Chapter Text
Furious activity swarms around him, his entourage of manager, assistants, and publicists all hold court with the studio’s multitude of artists. They are losing light quickly on this shoot, and they have a very tight, very sheer costume to get him into before they turn the cameras on him again. As it is, his hair and makeup people are having to work symbiotically, from the same station and at the same time, which is not going well if the incredible tension in the air says anything.
“Mr. Winchester, if you move your eyes again, I am going to intentionally glue this emerald onto your eyeball instead of near it,” Jo hisses under her breath.
“My apologies, Joanna.”
“I’ve told you a thousand times, it’s Jo.”
“And you know that using nicknames is not appropriate for the Yumeijin.” He says it kindly, gently, but she still flushes hot and bows her apologies.
He has learned to accept it graciously when someone shows deference to him. His manager, Fergus Crowley, says it means he is acting according to his caste, and it is a compliment of the highest order. His publicist, Naomi Adler, says that if he wants the most coveted roles, the most luxurious brands to represent, and the best songwriters, he must strictly adhere to the standards of his caste. He must be above reproach at all times because competition at this elite level is ruthless.
He is being watched by every person within Kanpeki Basho, but young men and women are the target audience. Dean Winchester is the epitome of glamour and fame, the pinnacle of beauty. It is cliché to say, but they all want to either be him or breed with him.
There isn’t anything to do but people watch while long, blue and green extensions are braided into his natural hair. They glitter with filaments of gold and are crimped with strands of freshwater pearls, stained in shades of pinks and more blues. They have already applied gold dust to his bare arms and painted on a delicate scale pattern with the most vibrant shimmering pigments. He hasn’t seen his face yet, but knowing these artists, he’s sure that he is hardly recognizable under the masterpiece they’ve created.
Dean’s skin is heavily jeweled by the time Joanna steps back to admire her work. She pronounces the job complete not a second too soon. The studio manager, Rowena, approaches. She looks unhurried and nonchalant, but the younger women several steps behind her appear to be caught in a whirlwind while they are attempting to make appointments, answer calls and do their boss’s bidding all at once. They say that working for Rowena is hell, but these young women are getting the experience of a lifetime. When she fires them, and she always does, they will have their pick of jobs.
“Mr. Winchester. You are a vision of perfection, as always.”
“You flatter me.”
Her gorgeous, red hair swings over her shoulder and she gives him a jaunty wink. “Of course I do, but it is true nonetheless, dear. Shall we?”
She gestures over to the elaborate set they have concocted. It is built around an actual waterfall, creating a peaceful rushing sound. It’s dampening the typical chaos of words, so he is loving the set even more for that effect.
“We’re going to get you dressed on the edge of the pool by the chaise lounge you’ll be laying on because there is no way you’ll be able to walk in the tail.”
Dean scowls and looks over to his manager. As soon as their eyes meet, he approaches, full of bluster.
“Why is my star not happy? What did you say to him?” His gruff, angry words are particularly biting when he speaks to Rowena. No one is supposed to know that they are related, but the only Scottish people living in the dome anymore are the McLeods, so it isn’t quite the secret they try to make it.
“Nothing to worry about, Fergus,” she curls her lip as if tasting something reprehensible. “We need him to dress out here because he won’t be able to walk in the tail.”
“Are you daft or just mad?” Crowley spits. “Modesty forbids it. You will not take advantage of him in that way.”
Rowena rolls her eyes at him and then speaks sweetly to Dean. “My dear, I would never compromise your modesty. Of course you will be surrounded by screens. You may choose to have your valet assist you or dress on your own.”
Dean’s shoulders drop and he nods his acceptance. “I believe I will need some assistance. When we did the fitting, I could not get the lacing on the back pulled tight enough.”
“Have a seat, Mr. Winchester. I will send Cole over with the costume and the screens.”
As the snarling duo depart, Dean leans back on his hands, letting the roar of the water drown them out. This shoot isn’t his last job of the day, unfortunately. He has a concert later this evening that will be streamed throughout the country.
Looking out over the view behind them, he sees the rest of the gardens they are shooting in. It is manicured and beautiful; a mix of greenery and flowering plants that never would have grown in the same place outside of his home.
The sovereign nation of Kanpeki Basho was created hundreds of years ago when the existing governments came to the realization that the Earth was dying because of their neglect and abuse. Pollution and deforestation had led to increasingly foul air. Sea levels rose several feet, devastating most coastal areas. Entire countries had to be abandoned, creating a refugee crisis for the entire planet.
