Warnings: swearing, language, reference to drunkenness, slight physical violence, mention of gun violence, mention of underage drinking, mention of alcohol abuse, mention of homophobia, mention of homophobic behavior
Chapter 28: Tattooed Wastes in a Bikers Bar
"Bad music that history remembers,
Comes from the sound of anger,
But cheer up brother,
When the bass gets too low,
You're still my shelter from the snow"
Crowley was asleep on his feet and regularly passed his hand over his face, thinking that he needed vacation. Long and distant if possible. On his screen, Jody Mills was speaking of the future tour of Free Will without him being able to intervene to point out that no album had been released yet.
"And their name was proposed for the Coachella line up."
"Excuse me?" Crowley abruptly went down of his fatigue cloud. "They aren't known enough for Coachella!"
"They weren't last month." Corrected the booking agent. "You know you have to strike while the iron is hot. If they can release a single within a month, even if the album is only released after the festival, they are assured to be promoted just because the tabloids will love to cut them to shreds after the trial. Or shower them with praise."
Crowley found himself wincing. "You do realize that you're suggesting to serve these kids up to bad journalists just to sell your tour of an album they haven't even finished?"
"I am taking a calculated risk." Jody answered with a lag time due to videoconferencing. "They will get their heads bitten off anyway, so everybody may as well at least earn money with the inevitable."
"This is my line." Grumbled Crowley. He did not really have qualms to use the groups he produced for his benefit. It was more or less the definition of his job. But unlike many others, Crowley was aware that his artists were still human with limits not to be exceeded. Limits which, according to him, were far behind them in the case of Free Will. "We can't ask them that."
"Because they just lost their father?"
Crowley shook his head. "No. Because they will do it. They will have a single in a month, and the double album finished three weeks after Coachella, perfectly on schedule to be sold."
"Then where's the problem?"
"They will do it. But they'll do it badly." Crowley leaned toward the screen, his fingers joined in a small pyramid under his chin as he explained Jody something on which he had never put words. "They have potential. They can do something really good. So far they didn't have what it took to motivate them but now... Give them time, give them freedom, and they can do something really good."
"Good how?" Asked Jody.
"Good to be still hummed in thirty years." Said Crowley. "Good to leave a trace in history."
Jody frowned. "You became attached to them." She noted.
"I believe in them."
"So do I. That's why I keep their names for Coachella."
Cowley nodded. "But no single, no album. If we must promote them on a scandal might as well do all the way. And by then, let them work in peace."
##
"Good men cry when bad men die,
When they crush our dreams,
Numb them with morphine,
Until you're stranger to the sound of guitars."
"We gotta go to Vegas." Said Sam. He was sprawled on the couch of Charlie, his legs across those of Dorothy, acting as support for the magazine the young woman was leafing through for an hour without really paying attention to it.
From the kitchen area, he heard Charlie sigh.
"Where does that come from?"
"That's what we do you and me!" He pleaded. "When things go wrong, we go to Vegas."
The bassist placed on the table before him a tray of sandwiches and glasses. "We aren't going to Vegas, Sam. Last time didn't teach you a lesson?"
"We got out with a song!"
"Pure chance." Charlie pushed him to get a place on her couch. "This is a bad habit we'll have to lost. I can already see the newspaper titles tomorrow if we go to Vegas..."
"After the trial, the celebration. How the young drummer Sam Winchester lives his father's sentence..." Dorothy parodied with an acidic voice.
Sam sighed, resting his feet on the ground, ignoring the sandwich Charlie was handing him. "So what do you want to do? Right now Dean and Castiel are having it away but that, that doesn't pose a problem to you!"
"They're probably doing it somewhere where no journalist can see them." Replied Dorothy. She had dropped her magazine and took Sam's chin in her hand to force him to look at her. "Vegas ain't the problem Sam. The problem is that you're all in deep shit now, and whether you like it or not for some time it's going to be about keeping a low profile, otherwise the press will destroy you and you cannot afford it!"
"Do you think that I don't know? Do you think I care? I just sent my father to jail, we're gonna take a kicking whatever happens, so if I wanna go to Vegas..." The young man lost his temper.
Dorothy put a hand on his arm to calm him. He realized that she looked old. He didn't even know her age, but from time to time, she had something calm and wise that reminded him too much of Dean for him to not listen to her.
"I've collected you in drunk tank once. Please, don't make me do it again."
Charlie had stopped chewing her sandwich and Sam could feel the entire restraint tension of Dorothy. "Why?" He asked darkly. "Why do you care?"
"Because I care about you." She answered. She hoped that sincerity would pierce in her tone, but Sam frowned, a mocking smile at the corner of the mouth.
"You care about your job actually."
The blow had struck before Dorothy knew it, she heard the sound of the slap, felt pain in her palm, but she had not made the decision to strike him. It was a reflex. Sam was holding his cheek and looking at her harshly without saying anything. She opened her mouth to apologize and closed it, obstinate. Behind Sam, Charlie had eyes wide, mouth open in surprise.
