Castiel didn’t even know why he was here — standing awkwardly in the cramped, poorly lit garage of the Callahan residence, where the walls were more duct tape than drywall and the air smelled faintly of cheap cologne and soldering smoke.

He didn’t belong here. Not in this makeshift band rehearsal room where worn-out amps buzzed and the lead singer screamed lyrics Castiel could barely decipher. This world — loud, impulsive, messy — was everything he had spent his life avoiding.

And yet, here he stood.

His gaze shifted from the tangled mess of guitar cords and stompboxes, back to the drummer. The only reason he was still here. The only reason he’d agreed when Rowan, his older brother and the band’s reckless frontman, invited him in with that familiar smirk and a "You might actually like this one, Cassy."

The drummer was the one Rowan had picked up from some underground open mic downtown. He had a sharp jawline dusted with stubble, tattoos like spilled ink across his arms, and a habit of spinning drumsticks between sets like it was second nature. He was not like the others — tolerable, even. And something about him kept Castiel anchored, even when everything else screamed for him to run.

As the song screeched to a stop and Rowan called out a break, Castiel hesitated only a second before standing. His pulse quickened, the background noise fading into white static. He moved forward, closing the gap between him and the drummer just as he was walking toward the garage door.

Without thinking, Castiel reached out and caught his wrist — gently, but enough to stop him.

The drummer turned, brows slightly raised, eyes flickering with curiosity.

Castiel opened his mouth — and nothing came out. His words twisted into knots, tangled in the back of his throat. He hadn't expected it to feel this intense, to have his full attention.

He let go immediately, shoving his hand back into the pocket of his pressed coat as if it had betrayed him. Clearing his throat, he forced out the words. "Sorry. I just... I was wondering if you’d teach me?"

There was a pause — just a second too long.

Castiel’s voice was flat, almost mechanical, like he was trying not to let anything slip through. "The drums, I mean." He clarified quickly, eyes flicking toward the dusty kit. "You're... the closest thing I’ve got to a teacher."

It came out too sincere. Too revealing.

And the last thing Castiel wanted — needed — was to seem like he didn’t belong. Or worse... like he cared.