Dean hastily buttoned his shirt, buckled his belt, straightened his tie and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to make himself look presentable. He took a tissue from the box on the desk and used it to wipe the lipstick off of his mouth. It certainly wasn't his color. "Listen, how long do I have to keep doing this?" he asked. "You told me it would only be a few times, to get you over a bad stretch. But it's been months now, and..."

The shapely Englishwoman sitting on the mahogany desk reached up and pressed a finger to his lips. When he stilled, Bela twisted his tie around in her hand and used it to pull him down for a kiss. "You're up for a raise next month, aren't you?" she asked quietly. "I think your work is quite satisfactory, and I'll be sure to recommend the top of the scale."

"So, maybe next month I can stop?" Dean asked hopefully.

She smiled, reaching around with her other hand to squeeze his ass. "You seem to be enjoying things as much as I am. Is being my little boy toy really so bad?"

"Considering that we have absolutely nothing in common other than you being my immediate supervisor, I'm in my twenties and you're in your forties, you're married, your husband is the CEO of this company and you're blackmailing me into doing this? Yeah, it kind of is." Dean pushed her hands way, reached down to the floor, and handed her a silken thong. "We're done for today, right? I gotta get back to work."

Dean's barbs never seemed to bother Bela. If anything, she seemed to enjoy the fact that he obviously didn't want to have any sort of relationship with her. She smiled as she accepted her thong and shoved it into the pocket of her expensive suit coat. Then she crossed one leg over the other as she sat on her desk and leaned forward a bit, showing off not only her shapely legs beneath her skirt but her cleavage, as well. "Dean?" she said. "This is a business arrangement like any other. You want this job and a raise, and I want you. When you're ready to walk, we can end the arrangement."

"So in other words, if I want to keep working here, I have to keep fucking you?" he groaned. "Dammit, Bela!"

She winked. "I love it when you talk dirty!" She took his tie again and pulled him back down for another kiss. "Come back for lunch tomorrow. I'll be waiting."

He pried her fingers off of his tie and wiped again at his mouth with the tissue. "You know, it would be nice to be able to actually eat on my lunch breaks. And could you maybe reconsider your policy against clip-on ties? I really hate it how you pull me around like this."

She grinned like a shark. "I enjoy it! I like having you on a leash."

"Yeah, I kind of got that impression." Dean paused, took a deep breath, and then plunged ahead. "What about school? You said you'd talk to HR about tuition so I can finish my degree, maybe be qualified for this job?"

"Oh, that." She waved a hand dismissively. "I haven't gotten around to it yet."

"You haven't...!" Dean closed his eyes and breathed hard through his nose. "You know that I lied on my application to get this job with my brother. I never finished my degree, and if you don't help me, I never will!"

She shrugged. "You seem to be doing just fine without it."

He eyed her. "Bela, tell me the truth, alright? Do you have any intention at all of helping me?"

Her eyes went wide. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know," he snapped. "Maybe because you get off on controlling me? Because you like having me on a leash in more ways than one?"

She giggled. "Oh Dean, you're so adorable when you're angry!"

Dean's fists clenched even as his shoulders slumped in defeat. "I need to get back. The Neville account is going to take me the rest of the day, and you used up my entire lunch break."

She waved her manicured fingers at him. "See you for lunch tomorrow! Looking forward to it, lover boy!"

Dean didn't dignify that with a response. He left Bela's office and headed back to his cubicle. There he plopped into his chair with a sigh and rubbed at his temples.

The squeak of wheels announced the presence of his coworker in the next cubicle scooting back to peer around the cubicle wall. "So!" Sam called quietly. "How was lunch?"

"Awful as usual, and I'm famished and my head is killing me as usual. Go away."

"You know that's sexual harassment and completely illegal, right?" Sam pointed out. "You could report her!"

"Thank you, Mr. Lawyer," Dean grumped. "And then they find out that I didn't finish school, never got my degree, and am completely unqualified for this job and they fire my undereducated ass. Then what, Sam? I go back to tending bar and working two jobs just to scrape by while the government taxes my meager tips? No thanks!" Dean retorted. His green eyes flicked about, alert for anyone who might wander close enough to hear them. "Look, I told you I wasn't comfortable talking about any of this at work. You want to get a beer tonight?"

"I would, but the wife's at her mother's and I got the kids tonight." He smiled. "You need to make some friends, Dean! Most of our fellow drones here in these cubicles like you, even if they know you never would have gotten this job if they all think you're weird."

"Gee, thanks, Sammy, I feel so much better now."

"And the fact is, pretty much everyone already suspects you're whoring yourself out to Bela," the bitch continued. "I caught on quickly enough, didn't I? And God knows you're not the first pretty young guy she's had lunch with, not according to the office grapevine."

"You're a hell of a confidence booster, Sam," Dean grumbled. He scowled, scrolling through the figures on his spreadsheet, moving so his back was to his brother.

Sam didn't take the hint. "So what did the Queen Bitch say about school?"

Dean gritted his teeth. "She hasn't gotten around to it yet."

Sam gaped. "But Dean, you lied on your resume!"

"I know, Sam. And I know what it means if anyone finds out I lied, so I don't need another lecture, ok?"

Sam shook his head. "Bella literally has you by the balls!" He frowned, watching as Dean rubbed at his temples again. "Headache again? You get those almost daily!"

"I know. I'm the one getting them."

"You ever see a doctor about those? You could be having migraines. My wife's sister..."

