Fic: "When Play Turns Bitter - Chapter Two: Don't Get Lost in Heaven" [SPN]
TITLE: "When Play Turns Bitter - Chapter Two: Don't Get Lost in Heaven"
AUTHOR: nanoochka
RATING: NC-17 for language, violence and graphic descriptions of sex.
PAIRING: Dean/Castiel, Dean/OMC, Sam/OFC, mentions of Dean/Lisa and Cas/Balthazar
SUMMARY: “You’re happy with your world/ But there is something small in the back of your head/ Your concerns are still free/ You fall into the trap/ Without knowing what you want/ And there’s nothing left but a foolish idea/ Everything goes back into place.” Remember that play turns sour when playing with a fire; but Dean is as tired of pretending like his life hasn’t begun, as he is waiting for Castiel to notice.
WARNINGS: OMC slash
SPOILERS: General S6
WORDCOUNT: WIP
DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and all associated content is the property of The CW and Eric Kripke. No infringement intended.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I’ve been wanting to write a Dean/Cas epic in the frame of Dean/OMC for a while-there’s so much fic out there that situates their relationship within Dean’s involvement with Lisa, which is obviously all very well and good (and canon); but I’m more curious about how Dean would handle getting involved with another man. There are a lot of fun implications not only for his sexual identity, but how Castiel might respond to such a thing, so I figured to just forge ahead and see how things work out. The title is from the traditional Welsh standard written and sung by Caryl Parry-Jones, “Chwarae'n Troi'n Chwerw” (“When Play Turns Bitter” or, “When Play Turns Sour” - lyrics here); chapter title from Gorillaz. Thanks to sansday
Chapter Two: Don’t Get Lost in Heaven
By the time Dean got his key into the front door of his and Sam’s apartment, he felt like he’d spent the entire night writing an exam he’d been horribly unprepared for. He hated being out of his depth at the best of times, and that was definitely not how Tuesday nights at his favourite bar were supposed to end. It was barely past midnight. The neighbourhood had gone quiet, but Dean was wide awake and his mind was in overdrive. The thought of how cranky and out of sorts he was going to be at work tomorrow made him grimace and sigh in displeasure.
Since Sam wasn’t expected home for at least another hour, Dean may or may not have let out a curse when he walked in and found Castiel lounging on his sofa, beer already in hand and looking like he’d planned the ambush down to the letter. The angel, sprawled comfortably against the couch cushions in black jeans and a slubby grey sweater, might have been there for hours already, or ten minutes.
“Jesus Christ,” Dean breathed, hand at the knife at his ankle, and failed to notice Cas’s small huff of laughter, either in amusement at Dean’s reaction, or at the blasphemy. “What the shit are you doing here, man?”
Cas shrugged nonchalantly, and shifted over to one side as though Dean needed an invitation to take a seat on his own goddamned sofa. “I was bored,” he explained, and that answer surprised Dean a whole lot less than it once did.
“And you can’t find something else to do in all of Heaven and Earth?” Dean retorted with a frown. He tossed his keys into the bowl on the hall table, and began pulling off his jacket to hang up. Let there be no mistake: he wasn’t the sloppy Winchester. “Or anyone else’s beer to mooch, for that matter?”
Ignoring Dean’s ire, Castiel just smiled and took another swig of the beverage in question. “I felt we were due for a visit. It’s been a few weeks, has it not?”
Dean snorted. “I haven’t really been counting the days,” he said. “But it’s not like there’s an apocalypse to divert, dude. When you want to drop by nowadays, you can wait to a more respectable hour if there’s nothing pressing. You can also call ahead.”
If in the past year Dean and Sam had turned into barely recognizable people, Cas had changed the most out of anyone. He was still an angel, no doubt about that, but the time he’d spent as acting Sheriff of Heaven had earned him freedom to do pretty much anything he wanted. Not surprisingly to Dean, his first act was to turn in the proverbial letter of resignation, choosing instead to go about his business as he saw fit. That meant spending more time in the land of the living, kicking back-as much as Cas ever kicked back-and observing the workings of humanity in a way he’d never before been capable. Dean secretly believed Cas had found, at the end of the day, that he still identified with humans more than he did with angels.
