Chapter Text
He should’ve known when he put on the yellow tie that today would be a catastrophe.
Historically, the red tie meant Dean’s marketing presentation would net unequivocal approval from Mr. Adler. It took confidence to wear that color. Chutzpah. Balls. The boardroom equivalent of baring teeth.
The blue tie had a less successful track record. Blue erred on the side of neutrality, a touch beta, though still a strong color, with the benefit of being less intimidating.
But the yellow tie was his favorite: a bright, buttery silk with skinny diagonal gray stripes. It really popped against his suspenders. He’d bought it because it reminded him of the lemon sundress mom wore to Easter service. He’d seen Zachariah in similar ties over the years; yellow, after all, was just a color. But when Dean tightened it around his neck, something in his manner and outlook changed. He felt softer, vulnerable—neither a quality for the boardroom or an alpha. He’d put it on and fantasize about being the one held down, about being spread apart and licked open.
He didn’t wear the yellow tie home for Christmas.
He did, however, tend to wear it the Friday before a weekend escape to his cabin. Today was Thursday, but Dean had forgotten his striped shirt at the dry cleaners and the yellow tie looked smart with the starched blue shirt he wore in its stead. And since he had a longstanding vacation day on the books tomorrow, today was officially the end of the week. His schedule was free apart from the meeting with Zachariah, and he’d keep his jacket on while they spoke. It was unlikely he’d have to speak with anyone else face to face, so tradition won out.
Dean had a working lunch penciled in with Castiel to go over the marketing schedule in advance, but Castiel was laid back—easily the most relaxed employee at Sandover when it came to the dress code. He rarely bothered with a tie, and there was a fifty-percent chance that his top button would be undone a minute past noon. He wouldn’t care what Dean had on.
Despite his rugged, just-rolled-out-of-bed appearance that nodded toward apathy, Castiel Novak was the strongest and most dedicated member of the marketing team. Apart from minor dress code violations (the “no tunics” rule had been written in for Castiel specifically) and the time Dean had caught him smoking pot on the roof during the company holiday party, Castiel was a model employee. Dean’s second in command. He was never in trouble with human resources, and Dean never heard a complaint about him from another staff member. Everyone seemed to genuinely like having Castiel around, and he was an unparalleled salesman. The clients took to him effortlessly. And unlike Dean, who ran dress rehearsals for meetings in the bathroom mirror, Castiel never had to force conversation. Dean was awed by his confidence, if not a little jealous.
The first time they met, Castiel had held Dean’s hand between his when they shook, which was odd, certainly; intimidating but not uncomfortable.
“Dean,” he said through a warm smile. “I’m Castiel.”
It came out easily, as though holding hands within seconds of meeting your new boss was commonplace. Castiel wasn’t wearing a suit jacket, just a pale blue shirt which hung open at the throat. The color made Dean take notice of his eyes. Castiel was either getting over something or he’d had a rough night. But even bloodshot, they were an extraordinary shade of blue, like a stroke from The Starry Night.
Breathless, Dean let Castiel hold onto his hand longer than was professional. Something about him rooted Dean in place. Castiel’s gaze was peacefully commanding, and though his solid build and toothy grin nodded toward alpha genes, he smelled faintly of the outdoors, of petrichor, rather than the musky undertone of most alphas. A beta, feasibly, though he didn’t carry himself like one. It was fairly common for alphas to wear blockers as a courtesy, especially in a professional setting. Dean didn’t think any more of it.
Alpha or not, Castiel’s scent reeled him in, though Dean didn’t acknowledge his dependence on it until the first time Castiel left for vacation. He belonged to a cruise club and took a full week off every six months like clockwork. “Necessary for perspective,” he claimed, and the cruise company apparently didn’t have a rollover policy.
The first day Castiel was gone, the eighteenth floor reeked of sour milk. The stench threw Dean’s mood, twisting him into such an agitated state that by Tuesday afternoon, he almost took off his assistant’s head. He ordered a thorough scrub-down of the kitchen to eliminate the possibility of rotting food, but the smell persisted. Another alpha must have gone into rut. It was the only plausible explanation; they were biologically wired to avoid each other during that time, so Dean would naturally be agitated by their scent. He blamed the housekeeping department, accusing them of changing cleaning solutions, but housekeeping assured him they’d used the same scent-eliminating detergents since Dean began at Sandover eleven years ago, and none of the department’s alphas were out.
