It's Wednesday again (...okay, technically it's Thursday...), which means it's time for Writing Prompt Wednesday! This week's theme is "music/musician AUs."
What is Writing Prompt Wednesday?
Writing Prompt Wednesday is a feature I run on my Tumblr. Followers, readers and friends suggest themes for AUs, and I come up with a list of prompts based on the suggested them. Then, based on those prompts, anyone who wants to join in writes up a short story (or a long story, I guess) and posts it to Tumblr (or AO3, or wherever) and tags it Writing Prompt Wednesday!
You can read more about Writing Prompt Wednesday, and read this week's entries, at my tumblr, unforth-ninawaters.
This week, I chose this prompt:
We all met for the first time when the studio brought us together and promised us we'd be the next Backstreet Boys AU
"Hey-o, I'm Garth!" The slim boy grinned widely, ears like open car doors, looking far too gawky and awkward to possibly fit the casting criteria.
He must sing amazingly. Sounds like a tenor.
Garth grabbed Castiel's hand and shook it enthusiastically. Bemused, Castiel could do little but shake back. "Um, hi. Castiel Novak," he managed, though the boy didn't seem to be paying attention, he'd already moved on to the third boy in the room – or man, perhaps, everyone present were at that uncertain in between age where they still looked young but might be anywhere from barely eighteen up to their mid-20s. Castiel was 19.
Taking the next hand down the line, Garth shook that one just as eagerly, a black youth who gave Garth a stink eye and didn't say a word. The fourth was a curvy young woman who easily dodged back from Garth's enthusiastic greeting. "I'm Jo," she said in a voice that promised she'd belt every high note loud enough to resound through even the largest concert venues. Castiel felt a tingle of excitement – the woman's tone named her a mezzo-soprano, probably, Castiel was a baritone, Garth might be a tenor, the black man probably a base. They should sound awesome together.
An older man in a finely cut gray suit came in. Despite his formal garb, he looked out of place in the posh, sleek, black and white furnished meeting room, his skin pocked, his hair slicked back. "Bobby Singer," he said without preamble. Judging by everyone's nods, Castiel wasn't the only one already familiar with their producer. "Our trouble maker is already late. Fantastic."
"It's awesome to meet you in person, Mr. Singer," gushed Garth. "I'm Garth and..."
"I know who ya are, idjit," Singer interrupted gruffly. Garth chortled good-naturedly, gave up on trying to shake hands with the disinterested executive, and opted to manically pace the room. Oh, he's going to be great fun at rehearsals. But I bet he'll be electric on a stage... Singer took a folder from under his arms and studied it intently.
The contest had been national, the object simple: submit a video of yourself singing your heart out, the lucky winners to be assembled into the Next Big Thing. No, seriously, that was going to be the group's name. It was absurd, sure, but it was also a chance at fame. Castiel assumed a committee meeting had poured over the submissions, choosing not only those with the best voices but also those with personality, those who would look good standing on a stage or filming a music video, those whose voices would meld well.
"Wait, I know you," said the dark-skinned man abruptly, looking at Jo. "You're from that YouTube thing, Harvelcapella, right?"
Jo flushed. "Yep, that's me. Just some friends and I screwing around. If I'd known it would go viral I'd have come up with a better name."
"You guys are pretty good," the man managed to make that sound like the highest praise he could possibly bestow, and Jo flushed darker, cheeks starkly dark against her pale blonde hair.
"We all tried out," she said. "I was really hoping, if I made it, that Ash would make it to."
"We offered," said Singer absently, not looking up from what he was doing. "He said no thanks, so we moved on." Jo looked stunned by the news and didn't say anything.
The door opened and a fifth youth came in: slim, hair slicked back, green eyes giving them a guarded look from behind femininely long eye lashes, an over-size leather jacket hanging casually open.
"Finally," said Singer, rolling his eyes. "Alright. We don't have much time today – you five will have the chance to do all the meeting and greeting with each you could want over the next month, 'cause you're not going home 'til the studio gets something we can use from you. This contest cost a hell of a lot of money to put on, and if we don't get results quick, the buzz will wear off before you idjits ever produce a single song. So, quickly around, I think you've all met Garth Fitzgerald already; this here is Jo Harvelle; Victor Henriksen; Castiel Novak; and our late arriving prima donna is Dean Winchester."
