Chapter Text
Castiel closed the heavy office door after he entered the room. His hands were vibrating with nervous energy, but there was nothing left to hold him back. He’d spent too many sleepless nights praying for his life to fall perfectly into place, but change never came in the darkness. Too many disappointed mornings led to equally disappointing days and before he could stop it, he’d become everything he never wanted to be. But this was the day everything would change, starting with him quitting his job. Turning around smoothly, Castiel faced his boss, Zachariah Fuller. He steadied his hands at his sides and took a deep breath. This was his new beginning.
“Mr. Fuller, I-,”
“You’re fired, Castiel.”
*
“Which floor is it?” Dean pressed the up button in between the large elevator doors. Chuck scoffed into the phone. Dean Winchester was usually good about remembering things the first time around, unless it was something he didn’t want to do. Since this had been the fourth time he’d asked this question, it was clear this was definitely something he didn’t want to do.
“Fourteenth. Listen, try to talk to her assistant first. Maybe you’ll get lucky and she gave the bottle to him to give to you.”
“Is she really that bad?” The elevator to Dean’s left opened and people trying to get home before the storm filed out in an orderly fashion.
“Dean, Becky Rosen is the devil.” When the elevator was finally clear, Dean walked in slowly, already regretting his decision to leave his cane at home. The rain had made every step he took to get there a dangerous one, but now indoors his left hip and knee felt uncharacteristically tight. “Okay, maybe that was a bit harsh, but she’s no angel. She’s done just about everything in her power to make my life Hell.”
“Get trapped in a burning building with a piece of ceiling pinning you down and then we can have a serious conversation about Hell,” Dean sighed before hanging up and stabbing the circular ‘14’ button with the corner of his phone.
*
It took Castiel a moment to realize that he shouldn’t be upset with his sudden sacking. In fact, it was better this way. The tight muscles in his back loosened and the lengthy speech he had prepared in his head all but vanished. Though he’d been ready to stand up for himself and quit, getting fired did seem more efficient.
“On what grounds, might I ask?”
“Your work has been slipping for months and I can no longer keep you here, even as a favor to your father.” Castiel no longer had a father, at least not a biological one. The man that Zachariah referred to was his step father, the rich and callous man that married Castiel’s mother almost immediately after his father's heart monitor flatlined. “You’re just not cut out for PR.”
Castiel couldn’t help but smile lightly and look down at his black polished shoes. He never wanted to work in public relations or wear suits every day or be belittled by aging fat men who didn’t recognize his lack of motivation as a cry for help. His entire life, Castiel had been pushed into doing things and made malleable by those who thought they knew what was best for him. Only now did he know better. Castiel was liberating himself.
“You’ll be receiving a small severance package, of course. And I personally suggest you pursue another profession.” He could return to his books, or he could go to culinary school, or perhaps he could try- “Or if that doesn’t pan out, I’m sure you’ll make a fine stay-at-home trophy husband.”
*
The elevator opened to the seemingly empty fourteenth floor. Dean finally pocketed his phone and walked through the doors. His face tightened as the unavoidable pain in his left hip returned. He rubbed at the bone, trying to relieve the hitch in his step that would probably never go away.
“Can I help you?” A man sitting behind a desk to Dean’s right asked. In trying to walk smoothly, Dean had missed him completely. When walking was Dean’s main focus, he could shut out pretty much anything; that’s how he’d already progressed so far in his physical therapy and why it had been so easy to backpedal his momentum.
“Yeah, I’m Dean Winchester. I’m supposed to pick up something for Chuck Shurley.” The man smiled at him and took off his rectangular glasses.
“You’re the Dean from his column and blog, right?” Dean nodded slowly. He still wasn’t used to getting recognized. On the street it never happened, but when stepping into the writing world, he might as well have had a neon sign over his head flashing, ‘I’ve let my best friend publish my failures!’
“Well of course he is!” Dean glanced over his shoulder, getting a look at the woman Chuck so feared and loathed. “Doesn’t he look like a bona fide hero to you?”
