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Post by Castiel on Mar 31, 2014 22:01:10 GMT -5
The world is a cold, cruel wasteland, until you find something to fight for. Something that makes it all worthwhile.
Castiel Novak hasn't found that thing yet, but he will eventually. At least... He is trying.
"I told you you'd get the job, Cassie!" A voice chirps from the far side of a messy bedroom, tinny from the cheap phone speaker system. "You started from the bottom and now you're here! No longer a lowly mailboy, no longer a phone receptionist, no longer a desk manager, no! Secretary to the big guy! I'm so proud, baby brother! Oh, i'm... I'm tearing up...!"
"Balthazar, now isn't... really the time." A scruffy, dark-haired man perched in the middle of the room said exhasperatedly, bright blue eyes scanning the mess around him in search for his red tie. "I have to be on the train in seven minutes. Weren't you just going to wish me luck and get back to your own job?"
"Oh, it's early, Castiel. Travel agencies don't exactly have a bustling business hour between six and seven."
"Then why can't you- Wait, Travel?" Castiel paused, deciding to forget the pre-tied red tie and just tie the blue one himself. "I thought you were teaching Geography."
"Boring. Children are dull. And so loud!"
"It's the middle of a semester!"
"Technicalities."
Castiel huffed once, furrowing his eyebrows in concentration as he did up the tie (Was it... Backwards? Or...) And slipped on his trusty ol' tan trenchcoat, picking up his battered flip-phone from the carpet and trotting into the kitchen to stuff a piece of bread in his mouth, his brother still prattling on.
"You'll be so busy, i'm sure! Know all the important people. I'll bet you'll carry around a clipboard, and one of those fancy pens, and-"
"Oh no, you're breaking up." Castiel said in a monotone, kicking his pots and pans cupboard before hanging up the phone.
It wasn't that he didn't LIKE Balth, he thought, pocketing the phone and slipping into his shoes. But one would think the other man was the one who had gotten the job, not him. To move from Heaven Inc. Was a big move, yes - and a hefty pay raise - But it wouldn't be too much different than the receptionist job, would it? It would be almost the same, yet... Focused on one person in heavier detail. Castiel was good at detail.
Opening the door out of his low-level apartment into the great (Freezing) outdoors, he allowed himself to smile, just a bit, stuffing his right hand into his coat and tightening his strong fingers over his briefcase handle. Maybe it would be perfect. If only his phone would shut up, Everything would be fine. Just shut the ringer off a-
"Heaven almighty." Castiel hit talk on his cellphone again. "What, Gabriel."
"Hey there, my little ray of sunshine! Your new boss is smokin', be sure to get me some tail, okay?"
Oh, God help him.
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Post by Dean on Jun 26, 2014 23:08:05 GMT -5
The rude, white morning light which cracked through the heavy curtains seemed particularly irritating on this particular day. Dean Winchester, sprawled luxuriously on his large bed--befitted with black satin sheets-- stirred only a little. His alarm was screeching at his bedside. Immediately, he reached over with his free arm, forcefully knocked the noisy machine off the elaborate ebony-wood bedside table, grunted several times, and began to slip back into sweet slumber. His other arm was slung over the ample hips of a blonde exotic dancer; there was glitter in her hair and her pink lipstick was smudged over her mouth and right cheek. To Dean’s left, there was a raven-haired woman, also a dancer—one slender brown leg peeking out of the covers and her arms wrapped tightly round Dean from behind, practically spooning him. Scattered around the bed were the empty vestiges of whiskey bottles, beer cans, half-smoked cigarettes, and gin glasses.
Dean grunted again and jerked more readily awake when his cell phone went off. Inevitably, it was Sam. Annoyed, Dean pressed the call button and held the phone clumsily to his ear. When he spoke, his voice was gravely with sleep.
“Yeah. What?”
“Dean, where the hell are you? The board of directors meeting is at ten. You got like 20 minutes to get down here before the board members start getting twitchy. I can only talk numbers with them for so long before their eyes start glazing over. It’s not pretty.”
“Not much you do is pretty, Sammy.”
“Shut-up, jerk.”
“Make me, bitch.”
“Look, just be here in 15. Besides… your new assistant is coming in today, remember? That kid from Heaven, Inc? Don’t you wanna—I don’t know—be here when he comes in for his first day?”
