaling the fumes. Henrickson steals it for a moment and gets slapped for it, the man laughing and draining the rest of the cup to Winchester's growing distress.
“Good enough to get the rest of the day off?” Harville asks, batting big brown doe eyes. Castiel admires the effort.
“Not enough for that, I'm afraid.” He grins. “But enough for me to announce the topic of your spring demonstration, I think.”
“What! Dude, c’mon, we just finished fall!” Cuevas whines.
“Mr. Novak, please, give us a week to chill.” Talbot chimes in.
“Nooooooooo.” Ketch groans.
The discordant wailing almost makes him relent. Almost. But, he’s been preparing for this, and really, they’ll thank him for the extra time.
“Quiet down. It’s only the announcement and pairing. We’ll start actual work tomorrow.” He chides, and the group grumbles. Crowley smirks, still sitting on his ass, and for once he wishes the man would get up and do something to help. “Well. Since you all did admirably on the portions we assigned from West Side Story , your professors and I decided to up the difficulty for your final display.”
Abbadon would cut him in half with her hair pin if she were closer, he knows it.
“Very much so.” Crowley starts, and he sighs. “You all impressed the lemonheads in the bleachers quite a bit this round, so we thought we would give you something to chew on. This show was on Broadway for quite a few years. In fact, for a long time, it was the longest running show on Broadway. At least till the Phantom took over.”
From the looks of understanding dawning on a few scared faces, Castiel knows the dancers, at least, know what they’re in for. Most of the acting division hasn’t caught on, blank faced and confused.
“Mr. McCloud? Are you saying...” Lisa starts, hand partway raised.
“That you’ll be performing pieces from the illustrious and acclaimed masterpiece, Cats the musical? Of course!” Crowley grins, sharp-toothed and smug, and the room explodes into chaos.
He hates everything about this.
Sure, he didn’t really get why half the group had turned into sad sacks when Crowley had announced the next performance, but after the projector flicked on…
Yeah. He gets it now.
The lyrics are still bullshit.
Granted, Cats is a ridiculous show. The premise is hokey. The plot is nonexistent. A jukebox musical about a gang of alley cats fighting for the honor of who gets to die first with way too much glee.
It’s weird.
Forget about the backstory, he conveniently tunes out when Sam gets on a roll over the phone, something about a poetry book and children’s story characters. Dean knows that sometimes things get way beyond the original.
A musical with a damn orgy scene was well beyond what the original author must have ever thought up, that's for sure.
But, again.
Bullshit.
Yeah. He made for the most believable Rum Tum Tugger out of the lot of them. He can only imagine Ketch trying to swing his hips and gags at the thought.
But–
And as soon as I get home then I like to get about
I like to lie in a bureau drawer
But I make such a fuss if I can't get out
The dude gets stuck in cabinet drawers and everyone still wants to climb him like a tree.
He’ll never understand theater.
Novak had the whole class sit down for the 1998 video. Dean could admit it was pretty cool. He’s never been one for musical theater, but the folks on stage made the clip on tails look cool. Instead of, y’know, dorky.
He’s not looking forward to the outfit though. The makeup alone– he shudders.
Plus, they all have to learn how to do their own hair, makeup, and prosthetics.
He shakes his head, flipping through the script to his second number.
The lyrics to Mister Mistoffelees are at least sensible, even if they come off as an overly proud boyfriend gushing about how cool their boyfriend is.
Funny enough, Mister Mistoffelees has fewer lines than Dean can count on his fingers. It makes sense: letting the dancers take over the physically intense roles while the actors and singers take over more speaking roles. Still, the two songs being so disparate confuse him, going from self-idolatry to praising someone else?
Then again… his character chases after what he can’t have. And Mistoffelees calls him a bore in one of his few lines. Kinda makes sense.
But still. Dumb.
At least his partner’s not a complete jackass. Samandriel seems like a cool dude, and based on his portfolio they’ll work well together.
If Novak stops glaring at him every other second, maybe.
“Again.”
Dean grits his teeth.
Novak raises an eyebrow, all imperious dictator, and Dean wants to knock his face in.
Three weeks, and he wants to take back every positive thought he’s ever had about Novak. He wants to add in some curses but he’s sure the guy’s a mind-reader, and would rather not deal with that right now.
He doesn’t understand why his dancing has to be so precise, either. Most of it’s hip thrusting and winking at the audience. A few synchronized moves during the duet with some fancy foot work. But no, Novak has them running drills like they’re about to join the Marines.
