Chapter Text
The truck moved down the streets of East Lawrence, first bumping along over the older pockmarked pavement and then evening out as it went further west and the roads improved. Castiel watched the road for wildlife, pedestrians, and cyclists since those were more likely to be sharing the streets with him until he got closer to downtown. Light from the summer sun reflected off windows as he passed houses.
A flare of sunlight hit one random window and turned it for a moment into a blinding, white square. He blinked the flash away and was reminded of a line from the second of Edmund White’s well known autobiographical novels about a similar window and how it symbolized God for the narrator. He remembered it partly because for a while, he’d been collecting various quotes from queer authors about faith for a possible essay that never came to fruition. More honestly though, he’d been hit by the idea it suggested that God might only find one individual in a group able to respond to Him in a way He found worthy of His attention.
In the end, thoughts like that had been part of his overall shift from trying to be a gay Christian to being a gay man who was interested in many, if not all, theologies. He’d call himself an omnist but that generally just led to confusion and having to explain what the word meant. These days, any religious practices he did were mostly Shinto-based. Maybe it was easier to just say beekeeping was his faith.
Castiel smirked to himself. Was he intentionally trying not to think about tonight? Dwelling over quotes from the canon of 20th century queer literature and his personal spirituality rather than thinking about what was ahead?
He glanced at the mandolin case on the seat next to him. Back on stage for the first time in years. Was he nervous? Yes, but not that he wouldn’t play well. Or sing well for that matter. He did those things almost daily. He wasn’t afraid to perform for others, or more specifically he wasn’t afraid he’d be bad at it. He was afraid that he’d be good and that the audience would react favorably and that the rush of adulation would prove too enticing.
It wasn’t about humility. That concept, as it was used in his parents’ faith, was too often a loaded weapon. Maybe they should have known that letting him take Latin and Greek would mean he’d learn the origins of words like pride and hubris and thus, also come to understand the difference. How could it be a sin to know your own worth?
The point wasn’t that he was trying to be humble. It was that he was trying not to be reckless, because he could see himself doing that. He could imagine coming off the high of a crowd of people responding to his playing with joy and praise, and him riding that feeling headlong into something that could turn out to be a terrible idea.
Well, what if it didn’t? For one thing, he wasn’t suddenly going to turn into some kind of monster just because a bunch of people clapped at him. Yes, there had been times in the past when after shows, he’d been more than a bit caught up in the moment, and wild things had happened but that had mostly been with someone he was dating at the time. The fact that a few times there had been other people involved too, and that his now ex-boyfriend of many years had used that as license to cheat later had been a whole different soap opera, but times had changed. He had changed.
And anyway, if it was going to happen, he knew who it was likely to be with. Only one person lately made him even want to consider being impulsive. Being vulnerable.
Dean. An odd desire to say the name out loud hit him. From a Middle English word for valley or from the earlier Latin term for an officer in charge of ten soldiers. Etymology was a strange way to react to a crush, but it was no stranger than listening to every Led Zeppelin album or asking a friend to make a Bi Pride pin for someone he’d just met. Meg was right, he was weird.
He was also stalling. How many times had he circled the parking lot already? He needed to get moving. He needed to face his worries in whatever form they took. Adoring fans or magnetic green-eyed men with the kind of shy smile that lived to cover up soul deep hurt. How he wanted to hold him, soothe that pain, shelter, and protect the man. It was startling how quickly this feeling had manifested in him.
Cas scowled as he parked. That nickname had also gotten wedged comfortably in his mind. Well, it sounded good when Dean said it. That was what he told himself as he hung his mandolin case over his shoulder and locked the truck. And as he walked from the parking lot to the bar. As Martin waved at him and ushered him into the front door.
Speak of the devil. The object of his affection was hunched over their merch table looking at a pile of discs on the far left. Meg had told him she was going to have Garth lay out some of his former band’s stuff along with the Deer Creek Misson Ladies Auxiliary items. He’d cringed at the thought but knew he couldn’t justify saying no. Which CD was Dean looking at? Ah, Sinners or Saints? their self-titled debut and the weakest of their albums. “You don’t want that one. It was our first. We weren’t very good yet.”
He sensed the tensing of the shoulder under his chin. Fine, maybe he was being a little bit assertive. He couldn’t help it, not when the response was bashful green eyes that seemed to beg for more.
“Hello, Dean.”