FIC: The Devil Really Does Wear Prada, Part 1
Well, the time has come. Consider this a birthday present from me to all of you, seeing as I turn 21 in several hours. And a birthday present for me, too, to be able to post it, finally, in all its arguable glory. :D!
Title: The Devil Really Does Wear Prada
Author: balefully
Pairing: Sam/Dean. Sam/OMCs implied.
Rating: NC-17
Words: 36,806
Summary: An AU crossover with The Devil Wears Prada. What if Sam were a little more…fabulous? Jess never died, John goes missing much later, and Dean. Well. He's in for quite a surprise.
Disclaimer: Only a product of my fevered imagination; all characters, situations, and real-life brands, products, and personages belong to their creators and/or themselves.
A/N: There are not enough thanks in the world for joosetta, who spawned this insanity and held my sweaty hand every step of the way. For stilettocamp, without which I would never have been motivated enough to finish this monstrosity. And of course to sanyin, who is actually the world's greatest and most patient beta. To everyone who has encouraged me along the way? Don't forget: you asked for it. :/ Art, more in-depth notes, acknowledgements, and pictures at the end after the epilogue.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Epilogue
The Devil Really Does Wear Prada
Sam burst through the doors of the Elias-Clark building laden with thousands of dollars worth of scarves tucked into eighteen oversize shopping bags; two rapidly wilting trays from Starbucks, holding four cups of coffee each (which smoldered at a combined temperature of at least seven-hundred degrees Fahrenheit, he was sure); and three enormous palm fronds, flown in from Brazil along with Adriana Lima and half the outfits for the summer moda praia shoot just that morning.
He maneuvered his way onto the elevator with no little trouble, managing to smash two of the leaves between himself and the wall and get the third one caught in the door. It would've been a manageable disaster, except that now there was a wide green stain on Sam's ridiculously expensive opal-grey Armani sweater. One hundred percent cashmere. The girls down at the samples closet (or the Closet, as it was known) were actually going to flay him. Which was quite a shame, considering he spent his whole afternoon off yesterday at Jacqueline Pasquale getting the most fabulous tan the world had ever seen.
By the time Sam dropped the scarves off with the line-up girls and gave the palm fronds to Enrique from Photography, the coffee was getting dangerously cool. He nuked it secretly in the kitchenette behind his work station, hoping Miranda wouldn't catch him at it. She didn't, and he managed to have it on her desk, piping hot, just before she swept in. Safe for one more day.
"Samuel, I need Donatella on the phone, and make me reservations for tonight. Don't forget the gift basket and have my car by eight." She didn't even look at him as she spoke, turned instead to the organizer on her desk, which was good, because he still had that livid green stain on his sweater. Sam blinked, mind racing, trying to remember if he knew where she needed reservations and for how many, whom the gift basket was supposed to be for and what was supposed to be in it, where he was supposed to pick her car up from and where he was supposed to bring it.
"That's all," she added, eyeing him with disdain.
Shit. Maybe not so safe. He called Donatella and transferred her to Miranda no problem, but everything else. Was probably going to be a little more difficult.
Allison walked in at just that moment, five hat boxes from Pucci precariously balanced in her arms. "Sam, take these to-"
"Wait, wait, Allison," Sam scrambled to catch the boxes before they fell. "Um, Miranda needs reservations for tonight, but I don't know when or where or who for. And apparently we need to not forget a gift basket? And I think her car's at the garage, and she needs it here at eight, but it might be that she needs it at her house at eight, I'm not sure." He hoofed it out of the office with the hat boxes and without waiting for a response, sure Allison would start handling things and he could jump back in when he was done in the fashion department.
*
Nigel was surveying a rack of winter suits while looking supremely hip in a denim Galliano jumpsuit when Sam eventually managed to stumble into the Closet, hat box-free at last. "Nigel, I'm so sorry, I just. There were these palm-"
"Speak no further, darling," Nigel said, grabbing Sam around the waist and dragging him into the men's section. Technically, Sam towered over the fairly diminutive Nigel, but the fashion director of Runway had a personality which dwarfed even the six-foot-six Nordic models. "I know just the thing." Nigel was really great; Sam didn't think there was a genuinely bad bone in his body. Bitchy? Of course. But his heart was in the right place. Even if he was more than a little handsy, trying to get Sam's shirt off under the guise of "wardrobe consultant."
"Um, Nigel. I can change without your-assistance. Really," Sam muttered, grabbing the long-sleeved navy Versace sweater he was offered. It had a hood, and zipped up, and cost roughly eight-hundred dollars. Sam thought about the hoodies he'd been used to only a couple months before, and tried not burst out in inappropriate laughter.
Nigel raised an appraising eyebrow when Sam came out of the changing alcove, then pulled the zipper down until a good half of Sam's chest was exposed. He flopped the hood over Sam's immaculately straightened hair, too, finishing with a pat on the arm. "There you go, missy. Much better." Luckily, Sam's impeccably pressed black D&G trousers had escaped any damage during the day and looked fine with the new sweater.
Sam rolled his eyes and smiled. "Fabulous. Now I'd better get a move on, or Miranda'll have my balls. I've got about three hours of detective work to do just to figure out what she even wants." Good thing he had an extensive background in tedious research. And in being slave-driven by someone who never acknowledged him beyond screaming at him when he fucked up. Happy thoughts for a happy day. Fabulous, indeed.
On his way back to the office, Sam ran across an older man with ridiculously perfect hair who was looking more than a little lost. "Excuse me, sir, can I help you?" Sam asked, suddenly self-conscious about the stupid hood and the fact that he was practically half-naked.
"I rather hope you can," the man said. He had a soft English accent, and Sam was pretty sure the up-and-down look he was getting was just this side of appropriate. Not that that was unusual around here. The men's restroom in the beauty department was a veritable backroom.
Sam smiled winningly and cocked his hip. "What department are you looking for? No, wait," he said, turning up the charm. One never knew when it would be advantageous. "Let me guess. Beauty, right? No one with hair that perfect could belong anywhere else."
The man laughed and shook his head, obviously knowing when he was being flirted with. "Right in one-?"
"Sam," he offered with his handshake and air-kiss. "Sam Winchester. Miranda Priestly's assistant."
"Indeed. That sounds like a rather demanding position." Sam smirked. "But where are my manners? John. John Frieda. I'm here to-"
"Oh, Mr. Frieda! Of course, I should have known," Sam said, feeling like a complete loser for not recognizing John fucking Frieda. He tried to make up for it in schmooze while giving as exact directions as possible.
"Thanks everso, Mr. Winchester. If I find myself floundering aimlessly in the area again, I'll be sure to look you up," John said with a cocky wave. After he'd gone, Sam barely stopped himself from banging his head against the wall. Jesus Christ. It turned out having the world's best tan didn't really help as much as he thought it might in the competency department. At least John Frieda thought he was cute, though. That was something.
*
The next item on the agenda was scheduling one last girl for a Prada shoot later in the month, infinitely easier said than done. The bullet-point list of absolute must-haves for each girl Sam screened was at least three pages, and his head was already swimming by the time the second hopeful model walked in. Technically, the girls had already been hand-picked by the spread coordinators, but Miranda was nothing if not completely lacking faith in her employees. Not to mention the models' agents.
And so Sam was sitting in the most uncomfortable, straight-backed, Italian leather office chair in the known universe, which apparently cost upwards of nine-hundred dollars (and there were eight of them in the conference room), trying not to fidget as he finished up talking to "Al-Misri, Mona Jamil".
As far as he could tell, she was perfect. Clean, fresh, exotic: he could check off each imperative adjective on the list, no problem. Plus, she was intelligent and eager, unlike most of the models Sam passed in Photography every day.
"Okay, Mona. What's one last thing you'd like Runway to know?" he asked, actually interested in her answer since he was fairly sure it wasn't going to be the usual variation on I-can-starve-myself-and-be-a-size-0-if-you-want.
Mona didn't disappoint. "I guess I just want you to know how much this job means to me. I'm just so lucky to be here, you know? My grandmother, she pretty much raised me. She means the world to me. Not only did she have ten children of her own, she cared for a lot of us grandchildren, too. Never shrank from any challenge, and always does her best to work things out. My grandmother, and the people who came before me, put a lot of effort into making me what I am." Her eyes were bright as she spoke, and Sam couldn't help but smile at what he saw there. It was hard to come by, these days. "Whenever my ego gets out of joint, all I have to do is think about my grandmother and everything she's been through. That puts all my problems in perspective."
Sam politely dismissed the rest of the girls right after he showed Mona out.
*
Later that night, he found himself behind the wheel of Miranda's brand-new Porche Carrera, attempting to get it all the way from the dealership on 11th to her apartment on 76th and 5th.
He'd never in his life been more thankful for the offensive driving lessons forced on him in his childhood. Fuck.
It really struck him in that moment, speeding through a yellow-turning-red, thinking about Mona and her grandmother, that he didn't know what the hell he was doing here. It wasn't that long ago he was floundering around, fresh out of Stanford, trying to figure out how he really wanted to spend his hard-won new life. And not too long before that when he didn't think he'd ever be able to have a new life at all.
*
Two months earlier
Graduating from Stanford was probably the single scariest thing Sam had ever done. Period. It beat running away from home at eighteen, it beat surviving a fire at six months. And it beat all the werewolves, ghosts, ghouls, shapeshifters, and other monsters in between.
He'd had a thousand different options, any one of which could've turned him into either an overnight success or a complete and total failure. His place at Stanford Law went unfilled when he decided the life of a lawyer wasn't really what he wanted. He thought about enrolling in the Police Academy, but wasn't sure he could manage having to answer to government authorities without question, or fraternize with the blue-collared hero archetype he'd finally escaped. It took his best friend Jess and a lot of soul-searching to finally realize that what he really wanted was to be a journalist. An important journalist, classy, for a publication like The New Yorker.
Sam had taken Jess along one weekend near graduation to fool around in San Francisco with some of his friends from the Stanford LGBT. They were all a little drunk and a lot high, flat on their backs in Pink Triangle Park, talking about how none of them had any idea what they were going to do with their lives, when he told her about how he didn't even like writing. Not to start with, anyway. He'd gotten into it just because he thought it was all he could do. The gumshoe investigating, the crazy hours, the stress and the faking, all stuff he'd being doing his whole life. But once he started, he realized he might actually be able to make a difference. That maybe someday he could write things, real things, and people would read them and listen and understand. It was a heady feeling.
Jess just turned to him, all soft smile and unfocused eyes, and snorted. "You're a weirdo, Sam Winchester. And a lucky bitch, because it sounds to me like you know exactly what you want to do. Even better, I think I might be able to help."
