Warnings: Swearing, language, mention of past suicial thoughts, drunkness, physical violence, depiction of physical violence, depiction of great physical pain, implied homophobic violence, mention of past drug use, slight drug use (narcoleptics).

If any of those can possibly trigger you or make you uncomfortable, then please skip the third part at least from "Small price to pay for a few hours of carefreeness." (When they get out of the taxi)

Guest: Wow, glad to see you love this story this much! Thank you for the review! I hope you'll like the rest.

Chapter 18: Stardom

Madison was grumpy in the morning. And vulgar. Sam thought it was rather charming until she elbowed him in the stomach by rolling over him to fall out of bed and get to the kitchen.

"Clear off, I need a coffee, now. And I mean now."

Sam chuckled and rewrapped in the blankets for eight minutes of extra sleep before his alarm clock starts ringing. In the kitchen he found a still not coiffed Madison and his brother, both standing staring at the coffee machine as if the combined power of their two gazes was going to help the device to produce the drink faster.

"What have you done to that girl Sammy ?" Dean grunted, raising his empty mug to his younger. "I've never seen her like that."

Madison muttered something unintelligible, covering almost the half asleep "nothing" of Sam. Dean smirked.

"That explains a lot. All these years and you still don't have a way with girls. So I've taught you nothing?"

Madison looked like a woman ready to kill them both by poisoning their coffee.

"You're always this funny in the morning?" She grumbled. She poured the drink in three cups and handed one to each of the boys, accompanied by a glower before grabbing hers as if it were heaven-sent.

"I just like to have fun." Dean answered cheerfully.

"So I've heard." She replied, leaning against the counter to sip her first gulp of coffee.

"And what does that mean?"

"That you have a rather noisy boyfriend, and those walls" Madison pointed the partitions of the apartment. "aren't exactly soundproofed."

Sam laughed at the outraged and embarrassed look of Dean and the smirk that Madison was trying to hide in her mug. Three sips of coffee later and she hoisted on tiptoe to kiss a very flushed Dean on the cheek.

"You mad at me?"

He shook his head. "Keep her caffeinated Sammy."

Sam nodded silently and put his empty mug in the sink before Madison slip a finger into the waistband of his jogging and lead him back to the bedroom. Dean poured himself a second cup of coffee and another in a clean cup for Castiel. He, too, was never in a good mood in the morning. He slightly shook his lover to pull him out of his sleep, slipping into the still warm sheets, carefully holding the cup over him while Castiel snuggled up against his chest, a hand extended toward the precious beverage. He drank eyes closed and gave him back the cup with a sigh of satisfaction, so soon almost ready to go back to sleep. But Dean had had a restless sleep and a short night and he took advantage of the pseudo wake of his lover to express aloud what was bothering him since the day before.

"I think Crowley wants to fire us."

Castiel opened his bewildered eyes still puffy from sleep.

"Either that or force us to make the music that he wants. Which is the same because we'll eventually go in these conditions." It felt good to say it even if that didn't change the problem. "It's not Free Will I should have named the group, but 'Hooker'."

Castiel sighed, returning to his pillow. "Crowley's contempt towards you is proportional to his want for you to suck him off." He closed his eyes for ten minutes of extra sleep. "What?" He grunted, feeling the eyes of Dean on him.

"Since when do you talk like that? And since when do you confuse Crowley's intentions with yours?" Teased the singer.

"Since he and I are clearly the only ones to have a rational view of things. Sex aside."

He opened his eyes just long enough to see the very puzzled expression of Dean, the face he wore when he didn't understand what had just been said and he smiled, sinking back under the blanket. "I'll explain. Meanwhile, sleep, you won't be able to do something about it right now and I'm still sleepy."

Dean smirked, not really convinced but still pulled up the blanket over them and leaned against the back of Castiel, in the warm, as peaceful as he could be in the circumstances.

Later, Castiel explained Dean what, from what he said had eluded him so far.

"Crowley is only after money, what you need is to show him that by doing exactly what you want, it will bring him more than by formatting your music."

Dean had a wry chuckle. "Aren't you the one who said two days ago that we don't give a damn about music and that it's not what sells?"