Samandriel (“Alfie,” the kid tells him, “It’s less of a mouthful.”) looks a little more than concerned, but stays where he is, backed up against the mirror wall practicing his lunges.
Smart kid.
Dean clambers to his feet with a wince, and Novak does that little nod.
He refuses to acknowledge the twist of heat in his gut.
He tests his ankle, wincing at the tenderness before planting his full weight against it. A little twinge, but not too bad.
“Alright. Let's do this.”
For a second he thinks he sees pride flicker behind that mask Novak’s got up– and then the music starts up and Dean lets himself fall into step.
The semester sucks. It sucks so much. But they survive. He and Alfie gets their duo bits down perfectly, twirling around each other and play-flirting relentlessly. Alfie gives as good as he gets, surprising him on a few turns before he gets serious and turns it back on Dean.
Novak always gets pissy about it.
But hell, it works.
Novak is a jackass, but he doesn’t bother with Dean outside of class and rehearsals. The man looks bored to death most of the time, Crowley and Rowena managing to drag him out of his shell once in a while before he slips away to brood in another corner.
So yeah. Everything’s fine.
Until three weeks before the show.
Alfie looks pathetic, already tiny shoulders curled up against his ears. The heavy plaster cast around his leg pulling him down like a lead balloon.
Dean doesn’t blame the kid. Hell, he’s glad it wasn’t any worse. A fall from three stories usually ends with worse than a fracture.
Still, this close to the performance and he’s down a partner?
They’re fucked.
“Dean. I’m so sorr–”
“It’s alright, kid,” he sighs. “Not your fault. And you’re gonna have to repeat the class as is– I can manage.”
Alfie gives him a look that universally translates to “yeah, right, dumbass.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Okay, so maybe not. But nothing’s gonna fix your leg any faster. So we’ll repeat the class next year. Sucks but–,” He shrugs.
“Maybe not.” Alfie grins, slow and clever, the way he does before stealing Bela’s coffee mug or replacing Meg’s gummy worms with the sugar-free kind.
Dean doesn’t like the look of it.
“Alfie. Alfie, whatever the fuck you’re thinking, stop right now.”
Alfie grins wider.
“Dude!”
“Oh, fuck no.” Dean shakes his head. “Absolutely, heck to the no Alfie! Are you insane?!”
“Dean-”
“No fucking way!”
Novak looks like he couldn’t give less of a shit. “Would you both stop acting like children?”
“Shut it, Novak.”
Novak shoots Dean with a glare he straight-up ignores in favor of turning on Alfie to chew to kid out, which, predictably, does nothing.
“You know it's the best way for you to pass the class this semester.” Alfie grins. “Besides. You’ll have the best partner on the stage.”
He hates everything so much.
“Is this even allowed? Having a ‘teacher–’” he puts a little extra oomph into those finger quotes for emphasis– “as a partner?”
“Were it a standard exhibition, perhaps not.” Gadreel cuts in. “But as this is a duet pair-off, they judge each pairing on their own merit. Even the pair itself receive separate marks. Professor Novak will be able to act as a ‘pinch-hitter,’ as you say, without disrupting the rest of the class.”
Dean deflates, feels the righteous anger seep out like a dying balloon, and gives in.
“Fine.”
Yeah, he’s screwed.
“It’s not a bad idea.”
Et tu, Brute?
“Bobby, c’mon.” Dean whines, and he has no shame in admitting it– he’ll beg if he has to. “This is crazy. You gotta see that.”
His uncle scoffs, ignoring Dean in favor of restringing a cello that ended up on the bad end of trials. “Yeah. How much of that is you being too chickenshit to go and kiss the boy like you actually want to instead of just pulling his pigtails?”
He doesn’t flee, exactly.
It’s more a tactical retreat.
“Stop being a dumbass!” Bobby yells after him, and he books it double time.
Dean thought he knew what he was getting into.
Dancing with Alfie was alright. Nothing to write home about. The kid was light on his feet and moved with Dean, made up for his small missteps, and got along pretty well when it was his turn to make the big solo moves. The synchronized bits were pretty easy, and they had a fun rapport going for the little bit in Rum Tum Tugger where they’ve switched out one of the Gal Angelical cats for Mistoffelees dirty dancing with him.
But Novak–
Novak makes tsunamis look stilted.