It turned out Jess had a friend in publishing, working in Human Resources at Elias-Clark. And while it wasn't exactly The New Yorker, Sam had been reassured over and over again that if he worked at Runway, Elias-Clark's premiere magazine, as an assistant to its editor-in-chief, Miranda Priestly-well. It would only take one year of work and a good recommendation from Miranda to absolutely guarantee he got his pick of jobs at any magazine he could possibly want in future. "A million girls would kill for this job," they'd said, ignoring Sam's eye-roll of gender marginalization. Plus, Jess had given him an open invitation to stay with her in her new place in the city for as long as he needed. She'd practically twisted his arm, even, saying that she needed company (not to mention help with the rent) while she worked on her portfolio for art school. All in all, everything seemed to be falling perfectly into place, and Sam was positive he could handle whatever Runway threw at him.
Right up until he actually arrived for his interview.
The day had started out fine. Jess, luckily, was a sporadic reader of Runway herself, and managed to procure a copy of the most recent issue for Sam to flip through before his meeting.
"Your gay card should be revoked," she'd teased. "I can't believe you're a red-blooded homosexual and you'd never even opened an issue earlier than five minutes ago."
"That's why I have you," Sam retorted. "You make a better gay man than I ever will. Being an artiste and everything. Plus, you have the clothes for it. I feel like I should, I don't know, borrow your shoes or something."
Jess just raised an eyebrow pointedly. "Very funny. What are you going to wear? Your wardrobe doesn't exactly scream 'fashion magazine' to me."
"I don't know," Sam shrugged. He hadn't even really thought about it. "I mean. I'm interviewing for a position as an assistant, not a freakin' model. I can't imagine they'll really care." Wandering over to his closet, he started rifling through his clothes. "I have a suit jacket and some nice pants. Black shoes. They can't ask for more than that."
"Whatever you say, Sam," Jess called from the couch. She didn't sound convinced, but Sam wasn't worried.
Which was clearly mistake number one.
Mistake number two was really, when it all came down to it, that Sam had taken the interview at all. He only managed to find the Elias-Clark building after about four doubling-back journeys on the subway and three stops at newsstands to ask directions. Getting in required some sort of weird swipe-card, which of course he didn't have, and Katie, the girl from HR he'd spoken to on the phone, had to come get him. He almost got lost on his way to the ten-millionth floor or wherever the stupid Runway offices were located, and once he finally got there, he immediately wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
Everyone was stunningly gorgeous. There were no other words for it. Every single woman there (and nearly all of the staff appeared to be women) was almost as tall as Sam. They were slim, beautiful creatures with streams of perfect hair and immaculate, ridiculously expensive clothing. He gaped. And felt like the ugly duckling surrounded by an army of swans. Really rich, really sophisticated swans. The few men were no different, all perfectly sculpted, coiffed, and attired, which Sam would have appreciated under normal circumstances. But not when it made him feel like a fucking hobo who got dragged in off the street. Pointed shoes, stiletto heels, gold jewelry, outsized watches, silk, cashmere, and patent leather stretched as far as the eye could see. As far as blending in and playing a part went, Sam knew he was good-but not that good.
"Are you Samuel Winchester?" One of the glamazons in four-inch stilettos, a skin-tight leather miniskirt and a five-inch-wide red belt was holding a clipboard and surveying Sam with a pinched look on her face, like she was smelling something unsavory. Sam did a quick sniff test just to make sure he'd remembered deodorant. He had.
"Uh. Yes. Yes I am. You can call me Sam, though, everyone does," he stammered.
"Right then, Sam. I'm Allison, and I've just been promoted to the first assistant position. I've been interviewing girls for my old position as second assistant for practically a month now, and absolutely no one has been able to last more than a week; Miranda keeps sacking them. I have no idea why the idiots in Human Resources have sent you at this point, but I've reached the end of my metaphorical tether, and really, I'll interview absolutely anyone." She was striding towards a set of huge glass doors at the end of a long, airy hallway, not even bothering to look back at Sam as she talked. He scrambled to follow behind her and not get distracted by the bustle of activity going on around him.
Once inside the office with the glass doors, Allison did an abrupt about-face. "First of all. What are you wearing?" Sam skidded to a halt, trying not to smack into her, and to keep from flushing in embarrassment. "Um. I. It's just a-"
"Never mind," she snapped. "It doesn't matter, you're clearly not-"
"Allison?" A voice emanated from behind the second set of glass doors. Sam took a moment to look around at the setup, the inner office flanked with two desks, one on either side of the doors; the kitchenette; the enormous closet that took up the entire right wall.
"Yes, Miranda?" Allison practically hurled her clipboard at Sam before running into the inner office. Clearly, the editor-in-chief liked to keep her assistants on a fairly tight leash.
"Have you gotten me the new samples from Gautier? I asked for them hours ago, you've had plenty of time. And where is my lunch? Has there been some sort of emergency? Have you become fatally ill? I really don't think it's that difficult to arrange for the exact same lunch at the exact same time I have asked for it every single other day you've worked for me, Allison."
Sam blinked, shocked at this woman's disrespectful manner towards her subordinates. He thought seriously for a moment about just slipping out, forgetting the whole thing, but before he could manage it, Allison was walking towards him, mouth drawn tight.
"She wants to speak with you," she managed.
"What?" Sam gaped. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.
"Miranda. Priestly. Would like. To speak. With you," Allison enunciated obnoxiously.
"Uh. Uh, right." Sam gave her back the clipboard, straightening his rumpled jacket as best he could before entering Miranda's office.
"Who are you?" she asked coldly, spinning in her chair to face Sam over her enormous expanse of desk. She slid a pair of large sunglasses down her nose, staring at him so openly and appraisingly, Sam thought his skin might burn off.
"S-Sam. Winchester. I, uh. I spoke with Katie from Human Resources-"
"Why are you here?" She'd begun reading a newspaper spread out in front of her, and hardly appeared to be listening at all.
"Um. Well, I just graduated from Stanford, where I was the editor-in-chief of The Stanford Daily, plus I've written an award-winning series on the gay and lesbian communities at Ivy League schools, so I've had some substantial journalism experience, and I thought it would be a great opportunity for me to assist someone like you at a widely respected publication like Runway, and-"
"You don't read Runway."
"N-not exactly. I-"
"You don't have any personal style, or grasp of fashion."
"Well, I'm not-"
"That's all." Miranda flicked her hands as if she were dismissing a dog. Sam opened and closed his mouth a few times, flailing around for something scathing to say in the face of her horrendous behavior, but came up with absolutely nothing. He was nearly out the door when he spun around.
"Ms. Priestly. I know I'm not one of your fashionistas, these-automaton girls you surround yourself with. But I'm intelligent, and I'm extremely capable, and I have a solid background in journalism, research, and in dealing with all kinds of people. I'm. Just." He sighed, shaking his head. This whole thing had been such a stupid idea. Such a fucking ridiculous idea. "Thanks for seeing me." Miranda ignored him completely.
It was obviously ludicrous, but as he closed Miranda's doors behind himself, he whispered "Christo," as quietly as possible. Nothing. So she really was just a power-hungry harridan.
In the front, Allison was talking with an obviously gay man sporting a closely-shaved head, rabbit-fur loafers, and perfectly round glasses. He blinked blatantly at Sam as he exited, murmuring to Allison loudly enough that Sam could hear him as he made his way down the hall. "Who was that? Good lord. Sad, pathetic, and bedraggled, but mmm! The possibilities. A diamond in the rough, honey."
Sam couldn't get out of there fast enough. The worst part of it was that he could tell how bad the job would be. Working for such a rude, inconsiderate witch like Miranda would be thankless and didn't even pay all that well. But now that he couldn't have it, now that he was sure he wasn't good enough, he only wanted it that much more.
Sam was in the lobby, navigating around the hordes of empty-headed fashion devotees, when he heard Allison's voice calling over the clacking of stilettos. "Sam! Sam Winchester!" He turned to see her waving him back, and she rolled her eyes at him. "Come on, I need to start your training immediately."
And despite the torturous last half-hour, Sam actually smiled. He'd impressed the frigid bitch after all. In only one year, he'd be able to secure a prime spot on the staff of any magazine he wanted. And all he had to do until then was go on coffee runs and answer Miranda's phone. Awesome. He needed to call Jess immediately; she'd absolutely die.
*
Eight months later
"Samuel." She was on the warpath, Sam could tell already. Not that she ever wasn't, really.
"Yes, Miranda?"
"Samuel, where are my layout mock-ups? I asked you-"
"Right there on your desk, Miranda." Sam was reading through his list of calls to make, simultaneously securing travel arrangements for a business trip Miranda's ex-husband was taking, searching for a restaurant review published in The Washington Post two months previously that Miranda suddenly needed for some mysterious reason, and making sure Priscilla, Miranda's Saint Bernard, was going to be ready to be picked up from the groomer in two hours.
"Why haven't you managed to confirm my-"
"Your hair appointment for eleven-thirty tomorrow is confirmed, Miranda. As is your facial at three the next day. I also checked with Marcia, and she'll be available next week if you'd like your manicure rescheduled for then, since Jean-Paul moved your meeting up this week." Sam tried not to smile. Miranda wasn't fond of smiling. But god he was good.
"Well, why didn't you-"
"I did. You're to be there at four on Wednesday."
Miranda's lips drew tight, and she tilted her head in a stiff mockery of a nod. "That's all."
Sam decided he deserved some new shoes for being so unbelievably fabulous, especially since he had fifteen minutes for lunch today and no desire to eat in the slightest. (Massive protein shakes for breakfast were clearly useful for more than just maintaining pleasant muscle mass, seeing as how they afforded him plenty of time to go "shopping" in the Closet when he would normally have had to rush out for sustenance.) Then there was the fact that he was going to take Jess out tonight to celebrate her acceptance into the Graduate School of Visual Arts at Columbia, and he wanted to look better than his best. He'd been working like a dog every moment of every day, and she had been stressing out to the point of pretty much constant hysteria for the past month or so; they hadn't even really talked in longer than Sam could remember. No matter how well they organized, work had forced him to cancel more plans and miss out on more time with her than he figured he'd ever actually spent with her in the first place.
Now, though, he was totally going to make it up to her. She basically lived in the Upper West Side these days, and it made Sam's skin crawl to even think about it. Practically Harlem, god. Clearly, Jess deserved the most decadent of restaurants, the trendiest of bars, and the most exclusive of clubs-all of which he could get them both into instantly, just by throwing around Miranda's name. And looking trés hot.
He'd just started digging through the men's Prada section of the Closet, trying to find a pair of brown calf rilux ankle boots in his size, when his cell rang ominously. Without even waiting for a greeting, Miranda barked, "Samuel!" the moment he thumbed the phone on. His stomach sank instantly to his toes. Fuck. What could she possibly want now? He could feel the shackles slamming shut around his wrists already.
"Yes, Miranda."
"You'll need to accompany me to Marshall's tonight in Allison's absence. I expect you to be ready by eight-thirty. That's all." She hung up abruptly.
Sam was horrified. Tonight. Why tonight? What the hell had happened to Allison? Why? There was no way he was going to make it to see Jess, and he absolutely could not refuse Miranda. Marshall's party was the premiere event in New York City that season, plus Miranda would no doubt fire him on the spot if she knew he was even considering not attending when she expressly asked him to.