Castiel lowered his head, a bit ashamed. "I shouldn't have said that." He apologized. "But that's only half music you are currently doing and which sells both because of itself and because Sam and you sell it well. The music you were doing before, that's what attracted Crowley's ear and made him assume that you could pay big. I don't see why this music, precisely, would not sell better than the one you're currently doing."

Dena frowned. "Are you saying we're currently doin' crap?"

Castiel shook his head. "I'm only saying it's not "Hellhound" that prevented me from commiting suicide."

The word hung suspended between them for a moment before dissolving on the pillow.

"What would you do in my place?"

##

Sitting at his desk, Crowley was watching Dean over the tips of his fingers together in a triangle up to his nose. The sun that filtered behind large gray clouds gave the eyes of the singer the exact color of chartreuse and he showed a self-confidence based, Crowley had seen it immediately, only on the speech he had learned by heart. They both knew that Dean didn't care to give the impression of reciting a lesson. He believed in it enough to assume his insecurity, not enough to be entirely convincing.

Crowley appreciated his determination for lack of giving credit to what Dean had just told him. Between sentences he could hear the projections on investment from someone who was way better conversant with finance than Dean Winchester. Probably his boyfriend.

Was a time, a lot of years ago, where Crowley had sincerely believed that what made revenue in the artistic milieu was the quality of production. Of course he knew artists that were posthumously famous only but he actually had taken the measure of his naivete after having invested several times and lost a lot of money in projects in which it believed. He had finally resigned as he said to "play the game" of the music industry. His production house had started to generate profits when he had agreed to focus more on the promotion and post-production than on the artists themselves. He didn't unduly like Free Will's music but some decades in the business had sharpened his senses enough that he see an opportunity when it's presented to him. The opportunity was Dean Winchester's green eyes and his voice a little too low and husky perfectly adjusted to his lyrics. Crowley found them pathetic of banality but apparently the teenagers of that time liked this. He felt old sometimes when thinking about it. Where were those who had nurtured his own youth? Probably buried so deep that the mind of the mass wouldn't remember them even if one did a biopic about each of the artists who had in one way or another led Crowley to this business.

He had reworked the group, giving them just enough identity on their own right to interest the target audience, and just enough "mainstream" to satisfy the widest possible audience. He had used and almost abused of Sam's soft spot for his fans to add a slight hint of scandal to the promotion of the group. It was a double-edged sword which he knew he should be wary of before a real scandal explode in his face. But the arrival of Madison in Sam's personnal life, if it would irreparably taint his aura of fickle bad boy would have the interest to avoid Crowley to handle complaints that would necessarily be filed against him once his fame would make it possible to take advantage of it. Sam might be a moron, but Crowley wasn't and he protected his investments.

Dean was waiting for his response, tense, jaws clenched as if he were ready to hit him in case of refusal. Crowley could have crushed him with a sentence. Pointing out that the argument "you believed in our potential when we were just ourselves, why others wouldn't believe in it" was ridiculous because before signing with him, the Winchester were wandering from one bar to the other, considering themselves rich when they had fifty dollars in their pocket.

But a very small part of him gave a second thought to this idea. The talent wasn't all, neither was work and contrary to popular belief, money and publicity easily compensated one or the other. Crowley wanted to believe that the enthusiasm of the group could offset the lack of formatting of their third album. Deep down he liked these kids. He spoke before actually having made a decision in his head.

"And how long would take this project?"

Dena shrugged. "One year I guess, like Hellhound. But you'll gain in production time if you don't have to modify and edit everything after recording."

Crowley nodded.

"I give you one month. In a month if you show me a coherent project, I give you almost free rein. I still want a say and validation, but for the rest... You have one month to convince me that I won't go under by letting you do as you wish."

"It's too short."

"Take it or leave it."

Their gazes confronted each others a moment, just long enough for Crowley to think that in the worst case, unless a tragic accident disfigure him, Dean's face would almost be enough to sell records. Teenage girls were buying almost anything these days.

"Fine."

When Dean left the office, he expected that a weight rise from his shoulders, this wasn't the case. But this time, the ball in his stomach was excitement, which in itself was rather positive.

##

Castiel refrained from rolling his eyes with a sigh. The intern was making efforts, many, or even too much. She was scrutinizing his computer with narrowed eyes.

