once & done: destiel one shots

All the lovely things (Smith/Novak AU)

The Holiday Fic I Never Meant to Write, based on the #ridiculousholidayAU tweets, which started as a joke and ended up totaling over 3,200 words (and 150+ tweets) - then I added another 5k. The title is from Merry Christmas, Baby. This is set in an indeterminate year in which Christmas falls on a Wednesday.

Summary: Oh, no. No. No. He's not dying in a freak elevator accident on Christmas Eve with Castiel Novak. No way.

+

Dean hops a cab home from the Sandover company holiday party and picks pine needles and tinsel from his hair. He hasn't made out like that inyears, not since Rhonda Hurley shoved him into the back of her pickup senior year and stuck her tongue in his mouth. He stumbles upstairs to his apartment and falls, fully clothed and deliriously giddy, into bed.

The next morning, he has a hangover the size of Kansas pounding in his temples and making his stomach roil. There's a foggy memory of amazing hands and intense blue eyes floating around in his head. He throws up and can't get off the couch until three in the afternoon, and vows he's never going to drink again. He spends Sunday doing a power cleanse, but the blue remains.

+

Monday rolls around and Dean still feels like hell. He cabs it to work since he left the Prius there for the weekend, and arrives at work early, hoping that no one witnessed what happened on Friday, or was too drunk to remember themselves. He makes it to his desk, only to find a post-it note from his assistant: Mr. Adler's office ASAP.

Crap, he thinks, and nervously checks his hair. He shouldn't have let that sasquatch from IT talk him into shots. He straightens his tie and, with reluctance, calls for the elevator. It rattles in sync with his stomach, the whole ride up.

+

Zachariah's new assistant is bent over his desk, providing Dean with a first-rate view of his ass. It's a nice view that he allows himself to admire, just for a second, before clearing his throat.

"Dean Smith. I'm here to see Mr. Adler," he announces.

The assistant waves him past without looking up. "He's expecting you," he says, shuffling papers.

Real friendly, Dean thinks with irritation. He shakes his head at the guy's rumpled appearance: ill fitting suit, impressive bedhead. He won't last long at Sandover, but then Zachariah's assistants never do. Dean has stopped asking their names until they've survived a month.

Of course, this morning, Dean's worried that his own head is the one on the chopping block. He clears his throat to steel himself and knocks on the door.

"Mr. Smith!" Zachariah proclaims, and offers a handshake and a seat. Dean nervously takes it, smiles broadly to conceal his discomfort. Zachariah always looks a hair too friendly, like a cat that purrs just before it bites.

As it turns out, he's offering Dean a potential account, which means putting in extra hours, even though it's the holidays. Usually he'd jump at an opportunity like this, but the end of December is the only time his phone doesn't relentlessly ring. To be honest, he was looking forward to leaving at five tonight like a normal person, sneak out early tomorrow. He'll have to cancel plans to visit his family on Christmas Eve, but he can see them in the new year if not sooner, maybe even make it down later on Christmas Day. Landing this account for Sandover will put him in line for a promotion, so if he turns it down, he'll never make Vice President, not even with another decade under his belt.

He shakes Zachariah's hand with an eager smile plastered to his face. "No problem," he assures him.

"Oh," Zachariah adds as Dean is halfway out the door. "I'm going out of town for a few days, so you'll be working with my assistant on this one."