"Hey!" said Dean. Castiel had expected someone else with a higher voice – that was the usual spread for a group like this – but instead Dean's voice was gruff and low, unusually deep for a boy so young. It sent a shiver down Castiel's spine as he imagined that voice in harmony with his, how well they'd sound together. The studio execs had picking performers down to a science. Now that he'd heard everyone speak, he hadn't a doubt that they'd mix excellently – unusually, too, a darker sound than the usual pop that teen groups produced. That might be interesting, though in truth Castiel couldn't care less what they sang as long as he never had to apologize to another old biddy that he was no longer a perfect eleven year old choir boy soprano. The change in his voice when he'd hit puberty had been a sore disappointment to his entire congregation, but Castiel had refused to let that deter him from his dreams. His parents had threatened to disown him for coming to the studio, said that if he signed the contract he'd be misusing God's gift for his own gains. Even the danger of losing his family hadn't deterred him. They were going to disown him for something sooner or later, and all things considered he'd rather it be a result of him making it big as a vocalist than because he was gay. The Next Big Thing was the chance of a lifetime, and Castiel had to take that chance.
"Are you planning to join us, Mr. Novak?" asked Singer dryly. Everyone was staring at him. Coloring hot with embarrassment, Castiel nodded and reached out to take the paper that Singer was offering his way. "For the benefit of those in the back of the classroom not paying attention, I'll repeat – this is your last test. Yes, we do have Option B's for each of you waiting in the wings. Look this over, take it back to your hotel rooms, learn your parts, come back tomorrow, and we'll record. If I like what I hear, you're all signed. If I don't, you're back down to the small time. Remember, this ain't just about if you can sing – we expect you to work together, harmonize; we also expect you to learn quick and accurate and apply yourselves. If y'all want to meet up and work together, that's your business – as long as it sounds good, I could care less how you get there. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," Castiel said promptly. He colored even more darkly as simultaneously the others greeted Singer's announcement with "uh huhs" and "yups" and a casual "whatever" from Dean, tone belied by the intense way he was studying the sheet of music in his hand. Dean's eyes looked up, damn were they green, he caught Castiel looking at him, and before Castiel could look away, Dean winked at him and his heart gave an embarrassing flutter.
No. This is my whole career, my whole life. I don't have time for a crush.
A knock on Castiel's door pulled his attention from the music he'd been intently studying for hours. He nearly told the person to come in before he remember it was a hotel room and the door was locked. Disoriented, he got up and opened the door to be greeted by Dean, leaning casually against the door frame, clearly doing his damnedest to look like a bad boy. No amount of posturing could mask his boyish cuteness, though, and Castiel could swear there was something vulnerable hiding behind his roguish smile.
"Hey there, angel," said Dean. Castiel grimaced at the nickname.
"Don't call me that," he said, bristling. "My name is Castiel." 'Angel' was what his church had called him, how they'd marketed him when they'd dressed him up in robes and had him sing solo on psalms and Christmas carols, when they'd sold albums all over the world. At the time, Castiel had been happy to do the work, but that had changed when their pastor was arrested for embezzling the sizable funds earned from the sales and performances that Castiel had devoted years of his life to. Pastor Zachariah had gone to prison, but the money was never recovered.
"Why not? That's what they used to call you, right? What's a good boy like you doin' going the whole sex, drugs and rock and roll route?" asked Dean, casually stepping past Castiel's lame attempts at blocking entry into the room. He looked over his shoulder with a mischievous grin. The late afternoon sunlight streaming through the large deck windows seemed to halo his head, making Dean look like he was the angelic one.
"You've heard of me," Castiel sighed. "Look, can we not have this conversation right now? I need to learn my part for the song. Anyway, who said anything about sex and drugs? I'm here for the rock and roll, that's it."
"Well, ain't that a pity," said Dean irreverently. "Oh, come on, lighten up. That's what I'm here for!"