"That's Free Will? You know that band?" She said in a tone to the limit of skepticism.

"No. I have their logo on my screen because I like pentacles." He answered in a voice he hoped was dripping with sarcasm.

"Isn't that a Star of David?"

Castiel sighed inwardly.

"No, it is a pentacle." He repeated. The accounting balance sheet where he was vainly seeking a mistake of nine dollars and eighty ten cents was pushed back on a corner of the table for the next three minutes as he turned to the intern now decked out with a big smile.

"The singer's really hot, no?"

This time Castiel didn't even try to hide his exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. "What does it matter?" He snarled, crossing his arms. "It's the music that matters, not the musician."

The girl nodded. "But still, he's pretty damn hot, the drummer too."

"Sam." Castiel corrected by automatic reflex. She threw him a puzzled look. "The drummer's name is Sam."

"Yeah whatever, I love that band." The girl said again, perching a buttock on the desk, arms wrapped around the folder Castiel had just entrusted her as if her task was to keep it warm. "They're so cool."

Castiel knew she was simply trying to improve their relationship and that it was not her fault that she had chosen the worst possible ground for this. The case had already occurred and he knew he'd better keep quiet and return to work, but he was tired and worried. Dean had an appointment this morning with Crowley to expound his plan for their third album, of this exchange depended the future of Free Will. Castiel was worried, as a lover, as a fan and overall he was in a bad mood.

"Yes, they're cool, but it has nothing to do with their looks. Doesn't matter that they are handsome, doesn't matter that you pass out seeing the eyes of Dean or the arms of Sam. Don't look at me like that I know exactly what you think when you see them. And if it has nothing to do with the impact their music can have on people, if when you look at them you don't pay attention to the message they convey nor how their music can influence the course of the lives of people, I would like you to change the subject. It's the music that matters, not the musician, so if the only thing you're able to do is comments like this, you better go back to work because for now you're wide of the mark either in music or in accounting and this company doesn't pay you to comment my wallpaper."

The girl was pale and tearful and Castiel dismissed her with a wave of his hand, watching her return to her desk, sniffing.

"You're harsh." Commented a colleague.

"I would not be if she was competent or at least invested in her internship." Castiel retorted, pulling his accounting balance sheet to him before bury himself back to it as if nothing had happened. He vanished as usual at lunch time, waiting for Dean's call which quickly arrived. They had agreed to quite a few rules in their relationship, they had established those of discretion when, two years before Castiel had obtained his first job as an accountant in the company where he was still working today. Dean didn't call at work, didn't come to pick him up, and for the important things like the meeting that morning, Castiel slipped away at noon and went to take refuge in the park.

He wedged the phone between his cheek and shoulder while getting rid of his jacket, rolling up his sleeves with one hand while Dean told him in minute detail his talk with Crowley. He smiled, raising his face to the sun, with a little ball of excitement in the pit of his stomach.

"One mounth. It's short." He said.

"Very. But I have no choice."

"We have no choice." Castiel corrected. He almost heard Dean nod at the other end of the line.

"I like your involvement in this project." The singer laughed. "By the way, about it I'll probably have a favor to ask you."

"Can this wait tonight? I am going to be late for my meeting." Said the accountant, squinting to see the time on his watch despite the reflection of the sun. Dean agreed. Castiel was just hanging up when he slid behind his desk, a slight smile on the lips. He knew people had questions about him, that there were rumors about him and his supposed celibacy and basically it amused him a lot.

What amused him less, however, was to find Charlie and Dorothy at his desk when he returned from his meeting two hours later. The redhead as always was wearing her red boots now dirty and scratched, with shorts that had to be of jeans one day and a leather jacket too warm for the season. She was sprawled in his chair, feet on his desk and Castiel gritted his teeth by slapping her on the knee with the top of the folder in his hand. Dorothy chuckled, rising from the desk where she was perched while the intern was looking at them with wide eyes.

"What are you two doing here?" Castiel asked as a greeting. Charlie held out her cheek for him to kiss her.

"We came to pick you, there is a bar three blocks from here which happy hour starts in fifteen minutes!"

Castiel cast a curious glance at Dorothy, expecting her to have a rational explanation for it but the young woman shrugged sullenly.