A few forward-thinking countries banded together and created this domed utopia to protect their citizens for future generations. The science needed to both create a self-contained country and keep it running without any traditional power sources took decades to perfect, but it has stood strong now for several generations.
Dean doesn’t know much about the history of countries before the dome was created. It wasn’t something that his private tutors focused on. His studies centered around his strengths, music and the arts. Groomed from a younger age than most due to his long lineage of celebrities, he’s been bounced between the stage and screen since he was old enough to speak.
“Mr. Winchester, I am so sorry to keep you waiting,” Cole approaches, looking harried and repentant. “I wasn’t in the area when they alerted me to your need.”
With a slight nod, Dean allows him to keep prattling on about the effectiveness of the privacy screens, reassuring him that he will be completely covered at all times. He isn’t that concerned about it. He trusts his team to look out for his interests. Besides, he is about to wear a sheer costume that covers only the essential parts of his anatomy. This shoot is all about selling a fantasy to the masses. It isn’t really about him.
Once he is dressed in the merman tail and little else, the screens are removed and he immediately feels all of the covetous eyes on him. Even in this small group of professionals, he can sense the avid appreciation. A faint blush rises under his makeup, but he knows it has no chance of showing through. They cover his skin too thoroughly, lest a tiny freckle sneak through his supposedly perfect complexion.
“Alright, alright,” Crowley barks. “Yes, he’s gorgeous. He was beautiful before, and he always will be. Can we please get back to work? Mr. Winchester has a concert to perform this evening.”
At his words, everyone breaks out of their daze and scurries back to their jobs. Crowley may be harsh, but Dean can’t argue with his results.
*****
Castiel dodges around a corner and uses the shadows to his advantage. Staying perfectly still and letting his long, black wig cover his face, he is as close to invisible as he can hope to be. Schooling his rapid breathing takes concentration, especially as his heart beats chaotically. He refuses to be caught because his panting gave him away.
Almost a full minute passes before he hears footsteps turn the corner. “I don’t see anyone here, sir. Are you sure you saw him head this way?”
Cameras in this Jinushi neighborhood are everywhere, so he isn’t surprised at all that he’s been captured on video. These upper class land and business owners are the captains of this domed monstrosity. They will spend money on anything that makes them feel more important and powerful. What does surprise him is that he warrants an actual foot search. The piece he stole isn’t that valuable. It’s historically important, though, which is why he set his sights on it in the first place.
Cas can hear the exasperation in the man’s voice, but he follows the orders coming through his goggles. “Yes, sir. I’ll double-back and check every possible place he could be hiding.”
Long after the steps retreat, Castiel slowly pulls the wig off of his head and tucks it into his beggar’s bag. Pulling a dirty, threadbare cloak out of the same bag, he puts it on over his head and adjusts it to cover his own nicer robe. The final step in the process is to pick up some of the foul mud from the ground and rub it everywhere that his skin shows. If he is to pass for one of the Namae nashi, the unnamed, he can’t appear to be clean in any way. His short hair is actually too long for the lowest of the castes. It should be shorn close to his skull like a sheep without its wool. He hopes that no one will be looking too closely.
He is amazed by the difference a few streaks of mud and a beggar’s bag can make. This is a typical disguise for him when he is taking a relic from a neglectful owner. It’s the most powerful deterrent he’s ever found for nosy people. As soon as he dons this garb, all eyes are averted. It’s as if he truly becomes invisible.
With a cleansing breath, Cas steps out into the street and instantly repels those citizens walking closest to him. All of the castes, from the opulent Jinushi that live here, down to the Sabanto, or servant caste, treat the lowest caste as pariahs. He doesn’t know whether to be thankful or full of sadness for how perfectly this disguise works. What works to his benefit is killing off hundreds of people in this city alone. While their plight is horrible, and he is potentially as bad as those that look away for using it to his advantage, there is one benefit.
Walking a mile in their shoes has opened his eyes, and he frequently gives to the community outreach centers that are running on kindness and a prayer, with no budget in place. They are the only reason the lowest caste still exists in this city, and he does what he can to help them.
Castiel sighs with relief when he leaves the borders of the gated community. Sabanto neighbors are far less likely to pay attention to what others are doing unless it affects them directly, so he is almost out of the proverbial woods. Finally, after miles of walking, he reaches his hiding place on the outskirts of this town.
He’s known about the maintenance tunnels and decontamination huts his whole life, and it wasn’t difficult to find one that was no longer in service when the time came to get and stay off the country’s radar.