*
When Castiel returned to his desk, his former desk anyway, almost all of the other worker bees had already left. Those that remained were pulling on their coats and grabbing their umbrellas from the corners of their cubicles. All week the local news had been trying to down play this precipitation, but now that it finally hit, it was not to be underestimated. But while everyone else on the floor had their minds on the heavy rain and thunder cracking between the tall buildings in the city, Castiel found himself stuck on what Zachariah had said. Stay-at-home trophy husband, huh? Did that stuffy traditionalist honestly think that’s all he was cut out for? And what about his family? They were the ones who’d pressured him into this job, into staying with his fiancé long after any true feelings he'd had for him melted away. Did they think he was unworthy of better?
With newfound frustration, Castiel crammed what personal things were in his space into his leather messenger bag. He even took the stapler, satisfied by the fact that it cracked the old picture of him and Richard when he threw it in.
It wasn’t long before the surface was free of everything that made it his. With a huff, he pulled on his tan trench coat, shuttering involuntarily as a particularly loud roll of thunder sounded off. Outside, sheets of rain blurred everything. They’d all underestimated the storm. It had something to prove now.
He grabbed his bag and made for the elevators, kicking over a sizable potted plant along the way without any remorse. Okay, a little remorse, but not enough for him to look back as he entered the empty elevator on the twentieth floor.
*
“I’m not a hero, ma’am. Just a regular guy,” Dean said, giving her a closed lipped smile and a curt nod. Hero. Never in his life had that word been so heavy, weighed down by everyone’s expectations.
“You’re just being modest.” Becky Rosen waved for him to follow her, the smile on her face unnaturally wide. She led him to her office, which was brightly painted in clashing colors. “So, you’re here for the invitation, I assume?”
“That’s correct.”
“Good. Please let Chuck know that not all of my clients get invited to huge galas and that I expect him to be there, ready to party and schmooze his scruffy little heart out.” She walked behind her desk and picked up a bottle of aged scotch, an envelope attached to it. “The invitation is for two, so I hope you’ll be making an appearance as well.”
Dean’s eyes widened, but he tried to keep his expression neutral. The last thing he wanted to do was dress up like he was going to prom, just so he could stand around and watch rich people blow smoke up each other’s asses.
“I couldn’t possibly.”
“Nonsense! You’re possibly the only reason his writing has become so successful. Think about it, won’t you?” Dean was beginning to see why Chuck didn’t care for her so much. It wasn’t that she was doing anything wrong or was outwardly malicious; it was just that her enthusiasm practically had a life of its own and it was grating. Any more time in her presence and it would be downright smothering. Dean smiled as he accepted the bottle.
“Okay, I’ll consider it.” He felt a little bad about lying. She seemed like an okay person, although definitely an acquired taste. And fancy parties were great, but only if you were getting married or if you were a movie star. Not if you were a shelved firefighter from Kansas with a low tolerance for snobbery.
As Becky led him back toward the elevators, thunder clapped outside again, the steely fluorescents overhead waning for a second.
“So much for the light drizzle they said we’d be getting, huh?” Becky’s assistant said with a laugh.
“Oh I just love it. After a big rain like this, everything is so fresh and new. It’s wonderful,” Becky laughed phonily. She shook Dean’s hand in goodbye and then practically skipped all the way back to her office. Dean rolled his eyes and hit the down button. Nowadays, rain made his leg cramp like a son of a bitch. As for everything being ‘fresh and new,’ that was a crock of shit. Fresh and new was a hard concept to pull off if everything smelt like wet dog after a big rain. Literally everything.
The elevator doors opened and Dean stepped in. Again he began to rub his hip, preparing himself for the slippery trot home. Or maybe he should just bite the bullet and get a cab, he thought, even if his building was only a few blocks west.
“Crazy weather, right?” Dean looked up, realizing for the first time that he wasn’t alone in the elevator. The man was wearing a tan trench coat and a tired, but polite expression. Dean smiled lightly and nodded.
“Never trust the weather man, I guess,” replied the man, his voice a bit deeper than expected. The elevator closed and began its slow descent to the lobby. Both men faced the exit, falling into silence. That was until the lights went out and the elevator lurched down a few more jarring feet before screeching to a stop. Lights embedded in the floor warmed on, casting an eerily blue glow in the small square room.
Dean had stumbled backwards, unable to keep his balance. Thankfully, there had been a steady bar against the back wall. He straightened himself up, looking over at the other man, whose eyes were wide with panic and uncertainty.
“What happened?” He asked, his chest high rising and falling quickly.
“I think the storm knocked the power went out.”