Rule number one: it isn't good music until it means something.
"Castiel! Hurry up!" Castiel recognized the demanding and impatient voice of Zachariah coming from inside the practice room.
"Coming," the level of his voice rose, but nothing about his gravely monotone was lost. He slid his guitar pick into the secure hold of his electric's strings. He closed and snapped shut the case and snagged his lyric sheet on the way out.
"Hey Cas, wait up," Cas stopped suddenly just outside the threshold of Anna's green room. "Are you ready for this?"
Cas looked over her shredded crop top and scarlet bra, black skinny jeans, and studded boots, lifting a silently judgmental eyebrow.
"I'm testing it out, okay?" she sighed, tucking her drumsticks in front of each protruding hipbone. "I'm fading into the background of this stupid group. Wasn't I supposed to be the 'angel' in the band name?"
"It's not stupid, Anna."
"It is, and you know it," she repeated firmly. "Come on, we gotta go." They shuffled as quietly as they could to the backstage area, trying not to be noticed.
"…with her all the time, it just turns him into an insubordinate prick."
"I just wish that fag would think about how his choices affect the rest of us."
"You know Castiel thinks about no one but himself and Anna."
"Raphael, Zachariah. How's the sound," Castiel deadpanned, electing to ignore the conversation he'd clearly overheard.
"Fine," Zachariah replied curtly. "Plug in your electric, keep the electric on standby since we probably won't use it."
"I don't even know why you keep that thing," Raphael groaned.
"I remember the plan," Cas muttered under his breath as he went to follow his leader's order. He could hear the low chanting of the crowd on the other side of the curtain. He sighed, dreading the next two hours.
"Good night, Chicago!" Zachariah's stage voice was disconcerting to those who knew him—Anna in particular. She visibly cringed at his false smile and his moronic professionalism. Sweat dripped down Castiel's back and he held his pose until the lights bowed downward and blinked off, and the four of them hurried offstage.
"Anna, you have no rhythm. Don't you think that's just a little bit important for the drummer to have?" Zachariah began. "And your clothes are unsightly. You just look like a slut. You'd better get your act together or your apparently useless bass drum will meet an untimely end."
"And you, Castiel! Where to begin? You started late, you ended late, and you kept dozing off during the third number. What's wrong with you?" Raphael joined in. Castiel gritted his teeth. He just had to keep his tail between his legs and his head down until they both simmered down.
All he had to do was stay quiet and abide them.
"I am sick of hearing you abuse him! Cas works harder than either of you, and he's more talented too! Y'know what, Zach? You can take your rhythm, and you can take your shitty music, and you can take my stupid drum set, and you can stuff it all up your shimmering pansy ass because I am out. Good luck." She shoved both drumsticks into her right hand and on her way out of the green room, slammed them into the doorframe, shattering the wood into splinters. The door slammed shut and there was silence.
"We already have a backup drummer prepared to replace that whore. We have an indie show in Kansas next week. It's not all that important but you'd better start practicing," Zachariah told them without batting an eyelash. "What are you looking at, Castiel?"
"You, but it's nothing to worry about," Castiel's eyebrows scrunched. He turned on his heel, grabbing his duffel and guitar case. He chose to leave his electric guitar on the bus, depositing it and his duffel before heading out again.
Acoustic slung onto his back, trench coat collar and sunglasses firmly in place, and enough cash for Starbucks and a burger, Cas ventured out into Chicago. He wandered a while, finishing his meal and eventually coming to a stop at the opening to a park. He sat, finding his guitar and brushing his fingers across the strings. He did this as often as he could manage—but nothing ever seemed to come out. At some point he would get self-conscious and start strumming bits of the band's songs. It had been years since his last surge of creativity. He had been sucked dry.
His fingers danced over the tune of the most tolerable of their songs. Metal music wasn't particularly Castiel's forte, but turning the bad music into more tolerable acoustic versions kept him practicing like Zachariah had commanded. He started humming, tongue starting to form the silhouette of words, but never quite letting them take shape. Zachariah used to write their music, and even Cas knew that every word was plastic—completely and utterly fake. He knew in his heart that what he sang and played was empty and hollow, but what else was he supposed to do?
He sighed, slipping the guitar pick back into the strings of his instrument and slid it around to its spot between his shoulder blades. He sat alone in the greenery, knowing that this was his life; no matter how wrong it felt.
The amount of sheer vegetation in Lawrence, Kansas surprised Castiel. He had expected lots of dirt, lots of brick, and a metric load of nothing else. When they arrived at their venue to see people happily bustling about, surrounded by trees and shrubs and grass, everyone but Zachariah looked impressed.
"This is amazing, don't you think?" the new drummer, Samandriel, supposed aloud. "I always thought Kansas was dry and boring."
"Most of it is," Castiel replied dully and firmly. He hefted his duffel over his shoulder and slunk into the apparently well-known bar where they'd be performing.
The place actually wasn't too bad. The lighting fell a little low, making it seem like it was filled with smoke, though the air was dry and clean. A girl a bit younger than Castiel sped around the tables, wiping them off and taking the glasses away. She saw him looking and flashed a toothy smirk before straightening her back and walking back to the bar. Her shirt covered her ribcage, but it didn't quite reach over her bellybutton piercing. He sighed, and followed the other three to the bar.
