Of Crossword Puzzles and Duran Duran
Dean Smith was an ordinary guy. He's binged ER, taken joints from guys named Don, lost a few friends, been in love—more than once, with the same woman, no less—and has a family of his own. Not the kind that screams "Apple Pie!" with a white picket fence and a room with a view, but the kind that can't be bargained for blood. His best friend, Sam, was his second thing closest to a brother after he lost Adam, his biological, to melanoma two winters ago.
It was a miracle he'd gotten a green slip into Stanford with his track record. Vandalism, shoplifting, disorderly conduct—petty high school slipups that could have easily been avoided. His dad, Lieutenant Singer, got him out of two of those offenses, but not without bringing the hammer down with him. By a hairs breadth, he made valedictorian, majored in Business, and accidentally became the top grossing ad executive in the State.
Ever since that fateful email from Roman Enterprises (it was a really impersonal syndicate because apparently phone calls were too archaic for the ever-expanding twenty-first century) he's been on a working man's schedule. First was his daybreak jog at five, breakfast with coworkers at six, work at seven, and clientele interviews around nine. Dean liked to take a jab at the Saturday crosswords during those in-between periods, even though he never gets more than three words in.
He swears up and down that Sam's some kind of lexicon virtuoso. The twenty-five-year-old undergraduate can finish the thing and mop the restroom floor in half the time.
The commode beneath him hummed and shook as the one in the stall next to his cranked into use. The ad guru could sit at his desk, but whether it was Pamela with his pumpkin spice latte (What? A man can't choose his own drink? What has this world come to?) or Zachariah with the latest report, Dean was always barraged with a steady stream of interruptions. It came with the title.
After a minute or so of macabre mono-e-mono silence, he heard the distinct sound of the porcelain throne slamming against the sewage pipe and heavy belching. Dean surmised that the guy was recreating his typical Friday night. The one little kink in his established plot, however, was that it was Hump Day, no less morning, and the five-o'-clock excuse doesn't exactly help when you're up against a Board with more sticks up their ass than a beaver's backside.
"Long night?" he chuckled, mostly to himself, although it was safe to assume the guy heard him loud and clear granted the proximity between their feet. Wait a second; are those Dolce & Gabbana's? He's had those loafers on special order for two months at least. Whichever agency he's coming from, they must pay him a pretty penny.
A reply came through another moment later, deep and unexpurgated: "Even longer morning."
"That good, huh?" Dean said, overturning the paper in his hand with a loud crinkle. Pickles should cheer him up; if not completely restore his simplistic faith in humanity.
"You ought to be so fortunate, Magnanni," he retorted, and Dean had to do a double-take just to remember what shoes he put on this morning. "You get a chance to take a crack at those crosswords created by and for the elite one-percent obviously erudite in the art of right-clicking." He paused, shuffling his feet before he parked his ass on his toilet seat. "Duran Duran is a good band, though."
Well I'll be damned. Dean had to choke back the laugh in the back of his throat. He glanced down to find his war-torn Apple earbuds he left dangling precariously around his neck. Suavely, he swung his hand under the stall isolating them. "Good ear. What the hell is your name?"
"Castiel," the man countered with firm shake. He'd never thought the guy was feeling queasy. Castiel, though… why did that name sound familiar? "Sorry for the ruckus; I have a nine-o'-clock with the head of department, Dean Smith. It's my first presentation and I hear he's a griller."
And there it is: Castiel Novak from Ferguson's International—their second biggest competitor. Ferguson McLeod was an old associate with Roman Enterprises when it was run under the former head of department, Michael Cohen, but, well… the two didn't exactly part on the best of terms. Castiel's going to have a hell of a time convincing a dozen other Board members why they should sponsor Ferguson's face on their placards.
Dean pursed his lips with a tinge of amusement, crossing his arms and settling back on his seat, the cool medal handle prodding his lower rib. "I'm sure he's not too bad. Besides, I hear he's really handsome, you know, like straight out of Calvin Klein's underwear collection—"
"That image is permanently singed in my mind, thanks," he grumbled. Dean had to laugh that time. "Oh shit, okay, now I have five minutes. What even is time?" He heard Cas take in a breathy sigh that in no way made Dean's lady parts constrict before haste footsteps replaced the sound of the lavatory stall closing. "Wish me luck, bathroom stranger."
Though Cas couldn't see, Dean was beaming like a schoolboy as he said, "Godspeed."
It wasn't until he realized he had the same meeting that he sprinted out of the bathroom.
As it turns out, Castiel is an intern.
He was hired by Roman Enterprises to conduct a three to five speech that speaks to the general demographic, also known as the generation that singlehandedly keeps the internet afloat. His assignment was to pitch a product that would further endorse social media exploitation and land an advertising campaign. The latter can be difficult. Marketing is a riddle wrapped inside an enigma, as it's almost always impossible to distinguish the products that sell from the ones that don't.
Cas chose to launch a dating app compatible on all social media websites.
And by God, he could've had Dean fooled for a professional.
He almost felt bad for painting himself up as something of a God when Cas was twice as easy on the eyes. He had dark russet hair that came down in fifties' style wisps over his forehead, wide-rimmed glasses that accentuated his sapphire eyes, a salient jawline with a light sporadic aftershave and, though cloaked underneath his three-piece, the body of an Adonis.
Aside from the whole extra beefy enchilada, he was one hell of a presenter for a medium resume—and he didn't just say that about any Tom, Dick, or Harry that came waltzing into the business. In fact, he was actually overqualified for any position in Roman Enterprises given his outstanding everything, had he wanted to pursue one. Dean secretly hoped that he would. Maybe then, especially if he was under his wing, Dean would be more compelled to sit at his desk.
All things considered, Castiel passed his examination.
By the time Zach got around to the verbal part of the assessment, asking Dean if he had any concluding comments or advice regarding the intern's articulation, the executive had involuntarily sputtered, "Don't stop believing. Hold on to that feeling... streetlights, the people... guitar solo." His coworkers gaped at him in sheer awe, and they had every right to. But when Cas replied wide-eyed and flushed to the bone—well, let's just say it was worth the displaced faith of his associates.
"Thanks for the heads-up," Cas would later say as Dean showed him out of the conference room. The slightly older man had to laugh while retaining some albeit feigned shred of professionalism.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Novak, but I'm at a loss for words."
Cas stopped them short of the corridor. "Is that an English dialect?"
Okay, so maybe he was trying a little too hard. "Depends, will you see me to lunch?"
"I, uh—" Dean stared at him with pleading eyes, the kind that can only be mastered with five hours' worth of paid-programming from PETA. Before answering, Cas gave him a onceover (which was actually kind of adorable since Dean had at least a few inches on him) and a shrewd smile. "Wouldn't that be kind of inappropriate, seeing as I'm a potential candidate for your company?"
Dean returned him with the same smile. "Oh, I'll make sure you're not considered."
"Well, in that case," the blue-eyed man said, cornering the evaluator in the doorway until he had no prior concept of personal space. "Why don't we take this to your office?"
And since, Dean couldn't be bothered with bathroom stalls.
-END-
A/N: Success! I didn't forget about Adam! Where's my Popsicle?