In the end, Dean marked it down to stress. With Castiel gone, he’d borne the brunt of Zachariah's frequent mood swings by himself. Things would be better on Monday. He nursed an upset stomach that weekend, convinced he’d developed an ulcer, or possibly stomach cancer.
A supernal freshness permeated the hallway the day of Castiel’s return. Someone must’ve left a window open over the weekend, because the noxious stench was gone. Dean glimpsed Castiel’s messy hair as he ducked into the break room and followed him without a thought, grinning at the sight of Castiel slumped against the counter, gulping water like it was the only thing keeping him upright. For someone just returned from a week-long cruise, Castiel looked haggard. The bags under his eyes were puffier than usual and he was a couple pounds thinner, but dad and Jo had gotten queasy on that family Mediterranean cruise a few years back. The seas must’ve been rough.
“How was your trip?” Dean asked, warmed by Castiel’s blissful smile, the weight of his hand on Dean’s shoulder as he went past.
“Hot.”
Dean had the sense of being momentarily in a forest clearing during a storm, the drum of rain on the canopy overhead. He remained in place for several minutes, breathing in the scent Castiel had left behind. He’d never felt so immediately calm in someone’s presence before, not even his mother’s, and didn’t know what to make of it. Dean had experimented in college and messed around with a few betas, but he’d never dated one, and the only alpha he’d ever kissed had been a woman, Pamela, during a billiards game, hazy from the sickly sweet green punch.
Is that what this was? Attraction? Did he want to kiss Castiel? Yes, he did. He wanted to learn every part of him with his mouth.
He sat on that information for a week before deciding how to proceed. Maybe being around each other was enough to take the edge off, so he suggested they hang out to watch the game—any game, since Dean didn’t actually follow professional sports. The following evening, three months after they met, Castiel dropped by Dean’s apartment with a six-pack of Burning River ale and weed. He got stoned and picked through Dean’s leftovers.
The weed didn’t receive a second invitation, but Dean was delighted when Castiel asked him to swim laps at his fitness club on Saturday. They bullshitted in the hot tub and in the sauna after, talking portfolios and swapping college stories. Dean tried not to drool over Castiel’s thighs, thick from running and as tanned as his face and hands. Castiel’s scent grew stronger when he worked out, and it took all of Dean’s self control not to crowd him against the wooden wall and lick the hollow of his throat.
He spent a confused Sunday masturbating to omega porn.
Now, three years since they met, Dean’s strange addiction to Castiel’s scent persisted. No one else at Sandover seemed to be affected by it, but when his stress levels soared, Dean snuck elicit drags off Castiel’s shoulder in the elevator, the break room, in the steam room at the gym. Evenings when Castiel had sat on Dean’s couch for hours watching baseball, Dean buried his guilty face in the sofa to drink in what remained of him once he’d gone.
But Castiel never demonstrated interest in Dean beyond a mildly flirtatious friendship. They avoided the topic of relationships. As far as Dean knew, Castiel didn’t date. He was a majority stockholder in personal space and economical with eye contact until he got a couple beers in him, and then all bets were off. They’d exploited the generosity of servers and bartenders across the city who had mistaken them as newly mated more than a handful of times; those nights usually ended with Castiel’s arm around his shoulders as they left the establishment, waving their thanks. Castiel played up the romance if it meant free drinks or dessert, but once they were alone, Dean starved for his hands.
Dean had missed a few talking points during meetings over the years, distracted by Castiel folding origami from post-it notes. Castiel’s hands were beautiful, his fingers long and elegant. When Dean discovered fluorescent paper cranes on the floor beside the trash, he pocketed them. A menagerie huddled in the back of his top drawer.