He felt like she had just poured red paint all over his new mink coat. He'd have to call Jess and tell her; it wasn't going to be pretty. Maybe if he brought home some goodies for her, like a Chanel overcoat and the new Prada boots they'd just gotten in yesterday, she'd soften up. Forgive him easier.
She picked up on the fourth ring, right before it went to voicemail. Damn. "Hey!" She sounded happy. That only made everything worse.
"Um, Jess? It's Sam."
"I know that, retard. This is my cell. I have your number. It tells me when you're calling." He could actually hear her smiling through the phone.
"So, um. I have some bad news."
"No. Sam, no. If you dare tell me you have to work late tonight-" Well. So much for that smile.
"Jess! Jess, you know how she is, there's just no way-I don't have a choice! Marshall's party is tonight, and Allison can't. I mean. It's mandatory that I'm there. I'll lose my job, and-"
"Fine. Jesus Christ, Sam. I'll just. God. I don't give a shit about your excuses, anymore. Fine." And with that, she hung up. Sam figured if a cell could be slammed, that one would've been a doozy.
He stuffed his phone in his bag and rubbed a hand absently over his face. It could've been worse. She'd probably get over it eventually, and even if she didn't, he could still snag her a Valentino dress or two and some contacts at Parson's fine arts department.
Right. It was time to find an outfit for the party. Sam only had seven hours to memorize the entire guest list, plus get himself looking like an A-lister on Oscar night. His work was cut out for him.
*
The following Friday started out like any other day. Sam was in the office by six, managing eight different suppliers all trying to schedule appointments with Miranda for the same time. He had four runs to make to designers' offices, and he was supposed to have lunch with Miuccia Prada's assistant, Rizal, at two, who was only in town for six weeks before Fashion Week. But of course Allison was virulently ill, next to useless, and that meant he also had to organize the meeting Miranda was chairing in the afternoon, make the PowerPoint presentation she'd vaguely described over the phone, and order lunch for all thirty attendees. All before ten AM.
So when Dean sauntered into Miranda's office at a quarter to, Sam was pretty sure he was having stress hallucinations again. He'd had them a few times before; at least this time no one was on fire. If he just had some ice water and massaged his temples for a while with that contraption from The Sharper Image that Nigel had given him for his birthday, he'd be fine.
Except then the hallucination spoke. Dean's eyes were wide, jaw slack as he saw Sam standing by the fax machine. "Well I'll be damned. It really is you. I thought maybe I had the wrong place or somethin', because. God, what the-what the hell are you even doing here, Sammy? Temping?"
Sam swallowed audibly. Shit. It wasn't a stress hallucination. His brother was actually fucking here. In Miranda Priestly's office. He could feel his heart rate skyrocketing. Fuckfuckfuck.
"I do not. Temp," Sam said with disdain. How dare Dean just waltz in here and commence insulting him? How did he even get in? No, that was a stupid question. Sam knew exactly how persuasive Dean could be. And how good a liar. "I am the personal assistant of the most famous and influential woman in both publishing and fashion. Thank you very much." He raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips, turning back to punch some numbers into the fax machine. Couldn't afford to let work slip just because a blast from the past showed up.
There was a moment of stunned silence, during which Sam finished the faxes and strode over to stand in front of Dean. He smirked a little, seeing that he had at least four inches on his brother, and drew himself up as tall and broad as he could. Indeed.
"I-I mean, you," Dean started. Sam crossed his arms over his chest. Dean wasn't really the stammering type, and Sam did not have time for this.
"What, Dean? Why on earth could you possibly be here?"
"What the fuck are you wearing, Sam?" Dean finally forced out. He was actually gaping. And standing way too close. And Sam really did not have time for this.
"I am wearing a cardinal red and heather grey jersey knit Cavalli top with button collar and brass arm detailing, a pair of distressed Dolce and Gabbana jeans with red sequin back-pocket detailing, and casual Prada loafers in alligator. And a pair of the brand new Dior aviators. All of which cost more than your car with a full tank, probably," Sam spat.
Dean just continued gaping. Until something snapped, and he simply-spun around and left. Without a single word. Just tromped right out the door and down the hall to the elevators.
It was Sam's turn to gape.
*
Lunch break had finally arrived, Sam had managed all of his morning tasks smoothly and efficiently (if he did say so himself), and he was really enjoying his nice, leisurely ride in the Town Car to meet Rizal at Mercadito.
He pushed his sunglasses up his nose, flicked his bangs just right, and grabbed his leather Louis Vuitton clutch from the backseat, letting the driver know he needed to be picked up in an hour and a half. As he turned around, he spotted Rizal in an extremely fetching yet appropriately casual Prada ensemble at one of the outside tables, sipping a Tequila Sunrise. Fabulous.
It was only about half an hour into his lunch, Sam still picking idly at his taco salad, snickering along with Rizal's story of Miuccia's most recent design exploits, when Dean just happened to pass by on the sidewalk directly beyond their table. If Sam hadn't known better, he would've sworn Dean did a double-take. And then actually started over towards Sam's table. Oh god. This wasn't going to be pretty.
As Dean stopped by the empty chair, Sam stood, already on the defensive. "Dean. Hello again. This is my friend Rizal, from Milan. Rizal, my brother, Dean." Rizal nodded and smiled politely.
"Nice to meetcha, Rizal," Dean said, practically boring holes in the poor guy with his eyes. After an awkward second, he shook his head and looked acutely annoyed. "But, uh. Sam. I kinda need to talk to you. Alone."
Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm sure whatever you need to say, you can say it here, Dean. I have to be back at the office soon and I don't really have the time to remin-"
"It's about Dad," Dean interrupted. "You know. He's on a hunting trip, and he hasn't. Hasn't been home in a few days." He shot Sam a significant look, and his knuckles were white on the back of the chair he was gripping.
"Ah. I see," Sam managed, throat tightening. "Rizal, we'll be back shortly." He grabbed Dean by the shoulder and herded him towards the planter on the other side of the patio for more privacy. This. Was not sounding good.
Dean shook Sam's hand off as soon as he was able, shooting him a death glare in the process. "Do not. Manhandle me, Sammy. I'm still your big brother, and I-"
"Dean, cut to the chase, please. And it's 'Sam'. Or 'Samuel', if you must."
Dean blinked back what looked like disbelief. "Fine. Sam. Dad's missing. Has been for a while now. Didn't leave any word; I was working my own gig, and he just. He's been gone longer than he ever has before, hasn't called, no trace of him anywhere that I can find. I'm just. I'm gettin' worried."
"You're getting worried? What the hell do you think you need me for? You haven't once picked up the phone. Not in nearly five years. I thought maybe you'd have it in your head by now that I have left that life. Your life. Figure it out yourself, Dean, because I'm not-"
"I do need you. And I know you haven't forgotten how this works, man. Not really," Dean said quietly. And if Sam hadn't known any better, he would've said Dean was looking desperate. Desolate.
Sam pulled out his organizer, a black Mulberry planner in Kenya leather worth at least five-hundred dollars. Miranda had discarded it along with a pile of other unwanted gifts, despite it being given to her personally by the design director of Mulberry himself, Stuart Vevers, on her trip to London last month. She may have been monumentally wasteful, but Sam certainly wasn't complaining.
"It looks like I'll be free two weeks from next Tuesday? I might be able to squeeze in a quick drive on-"
"Sam. This weekend. Not two fucking weeks from next fucking Tuesday. Dad is missing now. He could be in deep shit trouble now."
Sam rolled his eyes, starting to cross out and re-write as many appointments and events as he could. "Fine. Alright. Now. I think I can move some things around and make it work. Miranda will be gone to Milan this weekend anyway, so as long as I keep my phone with me and make sure Allison-"
"I don't need a running commentary, Sam. You're coming, we're gonna take all the time we need to find Dad, and-"
"No. No, Dean. I'll come with you on your little crusade this weekend, but only this weekend. I absolutely must be back no later than Monday morning, because I have to make sure the Chanel autumn layout is on track and get the run-through done, plus Miranda's flight comes in sometime early-afternoon. It is mandatory that I'm here to be available for her," Sam sighed. Like he was going to place himself at the beck and call of two demanding, self-important egotists. He'd sooner throw out his entire wardrobe and replace it with the JCPenney fall collection.
"Jesus, Sam. What-"
"I have to get back to Rizal, now. If you think we're done here," Sam said curtly, cutting Dean off. He was seriously waiting on tenterhooks for the moment when Dean would finally explode into a tirade against Sam's lifestyle choices, job, appearance, bank balance. All of it, pretty much. But he would certainly try to prevent it if he could. And not standing around chewing the fat when there were attractive executive assistants to be entertained was the first step.
"Yeah, okay. Call me when you're done for the day or whatever, and we'll get started with this thing," Dean grumbled. Sam nodded, taking one last glance at Dean's ratty jeans, muddy biker boots, and obviously-not-pre-distressed leather jacket. Well. If nothing else, at least the man knew how to use gel.
Dean was gone by the time Sam sat back down, Rizal looking at him with an inquisitive eyebrow raised, eyes clearly bloodshot from the no-doubt sleepless nights he suffered through, just like Sam. The work of personal assistants in the fashion world was never done. "Your brother?" he sleazed. "You know, they say homosexuality's genetic, and I-"
"No!" Sam shouted. The other patrons at Mercadito shot them venomous glances. "Absolutely, positively not. Not in a thousand. Million. Years." He could feel the heat rise in his cheeks. Jesus. It was clearly not going to be a good weekend.
*
It was ten o'clock, and Sam had only just gotten away. He'd needed to make sure Miranda got on her flight and was fully prepared for her Milan meetings, plus take care of as much of the weekend's work as he possibly could ahead of time, since there was no telling what his big brother was getting him into.
Dean waited for him at the revolving front door of the building, catching his arm as he strode out onto the sidewalk. "Hey. Got your message. And man, why didn't you tell me what a bitch parking was gonna be? You don't even want to know what I had to do to get a spot," he said, shuddering comically.
"You're right. I don't." Sam shook Dean's hand off, adjusting the shoulder strap of his Italian leather Rafaello briefcase. "So where are we starting?"
"Well. I don't know much, but I do know that Dad's old friend Gunther lives in Hell's Kitchen, so I figure Dad must've at least dropped by there. He'd, uh. Found a bunch of reports online of missing girls, teenagers mostly, in the Manhattan area. Some bodies turned up, something wasn't quite right about the morgue write-ups or something like that."
"Makes sense, I suppose," Sam said, wrinkling his nose as he tossed his bag in the backseat and slid into the passenger side of the Impala. Home sweet home. Or not. "I have some friends around Hell's Kitchen, too, if we need any info and Gunther's not home. Although it's too late to call now, considering they'll all be out, or sleeping to make up for being out last night. You know, that area has really been turning around ever since the ga-"
"Gunther's it is," Dean grunted, overloud. He gunned the engine, and Sam winced as the tires shrieked away from the curb.
While Dean drove, Sam pulled out his new phone, a Treo 750, and started doing some web searches, sent some emails to finish canceling his plans for the weekend, and made sure Miranda's Milan visit was going smoothly. Thank god for technology. Especially expensive technology that Sam got for free, courtesy of the Runway expense account.