Still, some of the perks of being his own boss meant that Cas could dress however he wanted and generally go as he pleased, flitting about the planet to wherever happened to catch his attention. While not quite as liberty-drunk as Balthazar, Dean knew Cas, in the midst of his travels, had helped himself to some of the Earthly pleasures he’d once denied himself-probably even with Balthazar, if their weird familiarity was anything to go on.
Nevertheless, the new vocation suited him pretty well: he was more relaxed and jovial these days, more at peace. Cas described himself as a scholar, a collector of information and artifacts, which to Dean meant ‘heavenly librarian’ and entitled him to as many Tomcats jibes as he could shoehorn into a single conversation. Of course, Cas didn’t get any of them, but the thought of him in black-rimmed glasses was kind of… well. The nickname actually seemed to please him, though, since he didn’t see it as a bad thing to be considered a guardian of history, kind of like he’d once taken pride in being the guardian of Dean.
He still was, in some ways, but sometime between Sam getting his soul back, and now, Dean had noticed an almost-imperceptible shift in their relationship. He could admit that he’d shared himself with Cas in ways he’d never done with anyone; the angel held all his secrets. That aspect of their bond hadn’t changed but, while whipping Heaven into shape, Cas had come to confide a few secrets of his own, things that made him ashamed and confused about his own strength of character. Dean understood why he was upset, but didn’t really see the big deal-they’d all done some unmentionable things at one point or another in the name of saving the world. Cas remained one of the best people he knew, someone who could be trusted with everything from an acknowledgement of self-doubt to the fact that Dean spent a long time questioning whether the world still had a place for him. He didn’t judge Cas for any of his past actions, and said so loudly and often. Despite all that, he got the distinct impression that Cas was still embarrassed Dean knew about those things, and had slammed the breaks on their relationship-friendship, whatever-to a screeching halt. These days Dean felt their time together was about as profound as a passing acquaintance. He’d never turn Cas away, but he was pretty tired of feeling like he alone made all the effort to maintain the status quo.
“I’m contemplating spending some time in India,” Cas said conversationally, and Dean blinked at the randomness of that country coming up so many times in one night, and in separate conversations no less. “It might be a while before I return, so I thought to check in now.”
From anyone else, that might have sounded considerate; but even in tight jeans and a stylish sweater, Cas wasn’t anyone else. “It’s not like you can’t just beam back any time you please,” Dean pointed out.
“I will, if I think of it,” Cas replied, and yeah, that was pretty much what Dean was talking about, right there.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll find a way to turn it into the most boring trip on Earth,” he snorted. For a second he paused, considering whether there was any point bringing up what he’d found in a shop downtown the other day, but Cas picked up on his hesitation and perked up like a perceptive puppy. Dean sighed. “I’ve got something for you,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll be right back.”
He disappeared into his bedroom, stumbling down the hallway in a half-drunk, half-uncoordinated way, and snatched up the blue t-shirt he’d bought for Cas where it sat folded upon his dresser. Castiel looked up from flipping through an old issue of Car and Driver when Dean returned to the living room and flung the t-shirt at his chest.
Brow furrowed, though Dean could decipher curiosity in the look as well, Cas unfolded the shirt and turned it around so that he could read the front. The smirk that split his face immediately made Dean feel like an idiot for having bought the damned thing in the first place, but it was a little late for that now. If he’d just usurped Cas and Sam as the resident geek, so be it.
“’Information Ninja’,” Cas read, and glanced at Dean with his eyebrows arched high up his forehead. A smile twitched across his mouth, prompting an explanation. “Dean?”