“Nah.”
“Dean—“
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there in ten. Tell the board to try not to wet themselves while they wait. I don’t keep spare panties in my office drawers. Well. Except the ones I get as parting gifts.” He paused at this and fingered a pair of silk pink panties – torn from the hips of one of the women currently sleeping in his bed-- that were draped across one of the satin pillows.
“Gross. See ya in ten.”
They hung up. Growling with drowsiness, Dean hauled himself from the bed, extricating himself from the embrace of the women with him. When they stirred and purred and asked where he was off to, he fairly threw cab fare at the two of them and sent them off. He dressed quickly, in a well-cut Dolce & Gabbana black suit with a matching black tie and gold cufflinks. Stumbling down the stairs of his private condo, his leather briefcase in hand, Dean climbed in his beloved 1967 Impala, newly shined and buffed, and sped off toward Winchester Bros, Inc.
It wasn’t long before he arrived. The grand glass and steel building of the medical tools business he owned with his brother rose handsomely on the city horizon. There was an elaborate gold sign over the huge and heavy doors that read “Winchester Bros, Inc.: Saving Lives, One Person at a Time.” When Dean finally strode through the doors, he was eagerly greeted by every poor, pathetic sap he happened to run into. Because he was CEO, Dean was accustomed to the constant brown-nosing and kiss-assing, but it didn’t make it all less irritating. He passed the conference room, which was surrounded by glass so that passerby could easily look in upon the meeting. His brother Sam was CFO of the company and, naturally, was in the middle of crunching numbers with the Board in the conference room. His brother’s assistant, Ruby, was at his side, her long obsidian hair pulled into a loose bun, and her eyes fixed affectionately upon Sam.
“Yeah,” Dean whispered under his breath. “They’re definitely fucking.”
Before making his way into the conference room, Dean edged into his own office to gather his wits and better gel his hair.
His new assistant was supposed to be in soon. The kid seemed nice enough during the interview process; he was unassuming and humble – had a habit of hunching his shoulders and looking carefully into the distance which his curiously bright blue eyes. More importantly, he seemed capable, with enough experience to get the job done, unlike Dean’s past assistants, who were all unqualified and unable to keep up with Dean’s demands. Therefore, Dean had a new assistant every few weeks. This was without mentioning the fact that Dean had a habit of sleeping with his assistants, which usually expedited their firing when they inevitably grew too attached to him. This new assistant was male, which meant—at the very least—Dean wouldn’t be tempted to fuck him.
“All right,” Dean grunted. He tucked a few files under his arm. “Let’s get this garbage over with.”
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Post by Castiel on Jun 27, 2014 0:14:05 GMT -5
The train would arrive at 7:23, giving Castiel just enough time to bring his things to the first floor of the building and wonder what to do from there. He was technically supposed to be there by 7:30 - at this point it was 7:25, the Northstar stopping directly outside the large business - so he had time, but he was not quite sure if or how his new boss would take it if he was tardy first day on the job.
Making his way over to the front desk, he caught the attention of a pale woman with dark ringlets and pleasant smile. "Hello and welcome, can I help you with something?" She asked, her sweet voice refreshing in the heaviness that came with business-conversations around them.
Castiel cleared his throat. "Hello, ahh- my name is Castiel Novak, i'm Dean Winchester's new assistant." He replied, fishing in his wallet for his I.D. The woman waved her hand. "No I.D. necessary Mister Novak, I know what you look like." She said rather dismissively. "It's hard to forget the first male assistant Dean's ever hired, right?" Her smile grew tight, and a little wary. Maybe it was Castiel's tie. He fidgeted with it experimentally as she pulled a card out of her desk. "His office is on the top floor to the right." she added, turning away once he had taken the card, apparently dismissing him.
He found his way to the elevators without a hitch, the doors dinging as they let him in, lost in thought as he slid the card - evidently his employee identification - through the slot next to the floor buttons. It was odd that the woman had not explained to him what he would be doing in greater detail, as he was still a bit lost, but perhaps that was Dean Winchester's job.
After exiting the elevator he found the office easily, sliding his key card through the slot and entering the office quickly, almost dropping his bag as he realised that the room was already inhabited by the very man he was supposed to meet, shoving folders haphazardly into the crook of his arm. Blinking, Castiel said nothing, choosing instead to shut the door behind him with a loud clack.
