"You know, son, that I am very tolerant and open-minded..." honorable mister Robert Singer spoke calmly from his throne - that is, from his huge leather rotating chair.

Dean had to focus real hard on pretending that he was listening. Monstrous hangover was making his eyeballs pulsate with dull pain and his guts twist; despite his best efforts he couldn't keep focused on the man on the other side of an oak desk.

"I would be a hypocrite if I said that I never liked carefree fun. I used to party when I was young, too. Still, I knew my limits..." SInger droned on in a calm, even voice.

There was something odd about him. Dean squinted, tilting his head. Everything was hazy. Bobby was so not-Bobby-ish... What was he saying, anyway?

"Everyone is aware that I started from repairing wrecked cars on my uncle's backyard. When I earned my first real money it was enough to buy my friends a couple of drinks so that they would stop laughing at me for being poor and never going out with them. Do you know what I did?"

Perhaps it was that Bobby wasn't wearing his baseball cap. His hair looked funny. Like there was... more of it than Dean remembered.

"I invested in a better set of tools. I could work more efficiently, earn more. And here I am after 30 long years. My children will know no hunger or humiliation. They went to the best colleges. They will do whatever they want with their lives."

Was it a toupee?

"I had no degree, no assets, but do you know what I had?"

No, it wasn't. Gazillionaires never wear toupees. Of course it wasn't. It was hair transplant that corrected his receding hairline.

"I had a plan. I had perseverance and self-control. I knew my limits. I knew when I could let myself rest and rock the house, but I also knew when I had to make a push."

Dean squinted, trying to catch as much as he could from Bobby's rant over the excruciating buzz in his head.

"So I understand that everyone can have a bad day, but son, if you want to achieve anything, you have to know your limits. You can't get drunk and oversleep every time you feel downbeat!"

Bobby looked really weird. He acted really, really weird. Come on, everybody knew that getting drunk was exactly the thing to do when feeling downbeat. Catching as much sleep as possible was a must.

"You need self-discipline to overcome your problems. Improvidence and indolence are two things I cannot tolerate. Not in this house."

Those chipmunk flabby cheeks were gone too. Had he had a plastic surgery?

"One day you will understand that I am doing this for your own good. Now, you can stay here for a couple of days until you find a place to live, but you're fired."

Uh oh...

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

Being unemployed proved to be a perfect situation after all. With a bottle of shandy (it was unmanly, but perfect for hangover) in one hand and a cheese-and-ham sandwich in the other Dean stood on a small terrace, watching Samuél trim hedges, sweep dried leafs off sandstone paved passages and clean the swimming pool. The tall, tanned man was still wearing nothing but surf shorts, so Winchester was starting to wonder if his contract included parading half-naked all the time; his bronze skin drenched in suntan oil glistened in the sun. It was astonishing how little it took to turn Dean's awkward, lanky, ungainly brother into a cheesy porn cliche. Damn, he had been there for a little more than 24 hours and he was already starting to miss his giant nerdy brother.

Speaking of porn: the hunter was not the only person watching the handsome gardener. From his viewpoint Dean spotted Becky - Rebecca Singer - skulking behind a rhododendron shrub, ogling her father's employee. She sneaked up to him, wrapped her arms around his waist, running her hands up his bare chest. Dean was outraged until he saw Samuél turn around, return the embrace and lean in to kiss the girl with an authentic smile of joy.

Oh, so it was this kind of fanfiction.

Dean didn't have time to realize the magnitude of his relief when he felt a smack on his bottom and heard flirtatious purring next to his ear.

"How are you, tiger?"

He jerked away from the source of the sound, but to no avail. Pamela's bony hand was still gripping his buttock and when he spun around, she pulled herself even closer in the process, twisting her arm around him.

"Jezus Christ, what do you want from me, woman?"

"Oh, you're playing hard to get... How adorable!" she teased, squeezing Dean's ass so tight that her chunky golden rings probably gave him bruises, "I hear that you're unemployed from today."

Winchester nodded feebly in hope that agreeableness would gain him some freedom. Indeed, Pamela loosened her hold enough for Dean to take a step back, though her hands were still on his hips.

