I think you messed up voting, because there's no way I should've won Artist of the Year.

Castiel tweets this later that night — or morning, technically. He doesn't get to his hotel until around two the next morning, and he doesn't get to see Dean before then. There's another thing he wants to tweet, though it wouldn't fit in the same tweet, so he tweets it separately.

Let's celebrate. Reply with what you want me to do. I'll do the 3 with the most likes in 24 hours (if they're legal)

And tweet. Now all that's left to do is wait. Per usual, his notifications explode with likes, retweets, and replies. Instead of reading them now like he usually would, he turns off the wifi on his phone and plugs it in the charge.

He removes his trench coat and gently folds it up and lays it on the spare bed in his hotel room. That's right. Castiel gets two bed — two king sized beds, actually — to himself. Perks of being rich. He's less careful about his suit, not really caring what happens to it. He doesn't really have the same attachment to it that he has with the coat on top. He throws the suit jacket on the bed, then his tie and dress shirt.

He walks over to the mirror in the bathroom and looks at himself with a frown. He's so... fake. He decides to take a shower, not caring that the water will likely wake him up more at this early hour. He rinses the gel out of his hair. He's always hated how they make him fix his hair like this. He'd much rather leave it a fluffy mess than slicked down.

Castiel stays in the shower much longer than necessary, not because he wants to be extra clean, nor because he's to cold or too warm, or even because he's lost in thought. It's more that he tries not to think, as he so often does. Thinking just causes unnecessary stress, and he doesn't need any more of that in his life.

Eventually, he turns the water off and dries his hair with a towel before wrapping it around his waist. He steps out of the bathtub and stands in front of the mirror. He can see how tired he is as well as feel it. He can't remember the last time he had a good night sleep. He's always either up late on social media for his fans or up early for gigs, and even when he does finally get to bed, he ends up staring at the ceiling for hours on end, unable to fall asleep.

The "pop star life" is tiring, and not especially worth it for the boy. Sure, he loves when people come up to him and tell him how he's changed their lives with his relatable music, and he loves how he's learned to carry out a conversation. He loves all the friends he's made, and all the friends he's kept.
But he rarely has a free moment anymore. Usually, his down time is spent writing music, most of which is never used but written anyway for options. He's about to announce the relearn of his fifth album and his third solo tour soon after that, and that becomes even more hectic. Overall, he just feels like a mess.

Castiel lets out a small sigh. He reaches for his clothes to get dressed, his eyes stopping on his arms. He holds one in front of his face. The scars are mostly gone now. He has to look closely to see them at all. He had to get rid of them, per orders from his label. Scar cream works wonders.

And yet, he can't say he's entirely happy about it. They were his battle scars. They showed who he was, what he's lived through. Now, they're faded, nearly invisible. The reminder of his painful past is almost completely erased, and though he should be happy, he isn't. He's not happy with much in his life. He never has been, and he's beginning to wonder if he ever will be.

~~

Castiel is woken up the next day by the sound of his phone ringing next to his bed. He feels around for it, only opening one eye to find the answer button. He can sort of see the green light, but his vision is too blurred from sleep to make much else out.

"It's Castiel," he answers, the same way he always does. This time, it's clear he's still mostly asleep. He doesn't bother trying to hide it. Maybe they'll get the hint and leave him alone. It's too damn early for this.

"Cas, you okay?" Dean's concerned voice comes through the speaker. "You sound drunk."

Castiel would have rolled his eyes, had they been open. "No, not drunk. Tired."

"Seriously? How long have you been up?"

"Thirty seconds, maybe?" Castiel estimates.

"You realize it's one thirty, right?" Dean asks.

"Really?" Castiel rolls over so he's hanging off the end of the bed to look at his phone. "Oh, look. It's one thirty. How'd that happen?" He sighs. "I should probably get up."

"Good idea," Dean agrees.

Castiel rolls out of bed, accidentally falling on his face in the process. He groans and sits up on the floor. It's too early for this.

"I heard a 'thud,'" Dean observes. "You okay?"

"My face hurts," Castiel mutters.

Dean chuckles. "Nice, Cas. Nice."

"Did you call for something important?" Castiel asks. "Because my brain isn't functioning and I don't think I can help."

"I noticed," Dean replies. "And no, I just called because I'm bored and I figured you'd already be up, seeing as it's past one in the afternoon, and we could go hang out while we're still nearby. If you wanna go back to sleep, though, go ahead. You sound like you need it."

Castiel hesitates. He'd feel bad leaving Dean, but at the same time, sleep.
"How long are you in town?" Castiel inquires.

"Uh... Today and tomorrow. Wait... And the day after that. Why?"

"Then can we meet up later?" Castiel asks. "I'm exhausted, but I'd hate for us to leave without seeing each other again."

"Of course," Dean replies. "Call me later?"

"Mm," Castiel confirms.

"Hey, Cas?"

"Hmm?"

"What time did you go to bed last night, anyway?"

Castiel has to think about this for a moment. "Uh... Three? Ish?"

Dean scoffs. "Seriously? Dude, even I went to bed later than that, and I've been up for a couple hours."

"Showoff," Castiel mutters. "I'm going back to sleep. Talk to you later."

"Yep, bye."

Dean hangs up, so Castiel climbs back into bed and curls up under the covers again. There's a reason he's still exhausted, and it's not because he went to bed so late. It's because he didn't fall asleep until hours later, plagued by dark thoughts and nightmares. They don't bother him much anymore; he's gotten used to them over the years. Still, they severely limit his sleep, and he'll take any day off to catch up on it. And hey, who knows? Maybe he'll actually fall asleep this time within the three hours. A boy can dream.