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Post by Dean on Jun 27, 2014 19:31:41 GMT -5
Truthfully, the curtains of Dean’s booze-addled brain had not yet drawn away. He appraised himself in one of the many mirrors he kept round his office; his eyes were slightly reddened from lack of sleep and his hair was tousled in a way that communicated absolute, unscathed nonchalance. His mouth seemed a swollen from the night’s lusty debauchery, and his voice was still graveled and tight with sleepiness. The Board was unlikely to be impressed if he walked in looking like a pretty piece of hell, but that was what they were getting, and Dean could not find the sympathy in his heart to care a whit. Even as he threaded his gelled fingers through his dark blond hair, he couldn’t help but chuckle at his own recklessness.
“Bunch of dickish fat-cats. As long as I promise to fill their pockets with Benjamins they won’t give a damn how I do it, and they sure as hell won’t care what I look like while I promise them the flippin’ moon.” He stretched his jaw, yawned, dropped a few eye-drops into his reddened eyes, and tore open a piece of mint gum to chew. “Welp. I’m still the prettiest son-of-a-bitch they got around here. I’ll have them eatin’ out of the palm of my hand before brunch-time.”
He had tucked the appropriate files under his arm when someone suddenly entered his office, almost completely unannounced. Sure, Roxanne had called up a moment ago and had probably informed him of such, but Dean was so used to tuning the woman out her voice had largely become white noise to him. It was the kid from Heaven, Inc.
He had shuffled in noiselessly, closing the door behind him with nary a word. He was still the humble-looking specimen of a man, with a clean and crisp but poorly-fitted suit and well-shined shoes. He was hunching his shoulders, as if to make himself smaller, with his new ID in hand. He looked round incredulously, as if confused, but Dean could almost see the sharp gears clicking in his head. Slightly amused, Dean squinted in the man’s direction. He realized he had forgotten the kid’s name. Whatever.
“Hey there,” he began, smiling his patented charming smile, which showed rows of strong white teeth. His eyes crinkled handsomely at the corners. “I’m Dean Winchester. You must be the new guy. Awesome.” He took the thick files from beneath his arm and fairly shoved it at the man's chest. “Come on in and get started. First, make me some coffee. The machine is in your office—right beside mine. Our offices connect, see?” He was talking quickly, to get the task out of the way and barely making eye contact after his first, introductory smile. “Just go through that door there.” He jammed his thumb behind him, gesturing at a glass-door leading to a small but neat adjoined assistant’s office. Because the very walls were glass, one could see entirely into the next room, which boasted a beautiful cherrywood desk, a gold lamp, a swiveling black leather chair, and a silver Mac laptop. Not far from the desk was another little, elaborate table sporting an expensive cappuccino machine. “Make me a coffee with two sugars and no cream. Then alphabetize these files by client name. Last name. Then come into 223, the conference room, with the files and take notes for the board meeting. Get in there in ten minutes, tops. Got that?”
He slapped the man heartily on the back.
“Thanks, Mr. ah… ah….”
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Post by Castiel on Jul 1, 2014 16:03:44 GMT -5
There was not much of an introduction or an orientation, although Castiel was not quite sure he had been expecting. It hadn't been his own little enclosed space, or the fancy coffee-maker. It had certainly not been the pile of papers shoved unceremoniously into his hands, or the quick, rushed words being pushed at him at over a hundred miles an hour.
And it most definitely had not been his boss being absolutely beautiful.
Sure, Castiel had looked at him during his interview, after he was finished talking to the woman at the front desk - apparently Dean himself had been busy - just over his resume. Other paperwork he was filling out had been in the way as well as the legal guideline and the map and the list of names and eight million other things that he just threw away when he got home because he had nowhere to put useless papers. But apparently he hadn't looked at him in this light, or... something because Mr. Winchester's face was an honest-to-goodness sin of the natural world. His teeth were perfectly white and straight as he grinned at him, Castiel almost forgetting to blink as he studied him, vibrant green eyes and a light splash of freckles across his cheeks , highlighting the-
"Novak." his mouth responded on autopilot, answering the question Mr. Winchester had posed, his voice a little lower than usual. "Castiel Novak." he shifted the papers in his arms, nearly losing three of them before snatching them in his left elbow. Beauty aside, This guy was kind of an ass, he realised belatedly. He didn't know his name? He was already leaving? "Yes, I... Got it. Coffee, organizing pape-" He stopped talking rather abruptly as Winchester slapped him on the back, his eyebrows creasing above his head. It hadn't hurt, but it certainly - once again - was not what he had expected. None of this was what he had expected. "Where is room 223?"