He might be Sabanto now, but his parents were Shokunin, skilled workers. Aside from giving him an education which no Sabanto has a right to, his parents taught him a great deal about the world beyond the borders of this sanitized dome. He longs to leave one day, but he needs more than just the desire to leave. He needs a means of survival, and those resources are far out of his reach for now. So, he contents himself with planning, saving, and relieving the occasional treasure from the hands of those that would ruin them.
Looking around his treasure room, as he calls it, he smiles. The walls are stacked with paintings, the makeshift shelves overflowing with statues, jars full of trinkets, ancient tomes, and even dinosaur skulls.
It feels good to protect these items for future generations. One day, he will create a safe space for people of all castes to come and learn about the world before Kanpeki Basho. Until then, he will keep them protected.
He takes a quick, frigidly cold shower and changes back into his own robe. He leaves the long wig off because he only wears it when he is out in public. It itches and is heavy enough to make his head ache. It’s a necessity unless he wants to let his hair grow out to the long length that is appropriate for his caste. Most do, but he’s only been a servant for a few years. Besides, it is much easier to keep short. Less maintenance, less money that needs to be wasted on keeping it in shape. This way, he cuts his own hair and lets it do what it wants underneath the wig of perfectly straight, long strands.
Eager to get back to reading his latest find from the VR library, he scrounges up a protein bar and sets a pot of water to boil on his single burner stove. He has to go back to his wretched service job in the morning, so he’s going to stay up as late as he can manage and enjoy his book.
With a steaming cup of green tea, Cas sits down on his makeshift couch. It’s really just a folded mattress sitting on a short stack of bamboo palettes, but it works. Again, he isn’t going to waste a single coin on buying furniture if he can make it out of what others throw away. He’s fairly certain that throwaway culture is new inside the dome, but it makes him want to shout his warnings from the tallest rooftops. This is exactly how they came to live in a dome in the first place. Stop overusing!
Sliding his VR goggles on, he takes note of the power level with a frown before he opens his book. His goggles are the only luxury he allows himself. Energy packets are expensive, but he can’t live without them. Goggles require precious energy, so he must keep working to be able to afford them. As he sinks into the biography of the artist, John William Waterhouse, he smiles. To him, the sacrifice is totally worth it.
*****
Screams and shrieks follow Dean from the stage. He’s sweaty after a full hour under those infernal lights. His throat is itching as it does when he puts too much power behind his voice. He clears his throat subtly and a second later, there is a tonic in his hand to help his throat heal before morning. After years of being one of the country’s sweethearts, he has found a shorthand of movements and gestures that express his needs without ever having to ask for anything. His staff is competent and attentive, so often they preemptively give him what he needs before he even realizes it.
When he finishes the slightly bitter drink, the empty glass is whisked away to who knows where. The doors are opened ahead of him, so he doesn’t break his stride once along the winding path back to his dressing room. Crowley is already there with Naomi. They greet him like a conquering hero rather than a singer, but he isn’t going to question it. He loves this part of his career so much more than the rest. There is an honesty to being a musician that he loves, especially now that they trust him enough to pick his own songs.
“You were breathtaking, Dean. This was your best performance yet.” Naomi gushes with hands clasped tightly in front of her.
“Thank you, Ms. Adler. I appreciate you coming to see the show.”
“Oh, well. That isn’t precisely why I’m here, Dean.”
When he frowns, the other two share a look. Crowley continues, “Well, there was an incident in the crowd. It was handled professionally, so very few people are even aware it happened.”
“Evidently. I had a perfect view of the crowd and I had no idea anything was wrong.” Dean doesn’t like the squirrelly reactions of both of his handlers. Crossing his arms over his chest is difficult with the elaborate costume he’s in, but he manages it. “What happened?”
Pointedly clearing his throat, Crowley lays out a tragic story. “One of the fans got out of control. She was pushing through the crowd trying to get closer to the stage. She was warned several times to stay back from the fence, but she kept trying to climb over it.”
Dean looks down at his feet. The Laws of Public Action are often criticized in hushed tones, but never outright. It wouldn’t do to challenge the very words of the founders of this unique country. Rationally, Dean knows that the laws are there to provide safety for all citizens, but it doesn’t make him any happier that someone was killed at his concert tonight.
“I’m sorry to be the bringer of bad news, but we will need to get ahead of the news cycle and provide a video message.”
Dean nods his head curtly. “I’ll do it now.”
“You can wait until you have a chance to cool down,” Crowley suggests.
“No, it’s fine. I’d rather respond immediately. It looks better if I don’t take care of my own comfort first.”