The next moment, Sam was slamming the door behind him and the tension accumulated on Dorothy's shoulders the whole day vanished, leaving her sad and tired. She took her head with both hands and Charlie wrapped her arms around her, resting her chin on top of her skull and gently rocking her.
"It'll set him straight." She said softly.
Dorothy shook her head. "I told him exactly what my mother told me after the robbery, when I skipped classes to hide behind the gym. When the cops picked me up in the street because I didn't want to go home."
"And what happened?"
"You know that."
"You left." Charlie said softly. "But he will come back."
"How do you know that?"
Charlie pulled away from Dorothy, just enough to place her forehead against hers. "I know it that's all. Good people always come back."
Dorothy closed her eyes, shaking her head. Maybe then, wasn't she a good person, she had never come back anywhere except to Charlie, and yet she had been forced by circumstances.
"Call your mother Dotty... you should have done it years ago."
It came out of nowhere, yet Dorothy heard by the tone of Charlie that she thought about it for a long time, maybe since the day she had told her her story. And Charlie had kept it in memory, sanded, polished, glossy to present it again at the perfect time.
"You are vicious and manipulative." She mumbled.
"I know."
Charlie slipped her phone in her hand. When Dorothy came back in the living room about an hour later, her eyes red from crying and nose still blocked-up, she found her companion watching old episodes of Star Trek. She slipped against her, sniffing, and Charlie had the delicacy not to ask her anything. They watched Kirk and Spock save some planet and Dorothy ended up drowsing, a smile on the lips and heavy-hearted. She still had the voice of her mother in mind, more hoarse than before, also older, but still comforting.
"You know mom, I didn't want to hurt you and Dad, it's just that..."
"I know honey. I know."
##
"They say we're tattooed wastes in a bikers bar,
That chorus and poetry won't get us far,
That you can't fight for you life with your fists,
That their path is the only way out of this."
There were journalists down the building of Charlie, not many but enough to annoy Sam a bit more. He was still wearing the smart shoes and jeans he had pulled on for the hearing. It was pitch dark and flashes bedazzled him as he passed under a street lamp, he raised a hand to shield his eyes and resisted the urge to flip them the bird. As annoying as she is, Dorothy was right, they were going to be watched, him more than the others. He had no illusions, he knew that sooner or later the journalists would know whence came the original complaint, and the fact that John had shot them would take a back seat behind the unworthy son who was sending his father in prison.
It wasn't fair. It made him want to scream, opportunity he didn't have at this moment. He walked a little faster to shake off the reporters who were massing together around him, pressing him with questions he was not listening. He was clenching his teeth and fists and without realizing it, started running. He was not dressed for, the air was muggy and soon his jacket would be a nuisance, but in a few long strides he had outdistanced the journalists. A few others and he was turning at the corner of the street. He had spent so much time at Charlie's that he knew the whole neighborhood. And he had run so much in his life that the pace he imposed upon himself didn't even leave him out of breath during the few kilometers that separated him from the beach.
It was a shabby and disreputable place, perfectly the kind of environment in which his father probably imagined him. In his back the city lights were eclipsing the stars, melting the sea and the sky in an infinite separated only by the frothy crest of the waves. People were talking around him. Band of half drunk teenagers or homeless persons trying to sleep on the sand. He walked to the edge of the waves and breathed the sea air by big gulps.
He had passed the threshold where physical activity caused an endorphin release and his mind was a little clearer. He had a vague desire to tell the kids to go home. Most weren't even Kevin's age, not even his age when leaving for Stanford, not even Castiel's age when they had met him. And God they were young at the time, only a few years ago.
John had been young too, one day. He thought of it while the sea rose, now lapping against the toes of his shoes. He had been young and in love, even more than Sam had loved Madison, possibly more than Dean loved Castiel. He had only one picture of the four of them, a few days before the death of his mother, and the expression in the eyes of his father was beautiful to look. He had kept it only for that. He had memorized every detail over the years. He had never seen that expression on his father again. Yet he had sought it in vain for almost twenty years.
Maybe he had really wanted to protect them. The fact he had done it poorly took nothing of the intention. The fact he had disguised his pain under the need to shape his sons in his image didn't change the fact that he had probably honestly tried. And that his biggest mistake had been not to accept failure.
Sam smiled. As if Dean and himself had never learned to accept failure! He breathed once again, heard someone call him behind his back and didn't take account of it. This moment was his. He removed his shoes which he threw behind him with his sweat-soaked shirt, and after a moment of hesitation, his jeans which he took the time to fold before dropping it on the still dry sand.
No matter that someone steals his clothes and phone. For now it didn't matter. He went into cold water, sinking slightly in the sand, even enjoying the pebbles that collided with his ankles while water retreated and returned to submerge him, a little higher with each step until he was immersed to the shoulders. He began to swim as if each movement could wash him of a doubt, drown a regret or heal an old wound.
When he came up on the beach, his clothes were distinctly folded on the sand aside from the sea. His phone and wallet were missing, which made him smile. In a few days, personal photos would appear in the tabloids and on the net. He found himself wishing the thief to make a lot of money with it. Fatigue probably.