"You're here for sex?" Castiel asked in strangled tones, his heart skipping a beat. A small, horny, long-denied part of him whispered that wouldn't be so bad, and Castiel repressed it mercilessly. Not the time, not the place, not the person.
"Woah, hold your horses," said Dean, putting his hands up defensively. He actually looked alarmed at the prospect. Definitely not the person, Castiel thought sadly, making a note of the homophobic reaction. "I'm here for the rock and roll, just like you. I figured, from what I know of you, you probably had your part down already – thought you might like to practice together."
" 'What you know of me?' "
There was a long, awkward pause. All the bravado seemed to drain from Dean, his shoulders slumped, he turned away but not before Castiel caught a hint of a pained, sad expression tightening his eyes. By the time Dean slouched into one of the large sofas in the room, the look was gone, replaced with a cocky smile that rang false.
"Figures you don't remember me," said Dean, trying and failing to keep hurt from his voice.
Frowning, Castiel looked at the boy, crossing to join him. Though Castiel had traveled a fair amount during his time in the All Saints Church Choir, this was by far the lushest room in the finest hotel he'd ever stayed in. Nearly the size of the entire first floor of the house he'd grown up in, it was divided into a sleeping area with a bed so big Castiel couldn't convince himself it was 'only' a king sized, a seating area with a sofa and loveseat surrounding a coffee table and facing a TV, and enormous sliding doors that let in the sunlight and led out onto a private balcony overlooking a beautiful courtyard. Nothing stirred in Castiel's memory, no hints surfaced how he might know Dean, nothing triggered no matter how he searched his memory for the name and handsome appearance.
"I'm sorry," Castiel shrugged uncomfortably, dropping on to the loveseat. "I don't."
"Well, it don't matter," Dean lied. "Come on, let's nail this baby."
"We're still talking about music, right?"
"Yes, Cas, we're still talking about music," Dean rolled his eyes. "What kind of perv do you take me for?"
Castiel looked uncertainly down at the page. He had his part mostly down, but the reassurance of the sheet music to glance at if he needed to was nice. Dean was empty handed, leaning back casually on the sofa, eyes closed.
"Are you ready?" Castiel asked uncertainly.
"Whenever you are. I don't come in until the first repeat."
Hesitantly at first, but with growing confidence, Castiel started his part. Dean came in right on cue, pitch perfect, voice low and vibrant. He already had his part memorized perfectly. As they progressed and Castiel got into the spirit of the song, he found his eyes increasingly wandering from the page to his duet partner. Dean looked beautiful with his head thrown back, his mouth wide around each rich note, all tension drained from his face as he lost himself completely in the music.
They sounded as good together as Castiel had hoped.
In the back of his mind, a thought teased and niggled, but whenever Castiel tried to reach for it, the memory flitted away. There was something familiar about Dean, about the way he sang, about the way he relaxed under the spell of the song, if only Castiel could remember what.
The only thing that sounded better than Dean and Castiel practicing in their room together was the five members of the group coming together the next down in the sound studio. None of them had shirked their responsibilities, everyone walked in with their part down letter and note perfect, and when they sang the separate, often incomprehensible parts in harmony, it came together as only great music does. For all the gimmicks surrounding the absurdly named contest, the song was good and they sang it awesomely together. When they finished their fifth take, nailed it note-perfect, they exchanged elated glances and then broke down laughing as if they'd just shared a hilarious joke.
After a fashion, they had.
They were going to be the Next Big Thing.
No one was sent home after that first song, and by the end of a long day of work, Castiel returned to the sumptuous hotel room with a signed contract, a pile of music to learn pronto, and his heart pounding with adrenaline and excitement and apprehension. Picking up his cell phone in trembling hands, he dialed home.
Please let mom pick up, please let mom pick up, please let mom pick up...
"Novak residence, Anna speaking," said the light, perky voice of his little sister.
"Hello, Anna," Castiel replied, smiling.
"Cassie! Oh my God, oh my God—"
"Don't take the Lord's name in vain!" snapped his father's voice in the background quellingly. Castiel's heart sank. "Let me talk to Castiel."
"Whatever happens it's alright," whispered Anna urgently into the receiver. "You're gonna be awesome, Cassie, I just know it, I—"
"Good evening, Castiel," said Michael solemnly.