“Some bookstore downtown had it,” he huffed, folding his arms defensively. He was never doing anything nice for Cas ever again. “Since you’re basically the divine Giles now, I figured you’d appreciate it.”
“I appreciate the gesture, if not that reference,” Cas answered.
“Nevermind that,” Dean said. “Just know that every librarian should have one.”
He started to protest when Cas pushed himself up off the sofa and stripped off his grey sweater to try on the shirt, oblivious to the fact that standing half-naked in the middle of Dean’s living room was a trip and a half-for Dean. It was the little things that blew his mind these days, like Cas acting halfway normal, or realizing that he liked 1% milk a lot more than full-fat.
“Well?” he asked, when Cas had slipped into the shirt with no sign that it had once taken Dean and Sam an entire weekend to teach him how to dress himself.
“I shall treasure it always,” Cas deadpanned. He looked pleased; Dean wasn’t sure if he always tried to hide the fact, or if it was something he’d picked up from Dean in the last few years.
“Fuck you,” Dean replied with a snort. “You don’t appreciate anything we do for you,” by which he meant ‘I’, of course, but he was doing his best not to make things personal. Sometimes it was the only way he could deal with Cas, even if it meant hiding behind a nonexistent Sammy. He knew it was supremely hypocritical to get snippy at Cas for not valuing Dean like he used to, since that had pretty much been the status quo in reverse from the beginning; Dean couldn’t help if, at times, his innermost self resembled a fourteen-year-old girl who just wanted to be understood.
“I’m not sure how else to show my gratitude for… this,” said Cas archly, looking down at the front of what, Dean could admit, was a pretty ridiculous look for him. Logo t-shirts were a definite no-go, and proved that maybe gorgeous angels couldn’t pull off anything and still look good. But since Dean didn’t know how else he expected Cas to be grateful, either, he dropped the subject and moved on.
“If I'd known you were stopping by, I would have come home sooner,” Dean told him as Cas settled himself back on the couch. He wandered into the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge, figuring that, at this point, he might as well stop being such a bitch about his full eight hours of sleep and just giv’er. From the doorway he said, “Or you could have come out to the bar.”
Even as he said it, Dean knew what a horrible idea that was, because if Cas still couldn’t figure out Western slang or its purpose in human conversation, he probably wouldn’t appreciate jazz music, either. They’d been working on Zeppelin for the better part of five years, with mixed results. Belatedly, Dean also realized that he wouldn’t have met Kurt, either, had Cas been at the bar; but Cas was Cas, and Dean didn’t see nearly enough of him to justify standing him up for random dudes he might not see again, and whose intentions were indeterminate at best.
The thought made him frown, and Castiel picked up on it immediately. “Did you not enjoy your evening?” he asked.
“Nah, it was fine,” Dean said quickly. He went to sit in the easy chair across the coffee table from Cas. “Same as usual-had a couple drinks, shot the shit, came home.” That sounded pretty lame even to him, so he shouldn’t have been surprised when Cas called him on it.
“When you advertise it that way, I can’t fathom why I don’t go out with you more often.” At this, Dean glared. “Why not do something you actually like?” Cas leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, to signify that he actually cared about Dean’s answer. “As I recall, you and Sam often managed to do things you both enjoyed, even with the world in danger of ending. I don’t see how different things could be now-if anything, you have more freedom to do as you please, enjoy life. You’ve earned it, we all have.”
Dean paused for a moment to consider that, and decided to just go with what he was actually thinking, rather than trying to couch it under a half-truth. “It just occurs to me sometimes, how different our lives are. Yeah, it’s nice to feel like the world isn’t about to go to shit at any moment, but these days it’s like I only run into you or Sam by mistake half the time.” Before Cas could correct him to say that his visit was quite intentional, Dean held up a hand and brought his beer to his mouth with the other. Swallowing, he added, “You know what I mean, Cas.”