His clothes clung to his skin to the second he pulled them on again, his hair dripping into his eyes and he had to walk long to be dry enough to dare put his shoes on again. He was a pitiful sight when knocking on Madison's door an hour later. She looked ready to kill when she opened, and he had time to examine her with a pang of emotion before she departs from the door ajar to let him in. He noted her tangled hair, the old t-shirt in which she slept and her bare legs. Even the flaky nail polish on her toes. A whole lot of things that seemed so normal when they now fell under privacy.
"You were assaulted by firefighters?"
"I took a midnight swim."
Her eyes were clouded with sleep and she obviously didn't want to prolong the discussion. "You know where are the towels, I'll get sheets out for the sofa."
It was one o'clock in the morning, he had just awoken her and she didn't look more perturbed than that. As if this was normal, as if she expected it, or as if she didn't care. She put a pair of sheets in his arms, yawning. "Good night Sam."
"You're not staying with me?" He smiled. It was what he would have said in any other circumstances. It was what the Sam they both knew would have said. But at that moment, it seemed oddly out of character. As if, in reality, he was not the kind of man who flirted almost without realizing it.
"We're not like this anymore Sam." She said softly. She looked awake this time. And she should have looked sad but she was smiling. "Do not pretend. And go take a shower before ruining my couch!"
The old Sam, the other Sam would have tried to drag her into the shower with him. Just on principle. Just for the appeal. He didn't know if the change dated from several days or an hour ago, but he just thanked her with a nod and obeyed her. She was still in the living room when he returned, wearing a jogging he had probably left there months ago.
"Why the midnight swim?" She asked, helping him to make a bed on the sofa.
"Cause it wasn't raining. And I needed... I don't know, to clean myself of some things I imagine." He said thoughtfully. He sat cross-legged, a pillow between the arms. "Needed to leave resentments, and many other things behind me."
"Usually, for this you write a song or get a tattoo."
"Not anymore."
He slipped between the sheets with a sigh of contentment. "Thank you for not kicking me out."
"Don't mention it." She smiled. Out of habit she ran her hand through his hair to move them aside of his forehead before realizing what she was doing and quickly withdrawing it. Sam smiled.
"I thought we weren't like that anymore?" He teased.
"I don't know what we are Sam, but I will allow myself that kind of familiarity as long as you'll come knocking at my door for no reason in the middle of the night."
"Fair enough." He closed his eyes, enjoying the hand she was passing through his hair again as if she wanted to make sure he falls asleep before returning to her room.
"And for the record, once you've found someone else, I'll also allow myself to hate her if she hurts you, and blame her a bit for taking my place."
"And if she's a decent girl?"
"I'll like her twice more if she makes you happy." Madison answered softly.
Sam was beginning to fall asleep, the world was revolving behind his closed eyes and his brain seemed to float in warm cotton. His only anchorage point was Madison's hand on his head and the kiss she gently laid on his forehead, wishing him good night.
He forced himself to open his eyes, sitting up on one elbow, calling her just before she crosses the door of her room.
"Mads... Once you've found someone else, I will allow myself to smash his face if he hurts you. Just so you know."
She smiled. "Content yourself with teaching me how to do it. Unlike you, I still have a clean record."
##
"But through our novocained lyrics,
Through the drumbeats,
We became more than shooting stars,
Despite the odds we made it so far."
Dean had eyes burning with fatigue and the mind so foggy he barely felt Castiel wrap his arms around him as he was watching the coffee filtering. He greeted him with a grunt.
"How are you feeling?"
"Fine." Dean answered.
Behind his back, Castiel grunted and slightly bumped his forehead against his shoulder blade. "Don't lie to me."
Dean sighed, but before he could answer, his phone rang on the table. He freed himself of his lover's arm to read the text.
"Charlie wants us to pop by."
"Tell her we'll be there in three hours."
"Three..." Dean turned over, puzzled, and found himself face to Castiel who was looking at him without blinking. He put down the phone with a smile. "You overestimate our endurance."
"No, I take foreplay into account."
"You hate foreplay."
Castiel nodded. He still had tangled hair and eyes narrowed by sleep, he was wearing the outfit in which Dean preferred to see him: an old t-shirt and boxers. It was almost enough to bring back memories, almost enough to drive out the lump he still had deep in the throat. He closed his eyes and pressed Castiel against him, nose in his neck, filling up with his pillow and musty after shave smell.
"But you love it, and you need it." The other murmured in his ear.
Dean shivered. He reached under Castiel's shirt, up to his back, trying to feel his heart beat under his hand, but he only felt his own pulse.
"It's not the moment, Cas."
Just as it wasn't the moment in Arizona years ago. Or never before a concert. Not the moment the evening of Kevin's birthday the year before. As many times where it hadn't really stopped them and Dean found himself smiling.
"I think it is." Castiel said quietly, pulling away from him. "What happened yesterday, in one way or another you will have to learn to live with it. And you and Sam will manage to. We'll help you to."