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Post by Dean on Jul 7, 2014 21:46:43 GMT -5
A quick glance at the golden clock upon his office wall reminded Dean that he was terribly, laughably late for the Board meeting; he didn’t give a damn, but he knew Sam would. Sam was maybe the only person in the world he actually tried not to piss off. He looked again into his mirror; his reddened eyes had cleared so that were their usual limpid green, and the drunken, flushed color of his cheek was fading fast. His hair was holding, newly gelled, and the frivolous liquor-riddled fog of his mind was lifting. He grunted a little to clear his throat and, inwardly, he began rehearsing what he would tell the Board members when he entered the conference room.
His new assistant—Castiel was his name, right, right; what the hell kind of name was Castiel?—was looking round with the familiar, bewildered expression of all Dean’s new assistants. He’d had a good feeling about the kid during interviews; he was confident without blustering condescension, quietly unassuming but clear and direct, but he was beginning to wonder if even this new guy would fail to keep up with him. Everything moved more quickly at Winchester, Inc, and Dean sure as hell didn’t have the time to coddle newcomers. Currently. Castiel was appraising him with that curious blue stare of his. A few of the papers in his arms went to flutter to the floor, but he caught them deftly in the crook of his arm. He was a strange one, all right. A strange one who really needed to make friends with the nearest razor. But something about that look…
“Listen – Cas. Can I call ya Cas? Cas, kiddo, just make me a cup o’ joe, for starters, got it? I had a late night if ya know what I mean, and it feels like I got jackhammers goin’ off in my head. So. A cup o’ joe would be awesome. Conference room is down the hall. The one with the old geezers sitting around a table and stroking white cats. That make it more clear?” He smiled again in the way he knew was charming, then winked, as if letting Cas in on a huge secret. “See ya in ten.” He patted the man’s arm in a friendly gesture, letting his hand slide slowly down the length of his sleeve. Yeah, the kid definitely needed a crash course in suit-selection.
With this, he finally exited the room, strode down the hallway, and threw open the glass door to the conference room. Every eye turned to stare at him, and Dean was immediately on fire.
“Gentleman,” he greeted them, pulling out his chair at the head of the long table. He sat confidently, straightening his tie and leaning forward on his elbows. There was an empty chair right next to him, reserved for his new assistant. Sam gave him an exasperated look, and Ruby nearly rolled her eyeballs out of their sockets. However, everyone was riveted by Dean Winchester, and he had hardly opened his mouth. He made no excuse for being late, only looked boldly into every board member’s face. He was still chewing gum, and he knew the effect hovered between disrespectful and powerful. He started talking, strongly, choosing his words as carefully as a hunter chooses bullets.
“My father, John Winchester—God rest his soul—founded this company to help people; it’s our family business, yanno, and damned if I don’t think we’re doing the old man proud. I’m guessing Sam has exhausted the details about our budget; you already know Winchester, Inc. is in the black. You already know that sales from the past three quarters have been through the roof. This fiscal year has been a god-send for the company, but you know what? This year, we’re gonna go from good to great.”
The board stared at him with bugged eyes, following his every word, suckling down his plans like bees at a bright flower. As he spoke, Dean rose from his chair and slowly circled the table like a hungry hawk. He launched into a full explanation of how they would continue to cut costs, how they would increase their revenue and market reach, and most importantly, how much cash they could expect in the next fiscal year. He could see them practically drooling.
Inwardly, Dean was disgusted.
In truth, this wasn’t near his father’s vision, and he cursed every minute he had to cater to these rich old white men who held the purse strings. But it was the family business, and he was in charge, and damn if he couldn’t let go of it. Without him the place would perish. He sat again, a little more heavily this time, in desperate need of his coffee. He braced himself for the slew of questions they would lob at him, and lob they did.