“We each made decisions we knew would set us upon a different course,” Castiel reminded him. He didn’t sound chiding at all, just… resigned. Dean didn’t know. Maybe there wasn’t another word for it, or any other way to deal with it, for that matter. It was just life. He couldn’t remember when it got so hard to take things at face value and move on. Frowning, Cas asked, more tentatively, “Are you not… happy?”
For a moment all Dean could do was scrub a hand over his face, because he honestly hadn’t intended for this conversation to get deep so quickly. Cas brought out that side of him, but he equal parts didn’t know the answer to that, and didn’t want to discuss it. “Yeah, I’m happy, man. I’m just saying that I used to have a lot more quality time with my brother, or even with you, and it doesn’t seem like there’s a whole lot of that left anymore. Too many years of getting used to sharing cramped quarters with another body, I dunno.” Dean shrugged. “Most other people have their whole lives to decide what they want to do; I’m just starting out, and I have no clue. How do I even know this is what I want? Hell, it took me the better part of a year to realize that shacking up with Lisa and Ben was a horrible fucking disaster.”
It still baffled him that the relationship could have ended so unceremoniously, because of a stupid truth spell of all things, but since that point he’d never quite been able to pick up the phone and try to smooth things over. Especially with Ben, who he knew felt Dean had abandoned their little family without remorse. With this new life in Portland Dean was more cut out for the role than ever, but the desire to shoehorn himself back into a family was gone, erased by time, distance and a rude awakening courtesy of This is Your Life. He knew, the first time he left and went back to hunting with Sammy, that he would never come to be the kind of husband and father the Braedens needed. But he hadn’t exactly planned on never speaking to them again, either. The fiasco with Ben's bogus 911 call didn't count.
Demonstrating a tinge of regret Dean didn’t expect, Cas gave a rueful smile. “I also miss how it used to be, sometimes. What I never expected was for life to be so… complicated during a time of peace.” He looked over at Dean with a calm, open gaze that always sent him into a minor internal panic, because he felt like that look meant Cas could also see right through him. “However unpleasant war might be,” Cas admitted, “I always knew the next step. It was reassuring to know I could follow your lead without doubt or worry.”
Even if he didn’t agree with that last part, it shouldn’t have made Dean so relieved to hear Cas echoing his own thoughts, like the angel was a barometer for ‘Crazy’ or ‘Not Crazy’ instead of as clueless an entity as Dean. One thing was for sure-he’d never admit it out loud. He tried to hide his flush with his beer bottle, poised over his lips.
“Yeah, well, I don’t think you should go ganking any Archdukes just because you have a hard time deciding what to wear in the mornings,” he advised. At that, Cas gave a snort, and Dean couldn’t hold back his own smile at the fondness in the angel’s expression. “You should come on the next hunt,” he suggested. “Just you and me. For old times’ sake. Nothing’s popped up in a while, but it’s probably just the calm before the storm, if past experience counts for anything.”
The naked happiness on Cas’s face made Dean beam with pride; he hadn’t realized how much he’d been hoping for that kind of reaction, when Cas said, “I would be happy to.”
The response pleased Dean in a clean, uncomplicated way. Not only had Cas said exactly what he wanted to hear, but Dean didn’t feel he’d guilted him into saying it. He knew what a long and shitty road it’d been for Cas to get to where he was now, free and capable of making his own decisions without fear of repercussion, and Dean didn’t want to belittle that by making Cas feel bad about doing his own thing. Yeah, it meant they hardly saw each other anymore, but Dean didn’t think he was important enough to justify Cas putting up with more bullshit than he’d already been through. The guy deserved to be happy, even if that didn’t include Dean. And Sam.
“Awesome,” he said, sounding sedate, and took another swig of his beer. “Tell me about India.”
Cas smiled, and it might have made Dean’s chest hurt a little more than he liked, but he sat there and listened as Cas went on about some ancient temples Dean didn’t know the first thing about, and would probably never visit. Still, he kept the snide comments to himself, because he could tell that Cas actually cared about what he was talking about, and Dean didn’t see the point of wasting their visit on bickering. At some point he fell asleep; Cas wouldn’t take it personally, he knew.