"Right now I just want to forget." Sighed Dean.
"I know." Castiel kissed him gently. "And in a first phase, it's healthy. But I prefer you to do it with me rather than with a bottle of whiskey."
Dean smiled. "You wanna be my substitute to alcohol?"
"I want to be all it takes for you to get better. And I want you to believe me when I tell you that everything will be fine."
Dean nodded slowly before kissing him again, longer, more intensely, clenching his hands in the back of his lover, already imagining running them through his hair and ruffling it a little more before remembering he hadn't apprised Charlie.
"Three hours then..." He said, quickly typing a text before putting down the phone on the table. Castiel nodded and gently guided him toward the bedroom. Every little step back he took seemed to slightly take Dean away of his worries. He stopped smiling and grabbed his wrists, passing his thumb on the dandelion tattoo, unable to know if the pulse he felt was his or that of Castiel. His knees bumped into the edge of the bed and he sat down, dragging Castiel down with him.
"I'm still in no mood to play." He said. His voice was low and husky already. Ten minutes earlier it could have passed for a morning hoarseness. It was clearly no longer the case. Castiel freed his wrists, pushed on his shoulders and toppled him back while he crawled over him to straddle him.
"I know. I'm not playing." Castiel said, grabbing in his turn the wrists of his lover to bring them above his head. He pinned him to the bed as much as his weight allowed him to and plunged his eyes into those of Dean. He had red cheeks and looked serious. "It's not a game this time. It's comfort, it's me trying to take care of you. It's just to remind you that someone you love loves you back. And thinks you're perfect the way you are."
"I am not..."
"Yes you are." Castiel cut him off. He leaned over a bit more until his lips brush against those of Dean. "Do not contradict me."
Dean shook his head, eyes closed, savoring the breath of Castiel on his lips, and then their contact, light at first, then more possessive. He opened his mouth, growling, letting the tongue of his lover explore it. His heart should have beaten faster, he should have felt this ball in the pit of his stomach that he usually had when they made love. But he just felt the still regular breathing of Castiel against his chest, his hands tight around his wrists, the rustle of sheets under their tangled legs. And the slow pace that Castiel's tongue was imposing him was slowly making surge back his doubts and anxieties.
When he let go of his wrists, Dean's hands automatically found their place on the head of Castiel. Clenched in his hair, on his chin, holding it in place to kiss again, while the hands of Castiel were passing under his waist and landed flat on the tattoo on his lower back as if trying to relieve it of a pain.
They both groaned, already covered with a thin layer of sweat and out of breath. Dean was deep sunk into the pillows and the mattress, Castiel above him, nestling his head in the crook of his neck to whisper some things to his ear. A litany of I love you which were accompanied by caresses and kisses, each in a different place, in a different tone, as if repeating it often enough could anchor it deeper into Dean, make the thing more real.
"And now, Dean Winchester, I'm going to prep you." Castiel whispered, moving slightly away. "With my tongue..." A kiss in the crook of the neck. "With my fingers..." Dean moaned and sat up slightly to lay his lips on the tattooed collarbone of Castiel. For a second the young man lost the thread of his sentence and remained mouth half open on an inaudible sigh. "When you'll be begging me to take you, I'll make love to you until you forget everything except my name. Does it suit you?" He panted. His hands had moved up to Dean's shoulders, his fingernails had already left a few red marks on his back.
Dean nodded.
"Say it." Castiel growled. Desire dilated his pupils, made his heart beat too fast, but he wasn't here for his own pleasure. For now only Dean mattered. Dean who nodded again, closing his eyes under his caresses before sputtering his consent hoarsely, his fingernails already dug into the skin of the hips of Castiel.
"Suits me... Cas please!" The rest of the world could go to hell for now. Only the two of them mattered and Dean could no longer see beyond Castiel's body. Nothing existed beyond his sighs, nothing mattered except the two of them pressed one against the other for as long as possible.
Castiel smiled, held him against himself and gently lay his lover amid pillows.
"Good boy. Now, spread your legs."
##
"We might be tattooed whores in a bikers bar,
But if music and desperate poetry,
Could bring you back to me,
It could show you, we're not your ideal offspring,
But the kids are alright.
Mostly."
The group recorded less quickly than before, but a lot of the work was already done. Soon, Crowley would be responsible for determining which track would be the first single. They had plunged back into the recording body and soul to leave behind them the bitter aftertaste of the trial.
The disc had taken a new turn. Kevin had bet with Channing that the tone of the album would be darker, angrier. Yet the songs that Sam wrote and the changes brought by Dean were optimistic, less gloomy than one might have expected.
"I think now we just want to make a fresh start and move forward." Dean confided one day to the cellist, looking through the window of the studio at Charlie who was recording her bass line. "And I think you've been in a huff with Sam enough."
Kevin scowled instantly. "I'll go off in a huff if I please!"
Nearly two months after the shooting, he only talked to Sam in case of sheer necessity. Kevin was clinging to his anger as much as Castiel had clung to John's trial to move forward.
