St Alban’s School of The Holy Trinity was a private institution for the children of the rich and religious. Their most notable extracurricular was their orchestra, which had won more competitions than it had members. It had earned itself the nickname “The Heavenly Host” for the angelic sound of its music, the suspicion that there must be divine intervention to be that successful, and the apparent trend for these rich-and-religious parents to name their kids after angels.
Having already swept the board at this year’s competition season, the school had this semester decided to run a “Community Inclusion” project. Or, as Dean put it, “look how nice we are, letting the poor kids play with our orchestra.”
Dean Winchester is here for several reasons (pandering to pretentious asshole rich kids not being one of them). His main excuse is that he’s here for Sam. Sam had actually wanted to be involved, get a chance to play at a level their public school just didn’t provide. He wasn’t a particular fan of classical music, but he wanted to make sure Sammy didn’t get stick for not being rich, and then the Host’s percussionist had broken a hand and somehow Dean was being moved from alright-on-a-drum-kit to heavenly-orchestra’s-timpani-player. Plus, it gets him out of double French on a Thursday afternoon.
He has to admit, there’s something really satisfying in the deep rumbles of the kettle drums. He’d had a crash course in reading the sheet music from Sam, and then it was really just hitting at the right time – which any monkey could do. He also likes that he’s at the back, and because the room has several levels he’s boosted up and overlooking the rest of the orchestra. On his peripheral vision he keeps an eye on Sammy, but his main focus – well it’s supposed to be on Chuck, the conductor, but instead his gaze is drawn to the left - in particular, to one of the guys on cello.
Cello guy is slight, with a shock of dark hair that’s mostly standing on end, and he’s kinda far away but Dean thinks he can make out bright blue eyes. The St. Alban’s suit uniform looks good on him, though the tie is on wonky - but then that might just be from where he’s been playing. And man, his playing. He’s completely absorbed, gazing intently at his music (except for when he looks up at the conductor) and he moves so naturally, so elegantly. It’s why Dean’s staring. The playing. Honestly.
The timpani haven’t kicked in yet and Dean’s pretty much zoned out of everything else. In fact, he would have missed his cue completely except that the music gets stopped when somebody else misses their entrance.
“Gabriel” says Chuck, “Horn pickup, where were you?”
Gabriel was looking forward to this community project thing. He didn’t have especially high hopes for the public school’s offering of musicians, but it would mean fresh bait for his pranks and would hopefully dilute the concentration of I’m-so-great elitist in the room.
He hasn’t had much chance for assessment yet, but he’s found himself sat behind a new kid on the flute. Well, he says kid; the boy must be some kind of half-sasquatch because he’s huge. The instrument looks like a twig in his hands. But he has to admit, the kid plays it with an unexpected grace. He knows this because he’s been staring at the back of him while waiting to come in.
He’d caught a proper look at the guy during the break, and it’d taken him all of two seconds to decide that he was hot. So now he’s sitting here trying to think of a non-sleazy way to talk to the guy. Because it tends not to go down well, especially if it turns out (as it often does) that the guy is straight. Unfortunately this isn’t easy for Gabriel – and it’s made worse by the fact this guy (Sam, he corrects himself, he’d heard him being called Sam) plays flute. I mean, there are just way too many innuendo provided by that. Blowing, fingering, length, the wood in woodwind and boy does he hope nobody is telepathic.
“Gabriel! Horn pickup, where were you?”
Shit, he missed his cue. He scrabbles around for a response, because you can’t exactly say “sorry I was staring at the hot guy on the flute instead of paying attention.”
What comes out of his mouth is “Well it’s kinda hard to see you conducting when there’s this big moose blocking my vision.”
Sam has no doubt that he is the “big moose” in question, what with the voice coming from close behind him and the flutists or either side of him being girls who probably don’t even hit 5’6”. Embarrassed, he tries to sink lower in his chair with little success. He can feel himself turning red as other players turn to look. He had hoped that, even if he would never really fit in here, he could at least not stand out. Apparently that was asking too much.
There are mutters, some sniggers, and Sam is resolutely not turning around to see who this “Gabriel” is. He just slumps silently waiting for them to be called back to attention.
“Hey, why don’t you just shift your chair round then? Or would that not leave enough room for your ego?”
And, great, now his brother is jumping into the situation; trying to fight Sam’s battles when there wasn’t even a battle to begin with.
“Oh, because you’d know all about that. Or maybe not. Those big drums compensating for something, kiddo?”
Before Dean can retort the conductor is saying “That’s enough, thank you. Gabriel, I expect you to treat our guests with a little more respect. Dean, please don’t let Gabriel provoke you.”
Sam knows Dean will want to answer back, so he twists round to give Dean a “please don’t make this worse” look. This basically means puppy-dog eyes because he knows they always work. Sure enough, Dean sullenly shuts his mouth and nods. Before he turns back around he sneaks a look at Gabriel. He’s smiling innocently up at the conductor, leaning exaggeratedly to one side so he can see past Sam. He has dark blonde hair swept back off his face, golden brown eyes and when he catches Sam looking, a smirk that’s half smug, half suggestive and fully satisfied with the trouble he’s caused.
It does not look hot. No. Not one bit.
Sam turns back around very quickly.