When Dean woke up, there was a blanket over him and weak, early-morning sunlight streaming through the living room window. The clock on the stereo said 6:07 am in all its red, neon glory, and Dean sighed at the fact that he had to be up-properly-in less than thirty minutes. He was finishing a restoration job on an ancient Citroën that had taken the better part of a month of almost near-constant work, and he wasn’t looking forward to the long day ahead of him. The end result would be satisfactory, he knew, even if Dean didn’t go in for classic French automobiles; but a part of him wished that he and Cas could take off on that hunting trip now, as opposed to some undefined time in the future that might never come around.
Sighing, Dean threw off the blanket and tried to stretch the multitude of cricks from his back and neck as he shuffled down the hall to his bedroom. He didn’t have to look over at the couch to know that Cas was long gone.
When Dean got home from work that evening, he found Sam reading the instructions off the back of a package of beer can chicken, uncharacteristically quiet and all but invisible from the front hall until Dean walked into the kitchen and nearly shrieked in surprise for the second time that day. For a moment, Dean almost lost his shit about how tired he was of constantly encountering people in his home when he expected none; but the urge fizzled when he remembered that Wednesday was Sam’s day off. Embarrassed, he purposely ignored the look of amusement Sam shot his way as he snatched a beer out of the fridge with a muttered curse.
“Rough day at work, honey?” Sam teased. From the look of things he seemed comfortable and in a good mood, dressed in an old pair of painter’s jeans and the ratty Stanford hoodie he’d never be caught dead in outside of the house. After a quick glance around the kitchen, which revealed a whole chicken on the cutting board and a roasting pan filled with potatoes and carrots, Dean saw why: he was attempting to cook.
“We’re going to have to call the fire department again,” Dean warned. He hated being the stick in the mud almost as much as he loved the prospect of a brother/roommate who could cook something other than Kraft dinner, but the last round of culinary experimentation had almost resulted in Sam lighting the whole place on fire. How it was possible to be such a gifted hunter while retaining the ability to burn water was beyond Dean’s understanding. “What the hell is that, anyway?”
“Dunno, found it at the store,” Sam answered with a shrug. “Says you can cook a whole chicken by sticking a can of beer up its butt.”
“I don’t wanna know,” said Dean, but reached for the package anyway. As far as he could tell, it was just a dry rub for the bird with a set of written instructions on how not to fuck up the meal beyond all recognition. He could see his brother watching him out of the corner of his eye, eyebrows raised in the way that meant Sam was out of his depth and trying not to show it. Unable to help himself, Dean snorted. “You’ve been here for a while, huh?”
“Fuck you,” retorted Sam. He made no move to take the package back from Dean, who sighed and set it down on the counter so that he could wash his hands and get this show on the road.
Lathering up his palms at the sink, Dean said, “Domesticity doesn’t suit you, dude.”
Sadly, it was true. Sam hadn’t gone a day in his life without someone else to cook his meals for him, whether it was Dean during their childhood, or the good people in campus food services at Stanford, or the hundreds of diners they’d visited during their six years on the road together. Even Jessica had probably done her part while they were together, and she’d seemed the type who liked to fuss over her boyfriends with home-cooked meals and baked goods. Sure, Sam had always been the ‘healthy’ one, choosing take-out salads or pizzas loaded with vegetables over Dean’s steady diet pancakes and bacon cheeseburgers, but frankly it was a little embarrassing to Dean that his brother could barely cook an egg if it didn’t come with step-by-step instructions.
Hands washed, Dean tore open the package and set to work applying the dry rub, mentally thanking Lisa for having taught him a thing or two during their year together. Maybe Dean would die of diabetes or a heart attack before he hit sixty, but at least he wouldn’t starve to death in his own home.
