Rocks for Jocks - Castielslostwings (2024)

Chapter 1: Summer

Chapter Text

Summer

It’s the kind of hot that persists even into cooler spaces, that makes a person feel sweaty even when sitting directly in front of an air conditioner or fan. The whole week has been this way, all up and down the northeast coast from Maine to D.C. Ninety degree plus days with unrepentant sunshine turning the real-feel outside of the shade into at least ten degrees hotter than it is. This is why the College doesn’t start classes until the end of August, beginning of September, when this musty, airless humidity has at least burned off somewhat and walking the distance between the main campus parking lot to the nearest stuffy building won’t actually threaten your life. Days when the first tendrils of fall start creeping in, bringing with them relief from the oppressive stillness of summer and the promise of busier, fuller days.

Dean Winchester lives for fall. Fall means cooler days and chilly nights, a house that doesn’t make him feel suffocated to be inside of, even with the air on full blast. Fall means hoodies and flannel, apple cider and bonfires, and most importantly, football. Being the Head Coach of a Div I college football team is like being campus royalty and Dean revels in the privileges. Soon enough it’ll be days in the weight room, strategic play discussions with his Quarterback, and evening practices out on the field. Then there’ll be the games; crisp nights with the stadium lights shining down, the whole student body crammed into the bleachers, the roar of the crowd and the competing sounds of cheerleaders doing their best to yell over the marching band. Dean can hardly wait; he has a great feeling about his team this year, especially his new recruits.

But all that is still several weeks away. Several long, hot weeks of suffering through seemingly endless heatwaves and Dean’s shirts sticking to his upper back just as soon as he exits his car. Thank God he can park behind the stadium and dart inside to his office most days, though there are also plenty of times he has to make the sweaty trek to Main Campus to meet with the administration, sponsors, you name it. And then soon enough, practices will start and the heat will be completely unavoidable. Until then, coaching a Div I football team is a lot more than running practices and calling plays.

As such, Dean hasn’t got a whole lot of time to dwell on the fact that his life is basically football and nothing else. Even on his days off, he’s usually in the office watching tapes, running to meetings he scheduled badly, or out on the field working, because where else would he be? Maybe if he had someone waiting for him at home the brutal summer heat would be more tolerable, but as it is, Dean can barely find time for the occasional one night stand, never mind a real relationship. Sure, the team doesn’t play in the spring, but by then Dean’s on to scouting and recruiting for the next year. There just isn’t time for him to seek out and nurture a serious relationship, not right now. Maybe someday, when his coaching days are behind him. Like that’ll ever happen.

Besides, he’s gotta keep up with Sammy. Dean has a sneaking suspicion that his younger brother Sam only keeps his part-time professor job at Stanford’s Law School to piss Dean off. At least their teams don’t play each other unless they’re both in the playoffs or at a bowl or something. That would probably be grounds for a familial divorce.

The thing is, while football season is officially still weeks away, the team is already here and getting set up in their dorms and off-campus housing even as Dean waits impatiently in his office. He’s fully aware that no one is going to show up to see him until the day after tomorrow, but it feels wrong to sit at home doing nothing. Practices, workouts, and team-building activities will fill the coming days but for now, it’s hurry-up-and-wait for Dean. Worse than that, he’s done, actually done all of the work he has to do for once, until he can add his players into the mix. Dean knows he’s really done because he’s spent the last hour scraping and searching for absolutely anything to occupy his time and keep his mind busy, coming up empty again and again.

He checks the clock on his wall; closing in on a quarter past seven in the evening. Glancing out the window, Dean can see that the sun has started to set, which means it should be slightly less nightmarish to go outside. With a heavy sigh, he resigns himself to a boring night at home, since there’s clearly nothing left he can even pretend to do here. Dean grabs his bag and a stack of plays he’s looked over twenty times already, stuffing them inside before locking up and heading for his car. He slides behind the wheel of his mint-condition ‘67 Chevy Impala and winces as the stored heat from the leather soaks into his back and thighs. If there’s one thing Dean cares about as much as football it’s his Baby, but on days like this, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel the tiniest bit of resentment that the car is black, trapping the day’s heat like a sonofabitch.

