Chapter Text
Dean steps off the curb and into a puddle of icy, brown, ankle-deep slush, cursing and shaking his soaking cold foot as he jogs across the intersection. The faint strains of I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas drift through the air from the tiny convenience store on the corner. Dean snorts, sure that whoever wrote that particular song had never visited Cleveland in December. He clutches a brown folder of legal documents to his chest and walks a little more quickly down the cold, brown, slushy street. He almost plows straight into the slight girl in the fuschia coat thrusting a flier at him.
"Donate to Generous Genes this holiday season and help underprivileged parents afford mods for their precious babies! Children are the future and they deserve the very best from the very start!" the girl recites as quickly as possible before Dean can pass by.
"Uh," Dean mumbles, automatically clutching the flier, but not slowing down a beat. "Yeah." The girl has already moved onto the next target, and Dean tosses the flier in the next trashcan he sees.
Dean has been living in the run down studio apartment for three months and he still doesn’t have a table. It was the only place that had been available for immediate move-in when Cassie kicked him out of their swanky flat; a drab, unfurnished box with enough space to fit the mattress and TV he salvaged from the guest bedroom in the flat, a small bathroom that has a door that sticks when fully closed and smells faintly of mildew, and one of those efficiency kitchens that has only a hot plate instead of a proper stove. Dean feels like he should have a table. He doesn’t know why, but it feels important.
He drops the folder of documents on the floor, frowning morosely at it as muddy brown water from his soaking pant cuffs drips and leaves splotches of damp on the brown cover. Cassie reminded him in exasperated tones when they parted earlier that he actually needs to read all the documents carefully this time, before their next meeting with the lawyer. Dean doesn't see the point; he already knows what they say.
No fault. Incompatible. A mistake in the stats. A man who, on paper, should have been the perfect husband and a couple who should have been perfectly happy, except for the part where he couldn't fall in love with the perfect woman. A failure. A bust. Dean already knows what he is, he doesn’t need the divorce papers to remind him.
Dean shucks his ruined shoes and peels off his wet pants and socks, leaving them in a heap on the questionably clean carpet. He looks over the suits hanging neatly in the closet and hopes the mildew smell hasn’t soaked into the fabric. He wonders if he should get them dry cleaned. Cassie usually handles the dry cleaning.
Thinking about Cassie makes Dean feel a little sick, so he flips on the TV as a distraction while he shaves and decides between a blue tie or a red one. Red is supposed to make you appear more masculine and powerful, but Dean likes blue better.
"Doctor Sexy," the nurse on the TV breathes huskily. "I think I was made for you." She presses her lithe form up against the man in question, batting her eyelashes over brilliant turquoise eyes.
"I think you were," Doctor Sexy growls back with a toss of his lush head of hair, grabbing her and tilting her back for a dramatic kiss.
Dean snorts and pauses in his preparations to enjoy the moment. Both of the actors are gens, commissioned by the movie studios, genetically engineered from scratch and raised to be stars. They are completely fabricated dolls for the industry, but that doesn't mean that Dean can't enjoy two perfect specimens of humanity engaging in a little tongue action. In fact, it would be an insult to the talent of the genetic engineers who created them not to appreciate their work.
As if to prove his point, the program breaks into a commercial for a local GE lab.
"Give your partner the best gift they can imagine this holiday season," the impassioned spokesperson gushes, "the gift of life!"
Dean shudders at the thought of buying a baby as a Christmas gift, but to each their own, he supposes. At least gens don't reject their genes and end up busts, like him. The world doesn't really need any more screw ups dragging it down.
Dean’s cell phone rings, snapping him out of his reverie. He grimaces when he sees the name on the screen.
“Hey, Dad,” Dean answers, trying to keep his voice light and even.
“Dean. Is Judge Atwell going to be at the party tonight?” John wastes no time on pleasantries.
“He RSVP'd. Dad, you can’t show up just to sweet talk the judges, Lisa will kill you.”
“I paid my share, I can damn well do whatever I like with my time.”
“I thought you wanted Lisa to get elected,” Dean huffs.
“If she doesn’t it won’t be because of anything I do. If you were doing your job right, you wouldn’t have anything to worry about,” John accuses. Dean slumps at the words, grateful his father can’t see him.