Dean’s watched plenty of bootleg ballet in his off time. Been to a few live shows.
He thought he was ready.
The first time he saw Novak on stage, and he still remembers it in awful clarity, he was busting his hump through the GED program back in Lawrence, his dad who the fuck knows where, wasting mom’s life savings without a care. Bobby, still on the circuit, bundled him and Sam up for a week in New York over winter break.
Sam wanted to go see some fancy opera, and for once Bobby sided with Dean, at least to a point. They nixed the opera, but ended up in plush red seats anyway, staring up at a stage with people to his left and right droning on and on about debut performances and prodigy’s.
Back then, Dean didn’t get the hype. What was so cool about a bunch of anorexic cheerleaders dancing on their toes? At least, until the music swelled.
Afterwards, he couldn’t tell you what the ballet was about; hell; he couldn’t tell you what language the lyrics were in, but he could rattle off every detail of the crazy-haired, blue-eyed menace that stole the stage from beat one. A whirlwind that swept his fellow dancers up in thrall, desperate to keep up.
It’s nothing compared to seeing the real deal not a foot away, flying through footwork that took Alfie weeks to perfect in mere minutes.
That he does it all with a scowl is worse.
No one should be that hot with constipation face.
Novak doesn’t even look at him, starting over at a slight mistake that Dean barely noticed, and he’s ready to die.
Don’t think about his ass in the leotard, don't think about his ass in the leotard, he begs his brain. Don’t think about his ass when you have to grind on his ass ON STAGE–
Dean’s really regretting letting Alfie change the original choreography.
The costume he’s got on, though he hasn’t put on any of the dramatic makeup or bigger top pieces on (and he’s already terrified of the tail), clings to him like a second skin. Black and leopard spotted from head to toe, he sure looks the part.
But Novak– No one should be able to make a tuxedo cat look hot.
And yet, his dick twitches– the traitor.
He is not a damn furry. Just because Charlie found that website in his laptop history one time doesn’t mean shit.
(Kevin, of course, liked to point out that Dean's love of tentacle hentai made him more of a scaly, but at that point it was noogie central and he took no prisoners.)
“Are you paying attention, Winchester?”
“What?” He looks up, getting an eyeful of crotch before snapping his eyes away. “Yeah, yeah what’s it– I've got to introduce you, and when you get on the stage I'm supposed to dance around you without getting in the way.”
“Well, at least you’re paying attention.” Novak sighs. “But yes, in short. I’ll be performing the minimum when it comes to the magic tricks that are usually accompanied with the piece, as we don’t have the time or budget. Samandriel is a talented amateur magician, so my substitution may be lacking. But we will have Victor and Cesar for the necessary parts.”
“The switch-out for Deuteronomy at the end?”
“Exactly.” Castiel nods. “I know you’d practiced this with Samandriel, but we’ll have to go over it together to avoid crashing into one another on stage.”
“Yeah. Don’t want to trip you up during the conjuring turns or anything.”
Novak rolls his eyes, and Dean wants to punch him in the face. Like it was that hard to remember the name of his partner's main trick.
“Good. Now, let's take it from the top. Start from your mark.”
He takes the out, backing up to the chair they've got in place of the rock prop, and flops into it. Novak looks like he wants to box him ‘round the ears, but chooses peace this round, hitting play on the stereo.
“Are you quite finished?”
“Dunno. Are you done being an asshole?” Dean grumbles. “Stop moving I'm already–”
“I can’t help that you’re an imbecile!” Novak yelps, jerking back and pulling Dean with him. Their foreheads smack together and Dean’s convinced he can see stars.
“Who’s the one that decided to add an extra turn without telling me, jackass?” He says, tugging at the tangled ears with a wince. Damn ballerinas and their inability to stop showing off. If Novak had stuck to the script, he wouldn’t have rammed into Dean like a train running off the tracks, and they wouldn’t be stuck together by the fake, fuzzy cat ears either. “Stop wiggling already–”
“If you’d stop pulling on it. You’re making it worse!” Novak snarls, slapping his hand away from the fur. “Let me–”
“Oh hell no, Novak, you’ll end up getting the tails in this shit too and I’m not waiting to be seen stuck to you.”
“The feeling’s mutual.” Novak rolls his eyes. Dean grunts, thumb catching at the base of one black cat ear and releasing the hairpins, the thing coming off Novak’s head and drooping from Dean’s. The extra weight drags on his already hurting-sore scalp and he groans.
