#76--Nobody thinks what I think (Dean Smith/Castiel)
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“IT help, this is Novak.”
“Hi, this is Becky Rosen from Smith’s office.”
Castiel freezes at the perky voice. Even though he’s just a lowly IT grunt, he does keep up with the news of Sandover Bridge and Iron. He knows all about the unlikely promotion of Dean Smith to CEO, over the heads of several, possibly more well-qualified, candidates. He hasn’t caught a picture of him, but the rumors are that he was too young for the position, that he’d gotten it through networking and not through his merits.
Meanwhile, Becky’s been talking and Castiel has to struggle to catch up.
“--so if you can send someone up to take a look, that would be wonderful.”
She hangs up before Castiel can ask her to repeat herself, which might be for the best. Then at least he can get away with the facade that he’s not a complete idiot. Her last words hang in his head--send someone up. Rosen wants someone from IT to take a look at their new CEO’s computer. Castiel wants it to be anyone else but him.
He looks at his best friend, willing him to be free. “Sam,” he hisses, twisting in his chair. Sam Wesson ignores him, which might mean that he’s on a call, or it might mean that he’s just being an ass. “Sam,” Castiel hisses, more urgently, punctuating the name with a pencil tossed towards the larger man’s back.
Sam turns around, his mouth twisted in playfully amused irritation. “Problem?”
“Smith’s office just called. They want someone from IT to go upstairs.”
Sam’s eyes flick up and down. “Well, it looks like you fit that bill.”
Color floods Castiel’s cheeks. “I can’t go up there!” He’s fine over the phone, when the meat of most of his conversations consists of Have you tried turning it off and then back on again? Having an actual conversation? In person? Not so much. Sam is infinitely more suave than him, capable of holding a normal conversation with a normal person for at least three minutes at a time. He would be perfectly fine to go to the CEO’s office and not get fired.
“Look, Cas, normally I’d be there for you, but I’m working on this.” Sam twists to show Cas a tangle of spreadsheets, all of them with complex coding. “They’re trying out a new program in accounting and asking us to work through the kinks. You go. It’s probably something you could do over the phone, but new CEO wants to throw his weight around. Ten bucks says he won’t even be in the office.”
With that, Castiel is sent upstairs. He brings a small briefcase along with him, unsure of what he’ll actually need. If he’d been paying attention to Becky, then he might know, but that would mean that he was an actual person with actual social skills, so that was always a long shot.
He presses the button for Floor 20, the top floor of the building. This is the floor reserved for the CEO, complete with his office, conference room, and personal bathroom suite. For all Castiel knows there might be a gym up there too; rumor has it that their new CEO is a stickler for a morning workout.
The elevator opens, revealing a sumptuous waiting room. Behind a desk which dwarfs his, sits perky blonde woman. No one should be able to smile that widely at work.
“Hi,” Castiel says, his hand raised in an abortive wave. “I’m Cas Novak, I’m here from IT.” His pale yellow polo screams his department, and his hand hangs awkwardly in the air.
Becky grins at him, one perfectly manicured nail pressing down on the intercom. “Mr. Smith? IT is here.” A garbled reply comes through the intercom and Becky smiles at him. “You can go on in,” she tells him, gesturing at a door which probably cost more than his monthly salary. There’s something encouraging in her smile, like going into the CEO’s office is something that Castiel can do.
Castiel takes tiny little steps towards the door, waiting for a hurricane to possibly hit the building, making computer troubles the least of anyone’s worries. He’s not lucky enough for that to happen, so he knocks on the door, wincing at the noise his knuckles make. Too loud? Does it sound like he’s trying to beat his way in? A gruff voice bids him to come in, and Castiel obeys.
He walks into a room which has more square feet in it than his office. There’s a bar in the office, with a mini-fridge, stocked with waters and energy drinks, a small table for private meetings, a seating area with a loveseat and chairs, and a desk which looks as though it function as a raft, in the event of the office flooding. And behind the desk...
Castiel usually doesn’t call other men beautiful, but it’s the only word which describes the man behind the desk.
