Chapter Text
This was not how Sam was supposed to spend his summer. He’s supposed to be leaning against some wall outside of one of the top law firms in Berkley, asking the other interns if their associates are as demanding as his, going out for drinks afterwards, coming home exhausted and accomplished to his own neat apartment with papers to read on the coffee table, a nice new bag of arugula in the fridge to wind down the evening.
He is not supposed to be ankle deep in what he can only hope is at least 90% mud, ass sore from twelve hours straight in the car, parched even after chugging the last two inches of tepid Red Bull that had sat, beckoning, in the cup holder - and, above all, lost. Really, very, unquestionably lost.
He’s not sure he could find his way back to his car if he wanted to. The field is packed with cars, trailers, tents, and he could swear he saw an alpaca over by the public showers. There’s music drifting everywhere, laughing, singing, swearing. Some people are selling things out of their cars: t-shirts, immensely questionable burritos, small plastic bags passed casually between unobserved hands.
There are a lot of things Sam doesn’t understand about the world, but why in god’s name people choose to spend days on end living like this is quickly climbing the charts. Who came up with music festivals always? Probably the Romans, or the Celts, or some behavior psychology student with too much free time.
Dean would be in heaven. He’d be grabbing a Pabst from the nearest cooler and making a handful of friendly acquaintances in a few minutes. And it’s not like Sam doesn’t understand that. He likes music, really, no matter what Dean says. He just understands the value of a nice bed, peace and quiet, and the comfort of his warm laptop with CNN playing in the background. A row of port-a-potties peeking out of a pile of beer cans just doesn’t have the same appeal.
But Dean asked him to do this. He really wishes that wasn’t a valid reason to disrupt his entire summer. But it is.
He knew how long Dean’d spent getting this together, how many years he’d been listening to these guys religiously (he’d gotten Sam to listen to a song or two, but it’s nothing he can distinctly remember). And when Dean had started emailing the band, and found out they were looking for summer help for their new tour, he'd called Sam first. He hadn’t stopped talking about it for weeks, months, and then fate decided to kick them in the shins as usual, which really shouldn’t have left Sam wandering through this maze of pot smell and discarded beer cans.
It wasn’t Sam’s fault that the Impala’s transmission had crapped out the day Dean was supposed to start driving to his new shiny dream job. He really should have just balled up and told him it was what he got for relying on such an old car, but since that would probably result in not speaking to his absurdly and selectively sensitive brother for six months at the very least, he said nothing. Well… not nothing. He said yes.
And now here he is, wandering between the various stages and camping grounds trying to find someone who he can tell: “Hey, I’m Sam, and I know you were expecting my brother, but because of obnoxious masculinity complexes and an inability to let go of sentimental bullshit, I’m here to fill in until he can make it.”
“Just a few days,” he repeats to himself out loud, because he needs support from somewhere right now. Just a few days and then Dean will be here, eager to start his magical summer, and Sam can stop being a temp roadie and get back to intern lectures, air conditioned offices, and that faintly metallic smell of law books.
“Yo!” a voice suddenly calls out.
Sam stops, turning and searching the drifting flocks for the source. There’s a guy about Dean’s age with one of the more powerful mullets Sam’s ever seen and a denim jacket sans-sleeves with nothing underneath, and he's looking his way. He’s wearing something badge like and somewhat official looking around his neck. He waves in Sam’s direction.
“You lost, bro?” Mullet asks, a little smile on his face. Everyone seems to have that little smile around here, like the world makes perfect sense to them, and like the sunlight is made out of pure fucking magic. Sam has a feeling he really shouldn’t find it as obnoxious as he does.
“Yeah,” he admits with a sigh. “Sorry, it’s just sort of crazy here. I don’t know how anyone finds their way around.”
The smile continues. “First fest?”
Sam really shouldn’t be this irritated. “That obvious?”
“Just a bit.” The mullet leans against a stage support. “Want a beer?”
“No,” Sam says firmly, “I want to know where the hell I’m going.”
The smile increases. “Hey, chill, it’s cool.”
It’s not actually all that cool. It’s actually sort of hot as hell.
“I’m Ash,” Mullet says.
Sam swallows his frustration with this day and tries to smile like a normal person. “Yeah, hey - Sam.” He reaches out a hand and the guy takes it with an air of parody.
“Now, where are you headed, Sam?”
Sam sighs, “I’m looking for ‘Misplaced Grace’.”
And if that isn’t the lamest band name of all time then he’s Jim Morrison.
“I’m helping out - for a bit, at least. I’m supposed to talk to them.”
“New roadie?” Ash asks, eyebrows raising in amusement, “Seriously?”
“Mostly,” Sam explains quickly. “But more lost now than anything else, so any help—”
“I didn’t know those guys took on roadies,” Ash says, more to himself than anyone else, “They usually just use the on site crews…”
“Well, not this time I guess.”
Ash is looking at him with the distinct air of evaluation now. “Guess not.”
“Look, I’m sorry, I really don’t mean to be a dick or anything, but I’ve been wandering around for what feels like an hour and I just want to figure this out.”
“Sure, sure,” Ash says stepping closer, not without eyeing a crop top that floats past them on his way.
He throws and unnecessary arm over Sam’s shoulders, pointing down the corridor of stages around them.
“See down there, behind Stage A?”
“Which one’s ‘Stage A’?”
“The big one.”
“Ah.”
“See that line of tour buses back along those lines?”
Sam tilts a bit to one side. “There?”
“Yup,” Ash says slapping a hand on his shoulder as he pulls back out of Sam’s personal bubble. “It’s the one with the Jesus fish on it.”
Sam turns. “Seriously?”
“Pretty sure satirically. But still, yeah.”