*
"Fuck." Dean did not look pleased. Sam glanced up from the advance copy of next month's Vogue he was attempting to read under the Impala's map light, eyeing instead the run-down building that definitely used to be Gunther's.
"Ah. Well. Strike one, I guess?" He couldn't say he was all that surprised. There was a lot of renovation going on, and one more shell of an apartment complex wasn't a big deal.
"Nah, we should still check it out. You never know who could be squatting."
Sam bit his lip, considering. "Is it really all that necessary for me to accompany you? I mean. You're very capable. I'd probably only hold you up, right?" He wasn't exactly wearing the right shoes for this. And while it wouldn't be hard to replace his outfit with an even better one on Monday, he did have an unnatural attachment to his Marc Jacobs pants.
"I'm very-god, Sam! Did they brainwash you or somethin'?" Dean wasn't amused. Or buying Sam's usually fool-proof suck-up plan, which. Well. Sucked. "Get out of the freakin' car, and we'll case this joint."
Sam rolled his eyes, stuck his magazine back in his briefcase, and made sure his phone was in his pocket. "Case this joint? And you think I'm the weird one. Whatever, Dean." He picked the lock on the gate as if he'd last done it yesterday, instead of almost five years ago. "Let's just get this fool's errand over with."
"Shut up, man. The entire neighborhood can hear you lisping," Dean whispered, taking the lead, shining his flashlight around the ex-lobby.
Sam smacked Dean upside the head, pushing past him down the hall. His office hours were filled with enough abuse already; he was hardly going to take it on his own time. Dean's muffled curse was sweet music.
Gunther's apartment had been on the second floor, so they only had to navigate one treacherous stairwell, bickering and shoving the whole way up. "I was about to ask when you turned into such a bitch, but I forgot. You've always been an enormous bitch," Dean muttered, shoving aside the detritus in front of the door to the second-floor hallway.
"Well, you're an undeniable jerk. Just-be quiet."
His request was met with a grunt as Dean kicked the door in, using way more force than necessary. "Fuck! Dean! What part of quiet don't you understand?" Sam hissed. Dean just shrugged, striding down the hall to apartment 212. There was a faint Hindu protection symbol carved over the doorknob; they definitely had the right place.
Sam managed to push Dean away from the door before he kicked it in this time, checking the lock first. It was open. Gloating probably would've just made the whole situation worse, so Sam stayed silent, choosing instead to start having a look around.
The sparse furniture was thick with dust, the bookshelves mostly empty. It wasn't clear whether Gunther had left of his own accord and planned to come back, or if maybe he'd been forced out on short notice when the building was condemned. The kitchen, though-the kitchen didn't fit with the rest of the place. There wasn't much dust, the table and chairs had been recently used. And there was something on the counter.
"Damn it," Dean barked, pounding a fist against the defunct refrigerator. Their dad's journal. Just. Sitting there. "Obviously he was here, but. Why did he leave this? I don't get it. He's never been without it before. Ever."
Sam suddenly realized the gravity of the entire situation. "Well, check the most recent pages. See if we can figure out what he was doing here, if there was a job he was working. He was attempting to see Gunther, I guess, and when he realized he was gone, he just. Used the apartment as a base?
"Makes sense. He wouldn't have to pay for a motel that way. Spare the cards." Dean was frantically flipping through pages when Sam's phone started ringing obnoxiously. Christ. Just what he needed. His stomach clenched up, and he could feel his heart pounding before he even answered.
"Hello, Miranda?" Dean just stared at him, completely aghast.
"Samuel, are you actually brain damaged?" she spat down the line, voice tinny.
"No, Miranda, I-"
"My facialist has had the utter and complete indecency to, I don't know, slip a disk or have a heart attack or something else equally tedious, and you did not bother to tell me. Have you even booked me a replacement? I have been waiting here for five whole minutes with no service at all."
Sam thunked his head on the kitchen table as hard as he could, holding the phone away from his ear. He was going to have to book Miranda a new facialist in less than ten minutes in a fucking foreign country, and he didn't even really speak the language. Meanwhile, his dad was in mortal peril, and his brother looked like he was about to have an aneurism. In fact-
"Jesus! Hang up the goddamn phone, Sam! We're kind of in the middle of something really fucking important right now." Dean grabbed the phone from between Sam's fingers and thumbed 'end call'. Dean. Just hung up. On Miranda. Shitshitshit. Sam lunged at Dean before he could think twice, snatched the phone back and hit redial immediately. Dean just looked stunned, and a little out of breath.
"I'm so sorry, Miranda, it's the international connection, it's-"
"Bore someone else with your pathetic excuses, Samuel, and just get me a competent facialist. Right. Now," she demanded, once again hanging up without waiting for a response. Sam scrolled through his phonebook, finding the numbers he had on file for Miranda's Milan visits. "Dean, just a second, I just. I'll actually lose my job, my entire future, if I don't get this done instantly. She's. She'll fire me on the spot."
Dean shook his head, shooting Sam a murderous glance. He was surveying the papers stuck to the other wall of the kitchen nook; they weren't yet yellowed with age, and seemed to chronicle a confusing mass of creatures and demons and spirits.
Sam tore his eyes away to complete his call. He knew vague, choppy Italian, and he was sure the salon employees would be falling all over themselves to give Miranda whatever she wanted. It'd be fine. "Um-Buongiorno. C'è nessuno-disponibile per un-pulizia del viso? Per Miranda Priestly. Dieci minuti? Bene, sì, bene. La ringrazio."
On the other side of the kitchen, Dean blinked owlishly at Sam. "You're what, fluent in Italian now, Fabio?"
Sam hung up and redialed Miranda. "Yeah, I know a little. I picked it up from Callisto. We went out for a week, I thought it'd be impressive if I learned some."
"Callisto, huh? She hot?" Dean waggled his eyebrows, mind clearly wandering from the task at hand.
"Callisto is a male name, Dean. Callista is the female equivalent. And yes, he was extremely hot. And particularly eager to help me practice my Italian."
Dean snapped his mouth shut and swallowed audibly. Sam just grinned. Until Miranda picked up on the third ring, anyway. "Samuel. There is still no one here to take my appointment! Why is there no one here?"
"I just booked you a new facialist, Miranda. She'll be there in about ten minutes. The salon should be bringing you a mimosa shortly, and offering a complimentary manicure to compensate you for-" She hung up in the middle of Sam's sentence. With a heavy sigh, he slid his phone back in his pocket. Another crisis averted. Now to actually find their dad's trail before it got any colder.
Meanwhile, Dean studiously surveyed the same inch of wall he'd been staring at for the last several minutes. Sam tried not to laugh.
*
The morning dawned grey and depressing in Sam's apartment, and he awoke, as usual, to the shrill chirping of his Jacob Jensen alarm clock. Jess wasn't home-hadn't been for the last week, since she was spending time at her parents' before starting at Columbia-but Sam had figured she still wouldn't take kindly to his brother sleeping in her room. And so he rolled out of bed, slipped his gel mask off, and went to go check on Dean, probably still dead to the world on the couch in the den.
He wasn't. In fact, when Sam wandered out of his room, he heard someone banging around in the kitchen, which made him wonder who (or what) exactly had stolen his Dean and replaced him with a mutant morning person. In the eighteen years Sam had shared a living space with his brother, he could count on his hands the number of times Dean had woken up first. And then he remembered the five years during which he hadn't heard word one from Dean, and figured a lot could change in that much time. Sam certainly had.
"What the hell are you doing?" Sam grumbled, shuffling into the kitchen still sporting the Calvin Klein athletic-fit boxers and muscle shirt he'd deemed his pajamas. The canister of protein powder he used to make his shake every morning had mysteriously disappeared. "Where's my-" Ah. Dean appeared to be enthusiastically spitting large quantities of protein shake into the sink. That explained a lot.
"Shit. Shit. I hope you realize that this is actually the foulest goddamn thing I have ever put in my mouth. Ever," Dean mouthed through the sludge. Sam raised an eyebrow.
"There are quite a few amusing comebacks I ought to be retorting with right now, but I'll let that one slide since it's so early in the morning," Sam bitched. "Why are you drinking my protein shakes, anyway?"
Dean looked extremely guilty, a little insecure. If Sam hadn't known better, he may even have said that Dean was eyeing his bare biceps with a hint of jealousy. "I dunno." Dean hesitated for a second, wiped at his mouth. "You don't really have much else to eat around here. Not even, like. Coffee."
"I get coffee at Starbucks every day on the way to work. And there's plenty to eat in the fridge."
"Um. No. Just gross rabbit food. And fake eggs. And, like. Bottled water," Dean said, exasperated. "I'm stoppin' at a diner before we get going today, 'cause I'm actually gonna pass out on the job if I don't eat something decent."
Sam pressed his lips into a thin line and started making himself a shake. "Fine. It's your time we're wasting. Spend it however you like."
Dean made an indeterminate noise and stalked out of the room. Sam figured he could count that one as a win.
*
They'd called all the morgues and hospitals within a hundred-mile radius, but no one matching their dad's description turned up anywhere. And so Sam and Dean found themselves at the Mid-Manhattan Library, trying to match up the vague details Dean knew about the case with actual missing persons reports and the coroner's records they could dig up.
"Oh my god," Sam breathed, leafing through the pages on three dead girls from Manhattan.
"What?" Dean was chewing vigorously on a pencil, yellow paint flaking off and sticking to his lips. Sam would've smiled and cracked a joke if he hadn't felt like crying.
"I just. These girls. I kind of know them. Knew." Dean sat up straight, eyes hard at the tone in Sam's voice. "They were models. All of them. Not necessarily 'it girls', but. I've booked them, helped dress them. Invited them to parties."
Dean looked tense, taking notes in their dad's journal as Sam talked. "Any common threads between them? Any places they all went, people they all knew? Besides weirdly vague autopsies, we don't even have a reason to think this is our kinda thing. Dad must've known something."
Sam shook his head and rummaged around in his olive-drab Diesel bag, coming up with a tortoise-shell clip. He swept his bangs back and to the side, snapping the clip shut to keep them out of his face. He had to stay professional, removed. "I think we need to take a trip to the morgue and have a look. There's just. Nowhere near enough to go on from this. It's starting to look more and more like Dad just skipped out in the middle of the job. He's obviously nowhere near figuring it out, and now I'm thinking it doesn't have anything to do with where he is."
Dean was clearly trying not to stare at the clip. "Are you. Wearing-" He cut himself off. "You know what? Never mind. You wanna look like a brain-damaged pansy, that's your prerogative." Sam tried to ignore that this was the second time in less than twelve hours that he'd been called brain-damaged. It was becoming a disturbing theme. Although not quite as disturbing as the fact that he was repeatedly comparing Dean to Miranda. He figured if Miranda knew, she'd probably expire on the spot. Pleasant thought. "The morgue it is. Get your purse and let's book, Sammy."