“It’s fine, Dad. I mean, her candidacy's not even official yet and she's already polling ahead. I’ve got this,” Dean says.
“Good boy. Is Cassie coming tonight?”
“No, she’s got to work,” Dean lies. Cassie will be working, so maybe not too much of a lie, but John doesn't need to know the real reason Cassie won't be attending any more public functions at his side.
“That girl works too much,” John comments, and Dean has to bite his lip to keep from snorting at the hypocrisy. John Winchester only knows how to do two things: work, and drink. Dean can already foresee that tonight is going to be a night where he does both.
“Need me to give you a ride?”
“I’m prepping for a deposition tomorrow. I’ll see you there.”
Dean feels like he should argue the point - Dean can be designated driver and John can read his files while Dean helps set up the event - but he knows better than to start a fight with John. Litigators don’t lose fights, John always says.
“Ok, see you there,” Dean affirms, and the call cuts off. Dean looks at his phone silently for a moment before tossing it onto his bed.
Dean chooses to wear the blue tie. He knots it neatly around his neck and checks his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Blue is trustworthy, Dean justifies to himself. He can be trustworthy.
"Because I was born for this job," Michael Novak is saying his campaign catch phrase on the TV, smiling his perfect gen smile as the Novak for President logo flashes beside him. Dean admires the design work on the logo, and makes a note to ask Anna who the designer was. He flicks off the TV, straightens his tie one more time, and heads for the door, spitefully stomping on the folder containing the divorce papers on his way out.
~~
“Oh, thank god you’re finally here,” Lisa exclaims, rushing to Dean’s side as soon as he enters the room. Her hair and makeup are already done up for the party, but she's still dressed in ratty jeans and one of her husband's wrinkled button-ups, presenting an adorably frazzled appearance.
“Here to save the day,” Dean flashes his patented Charming Smile.
The rented banquet hall is decked out in magnificent red and gold for Lisa's famous Christmas party, staff bustling around setting candles and place settings on the tables and hanging lush evergreen wreaths on the walls. Dean notes several of the wreaths are glaringly crooked.
“Ava Wilson from the Post is here. Three hours early, the press wall isn't even set up yet,” Lisa babbles, her hands making frantic little gestures. Dean catches her wrists to still the movement.
“Hey, Lis, calm down. I’ll deal with it,” Dean looks down at her, toning down the Charming Smile into a more genuine one. Lisa sucks in a deep breath and lets it out with an audible sigh.
“Right, ok,” Lisa repeats to herself, leaning into Dean’s bulk to calm herself.
“Good. Now, go sit down and go over your notes, let me handle everything else. Where's Gary?”
“He’s not here yet,” Lisa grumbles as she allows Dean to guide her into a seat at the edge of the room. “I should just give you his job title already.”
“Can’t have you playing favorites,” Dean smirks, squeezing her shoulder lightly. “I’ll be right back. Hey, fix that wreath!” Dean snaps his fingers at a dazed waitress, pointing to the lopsided decoration as he bee-lines for the front entrance.
Ava is easy to deal with, thank god for small blessings. Gary, Lisa’s chief of staff and campaign manager, is still nowhere to be seen, and Dean is reconsidering the offer of his title. His dad would like that; Dean Winchester, official campaign manager for Senatorial candidate Lisa Braeden. PR Manager doesn’t have the same ring to it, and god forbid anyone call him Lisa's publicist.
Thanks to Lisa’s nearly obsessive pre-planning, set-up for the party is going pretty smoothly, and only the assistant caterer appears to be having a nervous breakdown in the bathroom, which Dean thinks is some kind of record. At last year's party they had at least two breakdowns, and the florist quietly hyperventilating while rearranging the centerpieces. Dean finds Lisa sequestered in the hallway between the main room and the bathrooms, quietly reciting the names of the guests to make sure she has the pronunciations correct.
“Hey,” Dean greets her, stepping behind her and kneading the tension out of her shoulders. Lisa hums appreciatively. “You feeling better?”
“Mhm. Thanks, Dean.” Lisa turns around to face him, looking up into his green eyes with a warm smile. “How are you doing?”
Dean shrugs one shoulder, the corner of his mouth pulling into an ironic half-smile. “Me and Cassie met with the lawyer today.”