Sam squints at the casual face for a minute before nodding. “Right… well, thanks.”
“Bit of advice,” Ash adds, “Don’t knock too loud. It was a late one last night. First night and all, you know?”
“Right... okay.” Sam says.
“Good luck,” Ash smiles, already wandering back the way he came.
“You too,” Sam says reflexively, only feeling like an idiot a minute later as he’s half way across the muddied ground towards the line of buses.
There’s about six lined up side by side. He sees small signs up on some of them, things that sounds like band names taped up and labeling the windows. He doesn’t see one with “Misplaced Grace” on it… maybe it got lost… gracefully. He smiles for half a second before making himself stop, because no, even he’s not tired enough to find that funny.
No sign, but there is only one bus with a Jesus fish slapped on the back bumper, so he circles around until he finds the door. He pauses for a minute, considering his warning, and then brings his knuckles down in two quick knocks.
Nothing.
Sam shifts his weight back and forth twice and then raises his hand to try again but the door is pulled open before he gets a chance.
The smell hits him first, chock full of whiskey, what he thinks is fireworks, and something like cherry flavoring along for the ride.
“You’re late.” A rough edged but smooth toned voice oozes out of the doorway.
“Am I?” Sam starts. It’s bright outside and dark in the bus and he’s just starting to be able to make out the shape blocking the door.
Whoever it is makes that considerably easier by bracing a hand agains the door frame and leaning out to get a better look at him, sending the sunlight spilling over his face.
“We called for a dancer last night.” The voice drawls.
The guy with smoky breath and dark hanover circles under eyes staring out at him is blonde. He’s tall enough to fill the door but not quite tall enough to look Sam dead in the eyes. He’s got a square sort of face that matches the rest of his physique which Sam realizes suddenly is covered by nothing but pink boxer briefs with tiny skulls on them.
This guy has that omnipresent smile as well, only for some reason Sam’s suddenly feeling he deserves the one he's wearing. The eyes staring back at him are pale blue and lazy, but bright as well with something Sam’s tempted to label furious curiosity lurking under them, and suddenly he’s getting the sensation he’s being watched by a cat waiting to see if he’ll prove interesting enough to swat at. A big cat. In pink underwear.
“I’m not a dancer.” Sam says.
“Really?” The man raises his eyebrows in appraisal, “Pity.”
Sam ignores him.
“I’m Sam, Winchester, I’m here to fill in for my brother for the next day or two until he gets here.”
“And your brother is….?”
“Dean. Dean Winchester.”
A grin slinks across the man’s face.
“Castiel!” He yells back into the bus, “Your employee has arrived.”
Back in the bus there’s a sudden rummaging sound, a few groans and then a sharp yelp followed closely by “sorry, sorry” as the movement continues, apparently heading with some speed towards the door.
A hand grabs at the railing and quick steps hurry down the few between the inside and the outside, and—
“Oh.”
And now Sam’s staring at two pairs of blue eyes, only the new one’s are a good three notches darker, infinitely more trusting, and filled with such powerful disappointment he’s almost struck.
“Um, hi. I’m, Sam.”
The newcomer apparently actually managed to dress himself this afternoon, grey t-shirt and jeans, pretty straightforward actually for a musician. His black hair is about right for the stereotype though, messed and crazy around his face, which has the distinct shadow of stubble along his jaw.
“I think there’s been some mistake.” The disappointed man mutters, and wow, okay, that’s a voice. It sounds like he’s been chewing asphalt and washing it down with scotch since he was in the womb.
“No,” Sam hurries, because this was just what Dean had been terrified of, and if he’s come this far he’s at least going to make it worth it. “Dean just got held up, car trouble, and I’m closer so he asked if I could come here to make sure you knew he was still coming. I can do any work you might need for the next few days at least, he wanted to be sure you didn’t give his spot to someone else or anything.”
“He was concerned, did you hear that Castiel?” Pink underwear drawls, but the shorter man shoulders past him and with surprisingly ease steps outside, knocks underwear back into the bus and shuts the door after him firmly.
“I apologize for Luke,” he explains in the same tired voice, extending a hand, “I’m Castiel.”
“Hey,” Sam says, taking his hand and trying to ignore the laughter coming out of the bus behind them. “Sorry about this, I mean, I told Dean that he should just email you, but—“
“But the internet connection here is less than ideal,” Castiel says. Sam starting to wonder if he’s ever seen anyone looks so thoroughly exhausted. Memories of Bobby last Christmas when Dean got into the stuffing two hours before dinner come to mind.
“Did Dean say when he would arrive?” Castiel asks. Sam notices he gives a strange amount of emphasis to the name, like it’s something particular and unique. Which is a bit stupid really, it’s almost as commonplace as his own name.
“As soon as he can. He said he’d call me when he left, but…”
“The cellular service is also lacking.”
“Yeah…”
Castiel sighs, squinting up at the sun like he hasn’t seen it yet today.
“Well, I guess I’ll show you around?”
“Sure, that would be great.”
Castiel nods solemnly, still wearing that look of violent disappointment as he turns and sets a leisurely pace around the side of the bus. Sam notices that he isn’t wearing shoes and apparently doesn’t care, which is really just unsanitary and ten kinds of stupid, but oh well, maybe that’s just what musicians do.
“Are you… familiar with us?” Castiel asks, continuing his walk.
“What? The band? Oh, um, sort of?” Castiel turns enough to raise an eyebrow in his direction. “Well,” Sam rallies, “I’ve heard your stuff.” He thinks.
“That’s a start I suppose.” Castiel says. “Do you like it?”
“Yeah, I mean sure, well yeah. Yeah.”
This time Castiel raises both eyebrows before turning back to his walk.