But it wasn’t just physical. Dean liked everything about him, even Castiel’s perverse sense of humor. Rather than be offended, Dean folded with laughter at his jokes about obscure, acrobatic sex positions. By contrast, he liked the respectful way Castiel gave feedback to their team. He didn’t speak down to anyone; he didn’t berate or condescend. Dean liked his gravelly voice; the way Castiel’s t-shirts clung to his back after three miles on the treadmill; his uncontained laughter at the action films Dean rented and pretended to enjoy. He liked the shape and color of his lips.
An intoxicated Dean had recklessly asked him out a couple times. Castiel’s rejections came in the form of a disappointed sweep of his eyes over Dean’s face, a hand on his arm urging him to stand up. “You’ve had too much,” he always said, far too gently. “I’ll get a cab.”
Those nights were the loneliest.
Dean had slept with men before, but alphas were built differently. Larger, for one, and their bodies weren’t designed to accept that kind of girth. That didn’t stop him from fantasizing about Castiel during his ruts, flipping Dean onto his stomach so he could slam into him from behind until Dean was spent.
In the dizzy aftermath of his most recent episode of Castiel Novak, Sex God, Dean forced himself to confront the truth. He was emotionally and physically attracted to Castiel. To another alpha. He’d known that for years, but fantasy was different from acting on it, and this had gone on too long to keep ignoring. Assuming something did happen between them, assuming Castiel ever agreed to a relationship, what then? Imagining sex with him was one thing, but if it came to it, if Castiel reached for him, his breathing labored and eyes glazed, would Dean reach back?
He stripped the bed and chugged a bottled electrolyte drink to chase the cotton feeling from his tongue. Staring naked out over the gray-green Cuyahoga, he found his answer in the jealous coiling of his stomach, thinking about an omega helping Castiel through a rut in his place.
No. Whatever Castiel needed, Dean would willingly do: roll over, relinquish control, let Castiel take and take and take. Knot and claim him, and cradle him after. Dean was in love. He’d proudly bear the scar from Castiel’s teeth.
The meeting with Castiel wasn’t for an hour and Dean still had figures to go over, so he brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Never make the coffee, Gordon had cautioned when Dean started at Sandover. Not if he expected to advance in the company. Designation wasn’t enough; you had to prove your status if you wanted to go places anymore. But mom and dad hadn’t raised him to believe alphas were inherently superior, and he’d more than demonstrated his worth to Sandover over the past decade. There was no reason to force menial tasks like making coffee onto his assistant, when he’d drunk the last three cups.
His musings were cut short by a skinny guy with a mullet from IT who’d been in to fix the issue with Dean’s printer last week.
“Hey, Dean, right? How’s it going!”
It was a shame Sam Wesson had moved on to a more thrilling line of work; Dean had liked him. They still grabbed beers occasionally when Sam was in Cleveland. The next time they got together, Dean was picking his brain about cell phones, because his Blackberry had taken to turning on and off at random, seemingly out of spite.
“Ash,” the technician reminded Dean and extended a hand. “Cool tie.”
Clearly, yellow had been a mistake. Dean considered stashing it in a desk drawer and blaming its absence on a lunch-related tie disaster.
With a polite but firm, “Have a good one,” he excused himself from Ash’s conversation and strolled back to his office.
Maybe Castiel would agree to get lunch in the restaurant on the ground floor for once. The tab would be on the company’s dime and they made a decent steak. Dean hadn’t eaten red meat in ages, not since Castiel had convinced him to give it up after a year-long campaign, but the craving to sink his teeth into something was especially strong today.
Charlie had left a post-it on his keyboard: Castiel had ordered their lunch through catering. Something vegetarian, most likely. Castiel was on a quinoa kick. At least Dean wouldn’t have to put in extra time on his Bowflex, not that there was anyone to appreciate his effort. He hadn’t bothered with a master cleanse in months.
Even though they’d be working, Dean was thrilled about the extra time together. Castiel had been away on another cruise last week. “Somewhere arid,” he’d said, though he hadn’t offered specifics when Dean fished for details. Castiel had a strict no-technology policy on vacation and never brought back photographs. But he’d smelled divine upon his return Monday morning, and so strong that Dean caught a whiff of him under his closed office door and had trailed after a rumpled Castiel like a puppy.