Dean wings his bag across the bench seat and slouches, sprawling out to try and cool off as the engine works to turn the stifling air chilled. It takes longer than he’d like, especially considering he’s in suit pants and a long-sleeved button-down. Dean scowls. Meetings requiring business casual dress should be illegal when the heat index is this high.

Once Dean’s sure he isn’t going to melt or spontaneously combust during the drive home, he shifts into gear and pulls out from behind the athletic complex onto the road. His apartment building is technically within walking distance of the school, but like hell he’s hoofing it in this weather. It’s tough to find an open space when Dean pulls into the parking lot. It seems like everyone’s already home and have been for a while. That just makes Dean feel worse; bored and lonely and can’t even get his sh*t together to get home at a reasonable hour when he’s got no reason to be anywhere else.

In the end, Dean parks on the grass and decides he’ll just go out tonight. That way he can move his car before it draws enough attention for the property owners to make a fuss. With any luck he can drink away his moodiness at the bar, end the night by picking up someone fun and pretty to help him blow off some steam. If Dean’s really lucky, whoever the winner is will offer to take him back to their place. Then he can slip out in the morning, head back home and crash, sleep off his hangover and be fresh for his team the following day. It’s true that Dean doesn’t let loose often but when he does, he makes it worth his while. With all of his work done and a free day on the horizon, the universe seems to be sending him a series of green lights, all urging him on to put work aside and have a good time for once.

The sh*tty central air system responsible for cooling Dean’s entire apartment building is probably set to somewhere around seventy-eight, or as Dean likes to call it, “why f*cking bother?” But when he opens the door to his second-floor walk-up and gets hit in the face with a wave of it, compared to the hallway and the baking oven outside, it feels like the goddamn Arctic. Humming with happiness, Dean strips as he beelines for the bathroom. Clothes hit the floor in a whoosh, Dean’s sweaty skin practically sighing with relief as the cooler air rushes over it. He steps into the shower after giving it barely ten seconds to become slightly warmer than freezing and then his eyes are rolling back in his head with pleasure.

If he weren’t already determined to pick someone up tonight, Dean would stay in here and whack one off, just to enjoy an org*sm while being blissfully cool. Instead, he forces his hands away from his junk and soaps up from head to toe, rinsing off slowly and hovering under the chilly water until he starts to shiver. Unfortunately, the chill is short-lived, dissipating almost the second he steps from the shower out into the bathroom.

It’s still early, so Dean makes himself some dinner wearing only his boxers to stave off getting sweaty all over again. Tonight’s menu is bleak; grilled frozen burger patties on a bagged bun that probably should have been trashed three days ago. There’s no edible dairy or produce in the fridge, but there is some mustard, probably because mustard stays usable for years. Doesn’t it? Dean briefly wonders if that’s actually true, slightly concerned when the blue printed expiration date has rubbed off the side of the bottle in his hand. Hmm. He forces the meal down anyway, not wanting to waste money on bar food or attempt to shoot whiskey on an empty stomach. By the time he’s finished and cleaned up it’s eight-thirty, and Dean thinks that’s plenty late enough.

He slips into the lightest pair of jeans he owns and pulls a tight black t-shirt over his head, spiking his hair with some gel and pulling on boots before checking his look in the mirror. Damn, Winchester, he thinks, giving himself a wink. He could pass for a student, probably, despite having crested over to the wrong side of thirty a couple of years ago. Good f*ckin’ genes. With a wave of some awkward finger guns he’s immediately glad no one was here to see, Dean’s off.

It’s fully dark outside but disappointingly no less hot for it. Dean pulls at his collar as he makes his way down the small hill his apartment complex is built into. It gives him a nice view, one that makes his second floor balcony feel like a third-floor one without the hike, but Dean already knows he’ll be cursing it if he strikes out and has to walk home from the bar. The Impala is unbothered on the grass where he left it, but Dean’s still not willing to risk leaving her there overnight.

The drive to the bar is even shorter than his commute to the College. Despite being Head Coach here for three years now and one of the assistants for the six before that, Dean’s never ventured much beyond his immediate neighborhood. Thanks to the town catering to all the students, he’s never really needed to. Grocery stores, auto supply store, bar, drugstore, liquor stores--you name it, it’s all within walking distance. And the housing options aren’t terrible either, Dean’s pretty sure some of the younger professors take advantage of the convenience of the location the same way he does. He briefly wonders what it would be like to be a student and living next door to your Econ 304 professor, probably not the sexy romcom it sounds like.