“There’s three of us, I mostly play bass but also sometimes cleo and piano. The idiot who greeted you so formally is Luke, he’s vocals, guitar, and fiddle. And then finally there’s Gabriel, who hits things.”
“I hope you mean drum sort of things.”
“Mostly.”
Castiel stops in front of an RV waiting behind the bus. “This is where you can stay. We are all used to intruding on each other’s personal space and the violence that comes along with that, but I figured that introducing a new individual to our usual group did not merit the same level of traumatic exposure.”
Sam’s a little taken aback. “Seriously? You got Dean an RV to stay in?”
He could almost swear he sees Castiel’s cheeks flush pink quickly before he looks away. “It only seemed appropriate.”
“Wow,” Sam says leaning back on his heels slightly, “I guess this is a pretty sweet job after all. You know, he totally would have camped in his car for years if it meant spending the summer with you guys.”
Castiel looks up at him with sudden interest. “Really?”
Sam laughs, “Uh, yeah, you’ve pretty much been his favorite musical obsession since he was eighteen.”
Castiel turns away, shuffling his feet on the grass with a little private smile.
“So,” Sam starts again, “What does this job consist of, really?”
“Can you tune a guitar?” Cas asks.
“Uh, no. Sorry.”
Castiel looks at him for a long moment and finally sighs, “Then carrying. Lots of carrying.”
Sam forces on his best positive attitude. “I can manage that.”
As it turns out he can barely manage it. He never knew that amps packed a freakish amount of mass for something that deals almost primarily with air flow, and that speakers were even worse, not to mention that he has no idea why anyone would need so many instruments for three people. Three people - three instruments. Shouldn’t be it be that simple? But no, there’s at least ten, plenty of which looks almost identical so he has to ask Castiel for some deciphering. He has to hear the explanation between the fiddle and the violin twice before he actual gets it, but Castiel seems to have the patience of a glacier and explains carefully as often as Sam asks. But all the while Sam still has the sneaking sense that he’s almost depressed he’s there at all. But can he blame him? It would be easier to have Dean here, who knows all the instruments and how to tune most of them and doesn’t ask stupid questions.
Sam can carry stuff at least, which seems to be getting the job done. The quiet enjoyment of actually doing something physical sneaks up on him unexpectedly. It’s been years since he’s really worked at something that requires more than mental exercise, and he finds his brain getting to that quiet humming place of peace that it always does when you’re focused solely on the physical chore in front of you.
Castiel tells him how this is only the second day of the festival. They arrived the previous night to set up, but tonight is their first show. They’ll do one more the next night and then move on with the tour. Dean had told him some of those details, but Sam’d only half listened. After all, he hadn’t expected them it to come into such brusque and sudden contact with his own summer plans.
They’re starting out here, apparently, on the west coast with this festival, then they’ll be circling around through Austin, New Orleans, Savannah, and on up to the East coast for another fest in Providence before doing single shows in New York, Boston, and Portland, and finally crossing the border for a big blow out in Montreal.
Castiel had laughed at Sam’s shock after learning that all this was under two months of their schedule, quietly and simply explaining to him that this was summer and they had to make it count before weather and recording requirements shut them in for the later months.
Sam can’t imagine anyone choosing to live so nomadically. He remembers circling the country with their dad when they were little, him and Dean learning to treat the back seat like home as they hopped from motel to motel while John looked for work, found it, lost it, and started the cycle all over again. Sam had hated it. Truly, truly, hated it. The thought that someone, someones, would pick a life entirely without stability is just beyond him. But it’s not his life. It’s not his problem. He’s here for Dean, for a day, maybe two. And he’s going to carry things.
Sam plops down on an amp on what he’s recently learned is “Stage B”. The past five hours have also provided an impromptu lesson in electrical from some stage hands so he can actually manage to set some of this stuff up and test the connections. But there’s local crews to handle most of that. Really, they just want him to drop stuff off and pick more things up.
As soon as it starts to get dark, music edges up from several corners of the field, catching in the air and wafting through the crowds. People drift away from their own corner over to others, taking in the sounds wherever they’re coming from.
Sam takes a moment to straighten up from one speaker and look out over the field.
It’s really a beautiful night. He’s standing in the corridor off stage left, hanging lights up above, cords taped down across the black floor underneath, equipment and instruments scattered around. Despite the clutter, it’s easy enough to see the evening unfolding out in front of the stage.
It’s just past midsummer and the flowers are cresting over the tall grass that rises up outside of the festival grounds. All the grass inside has either been mowed down or trampled flat. He can see the piles of tents spread out beyond the stage area, little hills of bright Gortex in a haphazard pattern. It’s still thick evening, the sun threatening to hit the distant hilltops and slink down below. The light is heavy and golden - very California, Sam thinks to himself with a small scoff.
“Bored already?”
Sam jumps, spinning to see the smug face smiling back at him only about a foot behind his shoulder.
The man’s leaning against one of the stage supports, one foot crossed behind the other. He still has that lazy air to his pale blue eyes, but they’re more alert than they had been gazing out of the doorway earlier in the morning, as if the world is fully entering them now, not just sneaking in at the corners. Or maybe that’s just the small amount of black eyeliner that's been smudged around them.
“I see you found pants?” Sam says.
“Regrettably.” He answers. They’re jeans, well worn and low riding. He’s wearing a plain black t-shirt as well, which Sam might argue is a bit small for him.
He’s taking Sam in, that much is obvious, not that he seems to be putting any effort into hiding the fact. Sam's not bothered. He’s used to guys checking him out, girls too for that matter. Nothing exceptional.
“It’s Luke, right?” Sam asks, turning to the amps he’s been lining up in the back so they can move them on stage when the time comes.
“Mmm, and it’s not Dean?”
“It’s Sam.”