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Post by Castiel on Aug 3, 2014 22:29:25 GMT -5
Dean seemed distracted as he talked, shifting and touching at his own clothing as he looked back and forth between the clock and Castiel. Or Cas, apparently. The name was given hastily and impersonally, and since "Cassie" was used to annoy him, he prepared himself mentally for future problems with the name, as well as the... Winking. Why was he winking? Did he want the papers alphabetized anymore? Why the hell did the men in the building have cats?
Before any of the questions Castiel had could be voiced his boss was gone, the door closing behind him with a loud clack. A groan caught in his throat as he shifted the papers in his hands and started to sort them as he edged into the room, deciding to complete the task in case Dean was one of those "I told you once I won't tell you twice" types. He worked with a man like that once at Heaven, and goodness knows he did not want to be put through that again. He wasn't one to do things halfway, anyhow.
"How do I..." Castiel murmered to himself, setting the half-sorted papers down next to the shiny coffee machine and taking a pristine white cup from the drawer, setting it under the spout and murmuring unintelligibly to nobody as he turned the machine on with a beep. It took him a moment to process with both hands near his chest as the machine chirped cheerfully and began pouring pitch black fluid by itself, splashing neatly in the cup as it's master then scrambled about to find the sugar, pour the sugar in, and continue sorting "Collins" and "Ackles" into their appropriate places.
The clock had reached four minutes to the 'deadline' as he reached the business room, slotting "Kripke" after "Karl" (Junior) precariously with a pinky finger kept above the hot, sweetened coffee, and Castiel paused for a short moment to take a deep breath before edging the door open with an elbow and stepping into 223.
The first realization that hit him was that there were no cats. No cats anywhere. Had Dean been confused? The man in question was sitting at the head of the table, cocky grin stuck in place as he raised his eyebrows at a balding man explaining something about a labor percentage. He did not seem perturbed by the lack of cats. He probably wanted his coffee, though, even without a cat. Looking down, Castiel walked quietly to the head of the table, ignoring the laser-like stares he could feel on his neck, and placed Dean's coffee and the neat stack of papers beside him before standing awkwardly at the head of the table, not quite sure what to do with himself.
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Post by Dean on Sept 1, 2014 21:19:39 GMT -5
Having finished his presentation and lingering in the heat of his own disgust, Dean reclined in his large leather chair with a considerable measure of irritation. Every eye was upon him, and he could practically hear the well-oiled gears of working, plotting, coolly calculating minds. It was revolting, and he could feel bile bubbling in his stomach for every wizened member of the board. Leaning back in his chair, practically putting his feet up and folding his arms behind his head, Dean made certain to express his clear levels of utter disdain in every manner he could imagine. While Mr. Carver spoke about PR efforts, he grunted and groaned and chewed loudly. He examined his cleanly cut fingernails when Ms. Rhodes addressed him about the current, booming marketing campaign. And when Mr. Cohen began droning on about the new hires in accounting, Dean suppressed a lion-like yawn only tentatively. Across the table, Sam raised his brows several times, his lips twisting into a veritable frown, but Dean pretended not to see any of this, and he was downright amused when that little, twitching muscle started working in Sam's jaw. However, despite all of his disrespectful efforts, the board continued to effectively kiss his ass. He was sick of their simpering faces. They were dried up puppets, dancing jerkily on suspended strings. Predictably, when Dean pressed his pinky in one direction, the board spun to the right. His own words came spewing from their wooden mouths, a farce, a ridiculous imitation of originality, and this served only to fuel Dean's hallowed hatred for them all.
Edlund began gushing about the company, barely able to contain his enthusiasm about projected revenue. He kept removing his glasses and replacing them on his crooked nose, where they slipped crookedly down again. Wouldn't the late John Winchester be proud of his boys? Wasn't the world much improved with such life-saving Winchester inventions such as the Borax drip and the salt surgery solution? Dean grunted in response. It would have been far more entertaining if Edlund had simply performed a servile jig on the cherrywood table; at least then Dean would have had a hearty laugh. Instead, Dean examined his gold watch as if he had never seen it before, then cast his eyes to the wide window.