Despite his unfortunate fashion choices (blue and white pinstripes do not go well with red suspenders, not that Castiel can make any judgments; he himself is dressed in a pastel usually reserved for Easter parties and nurseries), Castiel can already tell that his boss is indeed a stickler for the morning (and maybe afternoon and evening) workouts. He has broad shoulders and the fabric of his suit doesn’t hide the muscle underneath. Castiel spends a long moment lingering over his hands, with their clean, neat nails and thick fingers (there are quite a few uses he could of for those fingers). To top off the whole package is a face with a jawline strong enough to crush titanium, full pink lips, and large eyes with full lashes. He can’t be but a few years older than Castiel, if that, which makes him astonishingly young for his position.
The man (Mr. Smith, his boss) finally offers a cautious, “Hi?”
Castiel licks his suddenly dry lips. “Hi,” he says, then remembers that this is the man who is worth billions and who has power over his literal job (and therefore his living situation and eating situation). “I’m, uh, from IT? There was a problem?”
Mr. Smith blinks at him for a long moment, and Castiel wonders how he could have possibly screwed up so soon. Then he gathers himself and gestures towards his computer. “Yeah. I got here first thing, and it won’t turn on.” Castiel chances a surreptitious look to make sure it’s plugged in and comes back with inconclusive results. “Think you can do something about that, Steve?”
Heat floods Castiel’s cheeks. He hadn’t really looked this morning when he grabbed at his nametag (he hadn’t really looked when he grabbed for a shirt, a fact of which he is almost painfully aware of now that he’s standing in front of Mr. Smith), and of course he’d grabbed the joke.
“Castiel,” he mumbles, and immediately regrets it. What does it matter that Mr. Smith knows his name? He’s never going to see the man again, so really why does it matter? (He wants to hear that lovely, deep, gruff voice say his name, his full name. Just once.)
“Your nametag says Steve.” Castiel knows the look that’s starting to spread over Mr. Smith’s face. It’s the one that he’s seen all of his life, the one that says Uh-oh, now I’ve gotten myself into a conversation with this freak, how can I best extract myself from this situation. It hurts, much more than it should, to see Mr. Smith start to look that way.
“It was a joke,” Castiel mumbles. Warmth spreads down his neck, sparking a nervous little sweat. “My name is apparently difficult for people, so they gave me this tag to make things easier.”
Mr. Smith’s mouth purses. “Well, that’s a douchey thing for whoever to do. Cas-tee-ell.” He lingers over the tee, rolling it on the tip of his tongue, and goosebumps prickle on Castiel’s arms. “It’s a mouthful, but it’s not hard.”
A different kind of warmth suffuses through Castiel. It starts at the center of his chest and slowly spreads outward, like the eggnog that he had last Christmas at the company party. It’s tingly at the edges.
“Well, that’s not what everyone else thinks,” Castiel says, to try and diffuse the heat flooding through his body.
“Yeah, well, nobody thinks how I think.” Mr. Smith keeps his eyes focused on Castiel’s face. There’s something intense in his eyes, and for once, Castiel finds himself on the uncomfortable end of a staring contest. “‘S why they gave me the gig in the first place. ‘Innovative ideas’ or something like that.” He chuckles, and there’s something bitter in the sound. “I don’t think they realized that I have maybe one good idea every couple of years.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Castiel blurts, before he can stop himself. He has no real basis of comparison for his statement; he knows next to nothing about Mr. Smith. “I just mean,” he stammers, “that if you start doubting yourself, then you’ll never know what you can do.”
The advice rings as hollow coming from his mouth as it did coming from the mouths of every advisor and guidance counselor he ever had. Mr. Smith’s mouth twists in a sardonic little smile. “Supposed to breathe new life into this company, and I can’t even get the damn computer going.”
“Oh!” Suddenly remembering the reason he’s in this dream of an office, Castiel moves forward. “I can probably help with that.”
He steps in close to Mr. Smith (too close if his sudden blush and recoil are any indication) and fiddles with the mouse and monitor. The screen remains dark, which Castiel is almost glad to see. At the very least, it tells him that Mr. Smith isn’t an idiot. He follows the cords and finds that at the very least, the computer is plugged in. He kneels under the desk, sorting through the various tangle.