His scent had since faded to the intensity Dean was used to: the barely there scent of an impending storm. Dean was left to wonder, with some embarrassment, if Castiel had been with an omega on his trip and what Dean had smelled was the afterscent of a stranger. His alpha howled, wounded at the thought of Castiel with anyone else.
His reaction was ridiculous. Castiel wasn’t his. Maybe Jo was right and he should give online dating a try. Victor, a detective who lived two floors down from him, swore by it. Dean agreed with it in theory. There was no such thing as true mates, no matter what popular culture would have you believe, a remnant of old-fashioned views determined to keep omegas in line by placing value on chastity and shaming promiscuity. In reality, Dean could pick any number of like-minded people and be perfectly happy. He wasn’t going to claim someone who only wanted him because of hard-wired instinct. (Besides, if Dean was expected to sit on the bench waiting for a cherry-pie-scented omega to fall into his lap, Ellen Smith was never getting herself a grandchild.)
Was Lisa still single? They’d gone out a couple times not too long ago when he’d been enrolled in her yoga class. She’d been sweet. Bendy.
He sent her a text to say hello and while awaiting her reply, watched the declining swing of the Newton’s Cradle positioned on the corner of his desk. It made a satisfying clack-clack-clack. Lisa's response arrived within minutes. She was surprised to hear from him, she said. How was he doing? She sent along a photograph of her family, a son and a mate of three years, and asked him to stay in touch. The next yoga session started in two weeks.
His phone went dark and he shoved it away. Had he really not gone on a date since he met Castiel? He pivoted the chair around to face the window, looking out for some time upon the columned facade of the building next door. It offered no answers.
Charlie knocked on his door at 11:40 to ask if he’d forgotten his meeting. Flustered, he gathered his paperwork and met Castiel in the department board room, a windowless box with synthetic gray carpeting in the center of the building. It smelled of detergent and the plastic odor of office furniture. They used it mainly for lunches and weekly team meetings.
“Hey, Cas.”
Castiel wore a suit and tie, expertly knotted at the throat. His hair, usually mussed as though someone had just run their hands through it, was combed and styled, and he was freshly shaved. He winked one blue eye.
Dean ignored the flutter of his heart, the way his mouth pulled at the corners in response to Castiel’s presence. He sat across from him and accepted the takeout container Castiel slid across the table.
“What’s with the GQ act? HR on your ass again?”
Castiel paused around his fork. “Have you checked your email in the last hour?”
“Course I—shit.” Of all the times for his phone to take a crap. He pushed the power button to no avail. “My phone’s dead.”
“Again?”
“I need to replace it. What’s going on?”
“Change of plans. Adler asked the higher-ups to sit in. They want a roadmap for the rest of the year and they’re talking about a dedicated social media team.”
“Under whose direction?”
Castiel shrugged. “I assume yours.”
“I don’t use that stuff,” Dean admitted. He opened the takeout box. Castiel had ordered him a salad with grilled chicken. It wasn't steak, but he dug into it with relish. “Do you know anything about it?”
“Not unless Adler wants a company Grindr.”
Dean had heard the app’s name whispered around the water cooler but had no first-hand experience with it. From what he understood, it was intended for hookups—mainly horny alphas looking to get off. Castiel was likely trying to get a rise out of him, because he’d never mentioned it before, but Dean squirmed in discomfort, thinking of Castiel using such a service.
“Heh, yeah,” he laughed, hoping envy hadn’t been apparent in his scent, but Castiel’s expression didn’t change. He fanned a stack of papers on the table and they got to work.
The decade of meetings under Dean’s belt was worthless to prepare him for this one. He’d sweated through his dress shirt with minutes to spare and changed into a plain white button down he kept in his office for emergencies. Against it, the yellow tie looked obscenely sunny.
Castiel found him in the small bathroom located outside the conference room, doing a final check on his hair.
“You need to calm down,” Castiel ordered. “I could get my ass handed to me for saying this, but I can smell your panic in the hallway.”