“Sam,” Luke says, rolling the name around his tongue slowly.
Sam ignores him.
“And how do you find yourself here, Sam?”
“Castiel told me to move these behind the stage.” Sam answers shortly.
Luke laughs softly behind him as if he knows exactly what he’s doing. The worst part is Sam’s sure he absolutely does.
“Is the actual answer really ominous enough to invoke such distain?”
Sam rolls his eyes without turning around. “Berkeley. I’m from Berkeley.”
“Ah. The mundane and misplaced rigors of academia, then?”
Sam does turn now. “Yes, as a matter of fact, although it seems flippant to blanket something so broad under ‘misplaced’. And I certainly don’t find it mundane.”
He expects him to back off, to shrug and leave for someone more accepting of what Sam is now suspecting is clinical arrogance. But he doesn’t. In fact, now that he’s facing him, Sam can see that his smile’s broken out of a smirk into a full blown grin and his eyes are focused with increased sharpness on Sam’s.
“Let me guess, law student?”
Sam sighs as he nudges one of the amps into place, sweeping his hair out of his face with a flick of his head. “Yeah, actually.”
“And all that erratic morality doesn’t grate against someone as obviously idealistic as yourself?” Luke smiles.
He’s slipped one hand into his jeans’ pocket and is rolling something between two fingers of his other hand as it rests at his side. It might be a guitar pick but Sam’s not totally sure.
“What do you know about it?” Sam finds himself snapping.
“You’re quite defensive of your little academia.” Luke says.
“I appreciate it,” Sam says. “Not everyone is fortunate enough to.”
“Right,” Luke answers, tilting his head, “Even though I’m sure you're riding on a full scholarship - it must have been an emotionally stirring application essay.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You appreciate it. Scholarship students often do.”
“No,” Sam interrupts, “About the essay.”
“Oh,” Luke runs his eyes up him again, landing on his eyes finally with a flash of teeth. “You just strike me as stirring.”
“Is that right? Even with my benign acceptance of such flawed and futile systems?” Sam shoots back sarcastically.
“What is it that makes you define them as less than so?”
Sam’s viciously tempted to turn back to the amps and ignore him altogether. He’s not actually sure how he ended up tumbling into a position of defending the pertinence of the legal system within four minutes of conversation.
He should ignore him. He’s a dick. And if he doesn’t ignore him he’s not going to stop.
“It’s worth it.” Sam says.
“Worth what?” Luke asks. There’s actual curiosity in his gaze, even if it is closer to a cat watching a crippled bird try to fly than anything else.
“All of it.” Sam says defiantly, “Law’s worth it. Because in the end, you get to speak for truth and that’s worth anything. That’s worth everything.”
Sam holds his gaze and waits for the laugher, the snappy reply, the arrogant smile, something. But there’s nothing, nothing but a suddenly spark inside the pale blue eyes.
“That work for you?” Sam asks breaking the silence.
Luke’s gaze doesn’t leave his. “Almost.” He shrugs, “ Although, unfortunately truth is not a universally tangible concept.”
Sam snorts and turns back to the amps, “Is that right?”
“Mmm,” Luke says, “I strive for truth myself, I simply acknowledge my perception is not universal.”
“Oh yeah? Is that the artist’s statement? ‘I strive for truth’?”
“I suppose you could say that.” Luke says with the same amused quiet tone.
Sam laughs, “Right, and what I do is ‘intangible’.”
“Excuse me?”
Sam turns raising his eyebrows, “You’re seriously implying that art has greater significance with regards to truth than law?”
Luke’s grinning again, “And what would you say if I was?”
“I’d say art is impressions and law is concrete.”
“And I’d say that you cannot prove anything to be more than impressions.”
“That may be so, but playing the 'uncertain nature of reality' card has one fatal flaw.”
“What’s that?”
“If reality is no more than perception then it is unique and individual, and whatever I find true is truth, and unfortunately you don’t get to dictate the terms of my reality. But I hope you’re enjoying yours.”
Luke eyes are blazing. “Currently I am. Quite a bit in fact. What about you, Sam?”
“Not so much actually. I get enough of arrogant douches who think they know the universal meaning at school, thanks.” Sam lies. He actually can’t remember the last time he argued like that with anyone. Even in school, there’s usually a point when whomever he’s debating runs out of text book quotes to sling at him. And he’s decidedly lame for thinking his pulse is up after it. It’s the amps. They’re heavy. It’s exercise. Exercise is invigorating. And douchebags are aggravating.
Behind him he hears Luke laugh and lift himself off the wall, stepping towards Sam’s back easily.
“Anyways,” Sam shoots, “Shouldn’t you be ‘loosening up’ or whatever the hell musicians do?”
“I certainly should be.” Luke says. His voice is a good deal closer. “Would you like to help?”
Sam turns. He’s standing directly in front of him. Directly in front of him.
There’s probably less than half a foot between them altogether and those pale blue eyes, just a few inches below his, lazy and sharp all at once, flit slowly from his lips to his eyes and a slow hungry smile drags over his cheeks.
But Sam’s more than ready. He’s been waiting for this since the guy started staring at his ass when he turned to pick up the first amp.
“I’m straight,” he says simply.
“Good for you.” Luke smiles.
“And even if I wasn’t,” Sam continues, not stepping back, “I’ve had enough pompous professors who think they’re intellectual deities crashing into my personal space to lose my taste for it.”
Luke’s smile doesn’t flinch. The curious hunger still blazes behind his stare.
“So, thanks,” Sam says, placing a hand on his chest and pushing him gently back a foot or so, “But no thanks.”
Someone starts clapping.
Sam snaps his eyes away from the blue ones, looking for the source of the sound.
