5Ever (Chapter 3 of !?)
Title: 5Ever (Chapter 3 of !?)
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikistitch
Rating: M
Characters/Pairings: Dean Winchester/Castiel, Sam Winchester, Benny Lafitte, Kevin Tran, Michael, Crowley, Charlie Bradbury, Balthazar
Warnings: Boy Band AU. Yes, really. Cursing
Word Count: 1700 this chapter
Summary: This chapter: when 5Ever's producer is caught in a scandal, Crowley has to find a new producer, fast! Cas is not pleased.
Notes: True fact about tikis: tikis cannot resist a CHALLENGE.
“But the young lady swore to me upon a stack of bibles that she was 18 years of age!”
Whatever Balthazar may have said after that was swallowed up by the hordes of reporters and paparazzi that swept over him and engulfed him right there on the courthouse steps. Flashbulbs popped and the whirring sound of automatic shutter advances filled the air.
“Hey, yeah, that's totally gonna work, Balthy,” said Dean, clicking off the TV remote.
“I guess when you have a sixteen-way, you don't always stop to check picture ID,” said Sam.
Benny looked up from the table where he, Sam and Cas sat playing cards. “That idiot...?”
“Balthazar,” said Dean. He had picked up his guitar and slouched back on the couch, starting to strum a few chords.
“Baltha-what-the-hell? Man keeps a stack o' bibles near his bed?”
“Maybe he gives them out? Like party gifts?” Sam speculated.
“He'll be somebody's prison girlfriend soon,” said Dean.
“Got any threes?” Sam asked Cas.
Cas flicked ashes into the Hamm's beer ashtray in the center of the table. “Go fish.”
“Dammit!”
Just then their manager, Crowley, slithered in the door, bearing fetid air and a boom box, which he sat in the middle of the card table, thus ruining the game with great efficiency.
“Crowley. Don't be a mother trucker,” grumbled Benny.
“Not possible,” Dean told Benny.
“All right, my lovelies, gather round. As of this week, your pretty little behinds have been bumped from the number one spot by that fiendish little traitor.”
“Wait, aren't we still number one?” asked Dean, who had roused himself from the couch. “The chart numbers don't even come out until tomorrow.”
“I have friends in low places, dear.” Crowley looked to and fro. “Where the hell is Michael?”
“Where he always is,” said Dean.
“You've done something with him, have him tucked away in your little love nest?” Crowley inquired of Cas.
Cas blew smoke in Crowley's face.
Crowley coughed. “Now, listen, and learn. This is the only copy, secreted out especially for you.” He clicked the play button, and a very catchy pop beat started.
It's less easy to believe
That Cockney git is lying to you
But when his forked tongue
Is pressing so near
You know the dude's lying to you
Are you wrong, write a song?
When the album come along
The cut's nowhere to be found
Are now no one can see
She's your bride to be
You gotta hide it from the fans
Why don't you
Sing another song
Nothing is wrong
Not going back there forever
Try to tell it straight
You just get the haters
Never goin' back to 5ever....
Sam punched the stop button.
“He's singing about us?” asked Dean, his voice jumping up an octave or two. “Can he do that?”
“He just did, brother,” chuckled Benny.
“We'll sue him!” declared Sam, who had much faith in legal solutions.
Crowley studied his fingernails. “Sue him for what, poppet? Other than poor taste in management?” He shook his head. “He's obviously trying to bait me. Him and that ginger tealeaf. We will need to counter this move, and swiftly.”
Dean clamped a hand on his brother's shoulder. “Since Balthazar's doing ten to twenty in the county pen, does this mean we get Sammy to pinch hit as producer?”
“Nonsense,” said Crowley. “Do not worry your pretty heads, we shall intervene with a professional twirler of dials. I already have someone in mind.” And with that, he flounced out of the room.
“I need a damn drink,” said Dean.
Benny nodded, and the two were out the door like thieves in the night. Slightly alcoholic thieves in the night, that is.
Sam slumped back in his seat. “Those two: what the hell?”
Cas, who was gathering up the cards spread over the table and forming them into a deck, shrugged his shoulders and took up his cigarette.
“I mean, does it occur to you they've been joined at the hip recently?”
Cas, cigarette dangling from his lip, shuffled cards.
“I mean,” said Sam, who obviously needed to clarify, and who also leaned his large frame forward, “It's not just me, right?”
Cas began to set the cards up for a game of solitaire.
Sam sat back and sighed. “I want you to know, I value these heart-to-heart talks we have, Cas.”
Michael appeared at the door, poised in mid-rap. “I'm taking you back to the old school 'cause I'm an old fool who's so cool, if you wanna get down I'm gonna show you the way, whoomp!” He pointed across the room.