“Sprinkle those vegetables with some olive oil and salt and pepper,” he directed, after a few minutes went by of Sam doing little more than watching Dean with a useless expression on his face. Once the chicken had been coated in the dry rub, Dean approached the matter of the beer can. “And I just shove this up its ass?” he wondered aloud.
“That’s what it says,” agreed Sam. “We need girlfriends,” he added, sighing, but went to do as he was told.
Much to Dean’s surprise, all the food was safely in the oven within twenty minutes of his getting home; he had to admit that the beer can thing was kind of handy, if it worked out, since one thing they never lacked for was beer. “Good job, Sammy,” he said idly. “We might make a fully-functioning member of society out of you yet.”
“But it’s so much easier when you do it for me,” Sam murmured in response.
At Dean’s glare, he laughed and went to help himself to a beer of his own from the fridge. They clinked bottles and Dean immediately flashed back to the countless number of times they’d done this on the road, with no prayer for a home base in sight. He thought it was a shame they didn’t eat dinner together as often anymore, and as if to echo the thought, Sam gestured in Dean’s general direction and lifted an eyebrow.
“How come you’re home so early, anyway?” It was after eight o’clock; clearly working nights had skewed Sam’s sense of ‘early’ more than the year he spent not sleeping when he didn’t have a soul. “Don’t you normally swing by The Underground on your way back?”
“Didn’t feel like it tonight.”
Even though he hadn’t totally decided whether to go to the party tomorrow night, Dean had bypassed his usual quite intentionally, not knowing whether he could deal with seeing Kurt again before he made up his mind. He’d been tempted to pitch Manny about the previous night’s potential pick-up while at the shop, but stopped himself when he could actually feel himself beginning to sprout lady bits. Sam would probably have more perspective to offer, but Dean would sooner shove a beer can up his own ass than have a conversation with his brother about a guy who might have hit on Dean, and the fact that Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to say no. That was as far as he’d gotten after a full day’s ruminations on the subject.
Satisfied that everything in the kitchen was secure and in no danger of catching fire, Dean steered his brother into the living room to prevent him from tinkering with any of the oven’s controls while the chicken cooked-they probably had a good hour to wait. Cowed, Sam went, but watched with curiosity as Dean dug out a CD he’d picked up on the way home from work and tore open the plastic wrapping. He put it into the CD player near the TV, and after a few seconds the opening strains of “Nature Boy” filled the small apartment.
Dean sincerely hoped that Sam wouldn’t comment; he was just going through what was turning out to be a fairly long and involved decision-making process about tomorrow, and it had struck him that throwing on some motivational music might help the cogs turn.
To his amazement, Sam let it slide. “Was Cas here last night?” he asked instead. “I found you asleep in the living room when I got home.”
Nodding, Dean plunked down on the sofa and flicked on the television, clicking through a few channels on mute until he found a Royals game that was on. “For a bit,” he said. “Didn’t stay long. Talked about going to India or some shit.” He remembered that he’d woken up with a blanket around his shoulders, and tipped his beer towards Sam. “Thanks for looking after me, though.”
Sam cocked his head. “What d’you mean?”
Dean rolled his eyes and wondered if spending too much time in front of the computer hadn’t started to fry his brother’s brain. “For the blanket? When I woke up I was sleeping under one that wasn’t there before.”
“Oh.” With a shrug, Sam sipped his beer and appeared to smile slyly. “Wasn’t me; I guess Cas didn’t want you to catch a cold.”
“Hilarious,” Dean retorted, but he felt a mild blush spread across his cheeks. Good to know that Cas still had his back in some ways, he thought, but he sure picked a funny way of showing it. He tried to move past the subject with as much grace as possible. “It got me thinking,” he admitted, “I wouldn’t mind another hunt soon. Cas wants to come, too. We haven’t found anything in, what… a month?”