At the moment, Castiel entered the conference room in his strange shuffling, bumbling way. He looked round at the board members with confusion, sidled into close quarters with Dean, and stood awkwardly at his side with a queer expression. His brows knit and lifted, his lips gathered into an incredulous "o" shape, Castiel gingerly placed the folder of client names in front of Dean alongside a steaming white mug of black coffee. The aroma filled the room pleasantly, and Dean was immediately, strangely comforted. He grunted.
"Thanks, kiddo," he said, noisily pulling out the chair closest to him. He gestured for Castiel to sit, then finally took a long swig of the offered coffee, which, inexplicably, was the most perfect concoction of sugar and cream and coffee Dean had ever the pleasure of tasting. He sputtered a little, then stared into his coffee. A few of the board members were still speaking, but Dean was utterly enamored with his drink -- he sipped, smiled down into it, nodded appreciatively in Castiel's direction, and he was wonderfully appeased for several moments. "Jesus," he breathed, lifting the mug to the florescent lights, "this is damn good coffee. Ya got fairy dust over there at Heaven, Inc or what?" The meeting was a coffee-colored blur for a long while. Rifling idly though the papers presented to him, Dean found them impeccably sorted, and he congratulated himself upon finally discovering an assistant worth his salt.
"Hey," he whispered, smiling charmingly at his new assistant while Mr. Carver (once again) discussed the generous fiscal growth of quarter four. Boredom was edging at Dean's mind like a scratching, curious kitten. "Just so ya know, Sammy and I are goin' for lunch right after this shit." He gestured at the long table, around at the board members, and they all pretended collectively not to hear him. "We wanna take ya out. Show ya the ropes. You like hot wings? There's a damn good bar right up 27th that has wings so spicy they'll make your damn toes curl. Whataya say?"
He was hearing the rest of the meeting through a watery haze. As it drew to a close, he nudged Castiel in the ribs and winked at him conspiratorially. The board members began filing out, clutching their briefcases and engaging Dean in what seemed like endless, pointless small talk. Now, he did put his feet up on the dark wood table. Scratching himself and yawning loudly, he folded his arms again nonchalantly behind his head. He addressed the ceiling, rubbing the bridge of his nose in exasperation.
"Christ, I hate those fat cats more every day."
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Post by Castiel on Oct 3, 2014 23:05:16 GMT -5
Castiel's shoulders relaxed a bit with the realization that he had made the coffee to Dean's liking, the man seemingly thrilled with the drink. Castiel himself was also surprised, because he had not enacted any sort of master plan, he had simply followed the directions the shiny coffee maker had told him to take. "Actually I-" He started, interrupted quickly by a charming grin in his direction, bright green eyes twinkling.
He was being invited to lunch to be shown the ropes of business? What on earth was there to learn in an establishment that served hot wings? Perhaps they split the tip differently? "I say that sounds acceptable." Castiel whispered back to his boss, shifting on his feet. This was a rather informal procedure. Zachariah would never swear or smile unless he was on his off hours, or... firing someone. It was odd to feel such playfulness practically rolling off the man before him in waves.
Paying special attention to the meeting as it continued on, taking notes and dates down on a stray paper next to Dean, the rest of the meeting passed nearly too fast for Castiel to comprehend, and it was over before the assistant realized what was going on, the man beside him elbowing him in the chest and winking at him as if to say finally, these dumbasses have stopped talkin'. He then sat up and discreetly poked fun at every man who passed him by, subtle digs that the underlings pretended not to notice as they continued on their way. Just as Castiel was about to open his mouth and ask if Dean wanted the notes he had taken, his boss flipped around and smacked his feet on the table, yawning hugely and scratching at his stomach before raising his arms in a way that revealed the very...
Very heterosexual muscled skin... Underneath his shirt.
"Christ, I hate those fat cats more every day." Dean admitted, smacking his lips and startling Castiel.
"Oh! Cats. I Understand. Yes, the fat cats are a perfect metaphor for the men you have to work with, Mister Winchester." the brunet nodded agreeably, now understanding what the other had meant. "I took some notes, if you need them." He very much doubted that Dean would. He had only known him for about an hour now, but his boss did not seem like the type to review notes. He made another note to himself to make a binder in case Dean started panicking and running around because he had no idea what was going on - Gabriel did that quite often, and he did not even have one consistent job, just an extremely unorganized grocery list.
"Does the hot-wings plan still stand, or was- were you joking?" He asked cautiously.
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