“Ok, the person who put this together is an idiot,” he murmurs, tugging at a cord.
“I put it together.”
A cold spike of fear jolts through Castiel. Why, why, why does he always speak without thinking? Why can’t he be like a normal person, who had a modicum of tact, why can’t he manage to hold it together in a conversation long enough to interact like a regular person? Why is he such a disaster of a person?
He bashes his head on the top of the desk as he scrambles out from underneath it. He glances up at Mr. Smith (tries not to concentrate on the visual aspects of this particular scene: him, on his knees underneath the desk, Mr. Smith, on his chair, looking down at him with a smoothly amused expression). “I’m sorry,” he says, hopefully in a garbled amalgamation of the English language. “I didn’t mean to...”
“Calm down, Cas, it was just a joke.” Mr. Smith’s face turns apologetic. “Apparently not a funny one.”
Relief floods through Castiel, at odds with the throbbing pain in his head. “I just meant...the person who set up the computer did it wrong. The wires are shorted out.” He rubs at the back of his head as he glances back down. “It’s a simple fix, shouldn’t take me more than five minutes.”
“Oh.” Mr. Smith’s mouth (Castiel really shouldn’t be staring at Mr. Smith’s mouth so much, has Mr. Smith noticed how much Castiel has been staring at his mouth? Is Mr. Smith aware that he has a mouth which is very stare-worthy?) drops in a frown. “So quick?”
“Well like I said,” Castiel grunts as he shimmies back under the desk, “it’s a quick fix once you realize what you’re doing. The person who set this up was probably just trying to go too fast and made a mistake. Or something. Who knows.” He doesn’t want to throw a member of his department under the bus, but he doesn’t want to lie to Mr. Smith either.
“No, I just mean...” Mr. Smith taps his fingers against the desk. “Listen, do you want a cup of coffee or something?” He gestures towards the gleaming coffee machine on the counter.
“I don’t know.” Castiel stops working and pokes his head out from under the desk. “I don’t want to be late.”
Mr. Smith laughs. The sound is round and rich. It fills the room and sends little sparks of delight dancing down to his fingertips. “Who’s going to narc on you? You think you’re going to get in trouble with the boss?”
“I mean...I guess...” Castiel can’t help but smile at Mr. Smith.
“Come on, Cas. Give me a break here. Have a cup of coffee.”
“I’m really glad you got the job,” comes tumbling out of Castiel’s mouth. Which is bad enough, but then comes, “You’re much better looking than Mr. Adler.”
A dreadful silence hangs over the room. Castiel hopes his words will fade, but they linger between them like skywriting, scrawled in neon. His brain decides to come back online now, with thousands of worst-case scenarios.
Mr. Smith fires him for sexual harassment.
Mr. Smith presses charges against him.
Mr. Smith ensures that Castiel Novak never gets a job anywhere in the industry ever again.
Castiel ends up homeless and alone, ridiculed by everyone, and has to move in with Gabriel, possibly ending up working as a production assistant in Gabriel’s porn company.
Then Mr. Smith laughs. It’s not a mean sound; it’s delighted. He pinches at the bridge of his nose, still laughing. Even after the sound fades, his shoulders still shake with mirth. When he opens his eyes, Castiel thinks there are actual tears in them.
“I mean, that’s a pretty low bar to set, but I’m glad that I made it over.” Mr. Smith chuckles. He’s still laughing as he makes his way to the coffeemaker. He pushes a few buttons, then leans against the counter. “Stay for coffee, Cas. Please,” he adds as an afterthought.
Castiel thinks of his tiny cubicle, crowded together with dozens of other small boxes, in a stifling environment screaming with the sounds of computers and copiers. He thinks of Mr. Smith’s smile, the strange kindness in him, the thoughtfulness with which he said his name.
“I can stay for coffee, Mr. Smith.”
Mr. Smith turns around, one eyebrow raising at the formality. “Call me Dean,” he says.
Castiel turns the name over in his head several times. It’s simple, direct, yet oddly complicated. It suits the man in front of him.
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