"It's her idea, not mine and don't ask me where she brings that from, she woke up from a nap and dragged me here that's all I know!"

Castiel smiled, imagining the scene and put his folder on the desk. Charlie had already turned off his computer and collected all his belongings with a meticulousness that was not like her.

"Are we celebrating something?" He asked.

"The fact that we can still celebrate." Charlie answered, standing up. "The way things are going we won't have many opportunities to do so in a while. And you're compulsory coming with us because drinking à deux sucks and Sam and Dean refused to come and Kevin won't answer his phone!"

Castiel felt like a wave of ice pound on him, he knew with certainty that the intern had heard Charlie. He also knew she was wondering since her arrival if she had well recognized her and that her last sentence would only confirm it.

"You're... Excuse me but aren't you Charlie Bradbury?" The girl said, rising.

"Yes, why?"

Charlie wasn't yet quite used to being recognized outside the tours without her clothing and stage makeup. Castiel threw a hunted beast look to Dorothy who, unlike her companion seemed to understand the situation. Before the intern could utter a sound, she had gripped the bassist by the shoulders and pushed her toward the door while Castiel recovered his bag full of folders and slipped away with a nod to the attention of the intern. His heart was pounding in his chest and his hands were shaking. In a fortunately empty elevator he glared at Charlie.

"She recognized you."

"Yeah it's great, right?" Suddenly the young woman seemed to realize. "Oh crap... You think she's gonna make the connection? That she's going to suspect something for you and Dean?"

Castiel leaned against the elevator mirror and ran a hand over his face and hair, the other still clutching the handle of the briefcase. "Certainly... I'll invent something by tomorrow to confuse the issue."

They emerged in the low sun of the late afternoon, Charlie stammering apologies and vowing never to return to see him at his office. Castiel finally cut her short with a hand gesture.

"Drop it Charlie... it's okay. Now I really could use a drink or two."

A drink or two became three then four and they stayed long after happy hour. Castiel held his liquor pretty bad, he well might know that it was a genetic trait, he still laid blame on the numerous pills that he had to take, still took occasionally and had disordered his liver. Charlie often made fun of him about it. "You just don't know how to drink!" and he would take up another drink to follow her under the gaze both amused and slightly disapproving of Dorothy. Alcohol was pleasantly spreading through his veins, blurring the outlines of the world, making him swim in cotton, furred mouth, joyful mind and floating in ethanol vapors mixed with the lightweight cigarette perfume of the other bar patrons. It was nice for a moment to forget the least of his worries, no longer have the concept of time or his own body. He vaguely felt the strong arms of Dorothy wrap around his waist and pushing him into a taxi somewhere in mid-night and the jolting of the vehicle that brought him back at Dean's. He vaguely remembered they had like an appointment for which he was more than late. Next to him, Charlie was giggling continuously.

He forced himself to repress his drunkenness, to sharpen his gaze, to breath slowly in order to try to evacuate alcohol quickly without much success. He greeted the two girls when coming out of the taxi, handed a bill to the driver and took a deep gulp of fresh air to sober up a little. He was still walking straight, still knew where he was, he would probably get off with no more than drink his weight in water the next day, swearing to never touch a drop of alcohol again while Dean would laugh at him. Small price to pay for a few hours of total carefreeness. The taxi started to move away slowly and he focused on the entrance of the building of the Winchester. He didn't see coming the first blow. The fist struck him in the temple, stars painfully exploded before his eyes as he fell half on the trash next to the door, his keys in hand. Then a kick in his loins made him yelp and curl on himself. He half-opened his eyes to see his attackers but only discerned two dark silhouettes leaning over him. They seized him by the collar and blows showered down on his face, he barely felt the pain after the first one, stopped breathing at the second and the more they hit the more he lost it, unable to formulate another thought than "I'm going to die, I'm going to die here..."