"And you want to keep being in a huff with him for what?"
Kevin opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came out. Dean didn't seem angry, he just looked old. He had the same expression as his mother when she was about to make him aware of something unpleasant.
"He let Charlie down. Literally. She was dying and all he managed to do was to bemoan his fate and cross his arms and wait." The young man lost his temper. On the other side of the glass, Charlie was going back over the bar with a sign for Bobby to change something. "He can play the hero and pretend it's your father the culprit, but he, when we've needed him, he did nothing!"
"He tries to do right now. I get that you're angry, Charlie is too. But Sam is only human and humans break down under pressure."
"Not you. Not Castiel..."
Dean nodded. "Cas it's different, he has a kinda inhuman tolerance to pressure. And I also break down, just rarely in public. Don't blame Sam for being less strong than you. He can't really help it, and not everyone can be Mulan."
"Mulan?" Kevin looked puzzled.
"Ya know, the flower that blooms in adversity blah-blah? That's you. And that's admirable, really. But Sam isn't like this, and I find it unfair that you blame him this much for something he already blames himself for and he cannot change."
Kevin kept a closed face and Dean dropped the subject. In the recording room, Charlie was withdrawing the strap of the bass with a grimace of pain before massaging her shoulder. She now wore a bandage under her clothes when she had to use her instrument. The pain decreased day by day but doctors had warned her it might last for a long time. Kevin made a point to take her to her place now, as if a crazed killer would show up at every street corner to shoot her and she let him do, he needed it for reassurance, and when he was there, she felt less vulnerable to journalists and paparazzi who still regaled of a photo where she was seen crying while holding her shoulder. One of them, once had hit her there, allegedly by accident to have his photo. Crowley had immediately lodged a complaint but Charlie doubted the effectiveness of the method. They didn't talk to all the way to her house, accompanied only by the sound of their steps and shouts from the few journalists who were hoping for a good shot. They were walking shoulder against shoulder, looking down on the sidewalk and Charlie hated it. She held the door of her building to Kevin and carefully closed it behind her with a sigh. They would be in a sidebar somewhere in a rag the next day but that didn't matter this evening.
"We're done." Charlie whispered putting her key in her lock. "At least the first version of the album is finally over."
Kevin nodded. He was so tired that it honestly left him completely indifferent.
"And now what do we do?"
"Sleep I guess. And present the project to Crowley. And you, you really should talk to Sam. We're gonna go on tour again one day or the other and you can't keep sulking like that."
"Did Dean ask you to talk to me?" Snarled the young man.
"Actually Channing did. But I agree with her." The bassist said, smiling. "He's your friend Kevin. I know he screwed up, and believe me I'm still mad at him sometimes. But he really did his best, and we need to stand together right now, not to bust up for nothing."
"You call that nothing?" He said, showing her shoulder with a gesture. "You were dying, and he..."
"His brother was also dying, we were all..." Charlie sighed and shook her head. Thinking about the shooting still made her shudder, made her feel sick. "He didn't shoot."
"I know." Sighed Kevin. "But I can't help but blaming him."
"At least talk to him. Give him a chance to explain. He misses you."
The next day, Charlie was slightly dancing in her seat at the end of listening of the album, ready to accept without any modesty Crowley's compliments. The producer didn't pretend to move or smile when the last song ended.
"This will require changes." He said quietly.
Kevin snorted, Sam frowned. "We currently can't do better." He says dryly.
"Yeah well, you'll have to, because this..." Crowley said waving the CD he had just took from the computer player. "This doesn't justify the investment that I did on you."
Charlie felt her smile turn into a grimace. They had put their guts in this album for months on, and it wasn't up to the expectations of Crowley? She was ready to tell him to fuck off when Dean spoke.
"No question of changing anything."
They all turned to him, incredulous, a faint smile floating on the lips of Crowley.
"Finally grew a pair Winchester?"
Dean glared at him as coldly as his anger permitted him to. "We put everything we have in this album. It's exactly the way we wanted it and I refuse to change anything about it. If we gotta sell ourselves I'd prefer to turn ten dollars tricks in the street to produce this album rather than changing a note."
Charlie choked on a sip of tea and coughed until Kevin pat her on the back. Sam was smiling, watching Crowley. With a very calculated gesture he swayed to retrieve a cigarette pack in his back pocket and caught one between his teeth. He didn't know since how long he had been dragging around this pack without touching it but the first puff of nicotine made him smile. He blew the smoke in the air.
"Charlie, in your opinion, how much would it yield a guy like me performing stripteases?"
"Less than a lesbian who does glamor shots." She answered, trying not to laugh at Crowley's jaded look.
"Seriously none of you three ever considered doing a normal job?" Kevin grumbled, crossing his arms.
"It's not about working, it's about making money." Sam replied before taking another drag on his cigarette. They looked at each other a moment and Sam almost shyly raised his hand that wasn't holding cigarette. Kevin cracked a smile and clapped it.
Crowley rolled his eyes and sighed.