"It's a bag, Dean, not a purse. And my name. Is Sam." By the time he'd finished his retort, Dean was already halfway out the door.
*
Part 2
Title: The Devil Really Does Wear Prada
Author: balefully
Pairing: Sam/Dean. Sam/OMCs implied.
Rating: NC-17
Words: 36,806
Summary: An AU crossover with The Devil Wears Prada. What if Sam were a little more…fabulous? Jess never died, John goes missing much later, and Dean. Well. He's in for quite a surprise.
Disclaimer: Only a product of my fevered imagination; all characters, situations, and real-life brands, products, and personages belong to their creators and/or themselves.
A/N: There are not enough thanks in the world for joosetta, who spawned this insanity and held my sweaty hand every step of the way. For stilettocamp, without which I would never have been motivated enough to finish this monstrosity. And of course to sanyin, who is actually the world's greatest and most patient beta. To everyone who has encouraged me along the way? Don't forget: you asked for it. :/ Art, more in-depth notes, acknowledgements, and pictures at the end after the epilogue.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Epilogue
The Devil Really Does Wear Prada
Sam burst through the doors of the Elias-Clark building laden with thousands of dollars worth of scarves tucked into eighteen oversize shopping bags; two rapidly wilting trays from Starbucks, holding four cups of coffee each (which smoldered at a combined temperature of at least seven-hundred degrees Fahrenheit, he was sure); and three enormous palm fronds, flown in from Brazil along with Adriana Lima and half the outfits for the summer moda praia shoot just that morning.
He maneuvered his way onto the elevator with no little trouble, managing to smash two of the leaves between himself and the wall and get the third one caught in the door. It would've been a manageable disaster, except that now there was a wide green stain on Sam's ridiculously expensive opal-grey Armani sweater. One hundred percent cashmere. The girls down at the samples closet (or the Closet, as it was known) were actually going to flay him. Which was quite a shame, considering he spent his whole afternoon off yesterday at Jacqueline Pasquale getting the most fabulous tan the world had ever seen.
By the time Sam dropped the scarves off with the line-up girls and gave the palm fronds to Enrique from Photography, the coffee was getting dangerously cool. He nuked it secretly in the kitchenette behind his work station, hoping Miranda wouldn't catch him at it. She didn't, and he managed to have it on her desk, piping hot, just before she swept in. Safe for one more day.
"Samuel, I need Donatella on the phone, and make me reservations for tonight. Don't forget the gift basket and have my car by eight." She didn't even look at him as she spoke, turned instead to the organizer on her desk, which was good, because he still had that livid green stain on his sweater. Sam blinked, mind racing, trying to remember if he knew where she needed reservations and for how many, whom the gift basket was supposed to be for and what was supposed to be in it, where he was supposed to pick her car up from and where he was supposed to bring it.
"That's all," she added, eyeing him with disdain.
Shit. Maybe not so safe. He called Donatella and transferred her to Miranda no problem, but everything else. Was probably going to be a little more difficult.
Allison walked in at just that moment, five hat boxes from Pucci precariously balanced in her arms. "Sam, take these to-"
"Wait, wait, Allison," Sam scrambled to catch the boxes before they fell. "Um, Miranda needs reservations for tonight, but I don't know when or where or who for. And apparently we need to not forget a gift basket? And I think her car's at the garage, and she needs it here at eight, but it might be that she needs it at her house at eight, I'm not sure." He hoofed it out of the office with the hat boxes and without waiting for a response, sure Allison would start handling things and he could jump back in when he was done in the fashion department.
*
Nigel was surveying a rack of winter suits while looking supremely hip in a denim Galliano jumpsuit when Sam eventually managed to stumble into the Closet, hat box-free at last. "Nigel, I'm so sorry, I just. There were these palm-"
"Speak no further, darling," Nigel said, grabbing Sam around the waist and dragging him into the men's section. Technically, Sam towered over the fairly diminutive Nigel, but the fashion director of Runway had a personality which dwarfed even the six-foot-six Nordic models. "I know just the thing." Nigel was really great; Sam didn't think there was a genuinely bad bone in his body. Bitchy? Of course. But his heart was in the right place. Even if he was more than a little handsy, trying to get Sam's shirt off under the guise of "wardrobe consultant."
"Um, Nigel. I can change without your-assistance. Really," Sam muttered, grabbing the long-sleeved navy Versace sweater he was offered. It had a hood, and zipped up, and cost roughly eight-hundred dollars. Sam thought about the hoodies he'd been used to only a couple months before, and tried not burst out in inappropriate laughter.
Nigel raised an appraising eyebrow when Sam came out of the changing alcove, then pulled the zipper down until a good half of Sam's chest was exposed. He flopped the hood over Sam's immaculately straightened hair, too, finishing with a pat on the arm. "There you go, missy. Much better." Luckily, Sam's impeccably pressed black D&G trousers had escaped any damage during the day and looked fine with the new sweater.
Sam rolled his eyes and smiled. "Fabulous. Now I'd better get a move on, or Miranda'll have my balls. I've got about three hours of detective work to do just to figure out what she even wants." Good thing he had an extensive background in tedious research. And in being slave-driven by someone who never acknowledged him beyond screaming at him when he fucked up. Happy thoughts for a happy day. Fabulous, indeed.
On his way back to the office, Sam ran across an older man with ridiculously perfect hair who was looking more than a little lost. "Excuse me, sir, can I help you?" Sam asked, suddenly self-conscious about the stupid hood and the fact that he was practically half-naked.
"I rather hope you can," the man said. He had a soft English accent, and Sam was pretty sure the up-and-down look he was getting was just this side of appropriate. Not that that was unusual around here. The men's restroom in the beauty department was a veritable backroom.
Sam smiled winningly and cocked his hip. "What department are you looking for? No, wait," he said, turning up the charm. One never knew when it would be advantageous. "Let me guess. Beauty, right? No one with hair that perfect could belong anywhere else."
The man laughed and shook his head, obviously knowing when he was being flirted with. "Right in one-?"
"Sam," he offered with his handshake and air-kiss. "Sam Winchester. Miranda Priestly's assistant."
"Indeed. That sounds like a rather demanding position." Sam smirked. "But where are my manners? John. John Frieda. I'm here to-"
"Oh, Mr. Frieda! Of course, I should have known," Sam said, feeling like a complete loser for not recognizing John fucking Frieda. He tried to make up for it in schmooze while giving as exact directions as possible.
"Thanks everso, Mr. Winchester. If I find myself floundering aimlessly in the area again, I'll be sure to look you up," John said with a cocky wave. After he'd gone, Sam barely stopped himself from banging his head against the wall. Jesus Christ. It turned out having the world's best tan didn't really help as much as he thought it might in the competency department. At least John Frieda thought he was cute, though. That was something.
*
The next item on the agenda was scheduling one last girl for a Prada shoot later in the month, infinitely easier said than done. The bullet-point list of absolute must-haves for each girl Sam screened was at least three pages, and his head was already swimming by the time the second hopeful model walked in. Technically, the girls had already been hand-picked by the spread coordinators, but Miranda was nothing if not completely lacking faith in her employees. Not to mention the models' agents.
And so Sam was sitting in the most uncomfortable, straight-backed, Italian leather office chair in the known universe, which apparently cost upwards of nine-hundred dollars (and there were eight of them in the conference room), trying not to fidget as he finished up talking to "Al-Misri, Mona Jamil".
As far as he could tell, she was perfect. Clean, fresh, exotic: he could check off each imperative adjective on the list, no problem. Plus, she was intelligent and eager, unlike most of the models Sam passed in Photography every day.
"Okay, Mona. What's one last thing you'd like Runway to know?" he asked, actually interested in her answer since he was fairly sure it wasn't going to be the usual variation on I-can-starve-myself-and-be-a-size-0-if-you-want.
Mona didn't disappoint. "I guess I just want you to know how much this job means to me. I'm just so lucky to be here, you know? My grandmother, she pretty much raised me. She means the world to me. Not only did she have ten children of her own, she cared for a lot of us grandchildren, too. Never shrank from any challenge, and always does her best to work things out. My grandmother, and the people who came before me, put a lot of effort into making me what I am." Her eyes were bright as she spoke, and Sam couldn't help but smile at what he saw there. It was hard to come by, these days. "Whenever my ego gets out of joint, all I have to do is think about my grandmother and everything she's been through. That puts all my problems in perspective."
Sam politely dismissed the rest of the girls right after he showed Mona out.
*
Later that night, he found himself behind the wheel of Miranda's brand-new Porche Carrera, attempting to get it all the way from the dealership on 11th to her apartment on 76th and 5th.
He'd never in his life been more thankful for the offensive driving lessons forced on him in his childhood. Fuck.
It really struck him in that moment, speeding through a yellow-turning-red, thinking about Mona and her grandmother, that he didn't know what the hell he was doing here. It wasn't that long ago he was floundering around, fresh out of Stanford, trying to figure out how he really wanted to spend his hard-won new life. And not too long before that when he didn't think he'd ever be able to have a new life at all.
*
Two months earlier
Graduating from Stanford was probably the single scariest thing Sam had ever done. Period. It beat running away from home at eighteen, it beat surviving a fire at six months. And it beat all the werewolves, ghosts, ghouls, shapeshifters, and other monsters in between.
He'd had a thousand different options, any one of which could've turned him into either an overnight success or a complete and total failure. His place at Stanford Law went unfilled when he decided the life of a lawyer wasn't really what he wanted. He thought about enrolling in the Police Academy, but wasn't sure he could manage having to answer to government authorities without question, or fraternize with the blue-collared hero archetype he'd finally escaped. It took his best friend Jess and a lot of soul-searching to finally realize that what he really wanted was to be a journalist. An important journalist, classy, for a publication like The New Yorker.
Sam had taken Jess along one weekend near graduation to fool around in San Francisco with some of his friends from the Stanford LGBT. They were all a little drunk and a lot high, flat on their backs in Pink Triangle Park, talking about how none of them had any idea what they were going to do with their lives, when he told her about how he didn't even like writing. Not to start with, anyway. He'd gotten into it just because he thought it was all he could do. The gumshoe investigating, the crazy hours, the stress and the faking, all stuff he'd being doing his whole life. But once he started, he realized he might actually be able to make a difference. That maybe someday he could write things, real things, and people would read them and listen and understand. It was a heady feeling.
Jess just turned to him, all soft smile and unfocused eyes, and snorted. "You're a weirdo, Sam Winchester. And a lucky bitch, because it sounds to me like you know exactly what you want to do. Even better, I think I might be able to help."
It turned out Jess had a friend in publishing, working in Human Resources at Elias-Clark. And while it wasn't exactly The New Yorker, Sam had been reassured over and over again that if he worked at Runway, Elias-Clark's premiere magazine, as an assistant to its editor-in-chief, Miranda Priestly-well. It would only take one year of work and a good recommendation from Miranda to absolutely guarantee he got his pick of jobs at any magazine he could possibly want in future. "A million girls would kill for this job," they'd said, ignoring Sam's eye-roll of gender marginalization. Plus, Jess had given him an open invitation to stay with her in her new place in the city for as long as he needed. She'd practically twisted his arm, even, saying that she needed company (not to mention help with the rent) while she worked on her portfolio for art school. All in all, everything seemed to be falling perfectly into place, and Sam was positive he could handle whatever Runway threw at him.