“Dammit– I hate these stupid things so much.” He tries getting at the clips buried in his hair, the prosthetic securely buried under many, many layers of hairspray, and winces. If he doesn’t have a bald spot after this he’ll eat Bobby's hat.
“You’re not getting– Hold on, you moron.” Novak says, strong, nimble fingers grabbing Dean's hands and pulling him away from the knot. “You’re just making it worse.”
“Like you can do better.”
“Considering I can actually see it? Yeah, I can.” Novak grins, running his fingers slowly through Dean’s hair and along the tightly-placed pins. Dean shudders, leaning into the touch on instinct. Novak doesn't comment, working open the torture devices and slipping them off Dean’s head with a laugh. The tight ache disappears in seconds, his scalp crying in relief. Novak fiddles with the ears, attempting to pull them apart before giving up, and Dean’s not surprised. The way they’re smashed together, the props department will for sure try to flay the replacement money out of his ass.
“Alright, I admit, having eyes in the sky can be…”
“Helpful?”
“Don’t go tootin’ your own horn, Novak, your heads already too big to hold up.”
“I wonder how you even manage seeing mine, considering the bowling ball you’ve got on your shoulders.”
“Dick.”
“Child.”
Dean sticks his tongue out, which doesn't disprove Novak, but it feels good so he’s gonna do it anyways. The dancer laughs, tossing the fake ears onto the dressing table. “Well at least we won’t have to have dinner stuck together.”
“Yeah, alright, that's fair. Wouldn’t want to end up wearing pizza grease.”
“Not with the dry cleaning bills you’d get.”
It takes a second, but then Dean's laughing, curling a hand over his mouth to try and muffle the snickers while his teacher grins. “Damn dude. Guess you’ve had a bad time or two.”
Novak grabs his bag from below the table, rummaging through the knapsack. “Not particularly. I just… was present when a few friends decided to try jello shots during intermission at one show.”
“Didn’t go well?”
“It never does.” Novak chuckles, tossing Dean a foil wrapped item. “Here. It’s not fancy finger food, but ham and cheese never goes wrong.”
Dean stares- caught between denying the offer and thanking the man while Novak ignores him, unwrapping his own sandwich. The man eats like it’s an Olympic sport, and after a few moments he shrugs, doing the same. Rehearsals are rough without food. No need to be a dick about the guy bringing him something.
“Thanks, Cas.”
“Don’t mention it.”
They finish in silence, and, oddly, Dean doesn’t feel like strangling the guy when Novak starts locking up for the night.
“You’re still too stiff. Loosen up; it's a hip thrust, not a rocket launcher.”
“Clearly you’ve never had a decent hip thrust in your life.” Dean spits, and Castiel flusters, ears gone pink before he grabs at Dean’s shoulder, manhandling the student to their starting position.
“You clearly have no sense of decorum.” He says, trying to force the blush down before Dean can comment. “You don’t need to act like you’re in mid-coitus, for God’s sake. It’s a simple suggestive movement. Not a full recreation.”
“You can say so, Cas. Ain’t no shame in it.” Dean blusters on, sinuous mouth twisted in a mocking smirk. “Some folks don’t have game–”
“And some,” Castiel snarls, plastering himself against Dean’s back, “don’t feel the need to announce their abilities at first glance.”
“That so?” Dean looks over his shoulder, pushing back against him with a grin. Castiel can count his freckles, even the tiny ones in the crease of his eyes. “So show me.”
Brat. A gorgeous, foolish brat that’s going to give him a stroke.
He grits his teeth, sucking in a breath before forcing himself to relax. “Rock your hips. Don’t push. You don’t need to put your torso into the movement– your hips alone will provide the illusion of you doing so.”
Dean’s hands come down on top of his, dragging them from the actor’s shoulders to his hips and Castiel struggles. Suffers. Avoids clamping down and pulling back.
“Show me.”
There was no way Dean didn’t know what he was doing.
He rocks back, guiding Dean’s movements slowly. “Your movement is in your knees and hips. Hold your center of gravity low, and–” He rocks, and Dean follows him, practiced and smooth.
Brat.
Winchester had never displayed such aggression with Samandriel during their attempts. Though, Castiel admits, they were friendly. Playful with their rendition of Rum Tum Tugger and Mistoffelees relationship. This… he isn’t used to this teasing side of Dean. At least not aimed at him.