“When has telling someone to calm down ever calmed anyone down?” Dean growled. He gave up on his hair. His pulse was a wild fluttering in his wrists and neck, a stampede of butterflies. “What if I’m getting fired.”
“You’re not getting fired.” Stepping closer, Castiel put a hand on each of Dean’s shoulders and met his eyes in the mirror. “You know this stuff backwards and forwards. I’ve got your back.”
“Thanks, Cas.”
“Take a deep breath.”
Dean did. He caught a whiff of early summer rain and, moaning softly, let Castiel knead the tension from his shoulders. He dug a thumb into the base of Dean’s neck, just at his hairline. They never touched so intimately. It was unlikely they’d touch this way again, but in that moment, Dean wanted to melt backwards against him, to have Castiel fold him in his arms. He closed his eyes.
“Ready?” Castiel asked, slapping him soundly on the back. The dream scampered off, tail between its legs, and with it the warmth of Castiel’s hands. And although Dean wasn’t prepared, his stomach in knots and his mouth dry, they entered the conference room.
A glass wall, etched with wide horizontal stripes for privacy, separated it from the hallway. Sandover’s senior directors occupied both sides of the mahogany table. They were Dean’s equals, but he still felt uneasy. Zachariah Adler loomed at the head in a funereal black suit.
“Mr. Smith! Mr. Novak. Thanks for joining us. Have a seat and we’ll get started.” Zachariah motioned for them to sit side by side, facing him. Castiel slid into his seat with a fixed smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Dean followed.
“You’re probably both wondering why the last-minute change to this meeting,” Zachariah continued, folding his meaty hands together.
“Uh, yes. Yes, sir,” Dean said.
“Dean, you’re sweating bullets,” Zachariah laughed. “First, I want to assure you, neither of you is losing your job. Sandover is lucky to have both of you.”
The anxiety in his stomach untangled somewhat in the wake of Zachariah’s assurance and Dean breathed more easily. “Thank you, Zach. I appreciate that,” he said. “And may I say, it is an honor to work with such a fantastic team. I don’t know what I’d do without Castiel here. He’s a great asset.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Zachariah said, “because what I have to say concerns Mr. Novak especially. As you both know, digital marketing has become a larger part of our efforts over the last year. I met with the board this morning, and they want to allocate a larger portion of our budget to our digital presence and reduce our reliance on traditional advertising.”
Dean nodded. “Fine.”
“But they’re concerned the focus required to stay on top of trends will take too much of your time, Dean,” Zachariah continued. “I don’t want you to shift your focus from what you do best. We owe some of our biggest accounts to you, so I want to keep you exactly where you are. Which leaves Mr. Novak.”
“Sir?” Castiel said, leaning forward.
“The board wants to restructure the marketing department to include the existing sales team, which will remain under Mr. Smith’s direction, and a new advertising and social media team under your direction, Mr. Novak. Going forward, you’ll share joint responsibility for the department.”
Dean experienced a dual reaction to the news. The decent part of him was happy for Castiel. A director’s position meant a pay increase, nicer office, and his own assistant.
But his baser, primal half was angered by the challenge to his territory. He’d been solely in charge of the marketing department for years and saw no reason to change its structure, but he had no authority over the board. He wasn’t being demoted, not exactly, but having his responsibilities halved? Castiel becoming his equal in the department? He gritted his teeth to keep from snarling.
“If you accept the promotion, that is, Mr. Novak,” Zachariah said.
“Thank you, Mr. Adler,” Castiel said, flashing his teeth. “I’m flattered to be offered the opportunity and I’m happy to accept.”
“Wonderful. We’ll get the new contracts drawn up and over to legal. It’ll be a bit of a wait, but in the meantime, I’ll leave it to you and Mr. Smith to divide your team and work out a strategy between the sides of your department. If you need a temporary coordinator, we can work something out with HR, but from what I’ve seen, the two of you communicate well.”
“We do,” Dean said, finding his voice. “It won’t be a problem.”
“No,” Castiel agreed.