“Oh, Dean, I’m sorry.”
“Nah, it’s for the best.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s easy.” Lisa lets out a rueful little laugh. “God, you know what my marital life is like. I’m the last person you have to hide that kind of stuff from.”
“Yeah, well, won’t let it affect my work, or anything, promise,” Dean shakes off her concern.
“God forbid!” Lisa says, sarcastically scandalized. “Dean, the day that I see your work ethic slack off is the day hell freezes over. I would force you to take a vacation if I didn’t need you so much.”
“I wouldn’t hate you giving me some personal time,” Dean winks.
Lisa rolls her eyes. "Maybe later," she promises with an indulgent smile, "But right now, speaking of work, I'm pretty sure we both have some to do." She pulls away, nodding back towards the main room, and Dean follows her back into the fray.
Lisa made the transition from socialite to politician ten years ago, after marrying her norm husband and devoting herself to fighting for norm rights. The infamous Braeden Christmas parties are the one remnant of her high society days that she still clings to. Dean puts up with them because they're fantastic press, especially now that they're charging into national politics. Lisa's been talking about running for Senate for years, and now that it's finally becoming a reality, Dean is eager for every scrap of the spotlight he can shine on his boss and friend.
Dean reminds himself of this fact as Mrs. Pritchett plants a wet kiss on his cheek. He gives the old lady his Charming Smile, glancing over at Lisa, stunning in her elegant evening gown, chatting with Congressman Pritchett near the press wall while cameras flash. Dean envies her easy charm.
"Night seems to be going well," a familiar voice comments as Mrs. Pritchett is distracted by the young CEO of some tech company walking by. Dean turns to face the slim red-head wearing a dark green dress approaching him.
"Isn't press supposed to stay behind the ropes?" he teases, winking at the woman.
"You know you couldn't bear to turn me away," she says with a small smile and a shake of her head. Dean wraps his arms around her in a hug.
"Anna, you know I couldn't do this shit without you," Dean replies with feeling. Anna is one of the few reporters he actually trusts, probably the fairest and most unbiased political journalist he's ever met, in spite of her connection to the most powerful political dynasty in recent history. Or maybe because of that.
"The turnout's amazing," Anna comments, observing the crowds of the rich and powerful drifting into the hall. "If you keep this up Lisa's campaign really will be a walk in the park."
"It's all Lis. I just make the phone calls," Dean says modestly.
"You know, someday you're going to have to admit that you're good at your job," Anna sighs.
"Just because I'm a bust at what I'm supposed to be doing," Dean gripes. He's distracted when Anna frowns, looking at something across the room.
"What in the world is Fergus Crowley doing here?"
Dean follows her gaze. The man is a norm - a little too much weight and too little hair to boast any altered genes. To make up for it he is wearing the most perfectly tailored suit Dean has ever seen, probably worth more than all the suits in Dean's closet combined. He's never met Crowley before, but his reputation preceded him. The man wrote damning exposes for an online paper called the Haverson Post, delighting in splashing scandals that quickly went viral all over the front pages. He was already responsible for the fall from grace of at least two famous actors and one prominent CEO exposed in a secret gay affair. It looks like a politician is next on his hit list.
"He made a huge donation to the campaign and a bigger one to the charity. Imagine how it would look if we didn't invite him. Is he really that bad?" Dean frowns.
"Dean, that man is a snake calling himself a journalist." Anna shakes her head and wrinkles her nose distastefully. "If I didn't know that Lisa is one of the cleanest candidates I've ever seen, I would be worried for you."
Dean's gut twists.
"Yeah, Lis's got nothing to worry about," Dean forces a chuckle. Anna gives him a sharp glance, but doesn't comment.
"How's Cassie?" Anna changes the subject, although it doesn't make Dean feel any better.
"Ah. She's good." Dean shifts, swallowing. "We talked to a divorce attorney today."
Anna's eyes fill with compassion.
"I'm sorry."
"It's fine. Better. But, uh, don't mention it to my dad," Dean pleads, catching her warm grey eyes. Anna nods, understanding.
"Is he coming tonight, then?"