Aimed at Mistoffelees, he shakes his head. Not you.
“Good. Good. You clearly understand the movement.” He pulls his hands from Dean’s hips, stepping back and away from temptation, biting down on his cheek and turning away. “I don’t understand your reason for botching–”
“God, you never relax, do you?”
Castiel stops, caught off-guard, and turns. “What?”
Dean shrugs, his face a blank mask. “I mean, you’re good. You’re a great teacher, better dancer. But you don’t exactly let your hair down. Even when you’re around your ‘friends,’ you’re always tense.”
“I didn’t realize my actions were gossip fodder.”
“They ain’t.” Winchester sits on the auditorium steps, t-shirt stretched tight over his arms. “After the first few weeks, most of the others stopped looking. But it’s not hard to see.”
“If you’re paying attention.” Castiel says, walking close and staring down at Dean.
Dean doesn’t flinch.
“Yeah.”
He takes a moment, mulling over the thought before sitting down next to his student. Dean smothers his reaction, but he sees the shock, anyway.
“Do you know the average retirement age for professional dancers?”
If the change in conversation confuses Dean, he doesn’t show it. He thinks for a moment. “Not in specifics. Late thirties?”
Castiel snorts. “Try thirty two. Most even before that.”
That has Dean’s attention, and the kid’s sitting upright, eyes flashing. “That's… way sooner than I thought.”
He nods. “American football and professional ballet. Two careers that rarely live long.”
“Geez.” Dean shakes his head, running a hand through messy hair. “Aren’t you–”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Fuck.”
“Damn right.”
Dean finally meets his eyes again, and they’re swimming in emotion. He can’t name it, but Castiel can at least tell it’s not pity. “No wonder you never slow down.”
He feels the anger he’s built up in the last few minutes, the rage simmering under his skin, deflate.
“I can’t afford to,” he admits. “I only have so much time. This year was… unavoidable. A broken bone can’t be danced on, and Bal offered me his spot.”
“So why not take the chance?”
“Why not try one possible career while I still have the choice?” He stares out at the empty seats, the rows of lights, the orchestra pit. “Most dancers aren’t lucky enough to be allowed a choice. Injury usually does it for us. I…”
He peters off. The first time he’d been in this room, it’d been in his first performance post-graduation, audience a dull roar and stage lights blinding.
Exhilarating.
“You don’t want that.” Dean says, his voice soft. He nods, licking his lips.
“I want to choose the end of my career. Finish my story in the limelight and hope I don't fade into obscurity within the next year. Forgotten and replaced by younger models. Actors… you at least know you can get hired. Can still work. For years. Decades, even.”
“Yeah. I get that.” Dean nods, “But… at least you know you love what you’re doing. That you want it so much you’d do it even if it hurts.”
“You don’t?" He huffed. “I may not act like it, but I know who the best student in the program is, Dean, and it's not Ms. Talbot.”
Dean’s cheeks flush a gorgeous pink, and he shakes his head. “I… I love acting. I do. But most of the time? I don’t know if it's worth the risk. Sure, mom was amazing. People still ask me about growing up with her– but I’ve got Sam to worry about. I can do a lot of other stuff and support him without worrying about making it as a successful actor.”
“And you can also succeed. Be something amazing.”
Dean shrugs, and Cas feels the familiar rage raise again. “Yeah… but it’s a lot to think about.”
“Don’t decide for others. Decide for you.” He says, pressing his hand to Dean’s shoulder and holding tight. “Or you’ll regret it, and regretting the past never leads to happiness.”
“I’d say the same about you, Mr. never has any fun.”
“Pot. Kettle.”
Dean laughs, and the tightness in his chest loosens. After a few seconds, they’re both cackling, curled up on the floor wheezing like loons.
When he finally falls asleep that night, long after they’ve stopped practice and parted ways, Castiel feels lighter than he has in years.
Opening night.
Funny. He should feel nervous. Most performances, he's got a stomach tied in knots, pacing the backstage corridors and making a nuisance of himself. Hell, before last year's Hamlet exhibit, he tripped into Kevin and almost took them both down, along with the stage's lighting setup.
But today's….different. It's still the same. Orchestra running last minute scales, tech crew doing checks on the equipment (Kevin and Garth spent way too much time fussing over his mic and he was this close to punching someone out) and Crowley's being his usual smarmy self, butting in on the actors wherever he can.
But it's different.