His own memories of college are unfortunately similar to his current day-to-day life, mostly football and not nearly enough balance. Dean had been the quarterback for the team he coaches now, drafted in the first round to the NFL back in his junior year. He’d given up his scholarship and aspirations of a degree without a second thought, despite his mother and brother’s protests. With stars in his eyes and brand new dreams of becoming a household name, of leading his team to multiple Superbowl Championships filling his head, Dean had been naive. And he’d paid for it.

After a promising start and lots of buzz surrounding his debut, Dean had torn his ACL during game six of his very first regular season. For most athletes, that amounts to one surgery preceding a several-month recovery and then a triumphant, heralded return to the field. For Dean, it was the beginning of the end. Three surgeries, multiple re-tears, and a bunch of failed physical therapy later, his doctor had dropped the bomb. Dean would never be cleared to play professionally again. His team had dropped him shortly after that with apologies, and Dean had returned home disgraced. No career, no degree, all that work and nothing to show for it.

If it weren’t for his old college coach, Bobby Singer, Dean would probably still be moping in his childhood bedroom, the covers pulled up over his head as he contemplated the end of his very short, very pathetic, twenty-three-year-old life. But just as he had in every practice back when Dean was still his star player, Bobby showed up at Dean’s door and quite literally smacked sense into him. Dragging him by his ear out of his self-pity slump, Bobby had offered Dean not only a job but a way to stay involved with football, to pass on his gift and his love for the sport in the only way he was still able.

And when Bobby retired three years ago, despite Dean’s lack of a Bachelor’s degree, Bobby had made him Head Coach. Of course, by then Dean had proven himself time and time again, but it was still an emotional moment for both of them (though Dean has no doubt Bobby will deny that to this day). Bobby still stops by frequently, pretends he’s visiting but Dean knows him well enough to see straight through that. Bobby’s no more ready to be retired than he is, but coaching Div I out of a wheelchair is no small feat. Still, though he knows Bobby hates it, Dean’s thankful he had (and has) a role model and mentor who understands what a devastating sports injury feels like, how it f*cks with your head and your self-worth. But Bobby never quit and so Dean won’t either. And not for nothing, but Bobby also never let him forget that while Dean might limp a little, he’s still got his ability to walk, and that’s more than some. Bobby’s broken back can’t say the same.

And as for Dean, he’s got everything he needs. Sure, he’s always worked hard, but his dream job had also basically fallen into his lap and that’s nothing to scoff at. He knows he should go back and finish his Bachelor’s degree, gets the third degree from Bobby about it every time he sees him, but Dean sort of doesn’t see the point. He was never a book smart person, that was all Sammy. College was always a means to an end; a way to play football and still keep his mom happy, to make her feel as if her son was working towards something besides stardom and a pro-sports career. In the end, she’d been right after all, and Dean will always be grateful to Bobby for not letting him become the loser drop-out he deserves to be.

Dean thinks about it sometimes, though. His degree, that is. And how he can’t be that much of a role model for his players if he won’t even finish it up, the way he warns them all to do. It crosses his mind at the most random moments and nearly every night when he’s trying to sleep; a reminder that he’s just a cautionary tale of a worst-case scenario and not an inspiration at all. At the end of the day, who is he to tell his star players to take a pass on fortune and fame? To turn down a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for something almost no one has a shot at?

And yet, all he can bring himself to reply with when they say, “I can always come back and finish my degree later,” is the truth. Pressing his lips into a thin line, Dean will gesture up and down his own body with an all-knowing stare and a pointed head tilt. “I didn’t,” he’ll say.

“And you’re doing great,” is the inevitable reply, followed by, “And no offense Coach Winchester, but I’m not you,” and what can Dean say to that? He is doing great and they aren’t him. But he’s also nobody to look up to and he’s reminded of that every day, wouldn’t wish the feeling on his worst enemy. And yet, each semester that creeps by makes his degree feel more and more out of reach. He’s old now, ridiculously old compared to the students that fill the lecture halls on campus. Dean can’t even imagine matriculating amongst them, shuffled in beside his own players--it’s embarrassing, it’s not worth it. And things are fine the way they are.