"Good evening, sir," Castiel replied with matching gravity.
"How are things going in Houston?" His father's neutrality was carefully assumed and maintained. Castiel knew from past, similar conversations that said calmness would last until the moment Michael heard the truth and then there would be hell to pay.
"We had our first joint session today," said Castiel, hoping to forestall the inevitable as long as possible. For all that things hadn't always been easy growing up, he loved his family. His mother, nervous about the influences Castiel would be exposed to – Dean's sex, drugs and rock and roll – was nonetheless supportive of Castiel's dream and prepared to trust Castiel's innate nature and morality to steer him away from dangerous influences. His father had no such faith in Castiel. That was the part that hurt the most, that despite how Castiel had been raised, despite a lifetime of obedience and good behavior and A's in school and church every Sunday, his father believed that without a stern eye watching over him Castiel would instantly succumb to the temptation of self-indulgence, fall prey to the influences of lost, materialistic, heathen lifestyle. "It went very well. The other people who won the contest are dedicated, talented musicians. I'm lucky to have the opportunity to work with such talented people." Of course, if Castiel ever came out as gay, he'd be as good as proving his father correct. Neither of his parents would believe that Castiel had known he was a homosexual since he was ten and he'd semi-accidentally kissed a boy from another choir with whom he'd been recording a duet. Nothing would convince them that he hadn't been contaminated by outsiders and atheists and liberals and whoever else they felt like blaming.
The other end of the phone remained stony silent. Castiel wished that Michael would say something, anything, instead of leaving it for Castiel to instigate the inevitable break to come.
"I was offered a contract today," he broached tentatively.
"And?"
Swallowing around a lump in his throat, Castiel closed his eyes, sent a silent prayer to heaven, and said, "I signed it."
"I see. Goodbye, Castiel."
"But—"
The line went dead.
With a sigh, tears in his eyes, Castiel took his cell from his ears. He glanced at the pile of music he'd brought home. He should practice before the next day – they were going to be tackling a second song already – but he couldn't bring himself to sing, couldn't find that feeling of joy that always inspired his best music. Instead, he threw his phone atop the papers, walked listlessly across the room to the large bed and threw himself atop the covers fully clothed, burying his face in the blankets.
He'd known the price for his dream and he'd pursued it anyway. This was his choice to make and he'd made it. He wished it hadn't cost him his family, though. His phone pinged and he fumbled for it, ignored whatever message it was trying to communicate, turned the sound off. Whatever it was could wait until morning. Everything could wait until morning. A new dawn, a new day, a new beginning – he could face what was to come, but he could also allow himself one night to wallow in how much his father's rejection hurt.
A small, lonely part of him – a boy by himself in a strange new place, making decisions in the space of 24 hours that would affect the entire rest of his life – wished that someone, anyone, was there with him. His mother, his sister, his brother Gabriel, his best friend Uriel, anyone so that he wouldn't be so alone.
Dean Winchester. He wished Dean Winchester was there.
Shuddering, Castiel curled into a ball, unable to hold the tears back.
Wasn't that exactly the problem? Maybe his parents were right. He'd been on his own 48 hours and he already had a crush on a boy he barely knew. What was the matter with him?
He pushed the thought away.
Things would look better in the morning.
The scowl Singer directed at Castiel when he saw him the next morning spoke volumes. Castiel knew how bad he looked – hair disheveled, eyes rimmed in red, skin pale, hands shaking. Worse, he knew he looked hung over. Anyone who saw him would assume that, at his age, all things considered, it was far more likely that he'd spent the night drinking than crying.
When they see a 19 year old, which are they going to assume? That I went on a bender. I wonder if they've ever fired someone less than 12 hours after signing them? I might set a new record.
Singer didn't say anything, however, until Castiel flubbed his part for the fourth time. Sight singing was a strength of his, but he was so tired, his eyes so gritty and painful, that the notes blurred together, the words were hard to make out. Apparently, getting smashed could be forgiven if he knew his part, but since he didn't…
"Novak, you're not the first young idjit I've seen who got a contract and had it go to his head," snapped Singer. "If you lot think your hard work is done because you signed on the dotted line, you've got another thing common. We own you now, it's only gonna get harder from here. If you can't cut it, I'll remind you of the various clauses on how your contract can be terminated. Got it?"
