Work Text:
Dean had just been to the worst concert of his life. So terrible, he demanded Charlie take him to the closest bar and drown out his disgust and maybe make out with someone in a poorly lit corner while he queues the jukebox with an hours worth of classic rock.
"It was terrible, Charlie! Those douche bags only knew how to play four chords! Have you even heard any of their music before tonight?" He knocked back another two fingers of whiskey and grit his teeth. Luck of the well was not with him tonight, but at least it was serving its purpose.
"I got free tickets from work, I thought it was worth a shot." Charlie smirked as she sipped a fruity martini. "Besides, the music may have been awful, but you have to admit they were pretty sexy. I might be a lesbian, but I would have gladly jumped ship for that guitarist. Talk about dreamy."
Dean rolled his eyes, waving down the bartender for refill. “Regardless. Being a hottie doesn’t mean you can stroke off a guitar and call yourself a musician.”
"Oh, I’ll bet you wouldn’t mind him strok-"
"Shut up! Shut your mouth and drink your drink."
Charlie laughed and dug through her purse, pulling out a crisp ten dollar bill and waving it Deans face. “Don’t be such a sour puss, go put on AC/DC or something.”
"You can’t buy my love, Bradbury." He plucked the bill from her outstretched hand and hopped off the bar stool. "But I am still going to take your money."
He meandered through the late evening crowd, daring a wink at the handsome bearded gentleman in the fisherman’s cap before sidling up to the jukebox. Yes, all he needed were some sweet tunes and he would be in full-throttle seduction mode.
Dean queued up a proper mood setting list and turned on his heels, a grin tugging at his lips as the opening rift of Thunderstruck pounded through the crowd. He was making a beeline for the man when a movement in the corner caught his eye. The door had swung open and small line of patrons filed through the door, including one previously bemoaned blue-eyed guitarist.
"That son of a bitch!"
That came out much louder than Dean intended and managed to catch the blue-eyed son of a bitch’s attention. Dean set his face into a stony expression, the rush of AC/DC taunting his adrenaline as he strode over to other man. He was pissed and he was going to tell him what he thought of that bastards piss poor performance right to his beautiful fucking face.
"Your band sucks! Just who do you think you are?!" Dean thought maybe he could have been more eloquent and maybe given some examples to back up his opinion, but he supposed that could work for starters.
Blue eyes just ginned and gave a throaty chuckle. Wow, okay, no wonder the guy didn’t sing his voice sounded like breathed rocks and was doing strange things to Dean’s body.
"Everyone’s a critic. The name's Castiel." He eyed Dean up and down, he face still in a state of amusement. He seemed too relaxed, like maybe Castiel knew he was a crappy musician and was just super Zen about it. He was certainly dressed like a hippie, all baggy jeans and half buttoned shirt, flaunting his impeccably toned chest. Deans snapped his eyes back up, catching Castiel's coy look and hoping his face was warming only from the whiskey and nothing else.
"Yeah, and I want my money back." Dean puffed out his chest, which he swore he did to be intimidating, but maybe it came off as inviting.
"Uh, Dean, we didn’t pay for them." Dammit, when did Charlie get here? He had been so focused on Castiel that Dean forgot he was standing in the middle of half-full bar, effectively causing a scene.
"Well, Dean," Castiel was suddenly much closer, leaning his firm body against Deans side, an arm snaking around his waist and clearly violating Deans personal bubble, much to his sudden delight. "I guess I’ll just have to find some other way to make it up to you."
"You’ve been thunderstruck!"
Castiel does sing, Dean finds out the next morning, but only in the shower.