“There it is,” answered Cas, in a rather conversational tone it might be added. He shuffled and, almost smiling, turned over an ace.
“My man, Cas,” said Michael, flopping down on the couch.
“You just missed Crowley,” Sam told him.
“Go, me!”
“Where the hell were you, Michael? It was a band meeting.”
Michael sat up and put his elbows over the back of the ratty couch. “Where am I, ever?” He flopped back down, out of sight.
“Kevin is making fun of us.”
“The cigarette you smoke
'Cause you ain't in on the joke
Better to stay blind
Than admit he's on your mind
Ain't going back to 5Ever....”
sang Michael.
Cas looked up and frowned a Marlboro frown.
Sam crossed his arms. “How the hell did you hear the song, Michael? I thought Crowley had the only copy.”
“I have my ways. Can I bum a smoke, Cas?”
Cas extracted the pack of menthols from his pocket and lobbed it over the couch.
“I thought you didn't smoke, Michael,” said Sam. Michael sent a middle finger up over the couch. “Oh, and Crowley is sending in a new producer.”
“Ha. Balthy got himself in good this time,” chuckled Michael. A cloud of smoke came wafting up over the back of the couch, and the cigarette pack launched itself towards Cas.
At the last minute, Sam leaned over and snatched the pack out of the air before Cas could catch it. He extracted a cigarette. Cas raised an eyebrow.
“When in Rome,” sighed Sam.
Sam tapped his wristwatch, as if expecting answers. He leaned back against the mixing board in the control room. “I understand that Michael isn't here, because he's never here. But where the hell is my brother? And Benny? And where's Crowley? And the new producer?”
Cas, who was lounging in a swivel chair - by coincidence, the only chair in the booth, but he had arrived first today - shrugged and reached for another cigarette. They were, seemingly, the only two people in the entire recording studio.
The door opened and a ridiculously handsome man stood in the doorway. “Hello there!” he said, giving a brilliant, high-cheekboned grin. “I'm Jack,” he said, extending a hand towards Sam.
“Sam,” said the same. “You're the producer?”
“I am.”
“And this is Cas,” said Sam, as he didn't believe his band mate would ever spared the words to introduce himself.
But Jack had already stridden forward and, gripping the arms of Cas's chair, wrenched it around to face him. As Cas squirmed back into the chair, his face white as library paste, Jack leaned over, nearly nose to nose with him, and murmured, “Well, hello there! And where have you been all my life, gorgeous?”
Cas quivered in terror.
“Cat got your tongue?” asked Jack with a wink. “Maybe I can find it. I like cats.”
Jack suddenly emitted a small choke as he was abruptly wrenched back by someone yanking on his shirt. He was turned around and came face to face with Dean Winchester, who currently had a death grip on Jack's collar.
“Benny,” said Benny, who was now leaning in the door frame. “And that's my buddy, Dean. His hobbies are collecting knives, high caliber firearms, and producer's spleens.”
“It's good to have a hobby!” said Jack brightly as Dean loosened his grip on his collar. He spread his arms. “I think we're all gonna get along just fine!” He looked around. “Hey, you guys wanna hug it out?”
Dean stepped between Jack and Cas. “Cas doesn't hug.”
“Maybe later,” said Jack, winking at Cas, who let out a small yelp.
“Ah, so you've all met,” said Crowley, who also crowded into the booth. “And we're on big fucking happy family. And where the hell is Michael?”
“Michael isn't manifesting on this plane of existence today,” said Sam.
“I'll kick his astral plane,” grumbled Crowley.
“Splendid!” said Jack. “And hey, I have a lead vocal for you, Castiel.”
“I don't sing lead,” whispered Cas.
“Cas doesn't sing lead,” stated Dean.
“Maybe you will, for me?” asked Jack.
“Straight up are you really gonna love me forever, or am I caught in a hit and run?” sang Michael, who had somehow manifested in the recording studio.
“There's the little wanker,” said Crowley. “All right, get going, time is money, or actually money is money, or something inspiring like that.” He thereupon exited, stage right.
Michael executed a backflip, which upset a number of microphones.
“Hey, stop the gymnastics. That's my gig!” yelled Dean. He grabbed Cas and made for the studio. Benny, cracking a grin at Jack, followed him.
Jack made for the chair that Cas had vacated, but Sam beat him. “I like to sit in on the recording sessions,” said Sam.
“Yes, this is going to be splendid,” said Jack, just as there was a loud crash and a lot of cursing from the studio. “One big happy family.”