Right up until he actually arrived for his interview.
The day had started out fine. Jess, luckily, was a sporadic reader of Runway herself, and managed to procure a copy of the most recent issue for Sam to flip through before his meeting.
"Your gay card should be revoked," she'd teased. "I can't believe you're a red-blooded homosexual and you'd never even opened an issue earlier than five minutes ago."
"That's why I have you," Sam retorted. "You make a better gay man than I ever will. Being an artiste and everything. Plus, you have the clothes for it. I feel like I should, I don't know, borrow your shoes or something."
Jess just raised an eyebrow pointedly. "Very funny. What are you going to wear? Your wardrobe doesn't exactly scream 'fashion magazine' to me."
"I don't know," Sam shrugged. He hadn't even really thought about it. "I mean. I'm interviewing for a position as an assistant, not a freakin' model. I can't imagine they'll really care." Wandering over to his closet, he started rifling through his clothes. "I have a suit jacket and some nice pants. Black shoes. They can't ask for more than that."
"Whatever you say, Sam," Jess called from the couch. She didn't sound convinced, but Sam wasn't worried.
Which was clearly mistake number one.
Mistake number two was really, when it all came down to it, that Sam had taken the interview at all. He only managed to find the Elias-Clark building after about four doubling-back journeys on the subway and three stops at newsstands to ask directions. Getting in required some sort of weird swipe-card, which of course he didn't have, and Katie, the girl from HR he'd spoken to on the phone, had to come get him. He almost got lost on his way to the ten-millionth floor or wherever the stupid Runway offices were located, and once he finally got there, he immediately wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
Everyone was stunningly gorgeous. There were no other words for it. Every single woman there (and nearly all of the staff appeared to be women) was almost as tall as Sam. They were slim, beautiful creatures with streams of perfect hair and immaculate, ridiculously expensive clothing. He gaped. And felt like the ugly duckling surrounded by an army of swans. Really rich, really sophisticated swans. The few men were no different, all perfectly sculpted, coiffed, and attired, which Sam would have appreciated under normal circumstances. But not when it made him feel like a fucking hobo who got dragged in off the street. Pointed shoes, stiletto heels, gold jewelry, outsized watches, silk, cashmere, and patent leather stretched as far as the eye could see. As far as blending in and playing a part went, Sam knew he was good-but not that good.
"Are you Samuel Winchester?" One of the glamazons in four-inch stilettos, a skin-tight leather miniskirt and a five-inch-wide red belt was holding a clipboard and surveying Sam with a pinched look on her face, like she was smelling something unsavory. Sam did a quick sniff test just to make sure he'd remembered deodorant. He had.
"Uh. Yes. Yes I am. You can call me Sam, though, everyone does," he stammered.
"Right then, Sam. I'm Allison, and I've just been promoted to the first assistant position. I've been interviewing girls for my old position as second assistant for practically a month now, and absolutely no one has been able to last more than a week; Miranda keeps sacking them. I have no idea why the idiots in Human Resources have sent you at this point, but I've reached the end of my metaphorical tether, and really, I'll interview absolutely anyone." She was striding towards a set of huge glass doors at the end of a long, airy hallway, not even bothering to look back at Sam as she talked. He scrambled to follow behind her and not get distracted by the bustle of activity going on around him.
Once inside the office with the glass doors, Allison did an abrupt about-face. "First of all. What are you wearing?" Sam skidded to a halt, trying not to smack into her, and to keep from flushing in embarrassment. "Um. I. It's just a-"
"Never mind," she snapped. "It doesn't matter, you're clearly not-"
"Allison?" A voice emanated from behind the second set of glass doors. Sam took a moment to look around at the setup, the inner office flanked with two desks, one on either side of the doors; the kitchenette; the enormous closet that took up the entire right wall.
"Yes, Miranda?" Allison practically hurled her clipboard at Sam before running into the inner office. Clearly, the editor-in-chief liked to keep her assistants on a fairly tight leash.
"Have you gotten me the new samples from Gautier? I asked for them hours ago, you've had plenty of time. And where is my lunch? Has there been some sort of emergency? Have you become fatally ill? I really don't think it's that difficult to arrange for the exact same lunch at the exact same time I have asked for it every single other day you've worked for me, Allison."
Sam blinked, shocked at this woman's disrespectful manner towards her subordinates. He thought seriously for a moment about just slipping out, forgetting the whole thing, but before he could manage it, Allison was walking towards him, mouth drawn tight.
"She wants to speak with you," she managed.
"What?" Sam gaped. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.
"Miranda. Priestly. Would like. To speak. With you," Allison enunciated obnoxiously.
"Uh. Uh, right." Sam gave her back the clipboard, straightening his rumpled jacket as best he could before entering Miranda's office.
"Who are you?" she asked coldly, spinning in her chair to face Sam over her enormous expanse of desk. She slid a pair of large sunglasses down her nose, staring at him so openly and appraisingly, Sam thought his skin might burn off.
"S-Sam. Winchester. I, uh. I spoke with Katie from Human Resources-"
"Why are you here?" She'd begun reading a newspaper spread out in front of her, and hardly appeared to be listening at all.
"Um. Well, I just graduated from Stanford, where I was the editor-in-chief of The Stanford Daily, plus I've written an award-winning series on the gay and lesbian communities at Ivy League schools, so I've had some substantial journalism experience, and I thought it would be a great opportunity for me to assist someone like you at a widely respected publication like Runway, and-"
"You don't read Runway."
"N-not exactly. I-"
"You don't have any personal style, or grasp of fashion."
"Well, I'm not-"
"That's all." Miranda flicked her hands as if she were dismissing a dog. Sam opened and closed his mouth a few times, flailing around for something scathing to say in the face of her horrendous behavior, but came up with absolutely nothing. He was nearly out the door when he spun around.
"Ms. Priestly. I know I'm not one of your fashionistas, these-automaton girls you surround yourself with. But I'm intelligent, and I'm extremely capable, and I have a solid background in journalism, research, and in dealing with all kinds of people. I'm. Just." He sighed, shaking his head. This whole thing had been such a stupid idea. Such a fucking ridiculous idea. "Thanks for seeing me." Miranda ignored him completely.
It was obviously ludicrous, but as he closed Miranda's doors behind himself, he whispered "Christo," as quietly as possible. Nothing. So she really was just a power-hungry harridan.
In the front, Allison was talking with an obviously gay man sporting a closely-shaved head, rabbit-fur loafers, and perfectly round glasses. He blinked blatantly at Sam as he exited, murmuring to Allison loudly enough that Sam could hear him as he made his way down the hall. "Who was that? Good lord. Sad, pathetic, and bedraggled, but mmm! The possibilities. A diamond in the rough, honey."
Sam couldn't get out of there fast enough. The worst part of it was that he could tell how bad the job would be. Working for such a rude, inconsiderate witch like Miranda would be thankless and didn't even pay all that well. But now that he couldn't have it, now that he was sure he wasn't good enough, he only wanted it that much more.
Sam was in the lobby, navigating around the hordes of empty-headed fashion devotees, when he heard Allison's voice calling over the clacking of stilettos. "Sam! Sam Winchester!" He turned to see her waving him back, and she rolled her eyes at him. "Come on, I need to start your training immediately."
And despite the torturous last half-hour, Sam actually smiled. He'd impressed the frigid bitch after all. In only one year, he'd be able to secure a prime spot on the staff of any magazine he wanted. And all he had to do until then was go on coffee runs and answer Miranda's phone. Awesome. He needed to call Jess immediately; she'd absolutely die.
*
Eight months later
"Samuel." She was on the warpath, Sam could tell already. Not that she ever wasn't, really.
"Yes, Miranda?"
"Samuel, where are my layout mock-ups? I asked you-"
"Right there on your desk, Miranda." Sam was reading through his list of calls to make, simultaneously securing travel arrangements for a business trip Miranda's ex-husband was taking, searching for a restaurant review published in The Washington Post two months previously that Miranda suddenly needed for some mysterious reason, and making sure Priscilla, Miranda's Saint Bernard, was going to be ready to be picked up from the groomer in two hours.
"Why haven't you managed to confirm my-"
"Your hair appointment for eleven-thirty tomorrow is confirmed, Miranda. As is your facial at three the next day. I also checked with Marcia, and she'll be available next week if you'd like your manicure rescheduled for then, since Jean-Paul moved your meeting up this week." Sam tried not to smile. Miranda wasn't fond of smiling. But god he was good.
"Well, why didn't you-"
"I did. You're to be there at four on Wednesday."
Miranda's lips drew tight, and she tilted her head in a stiff mockery of a nod. "That's all."
Sam decided he deserved some new shoes for being so unbelievably fabulous, especially since he had fifteen minutes for lunch today and no desire to eat in the slightest. (Massive protein shakes for breakfast were clearly useful for more than just maintaining pleasant muscle mass, seeing as how they afforded him plenty of time to go "shopping" in the Closet when he would normally have had to rush out for sustenance.) Then there was the fact that he was going to take Jess out tonight to celebrate her acceptance into the Graduate School of Visual Arts at Columbia, and he wanted to look better than his best. He'd been working like a dog every moment of every day, and she had been stressing out to the point of pretty much constant hysteria for the past month or so; they hadn't even really talked in longer than Sam could remember. No matter how well they organized, work had forced him to cancel more plans and miss out on more time with her than he figured he'd ever actually spent with her in the first place.
Now, though, he was totally going to make it up to her. She basically lived in the Upper West Side these days, and it made Sam's skin crawl to even think about it. Practically Harlem, god. Clearly, Jess deserved the most decadent of restaurants, the trendiest of bars, and the most exclusive of clubs-all of which he could get them both into instantly, just by throwing around Miranda's name. And looking trés hot.
He'd just started digging through the men's Prada section of the Closet, trying to find a pair of brown calf rilux ankle boots in his size, when his cell rang ominously. Without even waiting for a greeting, Miranda barked, "Samuel!" the moment he thumbed the phone on. His stomach sank instantly to his toes. Fuck. What could she possibly want now? He could feel the shackles slamming shut around his wrists already.
"Yes, Miranda."
"You'll need to accompany me to Marshall's tonight in Allison's absence. I expect you to be ready by eight-thirty. That's all." She hung up abruptly.
Sam was horrified. Tonight. Why tonight? What the hell had happened to Allison? Why? There was no way he was going to make it to see Jess, and he absolutely could not refuse Miranda. Marshall's party was the premiere event in New York City that season, plus Miranda would no doubt fire him on the spot if she knew he was even considering not attending when she expressly asked him to.
He felt like she had just poured red paint all over his new mink coat. He'd have to call Jess and tell her; it wasn't going to be pretty. Maybe if he brought home some goodies for her, like a Chanel overcoat and the new Prada boots they'd just gotten in yesterday, she'd soften up. Forgive him easier.