There's no anxious fear rotting a hole in his stomach. No second guessing his footwork, lines, anything. He doesn't have his script out. Isn't rushing through the last minute.
Pulling on the skin-tight lycra, all he feels is a settling sense of 'finally'. It's disconcerting: the electric rush of excitement and peace under his skin as Rowena helps him attach his ears and tail.
“Well, don’t you look edible.” Rowena purrs, cackling at his half-hearted glare.
“And you’re two inches from sexual harassment charges.”
“Aw, is the wee darling nervous? Come on, Winchester. Buck up.”
“I ain’t nervous!”
“That's what they all say.” She sighs, staring off dreamily into the distance. “Virginal darlings, all terrified of show business. Don’t worry, deary, you’ll make quite the splash.” She pats his cheek, Dean squawking as the woman walks off.
He stares at her for a minute before shrugging it off. The rest of the class is still getting ready, Victor and Abbadon especially having trouble with their makeup. He can see Jo and Anna trying to help, but they’re making a mess of it. Abbadon’s eyeshadow is a mess, and she looks more like a racoon than a cat. Victor…
Well, at least it's avant-garde.
He heads toward his station, the makeup lights on full brightness where Cas is applying the last details to his whiskers. He’s painted his face a ghostly white, matching his costume's white underbelly. His eyebrows are drawn in stark black to contrast, and somehow, he doesn't look ridiculous with all the drawn on freckles.
Dean thinks he looks hot as hell.
And that, he thinks, is why you’re an insane person.
Who thinks anthropomorphic cats are hot? No one sane. But here he is, getting tight in the crotch over Castiel Novak in a sparkly black cat fit with neck ruffles .
Embarrassing.
Cas meets his eyes in the mirror, face cracking into a wide grin. “Well, look at that.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get it over with now. I look ridiculous, I know.”
“Not at all. You make quite the dashing Rum Tum Tugger.”
He scoffs, gaze skittering away from intense blue eyes. “Sure, Cas. Whatever you say.”
“I mean it.” Cas grins, getting up from his stool and patting him on the back. “Better than the original, even.”
“Now you’re just fuckin’ with me.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Go on, get outta here.”
“Brat,” Cas laughs, and Dean can’t stop the fluttering in his chest, or the way his breath catches.
He’s fucked.
“And…you’re on,” Kevin's voice echoes in his ear, and Dean moves.
He’s practiced this endlessly. Hours and hours alone in the studio, even more surrounded by his classmates, struggling not to feel ridiculous.
Tearing the paper from his spot, he meows, grinning wide as the spotlight follows him through the crowd of cats. The others twist and turn around him, Lisa coming round to join him at the front, and from there it’s an easy slide back and forth– from Cas calling him a bore to the girls pretending to drag him to the stage floor. He almost passes out when Cas presses against him, back to Dean’s chest and rocking his hips with a smirk, but the moment’s over and done before Dean can process. Lisa and Meg and Anna and all the others taking their turn to spin him round before the song ends. It’s fun, and he plays into it like only Rum Tum Tugger can.
The look of pride Cas bathes him with when they pass into the next number?
Yeah. That was worth it.
It’s a while between his solo and duo with Cas, and Dean spends most of it as a background player for the others. Gadreel and Hannah are pretty funny as Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer. The rest of the group is good too, but he’s, admittedly, paying more attention to Cas than the rest of the gang.
He can’t help it; the guy just… steals all the light in the room.
Or maybe it's just the sequins.
Meg kicks ass through the tap dancing number she’s got (Dean never woulda bet on her being able to hold a tune when they started this class, but she turned out to be a damn amazing soprano) when Cas meets his eyes for a second across the stage. The dancer smiles, short and sweet between the dancing mice. He grins back, shooting Cas a wink and feels his cheeks go red, though it's not as visible thanks to the makeup. For once he’s actually glad the outfits are so damn ridiculous.
The songs slip by, one after the other, and intermission is a blur of gulping down water, touching up makeup, and actors asking for help to fix their tails. Dean barely dodges Benny, pulling along a long extension cord (probably for Garth) and gets a face full of red.
“Handmaiden! You looked so cool out there!”
“Ease up, Red! I can’t fix this face again!” He mumbles, and Charlie lets up with a laugh.
“Seriously, though. I thought you’d have some trouble with it, but you managed.”