The someone is sitting on one of the bigger speakers, legs draped over the front haphazardly. His medium length brown hair is pushed back from his face - not without a small amount of gel - and he’s wearing a hot pink t-shirt that has “Booty Patrol” written across it in giant sparkly letters. Sam thinks the last time he saw jean shorts that high was when Dean made him marathon Dukes of Hazard after he broke his ankle. His high-top sneakers are almost as bright as the letters of his shirt only they’re gold instead of silver, which actually picks up sharply in his eyes.
“And the judge from Berkley is unimpressed, giving a shocking 1.5 to an admirable showing from the contestant - throwing penalties for sexual orientation and indisputable douchy-ness.” The newcomer shakes his head.
“Can you blame me for trying?” Luke asks, apparently entirely unfazed by Sam’s rejection.
“No, I certainly can not,” he answers, running his eyes down Sam in an equally violating way and waggling his eyebrows when he finally gets back to his face. “What do you think, Stretch? Up for another score card? I bet I can at least break 4.5.”
“Twenty says you don’t hit 1.” Luke says smoothly.
“Deal.”
“Who the hell are you?” Sam breaks in.
“For such a sharp thing you’re not so good at the arithmetic, huh kiddo?”
“Mmm, I think he has more redeeming qualities.” Luke smiles, eyeing Sam again.
Sam sighs, “I don’t actually remember your name, sorry.”
“Seriously?” Booty Patrol stares, “Did you just wander in from desert isolation, orrr—?”
“Look,” Sam sighs, already well past hitting his maximum arrogance exposure limits for the day, “Dean’s the fan, not me. Sorry, I’m just helping him out here.”
“Ahhh, that’s right. It’s not Dean, just the cheek-boney face of Castiel’s most recent exercise in self deprecating disappointment.”
“What?”
“Gabriel.” He smiles.
Sam stares.
“The name you should know,” he continues helpfully. “It’s Gabriel.”
“Drummer?”
“The drummer. Yes. Not to mention an ample 90% of the sex appeal and at least 45% of the magnetism.”
“So, I guess the whole full-of-it thing is sort of a musicians prerequisite, huh?” Sam says before he can stop himself.
Gabriel stares at him for a long moment and then rolls his head to the side to smile at Nick.
“He’s sassy. Can we keep him?”
Luke grins. “I certainly hope so.”
Gabriel turns back to Sam, “I’m telling Cassy you called him full of it. It’s your fault if he cries. And I’m warning you, if he does it’s gonna be both sad and weirdly fascinating, like a box of three legged puppies.”
Sam can’t help laughing. “Alright, maybe he’s an exception.”
“So, Winchester-the-younger, where’s your brother?” Gabriel presses.
“Probably half way inside his transmission praying to whoever will listen that you don’t leave without him.”
“Oh, we won’t,” Gabriel assures.
“No,” Luke agrees, “Castiel is sullen enough as it is. And the last thing we want is him finding his way into the tequila again.”
“Was he looking forward to Dean working with you guys this summer?” Sam asks, wrinkling his brow.
“Do mattresses retain the smell of Jello?”
Sam stares, “I really don’t know how to answer that.”
“Stick around.” Gabriel winks, “We offer vast knowledge.”
Sam smiles, “Yeah, I’m getting that.”
“Are you watching the show?” Luke breaks in suddenly.
“What? Oh, yeah, I guess so.” Sam answers.
“You better,” Gabriel says. “It’s embarrassing to have a roadie who doesn’t even know what the band sounds like.”
“I’m not really a roadie.”
“Not yet,” Gabriel says, with an officially creepy look.
“Stop harassing our employee,” A gravelly voice cuts in as Castiel steps out around the corner.
Castiel’s the most unchanged from earlier that day. His hair is pushed out of his face but it’s still a mess. He’s wearing a white button up shirt and a plain black tie that Sam thinks might be backwards.
He has a black electric bass in one hand.
“Harassment is a relative term,” Gabriel insists.
“I don’t think the tech from Seattle would agree with you, Gabriel,” Castile chides, stepping closer to Sam, “I apologize if they’ve been bothering you. They require a frankly obscene amount of attention.”
Sam smiles, eyeing them. “Yeah, I noticed.”
“They get particularly demanding before shows. I should really lock them in the trailer for everyone’s safety.”
“Not if you value the sanctity of your shampoo.” Gabriel threatens, jumping down from the speaker finally and cracking his knuckles.
“We need to warm up,” Castiel says. “Review the set.”
Gabriel groans, “Everyone knows the set.”
“Don’t whine.” Luke says, stepping past Sam towards the others, “We’ll review.”
Castiel gives Sam one last nod and shoves Gabriel by his lower back towards the inner depths of backstage.
Luke stops before following them, turning back in Sam’s direction.
“I’d get a good seat now if I were you. You wouldn’t want to miss any intangible truths.”
He gives Sam one slow wink and a grin to go with it before turning to saunter after his brothers.
It turns out he was right. Apparently Misplaced Grace's music makes up for their shitty name because the space in front of the stage is jam packed.
And as far as crowds go, it’s a pretty active one. One girl is already getting tossed around on top of it. Wisps of chants pick up and fall off again. Whoops and shouts shatter through the dull roar as the tension grows higher and the time gets later.
Sam’s actually managed to use his shiny “CREW” badge to find himself a decent spot. There’s some space under the lighting console but above the main throng of the crowd where a few other techs and roadies are milling about, drinking beers, complaining about their groups and fawning over the music in equal measure.
Sam finds a good place aside from most of them to lean back and get comfortable. He’s close enough to the stage to see everything great. The instruments are waiting there, silhouetted against the darkness of the stage. He almost allows himself feel a sense of pride for the setup before he realizes how stupid that is. After all, Castiel tuned pretty much everything for him and he really only picked things up and put them back down. Still, screw it, maybe he is a bit proud.
