Castiel and the Phantom of the Opera [Destiel]

Chapter 13: Sing for your Phantom!

     It had been almost two weeks since Castiel had agreed to take part in Dean’s opera. Since then, he and Sam had hardly spoken. He knew that Sam had to have some kind of plan – why else would he let Castiel agree to be in the damn thing? Sam had to know something that Castiel didn’t, or had figured something out. Every time Castiel tried to speak to Sam alone or when to look for him, he was busy or nowhere to be found.

     The main cast as well as the chorus for Don Juan Triumphant was assembled on the stage for their regular afternoon practice. Castiel sat in the front row at the very end, furthest from the piano. His eyes were on Sam who was on the side of the stage, watching rehearsal with a guarded expression. Today is the day, Castiel told himself. After rehearsal, I will pull Sam aside and force him to speak to me.

     Monsieur Crowley began to play a tune on the piano. “Chorus, this is you!” he said before giving them the cue to begin their part.

“Hide our sword now wounded knight!

Your vainglorious gasconade

Brought you to your final fight

For your pride, high price you've paid!”

     Castiel took a deep breath and sang his own part without waiting for Monsieur Crowley to shout at him.

“Silken couch and hay-filled barn

Both have been his battlefield.”

     Then it came Raphael’s turn. Castiel flinched in preparation and closed his eyes as Raphael sang the first note. He was the reason they had to keep rehearsing this part over and over.

“Those who tangle with Don Juan—”

     Crowley let out an annoyed sigh and stopped playing. “No, no, no! Monsieur, here is the phrase!” He replayed the song up until Raphael’s part and sang it himself in a different pitch entirely.

“Those who tangle with Don Juan.”

     

     Raphael tried it again, and still failed to sing it in the right pitch. Castiel could tell that Crowley was beginning to lose his patience. “No . . . nearly, but no.”

     “Ugh!” Meta Tronne exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “His way is better – at least he makes it sound like music!”

     This earned a chuckle from Raphael and some of the chorus members, but it was a nervous one. It was as if they were afraid of invoking the Phantom’s wrath any more. “Monsieur Tronne,” Sam suddenly intervened. “Would you speak that way in the presence of the composer?”

     Meta Tronne looked at Sam stiffly. Castiel didn’t miss how nervous the diva seemed to be at the mention of the Phantom. He gulped before responding, “The composer is not here, and he were—”

     “Are you certain of that, Monsieur?” Sam cut him off with a finalizing glare.

     But Meta Tronne was not finished. “Why does it matter what notes we sing?” he prompted. “No one really cares!”

     “I CARE!” a voice erupted in the auditorium.

     Everyone went silent, then. No one even dared to scream. Castiel was rigid, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew that voice – knew it better than anyone. My Angel is here.

     “DO YOU HEAR ME?! YOU WILL PERFORM MY OPERA, AND YOU WILL DO SO IN THE RIGHT PITCH OR SO HELP ME GOD, I WILL MAKE THE IL MUTO PRODUCTION LOOK LIKE A CHILDISH PRANK!” Dean’s voice echoed off the walls of the auditorium.

     Castiel stood still, almost afraid that if he moved even slightly, Dean would call him out. He could feel his Angel’s searing gaze cutting through him and did everything he could to ignore it. A part of him longed to run to Dean now and wrap his arms around him and never let him go. But another part was telling him to run while he still could – flee and get as far away from this place as possible.

     “Castiel,” Dean’s voice sounded again. This time, it was softer; gentler. But there was an unspoken warning in it that Castiel could hear. It was almost as if Dean was tempting him to disobey whatever he was about to say. “Sing.”

     The boy remained where he was. The eyes of the chorus, Meta Tronne, Raphael, Crowley, and Sam were all glued to him, waiting to see what he would do. Castiel didn’t even open his mouth. He pressed his lips together in a thin line and looked at the floor.

     “Castiel!” Dean’s voice came again. “SING!”

     He refused.

     “SING YOU INSOLENT BOY! SING FOR YOUR PHANTOM!”

     Castiel said nothing in response.

     There was a painful silence, and the Dean’s voice came again. It boomed through the theatre like thunder and was ridden with so much anguish and rage that Castiel began to tremble. “I AM YOUR ANGEL OF MUSIC! I AM DYING, CASTIEL! SUFFOCATING HERE IN THE DARK! GIVE ME BREATH! GIVE ME LIFE! SING FOR ME, OR I WILL TAKE FROM YOU EVERYTHING YOU HAVE EVER LOVED!”

     The boy’s eyes widened. He couldn’t believe his ears. He knew that Dean was willing to go through great lengths, but . . . to hurt Castiel so directly. He never thought that Dean would do anything to hurt him . . . He thought. “No!” Castiel shouted in response. He was on his feet now, staring up at Box 5 where he knew his masked tormentor probably looked. “No, you can’t!”

     “Oh, but I can, Castiel,” Dean’s voice purred. He seemed delighted that he had gotten some kind of reaction out of him. “A man as hideous as this is capable of anything, believe me.” And then, Dean began to laugh. It started out as a dark, maniacal chuckle but then morphed in to something demonic and terrifying. It sounded as if Dean really was more demon than man.

     And Castiel became afraid again. His fear overpowered any other emotion he had for Dean. He needed to get out of here – he needed to escape from this prison. Without warning, he jumped up from his seat and sprinted off the stage.

     “CASTIEL!” Sam called after him, but he ignored the choreographer. He had to get out. He had to escape this madness. Grabbing a cloak, Castiel clumsily made his way out one of the back exits of the opera house. He made his way around to the back where he knew a small stables was located.    

“Excuse me, monsieur,” he said approaching a middle-aged man standing in front of one of the horse stalls.

     The man smiled warmly at him. “What can I do for you, lad?” he asked, holding out a hand to shake.

     Castiel shook it swiftly before slipping him a few francs. “Can I take one of your horses? I’ll return it, but right now I need to leave. I’ll be gone a few hours tops.”

     “Alright,” the man said, counting the francs in his hand. “I suppose you can. Are you sure you don’t want me to get the carriage out for you?”

     “No, that’s alright,” Castiel assured, opening the nearest stall. “It’s faster this way.”

     With the man’s help, Castiel saddled up a dark bay gelding in about five minutes. Honestly, Castiel was a little surprised that Sam hadn’t come outside looking for him. Maybe he had given up . . . Or maybe he ran into Dean. The thought made him shudder. I have to get away from here . . . There’s only one place I know to go to . . .

     As Castiel mounted the horse, he shivered, but it was not from the biting winter wind. He urged the horse forward into a canter and headed in the direction of the cemetery just outside of the city.