Dean, Sam, Castiel and Jo have all inherited their adopted Uncle Bobby’s theater, and it’s a grand old building. Old is the operative word. The electricity shorts out. There’s odd noises. Things keep moving around.
There’s no such thing as ghosts, Dean keeps insisting. He isn’t going to end up like his father, pretending to kill supernatural creatures. He has bigger things on his mind. Like Castiel, and the decades-spanning longing that will never die.
When their renovations reveal a secret room in the basement, everything he’s ever told himself was true quickly unravels, bringing him closer to the man he desperately loves.
Dean is so done with this phone call. Leaning back in his office chair, he watches an industrious spider spin a web across a corner of the ceiling as his father lectures him in an echoing, static filled voice. Sam lopes by the office door, notices Dean’s face, and raises an eyebrow. Dean sticks his thumb on his forehead, fingers splayed - the sign for “Dad”. Sam makes a face and leaves without further comment. Dean would like to flip him off, but can’t really blame him.
“I just think you should sell the place,” he’s saying. John’s voice is both tinny and fuzzy, like he’s on speaker for the world’s crappiest phone. “Like you did with that other building.”
Dean sighs. “Dad. None of us wanted to run a bar, and the money from The Roadhouse is helping us renovate the theater. Besides, they left the theater to all of us, so I only own a fourth.”
“Well what do you want with a theater for, anyway?” his father’s sneering tone says volumes.
“We’ve had this conversation. We had it in high school, then in college, and again after Bobby died. I feel like it’s overdone now. This is our home, and we’re happy here. Neither of us were suited for your um… life.”
“I would have settled for the Marines, dammit!” he hears John slam the horn for emphasis, and winces. Dean hopes he’s not drunk, driving, or both.
“Dad, gotta go. I’m late for the gay orgy. It’s my turn to bring the dildos, and I have a dress to pick up from the cleaners.” Dean hangs up on his father’s sputtering.
When he looks up, he finds that Castiel is leaning on the doorway, unlit cigarette rolling between his fingers. “I know you meant to piss your father off, but this show isn’t actually far off from that.”
Dean gets up and takes the cigarette away from Cas, flicking it into the garbage can. “Well. That just makes it better. You’re here early.”
Cas grins, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek, sending the old familiar thrill down his spine. It’s chased by a melancholy that he hides with a smile. Castiel chooses not to see it, as usual.
“Yeah, well, “ Castiel says, “Jo wanted to go over the choreography for the Time Warp. It’s just a jump to the left, but not everyone agrees on the definition of left.”
Jo passes through the hall, grabbing Cas by the ear as she does, forcing him to either go with her or suffer a painful fate. “C’mon handsome, stop torturing Dean.”
He rolls his eyes, closing the door to his office and sitting on the worn and oft-repaired couch. The room is his, but it still feels like it belongs to Bobby, from the smell of old wood oil to the dust that hangs in the light from the window.
Sam, Jo, Dean and Cas grew up in this old building, helping backstage and showing old folks to their seats. They hung out in the costume storage and the scene shop upstairs. The best memories of his life are filled with sawdust and makeup, as far away from his father and his delusions as possible.