“Hey, newbie!”
Sam turns. The mullet is approaching, complete with stoner smile and raised PBR.
“How’s the job?” Ash asks, squeezing in next to Sam and pushing a cold beer into his hand without asking if he wants it.
“Pretty straight forward. Lift the things. Deal with the douche bags.” Sam says. He looks down at the can for a moment before finally cracking it open and taking a deep gulp. It’s cold and cheap and exactly right.
Ash grins back at him. “There, see, you’re a pro already.”
“That’s all there is to it, huh?”
“Pretty much,” Ash says, stretching out his arms over the railing behind them and collapsing into the posture. “That and don’t drop the guitars. Or cellos. Or whatever. Oh, and if you hear what sounds like a strangled giraffe coming out of a tour bus, ignore it and walk quickly in the opposite direction.”
Sam laughs and takes another deep drink. “Thanks for the tip.”
“You don’t want to learn that lesson the hard way. Trust me on that.”
The lights suddenly shift on the stage, lifting up and then down again, cascading the stage into red. The crowd takes the noise level up to 11, cheering, and chanting, something…
“Lucifer! Lucifer! Lucifer!”
Sam snorts, “Are they expecting someone?”
“That’s what they call him.” Ash says, sipping his own PBR.
“Who?” Sam asks.
“Luke,” Ash answers.
Sam stares, “Seriously?”
Ash shrugs.
“Jesus,” Sam laughs, “And I didn’t think he could get any more pretentious.”
“It’s not as bad as when Gabriel tried to get them to call him ‘Lord of Mischief’.”
“No, I think it’s just as bad.”
“Fair enough.”
“Does Castiel get any clever nicknames, he doesn’t really seem like the type.”
“No, but some of his more intimidating fans did call themselves 'Followers of The Lord'. ”
The dark silhouettes of figures cross the stage and the chanting takes it up a notch as the lights lift, revealing the band as they ease into their instruments.
Castiel is actually behind a massive standing bass and Gabriel is adjusting a few strange things behind the drum kit.
Luke is looking down, fixing the strap on his acoustic a bit, apparently deaf to the crowd screaming out their names.
A little thrill starts to build in Sam’s chest. He can’t help it. The energy surrounding them is electric, bloated with anticipation and awareness, all attention riveted on these three figures in front of the crowd. He’s never really gotten music, but, well, there’s no denying that there’s something to the excitement filling up the space around them.
Castiel seems to get himself sorted and turns his eyes towards Luke, waiting for him to start. Sam glances behind them to see that Gabriel’s doing the same.
Luke takes a few steps closer to the microphone against the din of the crowd and then suddenly raises his hand.
Silence falls instantly.
Sam feels a small shiver snake up his spine but shrugs it off, taking a sip of beer and insisting to himself that he’s not impressed. Even if that was sort of awesome.
The silence holds, Castiel, Gabriel, the crowd, even Sam, all staring directly at Luke, and for an instant it’s as if the whole world is holding its breath.
And then he starts to play.
The first cord hits and instantly Gabriel picks it up, echoing out the driving simple rhythm as Cas backs it up, ramping up the intro and following the pace the guitar sets. .
The first few whoops sound from the crowd and then Luke’s stepping up to the microphone. He shuts his eyes, and starts to sing.
“I can’t make my mood match the weather
I can’t make the weather do what I want
so I’ve resigned myself to pry that big old sun out of the sky
and I will live my days in darkness til I die--
I tried to be good I was a failure
so I took to taking all the good men down
it wasn’t hard to do
I just huffed and puffed and blew
until all the two-shoes scattered underground,”
Castiel and Gabriel take the end of the verse and run with it, driving the intro up into the full body of the song.
In some distant part of his mind Sam’s sure that Cas’s fingers must be dancing over the strings with freakish speed and Gabriel’s stupid shirt is picking up brightness of the lights and sending sparkles all across the drums to the delight of their audience. He’s sure the crowd is shouting, cheering, throwing their hands in the air and urging them on.
But he doesn’t see any of that. He doesn’t hear any of that. Because the man on the stage is singing. And Sam doesn’t know why, doesn’t know how, but it’s impossible to look away.
He can’t blink. He’s not even sure if he’s breathing or not. He can’t really remember if breathing is somehow important to existence right now.
There’s nothing. Nothing but the sound of his voice.
He’s never heard anything like it. There isn’t anything like it. There can’t be.
“You could be right
they might come for me at night
in angry mobs with torches bright outside my door
for all my spite
I might never win the fight
but I will rage against the light forever more,”
“Oh my god.” He feels himself mutter.
Ash glances over in his direction with another sip of his beer, “I know, right. They’re not half bad.”
But he doesn’t know. He has no fucking idea.
They way he sings, it’s real. It’s more real than anything Sam has ever heard before.
Maybe there’s something in his drink. Maybe he went too long without water today. Maybe he sprained his brain lifting an amp too quickly. Something. He must have done something, because the sound of that voice is echoing against him, through him, and it’s so fucking beautiful and so fucking perfect that he’s having a hard time swallowing.
It’s just so full. Full of everything. It’s not just his voice. It’s him. All of him. He’s singing with his entire body, his entire soul. And it just feels so free. This asshole with ten varieties of superiority complex has completely and utterly given himself over to it, and it’s suddenly something completely different, something beyond, something ethereal.
And they’re just cheering, just clapping, like it’s just that fucking simple. And it’s not, it’s so much more than that.
It’s a soul. A single brilliant, blazing human soul, full of fury and glory and truth shoving itself out into the light with no shame, no restraint, and so much courage it burns.
Sam can’t look away, and the music swells.