He was barely aware of the pitiful moans that escaped him nor that other blows struck him elsewhere than the face. His head hit the ground hard when his assailant released him, attacked in turn by a slender and screaming shape. No, two other shapes... It was too dark, Castiel's vision was too blurry, too full of blood, too tinged with pain so he could identify anyone. Black and bright spots danced before his eyes, blink was torture and he moaned when a final kick in the stomach reached him. He was seized with a violent retching and barely had time to turn before vomiting on the pavement. Bile and half-digested alcohol added a new pain to the list of those that already assailed him. He felt rather than saw steps pass beside him, then an almost comforting presence above him. His ears were ringing, he was trembling with all his members and pain refused to ease. He recoiled when Charlie's hand gently landed on his shoulder, and then the young woman's arms wrapped around him.

"They're gone." She said softly, barely loud enough for him to hear over the buzz of his ears. Again Dorothy's arms pulled him on his feet, this time more gently than when she had put him in the taxi. If Castiel had been able to speak he would have asked what had just happened. It had seemed to last centuries or only three seconds. His head was spinning, he was still nauseous and wanted to cry now.

"Dean..." He croaked. They were two meters from the door, he was still clutching the keys in his hand and Dorothy took them from him while crushing the intercom with her elbow. The stairs seemed insurmountable to Castiel's shaking legs. He realized that Charlie was also shaking. Then finally, finally the Winchester's door opened and Castiel collapsed, half kneeling, half in Sam's arm who had thrown himself on him when seeing him fall down.

"DEAN!" The drummer shouted, painfully strenghtening his grip on his friend.

Castiel couldn't see nor hear anything else than his heart that was racing, the retrospective fear, flashes of the fists striking him and he began to sob for good. He couldn't care less to be seen crying, no matter if every twitch of his body hurt him like hell and mattered little to him the worried and desperate look of Dean. They hadn't passed the entrance, hadn't even crawled to the living room that Castiel was lying in a sobbing ball in the arms of his lover, bloodying his shirt, clinging to him as hard as he dared.

"We're going to the hospital." He heard Dean say.

"No!" No hospital. Not again. He had already spent enough time there this year. He slightly pulled away from Dean just enough so that the other could see the refusal and determination on his bruised face. "No hospital, it'll be ok."

"Don't be stupid." Sam grunted, somewhere far away above them. "You may have something broken."

Castiel feebly shook his head. His face was pressed against Dean's chest again, the buttons of his shirt were sinking uncomfortably in his cheek. "I can move, I can breathe. It's going to be allright." He croaked. The pain was finally beginning to ease. He felt completely sober now.

He felt himself dragged through the apartment on his legs that barely supported him, then laid as gently as possible on the bed, which seemed wonderfully soft to him. Dean helped him to get rid of his jacket, yapping some orders to Charlie's attention. He hadn't turned on the light and was standing out in dark shape against the light of the living room in the visual field of Castiel. He closed his eyes and almost immediately felt something soft, warm and wet land on his temple, gently soaking up the blood there. Then on his forehead, his cheek, his exploded lip and finally his nose that stabbed him with every breath. He felt Dean's finger follow the still straight bridge before declaring that it wasn't broken. He answered to Dean's questions in monosyllables, the date, his name, what had happened, do you know where you are?

"I'm at your home." He answered, he didn't add "in safety" but he thought it hard. "I don't know what happened. They were two."

Dean asked nothing else, and Castiel plunged into a dazed and alcoholic semi-unconsciousness as he finished cleaning his wounds.

In the living room, Sam had made tea to Charlie and forced Dorothy to sit on the couch to examine her scratched fists and her eyebrow arch exploded by a punch. Charlie was still trembling with all her members, threatening to topple her cup at every moment and Dorothy eveded Sam's cares like a cat to whom one would like to make take a bath. He eventually thrown a compress soaked with water in her face, exasperated.

"What the hell happened?" Dean grunted when finally entering the room, shirt covered with the blood of Castiel, carrying in one hand a basin full of wet and bloody cotton. Dorothy took the compresses from Sam's hands and placed them herself on her cut, grimacing with pain.

"I didn't see all of it." She said. "They were two, they lashed out at Castiel. Time for me to stop the taxi and that we arrive, he was on the ground and they were mangling him."

"You fought?"

Dorothy nodded, swallowing the sarcastic comment she had on the lips. Charlie slipped a hand on her leg and she pressed her knees to trap the fingers of her companion, who was still trembling.

"They didn't try to steal anything to him, they didn't really try to repel me either."