"Yeah." Dean looks around, with a frown. "He should be here by now." Dean's eye is caught instead by Crowley sauntering up to Lisa. Dean can't read what he says, but he can clearly identify the exact moment that Lisa's smile changes from ' Lisa-Braeden-genuine-nice-person' to 'Lisa-Braeden-politician'.
"Uh. Sorry, but I should," Dean nods towards Lisa and Crowley by way of explanation of his abrupt departure to Anna.
"Good idea," Anna agrees, and her eyes follow him thoughtfully as he crosses the room. Dean pastes on his Charming Smile as he approaches his boss and the reporter. Lisa catches his eyes, and although her smile doesn't budge an inch, Dean can read the tight note in her eyes.
"Mr. Crowley, I'm sure you know my PR Manager, Dean Winchester?" Lisa smiles, waving Dean in. Crowley's handshake is limp and clammy.
"Yes, we spoke on the phone," Crowley nods, his round British accent sounding even more condescending in person.
"We're happy that you could make it tonight," Dean says blandly. "You've been very generous."
"I'm sure my investment will pay off. I expect big things from Ms. Braeden," Crowley replies, eyeing the candidate like a shark eyeing chum. Lisa smiles brightly, but her eyes grow colder. "I was just asking her about her husband."
Of course Crowley would already know the buttons to push to get under Lisa's skin.
“My family has always been my biggest supporters,” Lisa says diplomatically, “I am so grateful to have Matthew and Ben at my side.”
“Of course,” Crowley agrees. “Will your happy family be joining you tonight?”
“Matthew is home with Ben. An event like this is pure boredom for a nine-year-old,” Lisa laughs lightly.
"And your husband stays out of the spotlight," Crowley adds with a condescending nod. "Norms are best left at home, aren't they?"
"I am very blessed to have a husband who enjoys spending time with our son, regardless of his genes," Lisa answers.
"Matthew and Ben are Lisa's biggest inspirations," Dean cuts in, "as evidenced by her outstanding record in supporting legislation that supports and protects norms."
“So you’re close with Lisa’s family, Mr. Winchester?” Crowley turns his shark smile onto Dean.
“Lisa’s family is very involved with the campaign so we spend a lot of time together,” Dean chooses his words carefully.
“You’re also friends with Ms. Braeden from college, are you not?”
Dean doesn’t allow an ounce of emotion to show on his face, but the inside of his head is turmoil. Crowley obviously did a lot of research before showing up tonight. It’s not like Dean and Lisa’s friendship or the friction between Lisa and her husband are secrets, but they’re definitely not things they broadcast to the general public.
“Dean was two years behind me at Case Western,” Lisa answers cooly. Crowley hums thoughtfully, his wide eyed gaze too innocent to be genuine.
“Lisa took pity on me when I was struggling through my first economics class. She was brilliant back then, and still is.” Dean offers Crowley his cool, ‘I don’t like you and you don’t like me but we’re professionals so let’s just pretend otherwise’ smile. Crowley returns it in kind.
“Well, I’m looking forward to seeing that brilliance pay off. Ms. Braeden. Mr. Winchester.” Crowley nods at them both, and wanders off, waving at the young CEO Mrs. Pritchett was oggling earlier, who tries and fails to edge away from the journalist.
Lisa watches him go, her face still frozen in her perfect Politician Smile.
"Norm complex, much?" Dean sneers at the stout man's perfectly tailored back.
"Dean!" Lisa admonishes.
"What? Can't tell me that's not classic 'boo-hoo my mommy and daddy couldn't afford mods, so now I take it out on everyone who could.'" Dean shakes his head. "He's compensating. It's sad."
"Dear lord, don't let anyone from the press hear you talking like that," Lisa gasps. "Aren't you supposed to be protecting my reputation?"
"I don't hear you disagreeing," Dean grins.
"You're impossible," Lisa exclaims. Her expression fades to one of genuine warmth as she looks at Dean. He smiles softly in return, and nods towards the main banquet hall.
"Come on, I think you have some more schmoozing to do," he prompts, offering his arm to walk her back inside. Neither of them notice the subtle snap of a lingering camera behind them.