“I drank the blood of angels from a bottle
just to see if I could call the lightning down
it hasn’t struck me yet
and I would wage my soul to bet
that there ain’t no one throwing lightning anyhow,
Too many tries at tempting fate to call it over
and you get to thinking fate’s got different plans
like maybe i’m not born to die
but to bring darkness to the sky
and pull that goddamn sun down anyway I can,”
His whole body is caught up in the sound, urging itself against the guitar, pressing tight and furious against the microphone. Every inch of him is straining against the pressure of this sincerity and reveling in the pure freedom of it.
It’s as if the music drapes itself around the singing form, slips and slinks into his skin, running down his limbs as he moves against it, rolling his hips, dropping his head, slamming shut his eyes to shove out even more.
The red of the stage lights suddenly brighten into white. The blue of his eyes snap directly onto Sam’s and it knocks the air out of him like punch.
“And oh the hopelessly tender hearted
tend to sing the loudest of love
but my sweet temptations turn their songs into a lie
I fold the grass over all they’ve started
to never see the light of the sun
as they dwell in darkness so shall I,”
He lets the guitar hang at his side, Castiel and Gabriel falling away with one final blow to leave nothing but his voice and the silence of the rapt crowd. Luke eases the speed of the song, letting the last chorus drag out of him slow and heavy.
“You could be right
they might come for me at night
in angry mobs with torches bright outside my door
for all my spite
I might never win the fight
but I will rage against the light forever more”
The crowd explodes into sound and suddenly Sam can think again. Up on stage Luke grins at the applause, nodding back to Castiel to shout a few quick notes and change his guitar as Gabriel knocks some new things into place.
Sam’s throat is dry and he can’t even start to sort out what the fuck is wrong with him. He brings the beer in his fist up to his lips and drains it in one long thick swallow.
When he lowers he can feel Ash staring at him.
“Another?”
“Yeah.” Sam says hoarsely. “Please.”
It’s just live music, he insists to himself, very decidedly not looking at the stage as the first few notes start for the next song.
He’s never even really been to a live show before. He didn’t know what to expect. It’s the energy of the crowd. The performance. Performance is a powerful ancient thing, there’s nothing weird about that. He’ll get used to it. He’ll calm down. The next song will be better.
The next song isn’t better.
Neither is the next one.
Or the next one. And another beer doesn’t help the situation much either.
Soon enough he’s leaning hard against the railing, hands gripping tight to the metal, stare unflinching on the stage, on the body pushing this sound, this feeling, out into the world. He knows his foot is tapping, matching the beat set by the one on the stage in front of him, but he stopped being totally aware of his body a while ago.
The music wraps around him, the sound of that voice humming through his body, setting him alight in a way he’s never felt before. He knows he should try to stop, insist to himself that it’s stupid and weird, but two beers later he isn’t even trying.
Sam soaks it in and it crashes into him again, each song a new impossible wave that he doesn’t understand and finds, in his drunken state, that he doesn’t want to try to.
After ten more songs it takes him a few minutes to realize that they’re leaving the stage, and then he screams till he’s hoarse with the rest of the crowd until they come back on.
There’s two more, and then, it’s over, and he’s not quite shameless enough to yell for more if no one else is. The crowd mills around just below him, trying to work its way to the next show. Sam stays where he’s left, leaning against the railing, wondering if he ever really heard silence with such clarity before.
“Good show, huh?”
Sam shakes himself, turning to face the grinning mullet behind him.
“Yeah.” Sam smiles weakly, “Good show.”
He stands up properly, knees aching for the first time, or maybe he’s just noticing it now. His head seems to be remembering how to work properly again, the world filling in all the empty spaces the sound of the music left behind.
Ash gives his shoulder a squeeze, “See you at tomorrow’s show?”
Sam grins, eyes suddenly heavy under the booze and exhaustion, “Yeah, absolutely. Definitely.”
“Good. Beer’s on you next time.”
“Deal.”
It turns out, breaking down the stage is a bit more demanding than setting it up, and four beers don’t exactly help the situation. At least he manages not to drop anything too heavy. Castiel pops back hardly ten minutes after they get started with the tear down and stays long to make sure Sam actually knows what he’s doing.
Sam hardly manages a “good show” (because isn’t that what you’re supposed to say) before Castiel vanishes to presumably wherever the rest of the band is getting drunk enough to sleep in as late as they apparently did that morning.
It’s almost 2AM by the time all’s said and done, and yeah, it probably would have been significantly earlier if Sam’d remembered where their equipment trailer was and hadn’t been forced to go around trying the key Cas gave him on twenty different ones before finally finding it. And it didn’t help that RV doors, as it turns out, can be absurdly hard to open when half unconscious and still bordering on tipsy. But he gets there, eventually.
The RV’s actually a bit smaller than he’d first thought, not that he can tell much in the dark, but he’s too exhausted to find a light switch and settles for stubbing his toe twice and banging his knee on the edge of the kitchenette before finally collapsing into the bed in the back, which is thankfully already made.
Sam kicks his boots off unceremoniously and has just enough energy to strip off his shirt and wiggle out of his jeans before crawling under the blankets and collapsing with a sigh.
He’s sore, truly sore, for the first time in a long time, and he has a feeling tomorrow is only going to be worse. It’s not that he’s not in shape. He is. Definably so. But, well, maybe there’s no real substitute for actual physical labor. That doesn’t matter right now, not when he has a solid day of work and four beers pushing his body deep into the uneven squish of the mattress.
Sam lets out one thick sigh and shuts his eyes, ready for sleep to crash into him.
But it doesn’t.