When a car honks, Dean comes back to himself abruptly, realizing he’s been idling in a parking space outside the bar with his foot on the brake for quite a long time. Whoever honked must think he means to back out, must want the space. Dean sticks his hand out the window and waves as he shuts off the car, feeling slightly guilty when the vehicle peels away in a screech of tires and obvious frustration. The bar isn’t even that busy, what the hell is that dude’s problem?

Oh well. People are impatient jerks, news at eleven.

Exiting the car, Dean locks up and pats her rear curves affectionately as he wanders by. At the door to the bar Dean gets carded because everyone gets carded in a college town like this. Short of sporting a full face of wrinkles, gray hair, and a walker but even then, no guarantees. Costume makeup has come a long way and underage kids’ drive to drink should never be underestimated.

There are definitely nicer bars in town than this, like the multi-floor one three blocks over that has a dance floor, a balcony, and rotating DJs on the weekends, but that’s not Dean’s scene. Not that drinking alone in his apartment after a long day really counts as a scene, but regardless. If he’s going out, Dean likes a good old-fashioned dive bar. Some place where the lights are low, the booze is cheap, and the idiots willing to play bar games for cash are plentiful. Dean’s years of hustling pool for food and rent money are long past, but hell, sometimes nostalgia gets the best of everyone.

Scanning the room for prospects as he makes his way past sticky tables and chairs, Dean can’t help but worry that his plan just might not be in the cards for tonight. Even for mid-week the crowd is thin, and the chances of scoring a hook-up aren’t looking like the odds are in his favor. Right off the bat, Dean catches sight of two women he’s slept with (and run out on shortly after) before, quickly detouring so they don’t catch sight of him before taking a seat at the end of the bar where the light is particularly dim.

After ordering a whiskey with a beer back, Dean continues to peruse his options but comes up less than enthused. There are a few other women besides the two he’s trying to avoid, but none of them are even remotely close to Dean’s type. He could try another bar, he supposes, or… Dean drums his fingers on the smooth bartop, sipping his whiskey slowly. Lying to himself has never been an issue for Dean, and most of the time he’s happy to pretend that certain urges he feels from time-to-time aren’t anything more than that. But if he’s being honest (and the alcohol is helping), Dean didn’t actually have a woman in mind for tonight at all.

It’s been the better part of two years since he’s indulged in that part of himself, and if it were up to Dean’s rational side, it’d be years more until he’d have to acknowledge it again. And yet, here he is, sitting at the bar and f*cking thinking-- no, stewing-- about it. Because the side of Dean that sometimes wants to explore his attraction to men… that side of Dean isn’t rational at all. It’s not easily dissuaded by logic or even Dean’s own father’s voice in his head, either.

The bottom line here is, Dean’s profession of choice doesn’t always take kindly to men who aren’t manly in every sense of the word. And let’s be real, he’s come a lot of the way to where he is on luck alone. Dean can’t afford to ruin his image by openly dating men, no matter where his true preferences may lie. But that also might help explain why it’s been so hard for him to even consider “settling down,” why he’s lacking the drive or interest to so much as put himself out there to try. There’s something deep down inside Dean that knows if he did settle down with a woman, he’d always wonder. Sure, he could put on a happy face, grin and bear it, probably for the rest of his life. But would he really be happy? Fulfilled? Would he ever stop wondering what if? That seems a lot less likely.

It’d be different, maybe, if he could truly explore his bisexuality without fear of the consequences. But fear is a powerful thing. Dean’s not an idiot, he’s incredibly self-aware, just intent on keeping certain things about what he likes to himself. It’s not embarrassment over who he is, just anxiety and worry that he wouldn’t be accepted, wouldn’t be respected if he came out. And every time he considers being just a little bit braver, all it takes is a junior player faced with having to choose between his college education and his NFL dreams to remind him of what a let-down he already is. No, Dean can’t afford even the possibilityof adding to that pile.

So, sparse indulgence of his cravings it is.

And lucky for him, hoo boy is there a contender here tonight. The man came in ten, maybe fifteen minutes after he did and Dean hasn’t been able to take his eyes off of him since. Awkward in his movements, the guy looks about as out of place as Dean imagines he might feel inside a lecture hall, nervously picking his way across the room to the bar, bumping into more than one table along the way. Carefully avoiding invading anyone’s space, he sits at the far end of the U-shaped bar, about as far away from Dean as he can get. His piercing blue eyes sweep the room constantly but they don’t rest on anyone in particular, and the guy seems torn. If Dean had to guess, he’d theorize that the man isn’t a “bar” sort of person at all, and that he’s here for something specific.