“Two,” Sam corrected. “I can give Bobby a call and find out if he’s heard anything, but last time I spoke to him it seemed like all’s been quiet on the front. Not that I mind. I’m sure there’s something out there, though-there always is. We’ve just gotten lazy about tracking ‘em down recently.”
“Dad would throw a fit if he could see us now,” Dean chuckled. Speaking of things John would have lost his head over, Kansas was getting their asses handed to them at the bottom of the ninth. “All domestic and shit, who’d have thunk it.” The smile that crossed Sam’s face was small, but Dean couldn’t detect a trace of regret or disappointment in the expression-that alone was proof enough that they’d done something right for once.
Except for Miles on the speakers, they passed the rest of the game in silence until the oven dinged and Dean got up to check on the chicken. It was golden and crispy and the vegetables had gone charred and perfect in the juices, and Dean hummed a little to himself in pleasure. As it turned out, a can up the ass was good for a thing or two after all. His stomach growled loudly in commiseration-by now it was closer to ten o’clock than when they’d started, and he was freaking starved after an entire day spent under the hood of that stupid Citroën, but from the smell of things, the wait was well worth it. Dean was about to holler his congratulations to Sammy on a job well done, even if Dean had done most of the work, but when he turned he found his brother already standing there, eyeing the chicken with the same ravenous look on his face as Dean.
“About time,” he complained, and Dean just rolled his eyes.
“You’re an embarrassment to single men everywhere,” he shot back, and grinned when Sam snorted in laughter, not denying it.
Halfway through dinner, Sam chose to comment upon the fact that they’d been listening to the same Miles Davis CD for over an hour, though Dean knew the thought hadn’t just occurred to him-that wasn’t how Sam worked. What surprised him more was that Sam had managed to contain himself for so long, because normally he was all over that shit.
“So, is there any reason why we’ve been listening to Miles Davis all night?” he wondered.
Considering that he was supposed to be the musical one in the family, Dean had no idea how his brother managed to know so much more than he did sometimes. “Yeah, and?” he said hesitantly.
Taking another bite of chicken, Sam shrugged. “No reason, I’m just… Well, baffled, honestly. I didn’t think you were aware of any music that didn’t involve a Gibson Flying V.”
It was Dean’s turn to shrug, though he did so with significantly less casualness than his brother. “You know that jazz band that plays at The Underground on Tuesdays?” he asked, voice calm. At Sam’s nod, he shrugged again, conscious that he was doing that a bit too much for it to seem normal, even for him. “They’re playing some party tomorrow night; it sounded… I dunno. Fun.” Awesome sell, he thought.
To Sam’s credit, he actually looked pretty intrigued by the idea, though Dean couldn’t tell if it was because of the music, or the prospect of Dean getting out of the house to someplace that wasn’t work, Bobby’s or The Underground. “That’s great,” Sam enthused. “Those guys are really good. I’m surprised they aren’t signed somewhere by now.” Around a bite of chicken, he managed to sigh and frown at the same time as he added, “Too bad I’m working, man. It sounds like it’d be a lot of fun, otherwise.”
Although he smiled back, Dean couldn’t help but cringe at little knot that twisted his stomach at the words. Sam was absolutely right-unusual or not, Kurt’s band was really freaking good, and there was no reason whatsoever for him to hang around at home when he could be enjoying some free music and booze at some swanky party. He had nothing to wear that wouldn’t make him look like a hobo, true, but he still had enough time left to fix that; but that wasn’t quite what was bothering him. Dean was sure that Sam would have enjoyed the performance a hell of a lot more than even Dean, seeing as he knew the artists and had some clue of what was going on, but it wasn’t until Sam said that he wasn’t able to go, that Dean realized that he really needed to sort himself the fuck out about this, and was maybe even kind of a shitty brother in the process. Here he was, complaining to Cas and anyone who’d listen about how he never got to spend time with his brother anymore, and he’d never had any intention of inviting Sammy in the first place.
Huh.
Chapter Three