<title>Everybody’s Got A Hungry Heart</title>
<description><div class="npf_row"><figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="810" data-orig-width="540"><img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/712f275ffc3a184a328f571df2553731/c70055446d3e82c7-26/s640x960/a3e5789e139d3526372a56a80a173ff11f1a931e.png" data-orig-height="810" data-orig-width="540" srcset="https://64.media.tumblr.com/712f275ffc3a184a328f571df2553731/c70055446d3e82c7-26/s75x75_c1/931f44fea7f1cb4f1e34a937c8705b898761d2e3.png 75w, https://64.media.tumblr.com/712f275ffc3a184a328f571df2553731/c70055446d3e82c7-26/s100x200/89707b4f0db08777fba61388833607aabaa43173.png 100w, https://64.media.tumblr.com/712f275ffc3a184a328f571df2553731/c70055446d3e82c7-26/s250x400/86a119de2f511816849e795a12fda4d06dc0485a.png 250w, https://64.media.tumblr.com/712f275ffc3a184a328f571df2553731/c70055446d3e82c7-26/s400x600/8b1a48a0d43b4ceb8454e088f64ecdb8adffedf3.png 400w, https://64.media.tumblr.com/712f275ffc3a184a328f571df2553731/c70055446d3e82c7-26/s500x750/591cd34beb5d825fe357e106d08e31b8376a26a1.png 500w, https://64.media.tumblr.com/712f275ffc3a184a328f571df2553731/c70055446d3e82c7-26/s540x810/d337e75da93877832587b4053cbc76c1fbe4ab9c.png 540w" sizes="(max-width: 540px) 100vw, 540px"/></figure></div><p><br/></p><p><b>Everybody’s Got A Hungry Heart</b><br/>Dean Winchester/Castiel<br/>Rated T (mostly for swears)<br/>Wordcount: 18k, complete<br/><br/><i>for <a class="tumblelog" href="https://tmblr.co/MPLmbeLZDVxFREZCrhqwc6g">@</a></i><a class="tumblelog" href="https://tmblr.co/MPLmbeLZDVxFREZCrhqwc6g">pimentogirl</a></p><h2><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/37329760">Read on Ao3</a></h2><p><b>Summary</b>: A second-generation rock star struggling with creative burnout, Dean is willing to try just about anything to get his mojo back. Even hiring a weirdo mysterious journeyman music producer recommended by his brother’s witchy folk idol ex. </p><p><b>Tags</b>: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Alternate Universe - Show business, Rock Star Dean Winchester, Music Producer Castiel, Fluff and Mild Angst, Slow Burn, Explicit Shostakovich Content, Dean Winchester POV.</p><h2>Excerpt:</h2><p>Dean is jumpy as shit. Why one (possibly Icelandic?) <i>beep-boop</i> specialist has him on edge while Mick Jagger’s own vocal coach barely got his heart rate over 55bpm is a goddamn mystery. Maybe it’s the <i>harp solos</i> from that sample track; maybe Dean’s nervous that this is his last shot, and if this guy can’t save Dean from filling out the back end of his contract with “Best Of” and “Live In Concert” compilations, he might as well walk into the fucking sea.</p><!-- more --><p>Castiel saves Dean’s life at dinner, which is pizza and a very grudging house salad from the most normal place Dean can slip past Sam.</p><p>The real pisser is that it’s not even a good story, as near-death experiences go. A stray bullet doesn’t bust through a window and nick Dean in the carotid; Castiel does not put pressure on the wound and yell “stay with me, dammit” until paramedics arrive. No falling marble, heart attacks, accidental ODs, or jumping-into-the-pool-from-the-roof. Sam just says something mildly funny and Dean tries to breathe some hot Italian sausage (shut the fuck up) and chokes.</p><p>Crowley’s not there – he’s vaping out on the side lawn and probably catching bugs in his mouth to replace the human blood he usually drinks. Dad’s dead; Mom is extra dead. Bobby’s home in South Dakota probably asleep in front of the TV. Sam’s…not actually great when it comes to split-second emergencies. He always gets that spinny hourglass kind of look on his face, and in the long, slow milliseconds where Dean’s dying of meat, he thinks <i>it’s gonna be real fucking funny when he and Eileen have a kid and she goes into labor, he’s probably gonna slam the car door on his own hand.</i></p><p>Then Castiel steps behind him and balls his fists under Dean’s ribcage and does the Heimlich thing like that’s why they hired him. The meat magically caroms out of Dean’s airway and across the table, and then Dean is just generally disgusting and pathetic for a few minutes while Sam wigs out and Crowley takes a photo.</p><p>Afterwards, Dean offers Castiel a drink, which he turns down in favor of another glass of tap water, as if he has not just rescued Dean from being Us Weekly’s “Gone Too Soon” cover of the month.</p><p>“I hope I didn’t bruise your ribs,” Castiel says. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done it, and never on anybody tall.” He’s around Dean’s height, maybe a few years older, a guy on the “interesting” end of the handsome spectrum (Lisa once said Dean was made in a “handsomeness lab,” which feels 1% worse every time he remembers it). If Castiel hadn’t just contracted every muscle in his body against Dean’s back and ass, Dean wouldn’t think the guy was particularly built – it doesn’t help that he’s dressed like a Mennonite accountant who’s recently lost weight and hasn’t had time to drop by the Men’s Wearhouse to size down. He’s taken off the jacket, at least, but he’s still wearing an actual fucking necktie in a room full of denim.</p><p>“You save a lot of people from choking?” Dean wheezes. It would be real cool if this has blown his voice.</p><p>“You’re my third. I also rescued a boy from drowning when I was sixteen.” Castiel has his hands in his pockets, casually admiring the wild pink sunset shaking itself out over the pool. “Residential pools are incredibly dangerous,” he says, like it’s a compliment.</p><p>There’s not a lot more after that. Castiel is still on <i>Iceland time </i>and it’s hard to get it up for chitchat or shop talk after you’ve all felt the cold touch of death over cheesy breadsticks. Sam offers to show Castiel out to the casita – not that there aren’t plenty of guest rooms in the main house, or that he’s being exiled or anything, but he won’t have to worry about running into the staff there, or a pantless Dean before coffee.</p><p>Castiel is shouldering up one of his exactly two modest bags when Dean catches him. “Hey, I listened to the tracks you did for Rowena. Really good stuff.”</p><p>Castiel smiles, a small, tired, but authentic one. No teeth, no golly shucks, no blush. “Thank you,” he says. “She’s a unique talent. Working with her was quite an experience.” He lifts his hand in a little “see you in the morning” gesture and Dean returns it, jamming his spare hand in his back pocket like he’s got leather ranch gloves back there and now he’s gonna go out and bring the cows in before nightfall.</p><p>Dean can smell Crowley hovering camphorously behind him. “That was a sick burn, right?” he asks, looking back. “Super polite mode?”</p><p>“The sickest,” Crowley agrees, cooly. Then he scuttles up the staircase for the night, whistling Eddie Cochran’s opening riff on <i>Three Steps to Heaven. </i>Or maybe it’s <i>Queen Bitch.<br/><br/></i><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/37329760">Read the full story on AO3</a></p></description>
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<pubDate>Wed, 23 Feb 2022 16:33:17 -0500</pubDate>
<category>destiel fanfic</category>
<category>deancas</category>
<category>pallasperilous fic</category>
<category>profoundnet</category>