“Fantastic,” Zachariah said, and there was a murmur of concord among the other directors, who offered their congratulations. They moved on to the marketing strategy for the year, and Castiel had just offered a statistic about user engagement when someone knocked on the glass door.
Charlie, in a Gryffindor t-shirt mostly concealed by a smart blazer and pencil skirt, tiptoed into the conference room and bent to speak to Dean privately. She smelled of mint, the soft crush of his mother’s herb garden underfoot. “Sorry to bother you, boss, but RTA is on the line about the bid. Do you want to take it?”
“We’re almost done here. Tell them I’ll call them back in twenty minutes. Thanks, Charlie.”
Once the door had closed behind her, Bart, director of operations, whistled. “Did you get a whiff of her? Wouldn’t mind working around that every day.”
He was joined by Raphael, head of the finance department. “She should be at home. I miss the days when it was just alphas and betas in the workplace.”
The room rumbled with their collective chuckle. Though the comments made him uneasy, Dean kept his chin ducked. Charlie had worked for him the entire time she’d been at Sandover, and he considered her a friend. Work ethic was unrelated to designation. She made no secret of hers, cheerfully telling anyone who asked that she was mated to another female omega. Their mating was uncommon, considered unorthodox by some, but not unheard of. The world was changing.
Or Dean had thought it was. In this moment, as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, waiting for the laughter to die down, he wasn’t sure.
He cast a glance to Castiel, hoping to latch onto his perpetual calm, but Castiel was uncharacteristically rigid. The tip of his pen had torn through three layers of paper and he held his jaw clenched, but his chin was raised, sharp eyes appraising the men in the room. Dean’s nostrils filled with the pungent scent of ozone and he had a sudden need to get Castiel out of there. He discreetly touched his arm and pushed back his chair, signaling Castiel to stand up.
It took a few minutes for the directors to disperse. Castiel shook hands with each of them, his smile huge and infectious, but it fell as soon as they’d gotten back to their own floor and closed the door to Dean’s office.
“Did you know about the restructuring before this?” Dean asked, taking off his jacket. He loosened his tie.
“You think I’d keep that from you?” Castiel challenged. There was a harsh edge to his voice, one he didn’t use with Dean often, and never in private.
“Sorry.” Dean scrubbed his forehead. “No. I know you wouldn’t.”
Castiel nodded toward the floor. “Since nothing is official yet, I want to take the weekend to think about how to split the team. Can we postpone any discussion until Monday?”
“Of course. Sounds good. You remember I’m not in tomorrow?”
“It’s on my calendar, and you haven’t shut up about it for days.” Rubbing his temples, Castiel gave him a weak smile. “If you don’t need anything more from me, I’m going back to my office. I think I’m getting a migraine.”
“You need me to drive you home?”
“No,” Castiel grunted, then seemed to regret it, adding in a calmer tone, “Enjoy your weekend, Dean.” He left without another word.
Dean worried over Castiel’s behavior while he prepared to make his call to RTA. He loathed when Castiel was upset. It made him feel like a failure, even though he supposed he had no right to feel that way.
If Dean secured a contract with the transit authority, he’d buy years of job security. He tried to focus his attention on the bid, but his thoughts wandered. It was lucky none of the directors had picked up on Castiel’s attitude or he could probably kiss his promotion goodbye. Were he and Charlie closer than Dean realized? Dean felt like an asshole for just sitting there when he could’ve spoken up in her defense, but he might have risked both of their jobs if he had. And Castiel hadn’t spoken out either. Dean would buy twice the cookie dough the next time Charlie fundraised for Omega Pride. Mom and Jo had liked the chocolate chip variety last time.
He sat on hold with RTA for three minutes before being put through to voicemail. He left a message for his contact letting them know he’d be available at his personal line and through email for the weekend, and decided to call it a night. It would take two hours to get to the cabin and he needed to buy groceries. He’d planned to swing by his condo first, but if he left the office now and drove straight to the ferry, he could catch an earlier boat and be there in time for the sunset. He could run to the general store first thing in the morning, and he kept enough clothing at the cabin to get him through a weekend.
He’d had enough of today. The yellow tie had earned eternal banishment to the back of his closet.