"Dude, you have seen enough of my life that it should be no surprise whatsoever that I constantly have pounding headaches," Dean growled. "We both grew up with the same father, bless him and his belt, and mom constantly fighting with him or lecturing us, when she was even around… It's no wonder you took off when you did!"

"And you stuck around and took it all twice as much when I left. Yeah, I get why you have headaches," Sam said quietly. "I just don't know what I can do to help you."

Dean immediately regretted bringing it up. He waved a hand. "Doesn't matter. Besides, you know how shitty our health insurance is. I can't afford to go to a doctor, Sam."

"Just saying, a doc might be able to do something to help you?"

"Unless he can magically erase the last few years when I fucked up my entire life? I don't think so." Dean scowled and focused on his computer. "Beat it, bitch. I gotta get back to work."

"Whatever, jerk." Sam raised his hands in surrender and squeaked back into his cubicle. Dean considered getting him a can of WD-40. But then he wouldn't know when his idiot brother was rolling over to talk to him. Good thing Sam loved scooting around in the rolling chairs. Otherwise, Dean would have to figure out some way to put a bell on him.

Four hours later, Dean rubbed at his eyes, sat back, and stared longingly at the post card he'd tacked to the wall of his cubicle. The picture showed, poetically enough, the sun coming up over Santa Monica Boulevard. He'd seen it all his life, and had taken it for granted until he'd come out here and finally understood that he might never see it again. When he'd left, he'd only considered the bad things he was leaving behind, like his dad and his belt, his mother's lectures, and the bullies who'd made his life miserable through most of his teen years. But now, homesickness hit him like a crashing wave on the beaches he'd once walked on. It seemed like a million years ago that he'd dropped out of school and left LA to move east with his fiancée. But now it was too late. He doubted he'd ever see the real thing again.

In retrospect, Dean could not believe how stupid he'd been. Now he was trapped in this job, whoring himself out to his boss. Meanwhile, he did work that was better than most of his coworkers who hadn't dropped out their last semester of school. And he'd dropped out to chase a pipe dream that had gone up in smoke less than three months after he'd arrived. That was the worst part. Sammy was always the smart one, earning a scholarship that put him through school even when he was out on his own. In a perfect world, Sammy would have been promoted long ago. But as much as he hated it, Dean was good at his job, too. His accounts were perfectly balanced, able to withstand anything that the IRS could throw at them, and his reports were top notch. He expertly funneled money into investments and accounts that reduced tax burden. All of his clients were extremely pleased. Dean knew that his work deserved the high-end raise Bela dangled in front of his nose like a carrot. He knew he and Sammy both deserved to be promoted out of her department. And he knew it wouldn't happen. Bela would keep them both trapped here in this dead-end job until she tired of Dean and moved on. And when that happened, she probably still wouldn't promote them. In all likelihood, she'd just make sure that his transcript from school made its way to her husband, and Dean would simply be fired, while Sammy remained in his dead-end job indefinitely.

What a life.

Dean waited in line and punched out. His stomach growled and had been growling for hours. As soon as he was in his car, he gobbled his lunch. Then he belched loudly, brushed the crumbs onto the floor, and turned the key. The car rumbled in protest, the engine sputtering as it turned over. Once again, Dean regretted selling the reliable sedan he'd driven east with for this clunker. Despite his best efforts, the thing was clearly on its last legs. What he wouldn't give for his father's beautiful 1967 Impala. Well, no point mooning after Baby now, she was well out of his reach. He pumped the gas, said the magic curse words, and the car finally came to life. It backfired once, breathing noxious black smoke that drifted into the car and made Dean choke and his eyes water. Finally, it settled into the familiar uneven knocking pattern that would most likely never pass the inspection that was due in three months. Of course, that depended on the car even lasting three months. Dean had no idea what he would do when it finally gave out. He certainly couldn't afford another one.

On the way home, just because fate wasn't done screwing him yet, some asshole rear-ended him at an intersection. The asshole bitched Dean out for five minutes for his crime of stopping at a yellow light. Then he'd jumped back into his car and floored it, leaving Dean standing, staring after him, with his insurance card in his hand and his muffler on the pavement, surrounded by the shattered remains of his tail light.

The cop arrived five minutes later, shook his head as he filled out the report, and then eyed the damage. "You got full coverage?"

"Liability only," Dean confessed.

The officer shook his head. "Sorry, son. But you can't drive it like that. You got no tail light and your exhaust is dragging on the road. I'll call you a tow. You got triple-A?"

"Of course not. That would imply some good news, and today is clearly not the day for that. Best part is, it's only Monday! I've got the whole rest of the week, full of days just as bad or worse than this one."

The officer shook his head again and made tsking sounds as he called for the tow. "Buddy, this is going to cost you an arm and a leg."

"Of course it is." Dean rubbed his temples. "You got a buyer in mind for one of my kidneys?"

"You might need to sell them both, to be honest."

Dean groaned. "Perfect. You have a gun, right, officer? Think maybe you could just shoot me, make it look like an accident?"

"Don't even joke about that, son."

"Not so sure I'm joking."

At least the cop was decent enough to give Dean a ride home. As it turned out, that worked out well. As soon as the headlights fell on the broken window in his row apartment, Dean knew he'd been robbed. They'd taken his stereo, his TV, and even his ancient microwave. What anyone thought might be in a dump like this worth robbing was beyond Dean. He stood in his living space/bedroom, feeling the cold air blowing right over his bed, and cursed for a full minute.

Once more, the officer shook his head as he filled out the report. "This is so not your day, buddy," he sighed. "Just absolutely not your day."