"You've signed us when we were doing the music we wanted in filthy bars." Dean spoke again. He didn't know where he found the calm and strength to speak without stammering, but the words were falling from his lips, as clear as if he had practiced them. "You thought it had value, and if you still believe it, this album will remain like this. Or we're out of there."
Crowley nodded slowly. He did not look defeated, indeed he seemed almost relieved and happy, which Charlie found worrisome. "Good" He said. "This is exactly why you need me. Because you really think your tricks would be worth ten dollars."
Charlie choked again on her tea and resigned herself to put it on the desk, hoping that it leaves a smear. Dean was looking at Crowley, puzzled. The producer folded his hands and stared at them in turns.
"Let me give you a tip if you want to succeed in business. You must know exactly what you're worth and claim at least twice more."
Dean frowned. "That's robbery to charge more than the value of things."
"First, none of you is a thing. Then, no one has the slightest idea of what you are worth before you tell them. The world will never do you any favors, so swindle it back. Always ask for more than your value, this is what will determine your value to the world's eyes." He fixed his gaze in that of Dean. "In this business it's not the value of your work that matters, it's the price the public is willing to pay to appropriate it. You'll be surprised to find that people accept the price they are offered without discussion." His tone made it clear that the interview was over and Kevin was the first to stand to go out, followed Sam and Charlie. Dean was bringing up the rear, Crowley called him out as he had his hand on the door handle.
"Dean..."
His determination had just left him, the young man wondered if he hadn't just made a big mistake.
"Sorry." He started. "I probably shouldn't have said what I said."
"Oh, no. Actually I had been expecting something like this for a while." Surprise made Dean turn around. Crowley had got up and crossed the room. "I thought the accountant would bring it to you but apparently it was not enough. So let me give you just one last advice Dean..."
Crowley hadn't often called him by his first name. And never had he done it with anything other than a calculated detachment. Saying that there was gentleness in his eyes would have been violently abusing the term. But there was something other than the cold businessman. Something that gave him the irresistible urge to listen to him and Dean understood why Crowley was successful. He knew how to give people exactly what they expected and to assure them he was trustworthy.
"Never let anyone tell you how much you're worth. Even people you love, even people you trust. No one."
Dean digested the sentence and the surprising impression that Crowley was right. He smiled.
"How much I am worth to you?"
"Did you listen what I said?" Grunted the producer.
"I don't intend to take it into account. 'm just curious."
Crowley seemed to consider the question for a moment before shrugging, any trace of compassion hidden under his usual mask. "As an individual I don't know and I don't care. But I've bet on you. To you four, for me you're worth millions."
Dean nodded and opened the door.
"Do not disappoint me!" Said the producer in his back.
"We never did."
After their departure, Crowley found himself thinking about them with kindness. Wondering what it would have been like to have sons like the Winchesters. Probably nothing good. No parent could get along properly with these two morons. But as unbearable and inconsequential they may be, they had will, work force. For several years, Crowley had been seeing them evolve and finish growing up, become men who, if not perfect, did their best.
He would have been rather proud to have raised sons who tried at least to do well and be good men. He shook his head as if it were sufficient to erase the intruding thoughts and went back to his computer.
"You really are a prat John Winchester." He grumbled between his teeth before making a copy of the CD which he put in a caddy and then in an envelope.
##
The envelope had been opened. John was not surprised, nothing legally entered nor left the jail without a careful control. The letter had been written in the obvious intention to be as neutral and explicit as possible to take the exam, and the supplied headphones with the little MP3 player had necessarily been tested. Not strong enough to hang oneself with, or to hurt anyone. That made him smile grimly.
He had listened to the music of Free Will and had not really liked it. He might have recognized inspirations he liked, he wouldn't have bought the final product if it hadn't been his sons. That it was a glimpse of the mind of Dean and Sam was the only reason he had a copy of each of their albums and had listened to each song more than once. He had tried to understand why and how his sons had escaped him, when he had become a bad father in their eyes, when they had become bad sons to him. He had not found answers in their songs.
Their producer had sent him their latest album. A police officer or any warder had already listened to it to ensure that no messages was hidden, no escape plan or God knew what. A faceless stranger had held the work of his sons in his hands without it has any importance to him. And no matter how John knew he was going to hate the album, he wanted to cringe and demand a little respect for the work that represented this recording.
It was a job of street performers and half-starved wretches. It was industrialized prostitution and nothing he would have wished for his sons. But as unpleasant as it was to admit, he had seen them become good at what they did. And even if he had nothing to do with their achievements, he was proud of them.
The lights went out at the same time than usual and he lay on his bunk, the earphones on. Even a very bad music was better than the grunts of his cell neighbors trying to sleep or inveighed each others of either side of the hallway.
The first track began with an cello introduction followed by a bass after a few times. He jumped when the drums and guitar exploded simultaneously and lowered the volume.
"They made us believe we were shooting stars,
Forgot to mention we lit up someone's sky,
Told you you're no hero,
You're just a ghost."