"Ellen?"
"That'd be me," an older woman, clearly strong and firm, stopped the rag in her hand and turned. "You're Angel?"
"That'd be us," Zachariah retorted. "Where do we put our things?"
"On the floor, I'd imagine," the girl from earlier snorted. Ellen gave her a look and she shuffled back to her job with a few low grumbles.
"My daughter, Jo. She's right though, we ain't got no fancy green room for you boys, so you'll have to make do. I can rope off an area next to the platform for your things and keep an eye on them until the show so you can wander. There's a good coffee place about a half mile thataway," she gestured vaguely to her left. "Always lookin' for some business."
"Noted," Zachariah spat with an audible roll in his eyes. "The gear will be safer in the car, so put it back," he turned to his band mates.
Samandriel's jaw flew open. "But we just took all of it out," he complained.
In a flash, Zachariah's hand was twisted into Samandriel's shirt and restricting his breathing. "Put. It. Back." Samandriel nodded frantically and scrambled back to the bus with the amps at his feet as soon as he was released.
"We'll be back," Raphael told Ellen on his way to following Zachariah out the door. Castiel stayed and helped Samandriel, and once all of it was packed he went back to The Roadhouse and waved Samandriel away.
"Scotch," he replied to Ellen's raised eyebrows.
"Your friends are… friendly," she scoffed.
"Zachariah is many things, but friendly isn't a word I'd use to describe him," Castiel replied, a little confused.
"Sarcasm, sweetheart. If you don't like him, why do you stick around?" she slid the glass over to him and flipped her towel over her shoulder.
He mulled the question over for a moment, and downed the drink in one gulp. "He's a cousin of mine. Almost like an older sibling; son of my father's brother. Never expected him to be pleasant, coming from that bloodline."
"Your life, I guess. Where you stand among band ranks?"
"I'm normally at the bottom, but I believe Samandriel has temporarily taken that role. He'll climb over me in due time."
"That's a downright shame. Well sweetie, it's a downright gorgeous day, and I'm of the humble opinion that you could use some sunshine, so I'm kickin' you out. Not to mention I have a gig to set up. Go walk around and grab a bite somewhere else. That scotch is on me," she grabbed the glass away and began wiping it down.
"Thank you," he slid her coaster away and walked outside. Ellen hadn't been lying; the weather was good. The air wasn't too dry and the sun wasn't too bright. Cas shoved his hands in his pockets and picked a direction to walk in.
Lawrence actually seemed pleasant to Cas. He liked the orderly lines of matching brick buildings lining the street, and the quiet hum of life running through the citizens bustling about. Cas found himself window shopping, running a critical eye over hats and tailored suits and browsing a used book store, only emerging a well-loved edition of Shakespeare's Othello. He thumbed the worn pages in his pocket and stared around, looking for a place to sit and read.
He found a bench and set himself down on it, opening up to his favorite act. He glanced over the passages and found himself smiling a little at Desdemona's naivety and began mouthing the song he had memorized so long ago.
The poor soul sat singing by a sycamore tree.
Sing all a green willow
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur'd her moans
Sing willow, willow, willow
Her salt tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones
Willow, willow, willow
Cas sighed and closed the book. He let his head rest on the back of the bench, listening to the sounds of the town and letting himself drift. It felt like a weight off his chest to not think. He didn't feel directionless, worthless; he didn't feel anything at all—and that was the greatest relief.
It could have been seconds, minutes, or hours, but Cas jerked upward at the sound of a loud strum on a guitar. Rubbing his eyes, he followed the sound with his eyes. They fell upon a black-stained wood guitar with a light blue Kansas license plate sticker placed neatly to the body. The man playing it rocked back and forth like a boat on the sea, either oblivious to the stares around him or totally uncaring.
"Take a load off, Annie, take a load for free. Take a load off Annie, and you put the load right on me," he belted, smiling to himself. Cas readjusted himself to watch better, and did so for a while.
"Are you one of the fans?" Cas jerked at the voice clearly addressing him.
"Fans? Oh, of him?" Cas nodded to the guitarist. "No, I'm just visiting Lawrence. Is he that popular?"
The man, immense and kind-faced, sat next to Cas on his bench. He carried two coffees, steaming hot, and had a grocery bag on my arm. His rich brown hair reached his shoulders with a bit of an outward flip, and it looked like he hadn't shaved in a day or two. "He thinks so. He does have a few people who like him, but he's mostly just disturbing the peace," the man laughed as if enjoying an inside joke. "Sam, by the way."
"Castiel," Cas answered. He saw a brief look of surprise, then of disbelief, then of quiet acceptance cross Sam's face and returned to the man across the street.
"His name's Dean Winchester," Sam informed him. "He's a dweeb and kind of a dick, but everyone around here knows who he is." Cas pondered that in comfortable silence. Sam sipped slowly at his coffee and occasionally glanced at Cas like he was waiting for some kind of response. Instead, Castiel checked his watch.
"I need to get going." He stood.
"Nice to meet you, Castiel," Sam stayed sitting.
"You as well."
Sam looked away to put down the coffees in his hands, but when he looked back, Castiel was gone without a trace in sight.