"Yes, sir," muttered Castiel as the others nodded agreement. If the studio released him, where would he go? He couldn't go home, couldn't afford to return to school, couldn't think of anyone who might take him in, couldn't even turn to the church for they'd surely reject him unless he lied to them when seeking aid. God, he might be homeless, forced to live on the streets, begging for what food he could get. Jabbing his eyes with his thumb and pointer, he tried to use pain and force of will to push through. It wasn't the worst he'd felt for a performance, he'd sang with the flu, he'd sang with a broken leg, he'd sang after being awake for two days straight because the back of a car was too uncomfortable for him to sleep, he'd sang while…
"Hey," Dean's gruff voice interrupted his internal pep talk. "Sounds like our parts are virtually identical on this one. Just follow my lead, 'kay?"
"Yeah – yeah, sure," Castiel nodded and immediately regretted it. Dean was standing beside him, close enough that the open flap of Dean's jacket brushed against Castiel's back, close enough that Castiel could feel his body warmth as a comforting presence along his side. It felt nice, helped push away the edge of panic that told Castiel that he might yet get hired, disowned, and fired in the same day. A whisper of memory stirred again, but concentration was too essential for Castiel to chase it.
The song opened with a musical riff, already recorded, then Henriksen started them off, Garth jumped in with the lyrical main line, trading it to Jo, and then Dean and Castiel came in on the chorus. With Dean singing in his ear, Castiel didn't need to be able to read the music well, all he had to do was imitate what Dean was doing. It was the first take they actually got through, and Castiel couldn't help but heave a sigh of relief, shoulders slumping, when he was sure the last note had petered out.
"Better," said Singer over the loud speaker. "Now let's do it ten more times."
"See? You got this, Cas," Dean's breath brushed hot over Castiel's ear, sent a shiver down his spine. "You got this."
It took all morning to finish recording the song. The afternoon was spent with a bevy of support staff looking them over, taking their pictures, shoving outfits at them and telling them to put them on, taking more pictures. Makeup artists held palettes of color against their skin, stylists messed with their hair without cutting a single strand, arguments broke out over whether Castiel should wear blue to bring out his eyes or if that was too cliché, if Victor would look better in bright colors or muted, if Garth should go the skinny jeans route to accentuate his height and slimness, if Jo should project an ultra-femme image (earning a scowl from her) or a tomboy one, if Dean should be allowed to keep his leather jacket. More introductions were made than Castiel could ever hope to keep track of and most of the others looked equally overwhelmed, though he noticed that while Dean was clearly out of sorts – and very defensive of his jacket – he seemed to take it in stride and he learned every single name.
It was nearly midnight before the minivan the studio had assigned to them drove them back to the hotel, and Castiel still had the music to study that he'd ignored the night before. The busy day had worked wonders on his mood. It wasn't that he felt good – he simply didn't have time to think any more about his family or his situation. His only choice now was to make this new life work, and he wouldn't let them screw that up for him. Chucking aside his cell phone – it was useless now, he had no one to talk to – he grabbed the sheet music beneath and began to study.
There was a knock on the door. It was Dean.
"Practice?" he suggested without preamble. Castiel nodded agreement.
They were up together until nearly four, but by the time Dean left Castiel knew his part for every song.
At the end of the evening, Castiel saw him out. There was an awkward moment at the door where he thought Dean hesitated, looked at him, pursued his lips, but Castiel reminded himself of Dean's reaction the first night to Castiel's mention of sex. The attraction was one-sided. Judging by the merciless way that Castiel had seen Dean flirt with Jo, Dean was aggressively hetero to the point of overcompensating. There was nothing to this. With a smile, Castiel ignored the imaginary signals and waved Dean out the door.
Endnote: ...my day ended up too sleepy/busy, and this story ended up too long, for me to get it all up today. The entire thing is written, I just need to finish editing it. The rest'll be up tomorrow, hopefully (there's a chance no just cause tomorrow is another busy day...).