Two and three songs passed, they lacked smoothness, Dean's voice was hoarser than it would be on the final product, more crude and more like the one he knew. At the end of some records he could hear a few laughs or voices that hadn't been edited out. He had forgotten the laughter of Sam, but he could imagine him harassing his drums, muscles tense by exercise, looking concentrated or ecstatic. He had seen him on stage with a heavy heart, that kid could have been absolutely anything as long as he puts his energy and motivation in something else. He had chosen music and John didn't get why. Why hitting percussions rather than anything else? He remembered his violent reaction when Sam had told him he wanted to be a lawyer... What next? Why striving to maintain outlaws outside of prison? Why? John didn't have the answer, but from music to music, he felt his muscles contract involuntarily, his teeth tighten to the rhythm of the drums, as if he was anxious that it stops pounding his skull and leaves him alone with his questions.
He paid attention to the lyrics, to the intonation, to the few cracks in the voice of Dean. They evoked him the little boy he had been, and the teenager who wrapped himself in John's leather jackets to look older when he had a date with a girl. When had he started going out with men? And how could John have missed such a thing?
He gradually slipped into a sleep away from the noise of the prison while the album continued to unfold its melodies in his ears. Dreams had a heavier texture than reality, and the feeling of oppression was gone when he slept. In his dream, he knew he was dying and that Dean had come fetch him. In his dream, his son had no piercing and no tattoo under his immaculately cut dark suit. His gaze was detached and calm. He let John examine him long to fill his eyes of the vision of the ideal son he had lost years ago. He extended a hand without saying anything and John gazed it a moment, perplexed. Not that he wasn't ready to die in his dream, but there was something wrong in this dream.
"Where is Sam?" He asked.
"He's not here." Dean answered without expressing any emotion, hand still outstretched to him.
"He didn't want to come." John translated.
Dean sighed and raised his eyes to heaven. "Sam!" he shouted, looking over his shoulder. John wasn't even surprised to see his youngest materialize in the black space around them, also dressed in a dark suit that suited him better than everything John had seen him decked out in years. He also had something calm and detached didn't suit him. This wasn't Sam. Not the little rebel boy who hid puppies at the neighbors, not the surly young man nor the angry adult he knew. John blinked, unwittingly disturbed by the short hair of his son. Since Sam knew how to run he had fled scissors. He blinked again to try to get used to this image, after all, this was how he had always wanted them right?
But maybe it lacked a bit of them in these messengers of death, some realism. When he blinked again, Sam had again his hair falling into his eyes and the weight on the chest of John lightened a bit. He could vaguely hear the music coming from far away, and each of his inhalations slowly changed the image of his sons. Suits a little more wrinkled, less well adjusted, hair more tangled. Then gradually piercings that were reappearing on the face and ears of Sam, the one to the lip of Dean and the green stone under his eye. And the threadbare leather jacket which no longer even creaked when his eldest moved.
This was not the image that John loved having of his sons, but it looked like them. Curiously, as unpleasant as it is, it was more normal than to see them... normal.
Dean had still his hand outstretched and this time, John took it. Before waking he had time to see the glowing tip of a cigarette between the lips of Sam.
##
"They told her she's not good enough,
Not strong, that life's too tough,
She lived a story where she was not the hero,
Forgot to tell her she's a radiant rainbow."
Repairing the Impala was something cathartic for Dean, and by extension for all the others. So far, only Dorothy helped him in his task but the end of the album recording had left them all unoccupied, something they were not used to. And it was easier to hide from reporters in the garage than in their respective apartments.
A greasy radio was broadcasting an old piece of the Red Hot Chili Peppers drown out by the pounding of Sam who was striving to straighten the car's fender. Kevin and Charlie were cursing a weld which refused to stick in a dismantled headlight. Madison, sitting cross-legged on the floor was sewing back up with a concentrated look the leather of one of the bench seats, ripped by the glass that had shattered on impact. Dean crawled out from under the car after checking the parallelism to hear the engine roar on which Dorothy was doing fine tunings.
He watched them all for a moment with a heartache. This was probably due to fatigue and the turmoil of the last days but he felt at once infinitely happy of the disparate family that Sam and him had gathered around them, and very sad that none of them was actually part of his family. As if what he had found was not enough to really make up for the abandonment. He shook his head and went back to work. A bolt after another, an swear word when he got a finger caught somewhere, and here and there the more or less delighted exclamations of his companions or the cursing of Charlie who wasn't doing very well with her headlight. It was so far from the life they considered normal that they all had like a strange floating sensation, as if they were taking their marks before a huge storm.
Instead of a storm, it was Castiel who entered the garage, squinting in the neon light, greeted by welcoming grunts. He looked like the personification of the strange uneasiness of Dean, a bit out of place in the greasy garage, in his suit barely wrinkled from his day of work, and his hair that was beginning to be too long and curling in the back of his neck.
Dean ignored his knees which protested when he stood up to draw him to himself and kiss him, fully aware that he was ruining the white shirt of the accountant with his hand full of grease.
"How are things going?"