Please be into men, Dean prays, openly drinking in the dark, messy sex-hair the dude has going on. On top of the trim waist, gorgeous eyes, and light facial scruff, that hair drops him squarely into the box labeled “things Dean Winchester craves in a one-night-stand,” at least as far as men are concerned. And as if that weren’t enough, the guy is sporting a long-sleeved white button-down and a f*cking sweater vest, despite the ninety-degree heat. He’s either an idiot or this is his only look. Either way, Dean’s into it. At least the sleeves are rolled up, revealing tan and shapely forearms that do nothing to quell his interest.

Ever since he decided to stop denying his attraction to men, Dean has been a goddamn sucker for librarian-looking dorks with hot bodies. And if the faint ripple of muscle when this guy moves is any indication, tall, dark, and nerdy is packing heat. The only thing that gives Dean even the slightest pause is that specific look combined with the nearness of the College. He’s heard through the grapevine that some of the academic buildings are chilled to sub-zero-like temperatures in the weeks leading up to the start of classes, the better for professors organizing their lecture materials to focus. This guy could be a professor on campus, though Dean’s never seen him before. And Dean prides himself on keeping track of the faculty, at least those he might need to sweet-talk to pass his struggling players and the ones who are hot enough to consider banging when he’s on the prowl. He’s not about to mix work and pleasure, especially not with a man who could blow his cover and potentially end his career.

But this guy doesn’t look familiar, and that’s nearly good enough for Dean. Just to be on the safe side though, he logs into the College website and checks his inbox. The President always sends out welcome emails regarding new faculty, and Dean skims the relevant messages while keeping an eye on the man across the bar. Seven new full and adjunct professors for this upcoming semester, five of them with pictures to accompany their introductions. The last two are late additions with no picture, someone named Dr. Castiel Novak who’s teaching Geology and someone named Dr. Rowena MacLeod, who Dean doesn’t read any further on since she’s female.

Dean glances up at the guy across the bar, sizes him up again and decides quickly that he doesn’t look like a Castiel anyway. Whoever that is sounds like he’s eighty and stuffy and should be teaching religious studies, not intro classes about rocks. Also, no way could someone so effortlessly sexy as the dude he’s looking at have a PHd in something so incredibly boring as compressed sediment.

Of course, it’s right at that moment that Effortlessly Sexy looks up and catches him staring, which Dean suddenly can’t decide if he’s panicked or thrilled about. He always has these moments after zeroing in on a potential male conquest. It’s normal, he’ll get past it, he just has to take a few deep breaths and decide how much he really wants this.

That decision becomes incredibly easy to make when the guy smiles shyly and ducks his head before glancing up again, clearly checking to see if Dean’s still looking. The little upturn of his lips widens, and f*ck Dean’s life, he has a gorgeous smile, of course he does. Gathering his nerve, Dean pointedly looks from Blue Eyes to the open seat next to him, raising his eyebrows in question when he turns back. The guy blinks for moment and Dean’s theory that he doesn’t do this very often solidifies. It’s possible that Blue Eyes doesn’t even know that he’s objectively attractive, because if hitting up bars were a common activity for him, there’s no way he would be that surprised to be blatantly hit on.

For a long minute, Dean thinks he’s going to be turned down. While it’s definitely happened before, he can’t say that it’s common and for whatever reason, he really doesn’t want this guy to reject him.

The guy doesn’t reject him. What he does do is pick up his drink (and the damp napkin it’s sitting on, what an unbelievable dork), carry it around the bar, and set it down in front of the seat next to Dean. Up close, Dean can see his suspicions about what the guy is hiding underneath that ridiculous outfit are definitely on point; his thick thighs are self-explanatory, but the muscle in his upper body isn’t concealed as well as he initially thought. The white fabric of his button-down is damp from the heat outside and sticking to his skin, especially at the back of his arm and where it disappears under the sweater vest at his shoulder.

“Hello,” the man says, his voice low and gravelly and making Dean’s tongue stick to the roof of his mouth because holy sh*t, whatever he was expecting, it was not that. The dude’s sex appeal was already pretty damn high, but with that voice Dean’s chances of backing out of this just dropped to zero.