John Winchester stumbles into the room halfway through the second course of dinner. Mrs. Pritchett doesn’t bother hiding her expression of horror and leans in to whisper something in Congressman Pritchett’s ear. When Dean rushes over to his father’s side he can smell the alcohol. He breathes deep and slow, trembling slightly in his effort to keep his anger under control.
“Dad,” Dean hisses, grabbing John’s arm to yank him out of the center of attention. “What the hell do you think you’re doing.”
John yanks his arm away from Dean, fixing him with a harsh look and a sneer.
“Get your hand off me, boy,” John warns.
“Dad, you’re drunk ,” Dean growls with barely concealed rage. John’s expression becomes infuriatingly pitying.
“I think I’d know if I was drunk, Dean. The office just went out for a few drinks to celebrate a big settlement. This is nothing.”
Dean stares at him helplessly.
“You’re over an hour late.”
John scoffs.
“Don’t you dare get fresh with me. No one even notices if you’re late to things like this, too wrapped up in their own big heads feeling proud of themselves for buying themselves a politician.” John’s eyes scan over Dean and he reaches out to flick Dean’s tie. “You look unemployed. What are you, some kind of norm? Can’t you afford a better suit? And you should have worn the red tie. I’m surprised Cassie lets you out of the house looking like that.”
Dean’s jaw ticks as John stalks off, clapping Judge Atwell on the shoulder as he passes by, his voice a little too loud as he greets the Judge. A waiter hands him a drink a moment later. Lisa tries to catch Dean’s eye, but Dean looks away. He can’t do anything about his father without causing an even bigger scene. John’s drunkenness is only a minor inconvenience.
John disappears completely shortly after dinner, before Dean can call him a cab. Dean’s not sure whether to be worried, or grateful to escape further scrutiny. He thinks the event was an overall success, minor incidents aside, but he is sure his father will find some way to criticize his work. He endures another wet kiss on the cheek from Mrs. Pritchett, accompanied by an unsubtle pat in an awkward place, as the guests file out. The lights in the building are being shut off when Dean finally heads back to his apartment.
Dean tosses his coat onto the floor when he trudges back through the door into the empty, darkened apartment. Table, he reminds himself. He collapses onto the bed without bothering to flip on the lights. He should check the news to see if there is any report of tonight's party, but both the TV remote and his laptop are across the room and Dean is exhausted. He slips his tie off and tosses it onto the ground next to the bed. He’ll wear the red one next time.
He is almost drifting off to sleep when a soft tapping on the door startles him. Dean growls and blinks sleepily, turning the switch on the table lamp sitting on the floor in the corner before opening the door.
“You’re still wearing your suit,” Lisa observes as she brushes past him and closes the door behind her. She unwinds the scarf from around her neck and drops her coat on the floor next to Dean's. Dean’s forehead furrows.
“Lis, what’re you doing here?”
Lisa winds her arms around his neck, pressing up against him, the faint orchid scent of her shampoo drifting up into his nostrils. She never wears real perfume, just in case one of the voters is allergic. Dean automatically slides his arms around her waist and pulls her closer.
“I thought we could both use some of that personal time we were talking about earlier.”
Dean hums in agreement and Lisa pulls him down for a kiss.
“Are you sure we should be doing this?” Dean asks when they break apart for a breath. “That ball of slime reporter tonight -”
Lisa shuts him up with another kiss.
“I was careful,” she assures him. “And I really need the stress relief right now. I just - I couldn't stay at home. Matt is sweet, really, but he's such a norm. He can't do the things you do to me.”
She carefully peels off Dean’s suit jacket and un-tucks his shirt. Dean feels his pulse speed up as he watches Lisa move confidently around him.
“Sorry about my dad tonight,” he breathes, struggling for coherent thought as Lisa presses in tight again and tucks her hands into the back of his waistband. Lisa rolls her eyes.
“I am having strong words with that man the next time I see him, but if I threw a fit every time he showed up somewhere drunk I wouldn’t have much of a career, and neither would he.” Lisa slides her hands further down and Dean gives up the battle for mental functions. Lisa smiled up at him, tugging his groin in to press against her hip. “Now, are you going to keep trying to talk about work, or are you going to fuck me?”
Dean leans down to grab her by the thighs, lifting her lithe form off the ground and wrapping her legs around his hips. He kisses her as he stumbles backwards towards the bed.