"She's recovering slowly." Dean answered, beholding the scene. He was well aware that the car was very representative of their state of mind at them all, and that they were using her as a tool to keep their hands and mind busy the time to be rested enough to resume moving forward. There were worse ways to manage their lives after all.
On the workbench, a phone rang, that of Sam. Dean picked up, throwing a glance to his brother who was watching him, waiting to find out where the call came from.
"Hello?"
One second of silence. "Dean?"
"Dad?"
Dean had the same sensation as when you fall down the stairs, his blood running cold and the feeling of impending death. Sam had stood up, frowning, and Kevin had made a gesture toward him as if to hold him back or support him. It was instinctive and Sam put his hand on the one Kevin was keeping tight on his arm without thinking.
"Dean... I apologize. I apologize to the both of you."
Dean said nothing, speechless, shocked, until Dorothy who had approached him gently takes the phone out of his hand. "Mister Winchester... He'll call you back."
Sam wasn't taking his gaze off Dean's, torn between anger and another feeling he didn't define yet.
"He... He apologizes." Dean stammered.
Several emotions succeeded one another very quickly on Sam's face, contempt, anger, doubt, joy, bitterness, before he decides on a kind of tired relief. "About time." He sighed, shrugging. He turned to the dismantled car, almost ready to be reassembled. "About time." He repeated in a low tone.
Kevin pressed his arm one last time before releasing it and Sam smiled.
##
"I've been told too often,
I'll never be a rock star,
That I'm barely able to fix cars,
But they forgot to mention I'm not a shooting star,
I wanna be a legend."
Dean still had hands dirty from having worked all day on the car, but Castiel had absolutely wanted to drag him to church despite his protests. They sat on the first bench, staring at the altar and Dean wondered if Castiel was praying. If they had the right to speak in a church, even if it was empty. He had the impression that their breaths were doing an infernal noise in the nave and he felt obliged to say something, anything to break the silence.
"You know, in this state, we could get married."
"Would you like to?" Castiel asked without taking his eyes off the altar.
"Would you say yes?"
"Probably." Dean waited for the "but" that was to follow, there was always one when Castiel had that tone. "But that would bind the two of us, as if we were contractually obligated to support each other, whereas now..."
"Now when we go to bed together every night we both know that this is because we want it and we decide it in full knowledge of the cause." Dean finished.
Castiel nodded. "I must say that I quite like it."
Dean acquiesced. "For what it's worth..." He said in a low voice. "I promise to try to keep you happy and healthy as long as you will be part of my life." In light of the recent events it seemed important to emphasize that even though he knew his lover knew.
Castiel smiled. "For what it's worth, I promise to stay by your side and support you as long as you will let me take care of you."
"You may kiss the groom." The unknown voice startled them violently. They turned to find themselves facing a smiling priest. "Sorry to intrude, but I heard you talk and… For what it's worth, I have married many men and women in this church, and many of them had not written vows as sincere than yours. If I could speak on behalf of God, I would say that in His eyes, you are already married."
"God doesn't approve of people like us, padre." Dean said darkly. Neither God nor a good part of their entourage. He could name names, a long list that began with his father and ended with the fans who sent them letters of insult or threat by dozens since Castiel's confession on stage. Including his superiors in the army, and quite honestly he had to add Crowley to the list. A long list of names he would have decided to ignore without the few words of his father "I apologize". Maybe, in the end, was it necessary to fight just a little more to change things?
The priest was still smiling. "Who said that? Your father?" He shrugged when seeing their surprised faces. "I read about you Dean Winchester. You may not be a man of faith, nor a regular churchgoer, but God judges His people on their actions, not their devotion. And your actions are those of a good man. Whoever the person you love, it is God who decided of it, and He doesn't make mistakes. He doesn't expect anything in return. God's love is unconditional. As long as you love each other, isn't that proof that He approves of your union?"
Castiel had trouble not laughing at the expression of Dean. But the singer was silent a moment after the priest had stopped talking. Castiel addressed a nod to the priest. "Does his age suit you in the end?"
The man of the cloth burst into a laugh. "Why do you think I did some researches about him?"
"You told him about me? How many times have you come here?" Dean grumbled.
"Enough, and I intend to come back, with or without you."
"Well count me out, no offense padre!"
The priest shook his head. "It takes more to offend me." He vanished after saying good bye.
"Maybe he's right." Dean said, watching him go. "Maybe we were wrong to hide so long, and also wrong to unload to everybody… it only concerns us in the end."
"And maybe we don't care." Castiel added. "You're worth fighting for you, no matter what God or anyone thinks."
"We are worth fighting for us." Dean corrected.
Castiel nodded, and kissed the groom.
"I was never born to be a shooting star,
I'm gonna make myself
A legend."
Thank you guys for reading so far! I hope you've enjoyed it! As you may know, the original French story is still in progress, and today we've caught up with it. Don't worry, the story will go on, it won't stop, but Skadia is still working on the next chapter(s), so I don't know when this story will be updated. Just know that I commit to update it as soon as the next French chapter is posted! Before then, I wish you to be in good health, and I hope to see you for the next chapter!