“Uh, hi,” Dean stammers back stupidly, leaving the guy blinking and confused.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words rolling out of his mouth like honey-soaked whiskey poured over gravel or some other dumb, cliched euphemism Dean’s way too turned on to parse out. The guy looks around and his expression changes. He seems embarrassed. “Did I… did I misunderstand? I thought you were gesturing for me to join you. I can go.” He moves to slide off of the stool and somehow Dean gathers enough of his scattered wits to stop him with a hand on his arm. His extremely beautiful, tanned forearm that flexes under Dean’s grip. It’s all he can do not to actually whine, at least outside of his own head.

“No,” Dean manages, though it sounds strangled even to his own ears. He decides he better throw caution to the wind or he’s clearly gonna lose this guy who’s already got one foot out the door. “I’m sorry, I don’t do this very often,” he says in a rush. The admission immediately causes the man to relax and he sits back down on his stool, the small smile returning to his face. With some reluctance, Dean lets his hand slip back down to his own leg.

“That’s somewhat of a relief to hear,” the man tells Dean. “Neither do I. Perhaps we could start with names. You are?”

Dean hesitates for just a moment too long and the man’s eyes narrow. “M-Michael,” he spits out, because he always gives a fake name to his male hookups, just in case. As the guy stares back, Dean regrets the choice but it’s too late now. Averting his eyes, Dean sips at his whiskey, down to the dregs. He quickly signals to the bartender for another. In the meantime, Blue Eyes continues to stare quizzically, as if he’s evaluating something in Dean’s face, his posture, his words. Dean realizes he’s probably exactly as transparent as he thinks he is, but if so, the guy doesn’t seem to mind.

“Alright,” he says finally, a note of amusem*nt lacing his voice. “I’m James.”

“James,” Dean repeats. “Can’t say that you look like a James.”

“Can’t say you look like a Michael,” James returns pointedly and Dean raises his newly refilled glass.

“Touché,” he replies with a smile, and James grins back.

“So then, Michael,” James continues, tracing the rim of his glass with a deft finger that Dean is already imagining sucking into his mouth. “Admittedly, I’m not the best at reading social cues, but I’d like to go out on a limb here if that’s alright.” Dean bites back the elated grin that threatens to overtake his face, this guy and his overly professional speech are his every wet dream all wrapped up in an ugly sweater vest. If he turns out to be an actual librarian, there’s a chance Dean’s gonna finish in his pants. He grimaces a little at that thought and tries to reel his enthusiasm back in. Blue Eyes-- James-- doesn’t seem to notice, though, and keeps talking. He gazes up at Dean in a way that’s fartoo sincere and earnest for this particular conversation and it makes Dean’s mouth go dry. “Is there any chance you’d consider coming back to my place?”

Dean’s pretty sure he’s died and gone to Heaven.

Chapter 2: Summer

Chapter Text

Summer

It turns out that James’ place is also nearby, though it’s located in the opposite direction from Dean’s apartment building, which is fine. Less chance of running into each other again, Dean tells himself, though for some reason, that thought doesn’t carry the same sense of relief it usually does. But Dean’s mind is thick, hazy with the effects of alcohol, and he doesn’t dwell on it. Nor does he dwell on leaving his Baby behind, she’s safe in the lot of the bar and no one gets towed for parking there overnight. Safety first and all that.

They’d settled their tabs and Dean had let James easily loop his arm through Dean’s own to pull him outside into the heat. James’ had looked disgruntled immediately, face scrunching up adorably at the blast of hot air that came with the open door. Amused, Dean laughed, reaching across with his free hand to pluck at James’ sweater vest.

“Not that I’m complaining because it's friggin’ adorable, but why the hell are you dressed for fifty-degree weather when it’s twice that out here?”

James suddenly stops walking and cuts Dean off, stepping in front of him and advancing until they’re almost nose to nose. He gets a hand on Dean’s waist and shuffles them until Dean’s back is shoved up against the side of a building. In what he hopes is a surreptitious manner, Dean glances around to make sure that no one is looking, but when he’s satisfied they have the street to themselves, he turns his attention fully back to James. The man has insinuated himself between Dean’s knees, eyes turned intense and piercing where they scour Dean’s face. James’ stare drops to Dean’s mouth and his lips part, sticking together a little in a way that makes Dean want to lean forward and close the gap between them.

