A/N: Dean's introduction! I hope you enjoy. Comments are always welcome. And yeah, I use Jensen's music in this. It was impossible not to. Also, y'all need to listen to "Sounds of Someday," and "Drowning." They're my favorites.

WARNING: This chapter contains mentions of abuse.

"What if I open with 'Sounds of Someday,' and end with 'Drowning'?" Dean Winchester asked, sipping on a straw as he sat in his manager's office.

He frowned at the taste of apple juice, stared at the golden liquid.

Oh why, oh why can't you be alcohol? he asked.

Crowley told him that he wouldn't work with him if he drank when they did business, so this was the best he got. Crowley, the ever-important manager sat across a desk from Dean, black suit impeccably styled, a mischievous look in his eye. Crowley was a good manager because he was ambitious, and he was a good businessman. He knew what the people liked.

Dean often got into heated arguments with him because as the creator of the music he was sure he knew what his fans liked. Finding a compromise usually involved late nights that turned into some sort of drunken madness. Dean didn't dwell on the times he'd woken up in his manager's bed missing his pants. Good times were good times, and whatever got the compromise for his art.

Besides, Crowley really wasn't so bad once you got to know him.

But that look, that look he was giving him now saying that he disapproved while also surely telling Dean without words that he'd lost a few brain cells.

"Are you drinking?" he asked.

"Assistant got me apple juice."

"Then" — Crowley stood, planting his fists on the desk, and Dean clenched his jaw, knowing what was coming — "why did you make such an idiot suggestion, you bollock-headed numpty?!"

Dean grinned, holding up his glass. "I love when you go all Gordon Ramsay on me."

Crowley just rolled his eyes and came out from behind his desk.

"Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean… My song list works."

Dean shrugged, tossed the straw onto the desk, and took a long sip from his glass.

"Nope."

Suddenly his manager was right in his face, hands clasping the arms of the leather chair he sat in.

"And why not?"

Most people would shrink away, or be perturbed at the sudden lack of personal space, at the threatening bite in his British accent, but Dean just worked his bottom lip in thought, meeting his gaze.

"You want me to start with 'Drowning'? It's morose. Everyone's gonna be leaving the stadium four bars in." Crowley sneered. "Okay, well maybe not four bars, but it doesn't get people excited. Sounds more like doom coming."

Crowley leaned back. "And where did you learn words like morose?"

"Hey, being a highschool dropout doesn't mean I'm dumb. I read."

"You read too much."

"Why do you like controlling me so much?"

"It's my job."

"Or maybe it's abuse and I'm your little pet prodigy."

Crowley's brows lowered, jaw clenching, and Dean shot him a smile. Things got tense between them, but Dean was joking. The abuse in his life didn't tend to come from Crowley, despite smatterings of toxicity. Nope. That was all his dad, may he rest in peace… or pieces. Depended on what mood Dean was in.

Crowley leaned against the desk, crossing his arms.

"Alright, you have a point about 'Drowning,' but revealing 'Sounds of Someday' too soon is going to blow the hype. That's one of your best. You can really only go down or level out from there."

Dean finished his juice, really wishing it was whiskey, especially because of the late hour, and then fished out his phone.

"Alright. I'll ask Sam."

"Still codependent?"

"Still an annoying asswipe?"

"You're lucky I don't quit because of that mouth."

Dean shot his brother a text, asking what song he thought would be appropriate to start the concert with. It was rounding out to 11:00, but his brother was always up at night. Insomnia from the child abuse, though Dean had done his best to shield him from it.

"You like it too much," Dean replied.

"I'm gonna cut down the venue for that. Give you a bandstand in a park instead."

"Good luck with that," he responded, watching as three dots appeared on his phone. Sam was typing.

"Hmm."

"What?"

Dean had gotten the message and turned his phone around to show Crowley. "We have a verdict."

"'Cannonball,'" Crowley read aloud. "Ooh, I like your brother."

"Hands off, he's got a girl."

Crowley said nothing, just gave Dean a strange smile as he went behind his desk once more.

"So we can do 'Drowning' as the second to last, and finish with 'Sounds of Someday,'" Crowley stated.

Dean shrugged, not having a problem with it.

"Sounds good."

Dean rose, grabbing his leather jacket from the back of his seat. As he donned it, Crowley said, "Oh, and keep away from the fans after. Don't want you in the tabloids like your friend Lee there, and you know late night excursions mess up your recovery routine."

Dean mock-saluted as he started backing out.

"You got it, sir."

"Always pleasure doing business with you," Crowley said.

Dean shot him a finger gun and then he went down to the parking garage, heading for his 1967 Chevy Impala. Sure there was valet parking, but letting a valet in that baby? Ooh boy, they'd have another thing coming if they touched his car.

"Stay away from the fans," he muttered as he climbed in, feeling the reassuring leather settle against his ass, the familiar creak of the door as it closed. He put the keys in the ignition, reveling in the throaty purr of the engine as it started up. "Stay away from the fans, my ass."

Dean liked people, and people liked him. He was hot stuff, a lot of his fans were hot stuff. And of age. And consenting.

So what if he had fun? Lisa wasn't interested in making their relationship work since she wanted to keep Ben out of the public eye, which Dean agreed was a good idea, so he was left to his own devices, and sometimes his hand just wasn't enough.

He turned on the stereo, tuning it to an 80s rock station, ever his inspiration, and headed out into the night.