"I've always thought you were a gorgeous hunk, baby..." the woman kept cajoling; there was a moment when she actually sniffed Dean's neck, "but cheating on my husband with a chauffeur would be so plebeian. Now that my dear Robert has fired you, how about... My bedroom, in twenty?" Pamela licked her lips suggestively.

Having regained control over his body, Dean cleared his throat, then gently, but decidedly took Pamela's hands off of himself.

"Uhm... Pamela... I mean Mrs Singer... I don't think it's the best idea."

She let go with a theatrical pout, perhaps hoping that behaving like a teenage girl would make her more alluring. In any other set of circumstances Winchester would find this strategy highly effective.

"What ifff..." she began again, biting her lips suggestively as she prolonged the last sound, "I convince my stepson to have a threesome? I know you want it..."

Dean's eyes widened in horror.

"No! Geezus! For tit's sake! No!"

And that was it. For the first time in his life Dean ran away from a possible hot date with an obscenely rich MILF.

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

Like cures like. Dean relied on this old folk wisdom a little too confidently, because around 6PM his hangover was gone, but he was already slightly tipsy.

Samuél shushed him angrily when Dean rolled into the staff's break room. Wichester gave him a curious look. The gardener was sitting at a table with headphones on, staring intently at his laptop's screen and murmuring under his breath; his focused look darted between two windows as he was typing discontinuously. He looked like he was... studying?

Winchester sat at the other end of the table, waiting for the other man to finish whatever he was doing. Not even five minutes had passed when Samuél closed the laptop, took the headphones off and sent Dean an apologetic smile.

"Sorry," he said, "We have to be logged in and work in real time during sessions."

"You what?"

"Dean, I have told you about this. I thought you would remember."

One thing wasn't changed in this world - Sam's sour grimace. The similarity to real Sam gave Dean the creeps.

"You can tell me again. I had a really bad day. Wouldn't mind a chat."

"I got enrolled for cultural anthropology on UF," the gardener announced flatly.

"And you..." Dean pointed at the laptop, frowning in disbelief.

"Yes. E-learning is a thing. I know you are a little backward, but you should be familiar with it. It's 21st century."

"But why would you do that?"

"Because," the taller man sighed, "I don't want always to be a gardener. Besides, it's about Becky. I mean miss Rebecca..."

When Samuel was speaking about her, a dreamy smile brightened up his face. He was in love.

Damned ratfink was in love.

"What about her?" Winchester asked more amicably.

The smile was beclouded by an expression of dejection.

"Well, she... We... Uhm," suddenly Samuél looked straight into Dean's eyes, "May I confide something to you?"

The hunter rested his elbows on the table.

"Sure. Get it off your chest, man. You look like you need it."

"You see..." Samuel began insecurely, "We want to get married."

Dean choked on his beer.

"Why would you do that?!"

Seeing hurt flash through Samuél's face the hunter realized his mistake.

"Easy. I mean that's great. I just thought you were more like, you know. A sex slave..." he floundered, trying to apologize, "Shit. No. Don't mind me. Apparently I browse the wrong part of the Internet."

Samuél accepted the apology with a sigh.

"The thing is that I don't know if it's so great. Just look at her. Miss Rebecca Singer. Heiress to a fortune, living like a princess. What can I give her? What if mr Singer disowns her? She'll become mrs Llamas-Gabilondo with no chance for a life she knows. No chances for wealth, fame..." Samuel's voice was gradually trailing off. His earnestness infected Dean.

"Dude, are you sure she wants it?"

"Yes, but..."

"Then there are no buts," Dean rolled his eyes, "It's not like you're lying to her. She's got a brain too. She knows who you are and what you can give her. If she wants to junk her little royal heaven for you, it's her choice. Go for it, man."

Contours of the room blurred; a faint, low buzz drowned out all sounds. Dean felt dizzy. The next second he was sitting on a trunk of an uprooted tree in a dark, humid northern forest.

Hi, guys! I'd like to thank you for your wonderful reviews :) They mean a lot to me!

This story is going to include mainly humor and lovey-gooey-feels (and a little bit of boy melodrama). If you feel like reading some really good smut, see "That's not my name" written by the iz and while you're on the profile don't forget to check out other stories written by the same author. They're brilliant.