He tries rolling over once, twice. He tries sticking one foot out of the blankets and then tugging it back in. He shoves at the pillow until it’s an entirely different shape. He lies perfectly still and waits. But there’s nothing.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
It’s almost three in the damn morning and he’s exhausted and he can finally sleep and the fact that he can’t get the sound of that voice out of his head really, really, shouldn’t have anything to do with that.
He’s not thinking about that. Definitely not.
But why not?
Sam rolls over onto his back with a sigh. If it’s stuck in his head he might as well focus on it, right? Maybe if he pays attention it will stop crawling around in his skull and he can sort it out and go the fuck to sleep already. Just for a bit. Just to unstick it. It’s like having a song stuck in your head, right? You just have to hold one note and then it will fade away? That’s easy enough...
It’s all still so clear, like hitting play and the images and sounds snap to life under his shut eyes. The voice floods in all around him, the truth of it, the clarity, the utter commitment. It seems almost impossible that the guy hitting on him backstage with that pretentious presupposing smirk was the same person standing on that stage, the light flooded around him echoing that sound.
But it wasn’t just the sound. It was everything.
Sam lets all of it pour in. He can see him up there, one hand sliding down the neck of the guitar, eyes fallen shut with just a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. The blonde hair is pushed back from his face, messy and wild and totally undesigned. He can see a booted foot driving down on one note as his head slings back, fingers strumming down over the strings with quick fury. The beat slinks up but then the voice slows, eyes opening, blue catching so sharp in the stage lights, and those hips roll against the sound, belt just short of actually grinding into the back of the guitar—
Oh.
Sam’s eyes shoot open.
Fuck.
He keeps them locked very firmly on the dully lit white plastic ceiling above him.
If he doesn’t think about it it will go away, but even that stupid thought has his cock giving an interested twitch under the cheap blankets.
He shuts his eyes tighter.
Fuck. Fuck.
He does not have an erection. He can’t have an erection. He’s straight. Straight guys don’t get erections over dudes singing in tight t-shirts and rolling their hips against guitars. And fuck he really needs to stop thinking about that.
That’s it. That’s all. He’s going to stop thinking about it. And then he’s going to go to sleep.
Unless... this is the reason he can’t go to sleep.
No, that’s not it. Because he’s not gay, and it’s that simple.
But that’s kind of a stupid thing to think… isn’t it?
Is it really that weird? Is he actually “that guy”, the one who clings to some label like it’s something to hide behind? Sure, it’s never happened before. Well, not really. Some guys are attractive, that’s just nature, but not sexually attractive... not in a way that has him tight fisted on his back trying to bludgeon his brain into sleep.
Why should this guy be any different? Just hours ago Sam was staring down at him telling him to go fuck himself, and actually meaning it. Really, viciously meaning it. He wasn’t attracted to him then. Of course he wasn’t. Why would he be? Why would things be different now? Because he sang a few songs?
But it wasn’t just singing a few songs, was it…
There was something there. Something real and new - and undeniably, unavoidably hot.
There’s no point in denying that. It was hot. It was sexual in a strange and exhilarating way. And so what?
So he got turned on, who cares? Why should he care? There’s nothing wrong with it. He’s told Dean that more than enough times, scolded him for chucking gay insults around like they’re anything else (which is ironic given the fact that Dean’s the one who’s actually done stuff with dudes).
Sam doesn’t give a shit about other people’s sexuality. He never has. He’s just never…
Half curious to see if he’s actually going to stop himself, Sam lets one hand drift down his stomach. His eyes slip shut, replacing the dull ceiling with quiet darkness.
Huh.
Apparently he isn’t stopping himself.
At least not yet.
One finger eases under the waist band of his boxers. Then another. A song is slipping through his mind, that voice pressing into every opening.
Sam swallows once and steadily wraps his hand around his now undeniable erection. The relief of it sweeps across him almost as sharp as the fresh need it spurs. Short blond hair and hips under low slung jeans flash across his mind, and he brings his fist down once.
The gasp that pulls from his chest shocks his eyes open for an instant before the images press tight again and he shuts them firmly, dragging his hand up and down once more. And shit it feels good. It feels really, really good.
He hears that voice, his voice, singing out so strong and fearless, and then it’s closer, pressed tight and low against Sam’s ear and he can imagine his own hands snatching at those hips and bringing their rhythm tight agains his own.
“Fuck-“
Sam grits his teeth and flips over, supporting his weight on one elbow and setting a steady pace.
He can see a square jaw dropping limply open on the edges of notes, a tongue darting lazily out to wet lips before opening them again for more. He sees his own hands suddenly taking hold of the shoulders under that stupid shirt, gripping tight and shoving them down and eyes that just flash curious and hungry, daring, dauntless.
Sam drives his hips forward with sudden fury, gasping as his forehead rests heavy on his forearm, sticky and hot. He grunts shortly, tightening his fist around himself and fucking deep and hard into it, the slip of pre-come already more than telling of just how far gone he was with this before he even started.
He can feel the thin blankets slipping against his back and he grits his teeth. The voice is purring against him, saying so many things, things he can’t even believe are flying into his mind, and then Sam’s tightening his fingers in that blond hair and pressing his cock against those lips, feeling the hum of that voice around him as that mouth just takes it and takes it--
Sam gasps, eyes snapping open as his hips stutter forward and his orgasm staggers into him with a few quick blows. He lets his jaw fall open and eyes slip shut as he eases his hand back, the last images dragging the final pulses of pleasure down his whole body. His muscles hold tight and shaky for another moment as the sticky heat registers against his fist, and then he lets it go.
Sam rolls, flopping over to one side.
His eyes focus numbly back up at the ceiling, dull light playing against the white plastic, heavy breaths slowly steadying in his chest. Outside, he can still hear the hum of music lingering with the murmur of excited distant voices.
Well… maybe this summer would turn out interesting after all.