She picked up on the fourth ring, right before it went to voicemail. Damn. "Hey!" She sounded happy. That only made everything worse.
"Um, Jess? It's Sam."
"I know that, retard. This is my cell. I have your number. It tells me when you're calling." He could actually hear her smiling through the phone.
"So, um. I have some bad news."
"No. Sam, no. If you dare tell me you have to work late tonight-" Well. So much for that smile.
"Jess! Jess, you know how she is, there's just no way-I don't have a choice! Marshall's party is tonight, and Allison can't. I mean. It's mandatory that I'm there. I'll lose my job, and-"
"Fine. Jesus Christ, Sam. I'll just. God. I don't give a shit about your excuses, anymore. Fine." And with that, she hung up. Sam figured if a cell could be slammed, that one would've been a doozy.
He stuffed his phone in his bag and rubbed a hand absently over his face. It could've been worse. She'd probably get over it eventually, and even if she didn't, he could still snag her a Valentino dress or two and some contacts at Parson's fine arts department.
Right. It was time to find an outfit for the party. Sam only had seven hours to memorize the entire guest list, plus get himself looking like an A-lister on Oscar night. His work was cut out for him.
*
The following Friday started out like any other day. Sam was in the office by six, managing eight different suppliers all trying to schedule appointments with Miranda for the same time. He had four runs to make to designers' offices, and he was supposed to have lunch with Miuccia Prada's assistant, Rizal, at two, who was only in town for six weeks before Fashion Week. But of course Allison was virulently ill, next to useless, and that meant he also had to organize the meeting Miranda was chairing in the afternoon, make the PowerPoint presentation she'd vaguely described over the phone, and order lunch for all thirty attendees. All before ten AM.
So when Dean sauntered into Miranda's office at a quarter to, Sam was pretty sure he was having stress hallucinations again. He'd had them a few times before; at least this time no one was on fire. If he just had some ice water and massaged his temples for a while with that contraption from The Sharper Image that Nigel had given him for his birthday, he'd be fine.
Except then the hallucination spoke. Dean's eyes were wide, jaw slack as he saw Sam standing by the fax machine. "Well I'll be damned. It really is you. I thought maybe I had the wrong place or somethin', because. God, what the-what the hell are you even doing here, Sammy? Temping?"
Sam swallowed audibly. Shit. It wasn't a stress hallucination. His brother was actually fucking here. In Miranda Priestly's office. He could feel his heart rate skyrocketing. Fuckfuckfuck.
"I do not. Temp," Sam said with disdain. How dare Dean just waltz in here and commence insulting him? How did he even get in? No, that was a stupid question. Sam knew exactly how persuasive Dean could be. And how good a liar. "I am the personal assistant of the most famous and influential woman in both publishing and fashion. Thank you very much." He raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips, turning back to punch some numbers into the fax machine. Couldn't afford to let work slip just because a blast from the past showed up.
There was a moment of stunned silence, during which Sam finished the faxes and strode over to stand in front of Dean. He smirked a little, seeing that he had at least four inches on his brother, and drew himself up as tall and broad as he could. Indeed.
"I-I mean, you," Dean started. Sam crossed his arms over his chest. Dean wasn't really the stammering type, and Sam did not have time for this.
"What, Dean? Why on earth could you possibly be here?"
"What the fuck are you wearing, Sam?" Dean finally forced out. He was actually gaping. And standing way too close. And Sam really did not have time for this.
"I am wearing a cardinal red and heather grey jersey knit Cavalli top with button collar and brass arm detailing, a pair of distressed Dolce and Gabbana jeans with red sequin back-pocket detailing, and casual Prada loafers in alligator. And a pair of the brand new Dior aviators. All of which cost more than your car with a full tank, probably," Sam spat.
Dean just continued gaping. Until something snapped, and he simply-spun around and left. Without a single word. Just tromped right out the door and down the hall to the elevators.
It was Sam's turn to gape.
*
Lunch break had finally arrived, Sam had managed all of his morning tasks smoothly and efficiently (if he did say so himself), and he was really enjoying his nice, leisurely ride in the Town Car to meet Rizal at Mercadito.
He pushed his sunglasses up his nose, flicked his bangs just right, and grabbed his leather Louis Vuitton clutch from the backseat, letting the driver know he needed to be picked up in an hour and a half. As he turned around, he spotted Rizal in an extremely fetching yet appropriately casual Prada ensemble at one of the outside tables, sipping a Tequila Sunrise. Fabulous.
It was only about half an hour into his lunch, Sam still picking idly at his taco salad, snickering along with Rizal's story of Miuccia's most recent design exploits, when Dean just happened to pass by on the sidewalk directly beyond their table. If Sam hadn't known better, he would've sworn Dean did a double-take. And then actually started over towards Sam's table. Oh god. This wasn't going to be pretty.
As Dean stopped by the empty chair, Sam stood, already on the defensive. "Dean. Hello again. This is my friend Rizal, from Milan. Rizal, my brother, Dean." Rizal nodded and smiled politely.
"Nice to meetcha, Rizal," Dean said, practically boring holes in the poor guy with his eyes. After an awkward second, he shook his head and looked acutely annoyed. "But, uh. Sam. I kinda need to talk to you. Alone."
Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm sure whatever you need to say, you can say it here, Dean. I have to be back at the office soon and I don't really have the time to remin-"
"It's about Dad," Dean interrupted. "You know. He's on a hunting trip, and he hasn't. Hasn't been home in a few days." He shot Sam a significant look, and his knuckles were white on the back of the chair he was gripping.
"Ah. I see," Sam managed, throat tightening. "Rizal, we'll be back shortly." He grabbed Dean by the shoulder and herded him towards the planter on the other side of the patio for more privacy. This. Was not sounding good.
Dean shook Sam's hand off as soon as he was able, shooting him a death glare in the process. "Do not. Manhandle me, Sammy. I'm still your big brother, and I-"
"Dean, cut to the chase, please. And it's 'Sam'. Or 'Samuel', if you must."
Dean blinked back what looked like disbelief. "Fine. Sam. Dad's missing. Has been for a while now. Didn't leave any word; I was working my own gig, and he just. He's been gone longer than he ever has before, hasn't called, no trace of him anywhere that I can find. I'm just. I'm gettin' worried."
"You're getting worried? What the hell do you think you need me for? You haven't once picked up the phone. Not in nearly five years. I thought maybe you'd have it in your head by now that I have left that life. Your life. Figure it out yourself, Dean, because I'm not-"
"I do need you. And I know you haven't forgotten how this works, man. Not really," Dean said quietly. And if Sam hadn't known any better, he would've said Dean was looking desperate. Desolate.
Sam pulled out his organizer, a black Mulberry planner in Kenya leather worth at least five-hundred dollars. Miranda had discarded it along with a pile of other unwanted gifts, despite it being given to her personally by the design director of Mulberry himself, Stuart Vevers, on her trip to London last month. She may have been monumentally wasteful, but Sam certainly wasn't complaining.
"It looks like I'll be free two weeks from next Tuesday? I might be able to squeeze in a quick drive on-"
"Sam. This weekend. Not two fucking weeks from next fucking Tuesday. Dad is missing now. He could be in deep shit trouble now."
Sam rolled his eyes, starting to cross out and re-write as many appointments and events as he could. "Fine. Alright. Now. I think I can move some things around and make it work. Miranda will be gone to Milan this weekend anyway, so as long as I keep my phone with me and make sure Allison-"
"I don't need a running commentary, Sam. You're coming, we're gonna take all the time we need to find Dad, and-"
"No. No, Dean. I'll come with you on your little crusade this weekend, but only this weekend. I absolutely must be back no later than Monday morning, because I have to make sure the Chanel autumn layout is on track and get the run-through done, plus Miranda's flight comes in sometime early-afternoon. It is mandatory that I'm here to be available for her," Sam sighed. Like he was going to place himself at the beck and call of two demanding, self-important egotists. He'd sooner throw out his entire wardrobe and replace it with the JCPenney fall collection.
"Jesus, Sam. What-"
"I have to get back to Rizal, now. If you think we're done here," Sam said curtly, cutting Dean off. He was seriously waiting on tenterhooks for the moment when Dean would finally explode into a tirade against Sam's lifestyle choices, job, appearance, bank balance. All of it, pretty much. But he would certainly try to prevent it if he could. And not standing around chewing the fat when there were attractive executive assistants to be entertained was the first step.
"Yeah, okay. Call me when you're done for the day or whatever, and we'll get started with this thing," Dean grumbled. Sam nodded, taking one last glance at Dean's ratty jeans, muddy biker boots, and obviously-not-pre-distressed leather jacket. Well. If nothing else, at least the man knew how to use gel.
Dean was gone by the time Sam sat back down, Rizal looking at him with an inquisitive eyebrow raised, eyes clearly bloodshot from the no-doubt sleepless nights he suffered through, just like Sam. The work of personal assistants in the fashion world was never done. "Your brother?" he sleazed. "You know, they say homosexuality's genetic, and I-"
"No!" Sam shouted. The other patrons at Mercadito shot them venomous glances. "Absolutely, positively not. Not in a thousand. Million. Years." He could feel the heat rise in his cheeks. Jesus. It was clearly not going to be a good weekend.
*
It was ten o'clock, and Sam had only just gotten away. He'd needed to make sure Miranda got on her flight and was fully prepared for her Milan meetings, plus take care of as much of the weekend's work as he possibly could ahead of time, since there was no telling what his big brother was getting him into.
Dean waited for him at the revolving front door of the building, catching his arm as he strode out onto the sidewalk. "Hey. Got your message. And man, why didn't you tell me what a bitch parking was gonna be? You don't even want to know what I had to do to get a spot," he said, shuddering comically.
"You're right. I don't." Sam shook Dean's hand off, adjusting the shoulder strap of his Italian leather Rafaello briefcase. "So where are we starting?"
"Well. I don't know much, but I do know that Dad's old friend Gunther lives in Hell's Kitchen, so I figure Dad must've at least dropped by there. He'd, uh. Found a bunch of reports online of missing girls, teenagers mostly, in the Manhattan area. Some bodies turned up, something wasn't quite right about the morgue write-ups or something like that."
"Makes sense, I suppose," Sam said, wrinkling his nose as he tossed his bag in the backseat and slid into the passenger side of the Impala. Home sweet home. Or not. "I have some friends around Hell's Kitchen, too, if we need any info and Gunther's not home. Although it's too late to call now, considering they'll all be out, or sleeping to make up for being out last night. You know, that area has really been turning around ever since the ga-"
"Gunther's it is," Dean grunted, overloud. He gunned the engine, and Sam winced as the tires shrieked away from the curb.
While Dean drove, Sam pulled out his new phone, a Treo 750, and started doing some web searches, sent some emails to finish canceling his plans for the weekend, and made sure Miranda's Milan visit was going smoothly. Thank god for technology. Especially expensive technology that Sam got for free, courtesy of the Runway expense account.