“Hey!” He shakes his head, fixing her jacket and straightening out the lapels. “You think so, huh? Thought you’d bet on me falling on my face.”
“As if. You’re a professional,” She raps lightly on the side of his head, wary of the ears. “Plus, everyone trying to climb you like a ladder didn’t hurt.”
“Point.”
“Anyway,” She pauses, looking around in the chaos. “Ready for the next one?”
“Of course.” He shrugs. “What about you? Everything good down in the pit?”
“Like anything could get me to flub on your big day,” she huffs, arms crossed. “What do you take me for, Winchester?”
“Dunno, human?”
“Well that's where you’re wrong. A queen is above her humanity.”
“My mistake.”
They pause, the silence stretching before they both burst into laughter, giggling like loons.
“Alright, alright. You nervous?”
Dean looks her in the eye. He feels, not for the first time, and probably not the last, thankful for having such a bratty little sister. Even if he never asked for her.
“Nah. I was a week ago. Now I’m… excited.”
Her eyes gleam, and they separate after a minute. “Good. Go and kiss the boy, then.”
“Charlie! Wrong musical!”
“Not if I can help it!”
God, he loves this place.
When things start up again, they don’t slow down.
The second half of the play is a whirlwind, and Dean can barely keep up. Jesse plays a damn fine MacCavity, Abbadon, Brady and Tessa hyping him up, and Ketch manages a fun Skimbleshanks. He expected the guy to stumble on that one, but hey, he has some moves.
It doesn’t help the erratic pitter patter his hearts got going on, but he’s got no control now. It’s full steam ahead.
The lights go out, and he takes a deep breath, easing into the lyrics of Mr. Mistoffelees. The beginning’s easy enough, just him dancing in the center of his classmates, and he lets himself relax.
At least till Cas slides on stage.
He didn’t realize when they were talking about it earlier, but the guy actually slides onto the stage, jumping onto his feet in a smooth arc.
Jesus fuck, was he trying to kill everyone with sex appeal?
He muddles through it though, and no one can say he isn’t a damn professional. He winks at Cas, matching his footwork beat for beat (his favorite, personally, was the little skip-jump they staggered).
He follows after the dancer in tight semi-circles, playing up the teasing and flirting more than strictly needed (and if anyone asks, well, he has reason) before getting banished to the sidelines.
He really has it bad, if watching Cas do a silly magic trick gets him flustered.
Cas hasn’t noticed Dean’s predicament, clearly exhilarated at the chance to show off during the Mr Mistoffelees solo. Dean has to admit, the conjuring turns are cool as hell. He’d have landed right on his ass. Cas spins and spins and spins, coming to an elegant stop before leaping across the stage and giving him a high five.
Charlie’s never going to let me live this down. He sighs, grabbing the hidden, long, red cloth and tossing it to his partner. They share a smirk, and Cas tosses the fabric over their volunteer, as Victor sits on the center of the stage.
The drum-roll builds up, and up, and Cesar pops out from under the mile of red in all his Deuteronomy glory. The audience loses their shit, and Dean cackles.
Oh! Well, I never!
Was there ever a cat so clever as
Magical Mr. Mistoffelees?"
You can damn well bet there ain’t. He grins, blowing Cas a kiss and shrugging when the man pretends to bat it away. Guy’s one of a kind.
He tries his best not to get in the way, grabbing Cesar by the hand and prompting Cas for his jump. But he gets stuck, hand caught in Deuteronomy’s cloak, and when Cas jumps into Deuteronomy’s arms, Dean’s right there, trying not to topple over. Cas’ eyes meet his for a split second and Dean panics, but Cesar shrugs it off, and they get Cas down for the group hug without incident. The guy's eyes are wide as dinner plates though, and Dean squeezes in tight next to him, hip-checking Meg out of the way for the spot.
If looks could kill, he’d be roadkill. Extra crispy.
Cas seems delighted, based on the smile he gets, and when they part he finishes out the song without making it a giant thing.
Based on the way Cas keeps looking back at him, Dean doesn’t think it’ll be an issue.
Jo’s rendition of Memory breaks his heart, and he’s trying really hard not to cry when the show ends. They take their bows, and Dean hates down to his bones that Crowley was right. The crowd never reacts so well to the more traditional shows. Or maybe it was the costumes.