"Smashed guys?" Sam proposed with questioning glance.

Dorothy shook her head. "They weren't staggering, they seemed clear, and I assure you they fought better than a pair of tooters." In the medicine box open on the coffee table she took a small tube of numbing cream and massaged it on her knuckles. She hadn't fought for quite some time and had forgotten how hitting someone on the sternum or under the chin could be as bad for the one who struck than the one who took the blow. Nobody said anything for a while. A little blood came coloring the cream that she was passing on her hands and Sam approached to replace the compress on her forehead by an antiseptic and adhesive sutures.

"Look like a real pirate." He joked, but the heart was not.

Dean had poured himself a cup of tea in hopes to calm down a bit. He and Charlie were staring at each other.

Dorothy bit her lip, wondering if it was wise for her to say what she had in mind. Probably not. It wouldn't heal Castiel, and it certainly wouldn't appease the anger or fear of Dean. A cloud had come over his face, the features hardened by his jaw clenched and he was pale. Castiel's blood was drying in his neck and even as he was, leaning against the counter in the kitchen, half his body remained tense towards the door of his room on the lookout for any moan from Castiel.

"It wasn't an accident." She said quietly, almost grudgingly. The three others threw her a questionning look but already Dean's expression had changed slightly. He understood, and what she would say would only reinforce a maybe wrong thought. An thought shared by Dorothy and that horrified her as much as it terrified her. "They were waiting for him. They knew Castiel would come here. They weren't drunk roughnecks."

Dean might as well be dead, his face no longer showed any emotion. Sam on the contrary stood up rather violently as if moving could take him away from Dorothy's observations, he started to nervously pace the room without leaving his brother's eyes. She gulped and slipped her hand into Charlie's to seek some comfort. "What do you mean?" The bassist asked in a small voice. Dorothy turned to her, feeling sick and pressed her hand really tight.

"These guys knew how to fight, they knew how to hit without getting hurt. They were trained and they were here for Castiel."

Charlie swallowed and shook her head, unable to say anything.

A few hours later, the alcohol having definitely left his system, the pain came back and hit Castiel, awaking him with a start. Dean was here, sitting on the bed next to him and reflexively, Castiel tried to take him in his arms, but every inch of his skin seemed made of sensitive glass and he winced.

"Here, take this." Dean said, holding some pills to Castiel. The young man grunted, seizing them and a glass of water.

"What is it?"

"Believe me it is effective."

Castiel's hand stopped halfway to his mouth and he frowned painfully. "You lost me at 'believe me'." He said, forcing the words out of his mouth. Dean sighed.

"Take them and sleep! You need it."

"No." Castiel replied. He hadn't the courage to shake his head but the desire was there. He put the pills on the blanket. "You've already taken some?" This wasn't the time to have a discussion, but it was something almost normal, trivial enough to make him forget the events of the evening and for now, Castiel wanted more than anything to pretend that nothing had happened.

Dean nodded. "After the death of Jess. I couldn't let Sammy take something that I hadn't tested before."

"Lie apart when did you test them for the first time?"

Every word was difficult to pronounce and not just because they physically hurt his throat. Because they also heartbroke him. All these things he didn't know about his lover, all these secrets buried so deep that music didn't always manage to dig up. And it had to come up again at the worst possible time.

"Sometimes we just need to sleep Cas... Just..." Dean stopped. "Sleep, you need it."

Castiel considered the pills half a minute before slipping them into his mouth and help them pass with some water. One of them remained across his throat for a second.

"Satisfied?"

Dean leaned to put a kiss on his forehead. "Good night."

"You're staying?"

Dean nodded. "I'm not goin' anywhere."

For the first time in a long time Dean didn't wrap his arm across the hips of his lover. He let Castiel settle in the least painful possible position, put a bag of ice wrapped in a cloth in the hollow of his back where a huge bruise was beginning to form. He protected himself from the cold with a fold of the blanket and slipped cautiously against the back of his lover, slipping an arm around his shoulders with a wealth of precautions.

"Is it okay like that?"

"Yes." Castiel sighed, slipping his own hand into his up to his chest. Dean gently squeezed his knuckles and let him slip into a sleep induced by the narcoleptics. He himself didn't sleep.