Naomi smiles proudly. “You’re right, of course. You’re such a natural at this, Dean. You were absolutely born to it.”
With a snap of his meaty fingers, Crowley waves a cameraman over. Dean looks up at the camera and waits for his cue.
“My dearest fans and citizens of this great country, it pains me to bring you this terrible news so soon after the triumph of this evening’s performance. In the in-person crowd tonight, someone chose to ignore our Laws of Public Action and make their own interests more important than the interests of the public. It’s shocking, in this day, that people still feel the need to ignore the laws that were created solely for their protection.”
Dean takes a step closer to the camera, his eyes mournful and glassy. “Please. Please don’t let this person’s tragedy become yours. Know the laws and obey the laws. Be well.”
Dean’s stomach turns as he sits and lets the makeup and hair person dismantle all of the careful manipulation of his hair and face. That’s not how he really feels. He doesn’t agree with that message at all. He wants to tell his fans that they are important, as are their interests. His contract expressly prohibits him from making any comment against the government or its laws, though.
Once they have him scrubbed back to his natural state, his personal assistant, Cesar, reminds him of his schedule for the next day before he is guided into a magnetic vehicle and shuttled back to his home. This completely pollution-free form of travel has been the mainstay of the upper castes since the inception of their domed society. It is silent, explosively fast, and terrifies him every single time. Once the vehicle is engaged, there is no way to stop it but to pull the emergency polarization switch, which has been known to make the vehicle either fall to the ground or break apart entirely. That last option is the one that truly terrifies him.
He would walk everywhere if he could, but that’s hardly ever allowed. Dean is only given permission to be outside when there is an opportunity to be photographed. When he was younger, especially in his teens, he tried to argue for being given that freedom, but since fans became desperate enough to risk death to meet him, he’s stopped asking.
He contents himself with the fact that he isn’t missing much. His workouts are strenuous and designed to keep him in perfect physical condition. His diet is regimented down to every calorie and nutrient. That antiquated expression that your body is a temple is the perfect slogan for Dean Winchester.
Yet another thing that he would change if he could. Dean’s early years were spent seated at the same table with his younger brother, Samuel, who has always been able to eat twice as much as Dean because of his metabolism and activity level. It’s the only thing about his brother that Dean has ever resented.
Samuel is also of the Yumeijin caste, of course, but his aptitude has always been sports. Futbol is the only sport of consequence in the country, and Samuel Winchester is the star of its southern regional team, La Pantera. Dean loves to tease his hulking giant of a brother by calling them La Pantera Rosa, but Samuel has never seen the cartoon, The Pink Panther, so he doesn’t understand the reference. It still makes Dean smile.
The door unlocks automatically with his ID bracelet, and he drags himself into the echoing, cavernous front hall. Every footstep sounds like an ominous clap on the pristine, uncut slab of marble. Dean is exhausted and doesn’t try to silence his heavy footfalls. Speaking of his brother, Samuel pokes his head out of their downstairs library and waves Dean in.
“Why are you up so late?” he asks as he flops gracelessly on an oversized leather sofa. The cool, smooth texture is tempting to lay his face on. Samuel has several books open on the research table he claimed for his own back in grade school. Dean has never wanted to challenge him for the seat. He prefers the small conservatory upstairs. Its soundproof walls and view of the gardens are perfect for practicing his music.
“I heard what happened at your concert. I thought you might want some company when you got home.” Dean is touched by the consideration.
“Thank you, Samuel. I appreciate it.”
His brother scowls and leans closer. “It’s just us, Dean. You don’t have to be the perfect Yumeijin with me.”
With a mischievous grin, Dean agrees, “True, but if I get used to it and accidentally slip in public?” He whistles long and low.
Shaking his head, Sam sits back and crosses his arms over his chest. “They’ve always been so much stricter with you. I don’t understand it.”
Dean shrugs, “Me neither, but it’s not my place to question them, right? They must have a reason.” With that, he pushes back to his feet. “I have an appointment with my bed to keep. I will see you in the morning?”
Sam nods and watches his brother leave with a furrow in his brow. He and Dean have always been held to different standards, but it’s never bothered him as much as it does now. Dean was a rebellious youth who spoke his mind and fought for what he believed was right. Now, he bends to the will of whoever is in a position of authority. It’s not right.
His place on the team has allowed him to meet people from all over the country and in all castes. He’s been exposed to ideas that others might consider subversive, but he is cautious about what he says and does. There’s something more that his family and their sponsors hope to gain from Dean, he’s sure of it. He just hasn’t figured it out yet.