Either way, his ears ring all the way backstage, and the way Brady’s shouting doesn’t help. Crowley pats him on the back before fucking off somewhere, and then his field of vision is full of Cas, the man a blur of black and white as he grabs Dean and pulls him into a hug. “Dean! You were amazing! I didn’t think–”
“Hey, you’re the one who said I was the best in the class–”
“Shut up, I'm trying to compliment you–”
“You can be a little nicer about it.” He grins, poking Cas on the nose. “C’mon, Cas. I just made you look like the coolest cat on the block. A little honest praise would be nice.”
Cas nods, pulling back an inch, Dean stepping forward, not letting the dancer escape. “Dean–”
“Cas,” He wiggles his eyebrows, and the dramatic makeup makes it look way sillier than usual. He knows, he tested it enough. Cas rolls his eyes, but he’s still got that fond look on his face, like Dean’s annoying but cute enough to keep around despite that.
“Fuck it,” He whispers, and Cas raises an eyebrow, lips just parted–
He doesn’t think.
He presses their faces together, lips colliding not so gently before he can readjust. Cas grunts, confused, before the sound shifts into a soft sigh.
Lips move against his and the rest of Dean’s worries evaporate. He leans into the kiss, tastes powder and talc and makeup before coffee and chocolate and a hint of toothpaste.
It’s the best kiss he’s ever had.
They break apart after a few seconds, breathing hard and flushed, eyes wide.
“I called it! Pay up bitches!”
“What?!” Dean jerks, Cas jumping out of his arms to glare at the owner of said voice–
And sees the entire cast.
Charlie smirks, Balthazar waving from over her shoulder. “Really, dude? We were still here, you know.”
“Shut up, Red.” He groans, and he can hear Ketch bitching somewhere off to the side, and Garth whining about how he barely fixed the ears last time.
“As the young lady said.” Crowley pipes up. “She placed the winning wager.”
“You aren’t serious.” Cas says, and Dean can barely look at him. Cas’ makeup is fucked, and he’s sure as shit his isn’t any better.
“Darling, I never joke about a bet,” Crowley says, high-fiving Balthazar. “Consider it back pay for all our combined suffering.”
“Really darling, it’s only fair,” Balthazar chuckles. “Trust me, it’s the least we could do.”
“I hate you both.”
“Love you too, Feathers.”
“I’ve got pictures!!!” Charlie yells, her phone held high above her head.
“Charlie!”
Epilogue
Ten Years Later
Dean’s laying in bed, enjoying his first actual day off in weeks when Cas shambles in, boots tracking in mud and shit before getting tossed in the hallway. He’s not even mad– two weeks without cuddles will get a man to let plenty slide– and once his boyfriend shucks his clothes in the general direction of the hamper and slides under the covers, he goes spider monkey. Arms everywhere.
“Hey.”
Cas laughs, pressing a scruffy kiss to his throat. “Missed you.”
“Shut up.” He grins, hands buried in dark, rough hair that Cas needs to start conditioning already. “Good tour?”
“Mhmm.” Cas sighs, “Anna may be a lovely prima, but she can’t sing for shit.”
“Pot. Kettle.”
Cas laughs, kissing him for real now, and Dean sinks into it. It’s been forever, Cas on the road with his students and Dean off on another shoot, and they’re finally, finally–
Cas pulls off him with a small peck to his cheek. “Before I forget–”
“Cas. No. No news. Sexy time only.”
His boyfriend chuckles, the bastard, sitting up to trace patterns on his chest. “So you don’t want to hear the big news?”
He rolls his eyes, grabbing Cas’ hand and squeezing gently. “Shut up and get on with it.”
Cas nods, pressing a kiss to his palm. “Well, Rowena called.”
“Stop. That's enough—”
“Dean.”
“Fine, fine. What did the witch want.”
Cas huffs, pinching a nipple in retaliation. “As I was saying. Rowena called me with a proposition. They’re renewing a show for Broadway, and she wanted me to co-write choreography.”
That has his attention, sending a pillow flying the way he sat up. “Cas, that’s–”
“It’s once in a lifetime.” He nods, and Dean can see the joy just pouring off him. “I won’t be touring for at least a year, and I'll get to work on something that will…”
“Be around for a long time?”
Cas nods, swallowing hard, and Dean presses a kiss to his forehead, pulling the man into a hug. “You deserve it, y’know.”
Cas hums, and they eventually lay back down, curled together like puppies.
“You know what play it is?” He asks, Cas’ hair tickling against his nose.
“Hmm? Ah. Cats.”
“WHAT?”