“If you’d walk faster, you could have me out of it by now.”

“Point,” Dean replies weakly, willing the over-eager bulge in his pants back down. Maybe he should have jerked off in the shower, after all. He’s one more subtle touch away from grabbing the other man and flipping their positions but then James steps back with a smug smirk on his face. “You’re a tease,” Dean says, only half-joking as James links their arms back together and tugs him forward down the sidewalk.

“I’m only a tease if I don’t intend to follow through,” James drawls, unabashedly eyeing Dean up and down.

“Who are you?” Dean asks, but James just laughs.

"James," he replies flatly and Dean leaves it at that.

Things are strangely easy between them as they walk together, drunkenly stumbling down one side street after another on their way to James’ home. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, that small talk about the weather and intermittent silences should feel so comfortable, but alcohol is a hell of a social lubricant and they’ve both had their fair share. Still, it’s been a long time since Dean hooked up with someone that he felt particularly drawn to, felt a spark with, and they haven’t even touched yet, not really. It makes him a little sad, makes him yearn for a life where he could have his career and pursue whatever kind of personal relationship he wants, but that’s just not reality.

So when James swings their hands between them and steers the conversation into the not-unexpected “and what do you do?” territory, it’s only natural that Dean continues to lie.

“I’m a mechanic,” he says. “Work at an auto shop a ways down the main road back there. Kind of a jack-of-all-trades, but classic cars are my one true love.” The story rolls off of his tongue easily because it’s only a partial lie. Dean does work as a mechanic on occasion, much less frequently now than when he was in school, but he’s still active. It helps that Bobby owns the repair shop he picks up time at, a business handed down from his father and mostly kept afloat by other people up until the day Bobby retired from coaching. Dean strongly suspects that Bobby only kept the shop running during all that time because it was good for helping his players who weren’t born rich scare up some extra cash. Secretly, Bobby’s a hell of a softie, though Dean wouldn’t be caught dead admitting he knew that to his face.

Regardless, somehow the fact that his answer isn’t a complete fabrication makes Dean feel slightly better about misleading James. Not that he thinks James actually cares, but still. “So what about you?” He prompts and James hesitates, the same way Dean had done in the bar when asked his name. With an understanding squeeze of his hand, Dean lets the guy off the hook. “No worries,” he says easily. “You don’t gotta make something up, we’ll keep it casual.”

James looks up apologetically, but Dean waves him off. They’re strolling through a legitimate neighborhood now, the kind that Dean would never ever admit he’d like to live in. Could live in, he certainly makes enough money for it, but what’s the point of a whole house and a yard when he’s never home and it’s only him to occupy it? Eventually, James stops in front of a little American Craftsman-style bungalow. From the outside, it looks like one floor with a small loft marked by dormer windows. The house is quaint, and definitely the kind of place he imagined James living, although Dean finds himself disappointed that the place lacks any real… personality. It’s cookie-cutter to its neighbors, nothing particularly special about it. Shaking that thought off quickly, Dean chastises himself. He doesn’t know James, is almost definitely assigning personality traits to the guy that he has no right to. Still, he thought there’d at least be some flowers, maybe a rocking chair on the porch… something.

A curse flies out of James’ mouth as they stand in the darkness under the overhang of the small front porch. The keys James is fiddling with jingle in his hands as he tries one after another. Again, he looks up at Dean with an apology in his eyes, glancing back at the street like he’s not sure if he should beg Dean-- Michael-- not to go. “You alright there, buddy?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” James sighs, clearly irritated. “I only moved in here a few days ago. I’m afraid I’ve not yet gotten used to the house and all its quirks. The key is one of these three but it sticks in the lock. Unfortunately for me, they all stick in the lock when I try them, so it’s very difficult to ascertain…” He trails off as he jiggles the key he’s currently trying, yelling out in triumph when it turns in the lock and sends him tumbling inside through the now-open door. “Found it,” James declares and Dean can’t help but chuckle. It’s on the tip of his tongue to offer to change out the lock, but fortunately, he remembers himself and catches his traitorous tongue in time. They’re not doing that. That isn’t what this is.

