Work Text:
There were many things Dean regretted. This was one of them.
Dean Winchester once sat at his mother's knee in the basement of their house and watched her play Beethoven and Debussy and Mozart. When he was three, his fingers stumbled around the C Major scale and he giggled as his mothers hands guided him through the notes, brightly intoning the names. C D E F G A B C, Do Re Me Fa Lo Te Do. He would lisp along with her as she said them, clumsy hands imitating his mother's. When he was four, his mother slowly guided his hands through a simple rendition of Hey Jude, singing softly along with Dean’s watery, off-key lilt. John would sometimes lean against the doorway with a cup of spiked coffee and a peace offering of cookies, because playing piano was Mary’s safe place and often meant his parents were arguing, if the lessons were impromptu.
But Dean was barely four, and only understood the bare basics of the ABC’s and knew the black and white keys of the piano better than he knew to count to ten.
When Dean was four and a half, his father sold the piano. Around watery cries and pleadings, please daddy, please don’t get rid of the piano please it’s mommy’s please, John would sneer around his grief and send Dean off to watch over Sammy. Dean cried as he fed Sammy his icky green paste, and pointedly ignored it when John left a plate of cookies (not baked like Mommy made, store bought, no love in them, no laughter in them) on Dean’s nightstand. The next day, the piano was gone, and so were the cookies and the light in Johns eye. Sammy cried, and Dean did his best to forget about the emptiness in his gut without the piano patiently waiting in the basement. Dean didn’t talk after that.
When Dean was five, and John desperately needed a babysitter, he spent most of his time with a kindly old lady who would bake him pie when he was sad and taught him all the things that Mary couldn’t. Dean would speed his way through all her lessons with determination, wanting to remember the only thing he was allowed to inherit from his mother.
When Dean was six, John found out about the lessons and roughly grabbed his son and hopped town, making Dean promise to never touch piano keys ever again.
Through his teary, green eyes that he got from his mother, Dean nodded, eyes longingly trailing after the curve of the Grand Piano Ms. Lovebug (“That’s a funny name,” Dean whispered tentatively, the first words he’d said in a while) owned.
When Dean was eight, his grade 2 teacher noticed him staring at the piano, and took on teaching him during recess. Dean never told his father, and John never found out. They stayed there for two years, before the CPS caught wind of how skinny Dean was.
When Dean was 12, he found a music room in the local community center. A musician there found delight in Dean’s obvious passion, and took to teaching him whenever he could. Dean learned Beethoven there, and fell in love with the work all over again. Mr. Debussy (“Like the composer?” Dean asked, grinning cheekily. “Yes, Dean, like the composer.” Said Mr. Debussy with the patience of a man who was asked that question a lot.) was kind where John was cold, and Dean found comfort in the man’s immaculate upkeep. It reminded him of home and Mary.
When Dean was 15, they left Minnesota with a lead on The Thing That Killed Your Mother Dean, This Is More Important Than Your Basketball Coach, and that was the last time Dean splayed his fingers across the piano.
When he was 26, and his father went missing, Dean had all but forgotten about the way his fingers flowed and danced across the peppered canvas that was the piano.
Dean Winchester had long since lost his passion for music, buried deeply underneath his molded bravado and confidence. He’d repressed the memories, things like the name of his babysitter when he was six, and the irony of Mr. Debussy’s name. He’d all but forgotten the hum of his mother’s guidance and and the gentle pressure of her hands bringing his to the correct notes.
But he never forgot the tone and lyrics of Hey Jude and Carry On My Wayward Son as Mary played to him until he fell asleep on her lap.
He never forgot the satisfaction of how his fingers would reach a crescendo point and drop into a definite ending.
Dean Winchester didn’t play the piano.
It just wasn’t in a Winchester’s blood.
-
When Dean was 31, he met Zachariah.
Dean Smith went to Ivy League, Stanford, and had grown up in a penthouse with his musician single mother. He never knew that his mother changed her name two times since he was born--from Campbell to Winchester to Smith. (Because Smith was just so inconspicuous, right?) Dean Smith grew up learning the ins and outs of just about any instrument he could get his hands on, but inevitably chose to go into business instead.
Dean Smith was a master at the piano, and also knew violin and guitar and the harp of all things. (Really, Smith, really?)
Dean Smith knew all the statistics and all that was needed to know about trades and investments and how to save money and still look rich. Dean Smith had graduated from not only one of the highest grade Secondary Schools in the country, but had went to Harvard for almost 10 years.
Dean Smith was all that Dean Winchester knew he wasn’t, and it made him feel insignificant and disgusted at the same time.
But there was one thing that Smith and Winchester shared, and that was their passion for piano.
When Zachariah pressed two fingers to Dean’s forehead, Dean Smith remembered what it was to be a Winchester, and Dean Winchester knew what it was to be a Smith.
Zachariah couldn’t have known.
He wasn’t human.
And so Dean flexed his fingers as they ached to find a piano, ached to play something, anything, and snarked his way through the conversation.
The next day, he found the closest community centre.
Met eyes with the thin, wiry frame of someone he knew maybe 120 years ago. (Thirty, plus thirty, plus forty--wait--that’s a hundred.)
“Mr. Debussy.”
“Dean.”
-
Dean sat awkwardly on the bench before the piano, fingers shaking.
“Well?” Mr. Debussy--he had to be going on fifty now--raised a brow. “Are you going to show me what you’ve learnt, or not, Dean?”
Taking a deep breath, Dean relaxed. (Loose thumb, keep your fingers relaxed if they’re not pressing on a key, Dean, don’t let your joints collapse, come on Dean, just relax.)
He played beautifully, muscle memory only half confused at the weird dimension-hop Zachariah created, and his mind was more than willing to fill in the gaps.
The soft singing of his mothers voice, the rough husk of Ms. Lovebug’s guiding instructions, it all came rushing back. Dean’s breath hitched and he really started moving, fingers practically dancing, never missing a beat, never faltering.
When he forgot the notes, he improvised, and Mr. Debussy didn’t seem to mind, just watched intently as his once-apprentice played like one of the best.
When Dean’s playing finally trickled into the conclusion, eventually slipping into a longing end, Mr. Debussy started clapping.
“Bravo, Little Apple. Very good.”
Dean suppressed a grin at the long-forgotten nickname, instead rolling his eyes dramatically and flicking Mr. Debussy’s shoulder.
“I told you to stop calling me that, Mr. D.” Dean complained, but his eyes were alight in a way that hasn’t been since he returned from Hell, and though Mr. D never knew how broken Dean was before he started to play again, he grinned back.
“Well, young’un,” Mr. D leaned forward, shuffling through the papers. “You’ve certainly improved since you were struggling with Fur Elise.”
Dean grinned, “Would you believe, Mr. D, that I haven’t played in years?”
It was true, even for the Smith side of him that was slowly fading into the back of his mind. Dean wondered absently if Sam remembered being Wesson or not. What Wesson’s life was like.
“Well, it doesn’t show.” Mr. D placed a composition in front of him. “Let’s see if you remember how to read notes.”
Dean scoffed, looking back to the paper. Moonlight Sonata, Beethoven. Eyes wide, Dean looked up at his mentor, and, though he loath to admit it, friend. Mr. D gave him a roguish smile and gesture to the piano. ‘Well?’ His voice echoed in memory, ‘Aren’t you gunna play, boy?’
Dean smiled tentatively, ‘Of course, teach. That’s our language, ain’t it?’
Then he turned to his peppered canvas, and spoke for the first time in decades.
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