This entry was originally posted at http://tikific.dreamwidth.org/140893.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikistitch
Rating: M
Characters/Pairings: Dean Winchester/Castiel, Sam Winchester, Benny Lafitte, Kevin Tran, Michael, Crowley, Charlie Bradbury, Balthazar
Warnings: Boy Band AU. Yes, really. Cursing
Word Count: 1700 this chapter
Summary: This chapter: when 5Ever's producer is caught in a scandal, Crowley has to find a new producer, fast! Cas is not pleased.
Notes: True fact about tikis: tikis cannot resist a CHALLENGE.
“But the young lady swore to me upon a stack of bibles that she was 18 years of age!”
Whatever Balthazar may have said after that was swallowed up by the hordes of reporters and paparazzi that swept over him and engulfed him right there on the courthouse steps. Flashbulbs popped and the whirring sound of automatic shutter advances filled the air.
“Hey, yeah, that's totally gonna work, Balthy,” said Dean, clicking off the TV remote.
“I guess when you have a sixteen-way, you don't always stop to check picture ID,” said Sam.
Benny looked up from the table where he, Sam and Cas sat playing cards. “That idiot...?”
“Balthazar,” said Dean. He had picked up his guitar and slouched back on the couch, starting to strum a few chords.
“Baltha-what-the-hell? Man keeps a stack o' bibles near his bed?”
“Maybe he gives them out? Like party gifts?” Sam speculated.
“He'll be somebody's prison girlfriend soon,” said Dean.
“Got any threes?” Sam asked Cas.
Cas flicked ashes into the Hamm's beer ashtray in the center of the table. “Go fish.”
“Dammit!”
Just then their manager, Crowley, slithered in the door, bearing fetid air and a boom box, which he sat in the middle of the card table, thus ruining the game with great efficiency.
“Crowley. Don't be a mother trucker,” grumbled Benny.
“Not possible,” Dean told Benny.
“All right, my lovelies, gather round. As of this week, your pretty little behinds have been bumped from the number one spot by that fiendish little traitor.”
“Wait, aren't we still number one?” asked Dean, who had roused himself from the couch. “The chart numbers don't even come out until tomorrow.”
“I have friends in low places, dear.” Crowley looked to and fro. “Where the hell is Michael?”
“Where he always is,” said Dean.
“You've done something with him, have him tucked away in your little love nest?” Crowley inquired of Cas.
Cas blew smoke in Crowley's face.
Crowley coughed. “Now, listen, and learn. This is the only copy, secreted out especially for you.” He clicked the play button, and a very catchy pop beat started.
It's less easy to believe
That Cockney git is lying to you
But when his forked tongue
Is pressing so near
You know the dude's lying to you
Are you wrong, write a song?
When the album come along
The cut's nowhere to be found
Are now no one can see
She's your bride to be
You gotta hide it from the fans
Why don't you
Sing another song
Nothing is wrong
Not going back there forever
Try to tell it straight
You just get the haters
Never goin' back to 5ever....
Sam punched the stop button.
“He's singing about us?” asked Dean, his voice jumping up an octave or two. “Can he do that?”
“He just did, brother,” chuckled Benny.
“We'll sue him!” declared Sam, who had much faith in legal solutions.
Crowley studied his fingernails. “Sue him for what, poppet? Other than poor taste in management?” He shook his head. “He's obviously trying to bait me. Him and that ginger tealeaf. We will need to counter this move, and swiftly.”
Dean clamped a hand on his brother's shoulder. “Since Balthazar's doing ten to twenty in the county pen, does this mean we get Sammy to pinch hit as producer?”
“Nonsense,” said Crowley. “Do not worry your pretty heads, we shall intervene with a professional twirler of dials. I already have someone in mind.” And with that, he flounced out of the room.
“I need a damn drink,” said Dean.
Benny nodded, and the two were out the door like thieves in the night. Slightly alcoholic thieves in the night, that is.
Sam slumped back in his seat. “Those two: what the hell?”
Cas, who was gathering up the cards spread over the table and forming them into a deck, shrugged his shoulders and took up his cigarette.
“I mean, does it occur to you they've been joined at the hip recently?”
Cas, cigarette dangling from his lip, shuffled cards.
“I mean,” said Sam, who obviously needed to clarify, and who also leaned his large frame forward, “It's not just me, right?”
Cas began to set the cards up for a game of solitaire.
Sam sat back and sighed. “I want you to know, I value these heart-to-heart talks we have, Cas.”
Michael appeared at the door, poised in mid-rap. “I'm taking you back to the old school 'cause I'm an old fool who's so cool, if you wanna get down I'm gonna show you the way, whoomp!” He pointed across the room.