*
"Fuck." Dean did not look pleased. Sam glanced up from the advance copy of next month's Vogue he was attempting to read under the Impala's map light, eyeing instead the run-down building that definitely used to be Gunther's.
"Ah. Well. Strike one, I guess?" He couldn't say he was all that surprised. There was a lot of renovation going on, and one more shell of an apartment complex wasn't a big deal.
"Nah, we should still check it out. You never know who could be squatting."
Sam bit his lip, considering. "Is it really all that necessary for me to accompany you? I mean. You're very capable. I'd probably only hold you up, right?" He wasn't exactly wearing the right shoes for this. And while it wouldn't be hard to replace his outfit with an even better one on Monday, he did have an unnatural attachment to his Marc Jacobs pants.
"I'm very-god, Sam! Did they brainwash you or somethin'?" Dean wasn't amused. Or buying Sam's usually fool-proof suck-up plan, which. Well. Sucked. "Get out of the freakin' car, and we'll case this joint."
Sam rolled his eyes, stuck his magazine back in his briefcase, and made sure his phone was in his pocket. "Case this joint? And you think I'm the weird one. Whatever, Dean." He picked the lock on the gate as if he'd last done it yesterday, instead of almost five years ago. "Let's just get this fool's errand over with."
"Shut up, man. The entire neighborhood can hear you lisping," Dean whispered, taking the lead, shining his flashlight around the ex-lobby.
Sam smacked Dean upside the head, pushing past him down the hall. His office hours were filled with enough abuse already; he was hardly going to take it on his own time. Dean's muffled curse was sweet music.
Gunther's apartment had been on the second floor, so they only had to navigate one treacherous stairwell, bickering and shoving the whole way up. "I was about to ask when you turned into such a bitch, but I forgot. You've always been an enormous bitch," Dean muttered, shoving aside the detritus in front of the door to the second-floor hallway.
"Well, you're an undeniable jerk. Just-be quiet."
His request was met with a grunt as Dean kicked the door in, using way more force than necessary. "Fuck! Dean! What part of quiet don't you understand?" Sam hissed. Dean just shrugged, striding down the hall to apartment 212. There was a faint Hindu protection symbol carved over the doorknob; they definitely had the right place.
Sam managed to push Dean away from the door before he kicked it in this time, checking the lock first. It was open. Gloating probably would've just made the whole situation worse, so Sam stayed silent, choosing instead to start having a look around.
The sparse furniture was thick with dust, the bookshelves mostly empty. It wasn't clear whether Gunther had left of his own accord and planned to come back, or if maybe he'd been forced out on short notice when the building was condemned. The kitchen, though-the kitchen didn't fit with the rest of the place. There wasn't much dust, the table and chairs had been recently used. And there was something on the counter.
"Damn it," Dean barked, pounding a fist against the defunct refrigerator. Their dad's journal. Just. Sitting there. "Obviously he was here, but. Why did he leave this? I don't get it. He's never been without it before. Ever."
Sam suddenly realized the gravity of the entire situation. "Well, check the most recent pages. See if we can figure out what he was doing here, if there was a job he was working. He was attempting to see Gunther, I guess, and when he realized he was gone, he just. Used the apartment as a base?
"Makes sense. He wouldn't have to pay for a motel that way. Spare the cards." Dean was frantically flipping through pages when Sam's phone started ringing obnoxiously. Christ. Just what he needed. His stomach clenched up, and he could feel his heart pounding before he even answered.
"Hello, Miranda?" Dean just stared at him, completely aghast.
"Samuel, are you actually brain damaged?" she spat down the line, voice tinny.
"No, Miranda, I-"
"My facialist has had the utter and complete indecency to, I don't know, slip a disk or have a heart attack or something else equally tedious, and you did not bother to tell me. Have you even booked me a replacement? I have been waiting here for five whole minutes with no service at all."
Sam thunked his head on the kitchen table as hard as he could, holding the phone away from his ear. He was going to have to book Miranda a new facialist in less than ten minutes in a fucking foreign country, and he didn't even really speak the language. Meanwhile, his dad was in mortal peril, and his brother looked like he was about to have an aneurism. In fact-
"Jesus! Hang up the goddamn phone, Sam! We're kind of in the middle of something really fucking important right now." Dean grabbed the phone from between Sam's fingers and thumbed 'end call'. Dean. Just hung up. On Miranda. Shitshitshit. Sam lunged at Dean before he could think twice, snatched the phone back and hit redial immediately. Dean just looked stunned, and a little out of breath.
"I'm so sorry, Miranda, it's the international connection, it's-"
"Bore someone else with your pathetic excuses, Samuel, and just get me a competent facialist. Right. Now," she demanded, once again hanging up without waiting for a response. Sam scrolled through his phonebook, finding the numbers he had on file for Miranda's Milan visits. "Dean, just a second, I just. I'll actually lose my job, my entire future, if I don't get this done instantly. She's. She'll fire me on the spot."
Dean shook his head, shooting Sam a murderous glance. He was surveying the papers stuck to the other wall of the kitchen nook; they weren't yet yellowed with age, and seemed to chronicle a confusing mass of creatures and demons and spirits.
Sam tore his eyes away to complete his call. He knew vague, choppy Italian, and he was sure the salon employees would be falling all over themselves to give Miranda whatever she wanted. It'd be fine. "Um-Buongiorno. C'è nessuno-disponibile per un-pulizia del viso? Per Miranda Priestly. Dieci minuti? Bene, sì, bene. La ringrazio."
On the other side of the kitchen, Dean blinked owlishly at Sam. "You're what, fluent in Italian now, Fabio?"
Sam hung up and redialed Miranda. "Yeah, I know a little. I picked it up from Callisto. We went out for a week, I thought it'd be impressive if I learned some."
"Callisto, huh? She hot?" Dean waggled his eyebrows, mind clearly wandering from the task at hand.
"Callisto is a male name, Dean. Callista is the female equivalent. And yes, he was extremely hot. And particularly eager to help me practice my Italian."
Dean snapped his mouth shut and swallowed audibly. Sam just grinned. Until Miranda picked up on the third ring, anyway. "Samuel. There is still no one here to take my appointment! Why is there no one here?"
"I just booked you a new facialist, Miranda. She'll be there in about ten minutes. The salon should be bringing you a mimosa shortly, and offering a complimentary manicure to compensate you for-" She hung up in the middle of Sam's sentence. With a heavy sigh, he slid his phone back in his pocket. Another crisis averted. Now to actually find their dad's trail before it got any colder.
Meanwhile, Dean studiously surveyed the same inch of wall he'd been staring at for the last several minutes. Sam tried not to laugh.
*
The morning dawned grey and depressing in Sam's apartment, and he awoke, as usual, to the shrill chirping of his Jacob Jensen alarm clock. Jess wasn't home-hadn't been for the last week, since she was spending time at her parents' before starting at Columbia-but Sam had figured she still wouldn't take kindly to his brother sleeping in her room. And so he rolled out of bed, slipped his gel mask off, and went to go check on Dean, probably still dead to the world on the couch in the den.
He wasn't. In fact, when Sam wandered out of his room, he heard someone banging around in the kitchen, which made him wonder who (or what) exactly had stolen his Dean and replaced him with a mutant morning person. In the eighteen years Sam had shared a living space with his brother, he could count on his hands the number of times Dean had woken up first. And then he remembered the five years during which he hadn't heard word one from Dean, and figured a lot could change in that much time. Sam certainly had.
"What the hell are you doing?" Sam grumbled, shuffling into the kitchen still sporting the Calvin Klein athletic-fit boxers and muscle shirt he'd deemed his pajamas. The canister of protein powder he used to make his shake every morning had mysteriously disappeared. "Where's my-" Ah. Dean appeared to be enthusiastically spitting large quantities of protein shake into the sink. That explained a lot.
"Shit. Shit. I hope you realize that this is actually the foulest goddamn thing I have ever put in my mouth. Ever," Dean mouthed through the sludge. Sam raised an eyebrow.
"There are quite a few amusing comebacks I ought to be retorting with right now, but I'll let that one slide since it's so early in the morning," Sam bitched. "Why are you drinking my protein shakes, anyway?"
Dean looked extremely guilty, a little insecure. If Sam hadn't known better, he may even have said that Dean was eyeing his bare biceps with a hint of jealousy. "I dunno." Dean hesitated for a second, wiped at his mouth. "You don't really have much else to eat around here. Not even, like. Coffee."
"I get coffee at Starbucks every day on the way to work. And there's plenty to eat in the fridge."
"Um. No. Just gross rabbit food. And fake eggs. And, like. Bottled water," Dean said, exasperated. "I'm stoppin' at a diner before we get going today, 'cause I'm actually gonna pass out on the job if I don't eat something decent."
Sam pressed his lips into a thin line and started making himself a shake. "Fine. It's your time we're wasting. Spend it however you like."
Dean made an indeterminate noise and stalked out of the room. Sam figured he could count that one as a win.
*
They'd called all the morgues and hospitals within a hundred-mile radius, but no one matching their dad's description turned up anywhere. And so Sam and Dean found themselves at the Mid-Manhattan Library, trying to match up the vague details Dean knew about the case with actual missing persons reports and the coroner's records they could dig up.
"Oh my god," Sam breathed, leafing through the pages on three dead girls from Manhattan.
"What?" Dean was chewing vigorously on a pencil, yellow paint flaking off and sticking to his lips. Sam would've smiled and cracked a joke if he hadn't felt like crying.
"I just. These girls. I kind of know them. Knew." Dean sat up straight, eyes hard at the tone in Sam's voice. "They were models. All of them. Not necessarily 'it girls', but. I've booked them, helped dress them. Invited them to parties."
Dean looked tense, taking notes in their dad's journal as Sam talked. "Any common threads between them? Any places they all went, people they all knew? Besides weirdly vague autopsies, we don't even have a reason to think this is our kinda thing. Dad must've known something."
Sam shook his head and rummaged around in his olive-drab Diesel bag, coming up with a tortoise-shell clip. He swept his bangs back and to the side, snapping the clip shut to keep them out of his face. He had to stay professional, removed. "I think we need to take a trip to the morgue and have a look. There's just. Nowhere near enough to go on from this. It's starting to look more and more like Dad just skipped out in the middle of the job. He's obviously nowhere near figuring it out, and now I'm thinking it doesn't have anything to do with where he is."
Dean was clearly trying not to stare at the clip. "Are you. Wearing-" He cut himself off. "You know what? Never mind. You wanna look like a brain-damaged pansy, that's your prerogative." Sam tried to ignore that this was the second time in less than twelve hours that he'd been called brain-damaged. It was becoming a disturbing theme. Although not quite as disturbing as the fact that he was repeatedly comparing Dean to Miranda. He figured if Miranda knew, she'd probably expire on the spot. Pleasant thought. "The morgue it is. Get your purse and let's book, Sammy."
"It's a bag, Dean, not a purse. And my name. Is Sam." By the time he'd finished his retort, Dean was already halfway out the door.
*
Part 2