“There it is,” answered Cas, in a rather conversational tone it might be added. He shuffled and, almost smiling, turned over an ace.
“My man, Cas,” said Michael, flopping down on the couch.
“You just missed Crowley,” Sam told him.
“Go, me!”
“Where the hell were you, Michael? It was a band meeting.”
Michael sat up and put his elbows over the back of the ratty couch. “Where am I, ever?” He flopped back down, out of sight.
“Kevin is making fun of us.”
“The cigarette you smoke
'Cause you ain't in on the joke
Better to stay blind
Than admit he's on your mind
Ain't going back to 5Ever....”
sang Michael.
Cas looked up and frowned a Marlboro frown.
Sam crossed his arms. “How the hell did you hear the song, Michael? I thought Crowley had the only copy.”
“I have my ways. Can I bum a smoke, Cas?”
Cas extracted the pack of menthols from his pocket and lobbed it over the couch.
“I thought you didn't smoke, Michael,” said Sam. Michael sent a middle finger up over the couch. “Oh, and Crowley is sending in a new producer.”
“Ha. Balthy got himself in good this time,” chuckled Michael. A cloud of smoke came wafting up over the back of the couch, and the cigarette pack launched itself towards Cas.
At the last minute, Sam leaned over and snatched the pack out of the air before Cas could catch it. He extracted a cigarette. Cas raised an eyebrow.
“When in Rome,” sighed Sam.
Sam tapped his wristwatch, as if expecting answers. He leaned back against the mixing board in the control room. “I understand that Michael isn't here, because he's never here. But where the hell is my brother? And Benny? And where's Crowley? And the new producer?”
Cas, who was lounging in a swivel chair - by coincidence, the only chair in the booth, but he had arrived first today - shrugged and reached for another cigarette. They were, seemingly, the only two people in the entire recording studio.
The door opened and a ridiculously handsome man stood in the doorway. “Hello there!” he said, giving a brilliant, high-cheekboned grin. “I'm Jack,” he said, extending a hand towards Sam.
“Sam,” said the same. “You're the producer?”
“I am.”
“And this is Cas,” said Sam, as he didn't believe his band mate would ever spared the words to introduce himself.
But Jack had already stridden forward and, gripping the arms of Cas's chair, wrenched it around to face him. As Cas squirmed back into the chair, his face white as library paste, Jack leaned over, nearly nose to nose with him, and murmured, “Well, hello there! And where have you been all my life, gorgeous?”
Cas quivered in terror.
“Cat got your tongue?” asked Jack with a wink. “Maybe I can find it. I like cats.”
Jack suddenly emitted a small choke as he was abruptly wrenched back by someone yanking on his shirt. He was turned around and came face to face with Dean Winchester, who currently had a death grip on Jack's collar.
“Benny,” said Benny, who was now leaning in the door frame. “And that's my buddy, Dean. His hobbies are collecting knives, high caliber firearms, and producer's spleens.”
“It's good to have a hobby!” said Jack brightly as Dean loosened his grip on his collar. He spread his arms. “I think we're all gonna get along just fine!” He looked around. “Hey, you guys wanna hug it out?”
Dean stepped between Jack and Cas. “Cas doesn't hug.”
“Maybe later,” said Jack, winking at Cas, who let out a small yelp.
“Ah, so you've all met,” said Crowley, who also crowded into the booth. “And we're on big fucking happy family. And where the hell is Michael?”
“Michael isn't manifesting on this plane of existence today,” said Sam.
“I'll kick his astral plane,” grumbled Crowley.
“Splendid!” said Jack. “And hey, I have a lead vocal for you, Castiel.”
“I don't sing lead,” whispered Cas.
“Cas doesn't sing lead,” stated Dean.
“Maybe you will, for me?” asked Jack.
“Straight up are you really gonna love me forever, or am I caught in a hit and run?” sang Michael, who had somehow manifested in the recording studio.
“There's the little wanker,” said Crowley. “All right, get going, time is money, or actually money is money, or something inspiring like that.” He thereupon exited, stage right.
Michael executed a backflip, which upset a number of microphones.
“Hey, stop the gymnastics. That's my gig!” yelled Dean. He grabbed Cas and made for the studio. Benny, cracking a grin at Jack, followed him.
Jack made for the chair that Cas had vacated, but Sam beat him. “I like to sit in on the recording sessions,” said Sam.
“Yes, this is going to be splendid,” said Jack, just as there was a loud crash and a lot of cursing from the studio. “One big happy family.”
This entry was originally posted at http://tikific.dreamwidth.org/140893.html. Please comment there using OpenID.