When Dean steps inside the shadowed entryway, James is still picking himself up off of the floor, chuckling lowly as he tries to use a table to stand upright. Instinctually, Dean swoops in to help without thinking, slipping an arm around James’ waist and pulling him in to his own body for leverage. It’s a bold move but not on purpose; Dean isn’t the steadiest right now and doesn’t want to end up losing his own balance to send them both toppling to the floor again. The result is the same regardless of his intentions, though. James’ body is pressed tightly against Dean’s own from shoulder to knee and his face is right f*cking there, all wide-eyed and far too cute for a probably-mid-thirties grown man. “Hello,” James murmurs, his breath ghosting warm over Dean’s lips.

The arm that James has slung around Dean’s neck tightens a little, and Dean takes that as the invitation it is, leaning in to brush their mouths together, soft and chaste at first. He pulls back to check the other man’s expression, gauge his comfort level, and finds him with his eyes closed, lips slightly parted. He truly is stunning up close and Dean dips back in to kiss him again while he still looks so blissfully relaxed. This time he sticks around, opens his mouth, teases his tongue just between the seam of James’ lips. In response, James sighs a little and tips his head to get a better angle as he licks inside Dean’s mouth happily.

Suddenly and without warning, he pulls back but doesn’t let go of Dean, one hand still gripping Dean’s shoulder while his face has turned alarmed. “The door,” James says, distracting wetness above his top lip sapping all of Dean’s attention.

“Huh?” Admittedly, Dean’s now hazy from alcohol and arousal, he’s not currently at his sharpest. But James pulls away and steps to the side where his front door is still hanging wide open to the world. “Oh,” Dean huffs. “Right.” Once they’re closed and locked up, James drifts back into Dean’s space without hesitation, like he has no doubt that he’s wanted there, that he fits. And it’s true, all of that is true.

“Would you like a drink? I don’t have any alcohol in the house right now, but coffee? Tea?” When James speaks it’s into Dean’s ear, his rough scruff scraping against Dean’s cheek, hands finding their way to his shoulders, squeezing Dean’s biceps reassuringly as he goes.

“Maybe in the morning,” Dean whispers reflexively and then kicks himself. In the morning? While it’s not completely unprecedented for him to stay the night with a one-night-stand, it is rare and he can’t remember ever contemplating doing so before he even knew if the sex was any good. Though, the way James is swaying gently up against him, his hips circling softly, sensually between Dean’s hands, he’s having a very hard time imagining that this is going to be anything but fan-f*cking-tastic. “Hey,” he says, clearing his throat a little. “Um, before we get too caught up… I, uh, don’t bottom.”

Dean winces as he says the words and almost wishes he could take them back. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, on the contrary, there’s almost nothing on the planet he yearns for more, at least in the privacy of his own head. But that’s not something he’s going to trust in giving to a stranger or a chance encounter, not something he’s ready to hand over to just anyone. A weird inkling in the back of his head badly wants to suggest that James doesn’t seem like “just anyone,” but Dean chalks that up to his fantasies talking, not his rationality. And anyway, them’s the rules. No relationship, no dick up his ass. No ifs, ands, or butts. Ha. Butt pun. Point being, he’s never going to be in a relationship with a man, and therefore, bottoming is just not in the cards for Dean.

“That’s not a problem,” James is saying as his hands smooth back down Dean’s arms. “I enjoy both. Or neither, if you’d prefer.” The side of his mouth is quirking up and Dean leans in to kiss it, sweet and soft.

“Thank f*ck,” Dean murmurs as he pulls back. “‘Cause it’d be a damn shame if I didn’t get to take that vest off of you.”

***

There’s something about James that feels magnetic to Dean. It’s drawing him in, making him want to kiss and caress every inch of his body, to worship him, to discover every sound and shiver he can draw out, one at a time. This might be the strangest one-night-stand he’s ever partaken in, but in no way is that a bad thing. It’s clear that James wasn’t lying when he said that he doesn’t do this often, and Dean’s fairly certain he wasn’t only referring to picking up men (like he was). Now that they’re getting down and dirty, James is a confusing mix of charmingly nervous and fiercely confident in what he wants.

After leading Dean to his bedroom without any sign of hesitation, he’d gotten shy when Dean’s fingers worked up underneath his button-down, untucking it before skating his fingers across the skin just above the seam of his pants. Blue eyes had gone wide as James’ tense body twitched away, causing Dean to rip his hands back against his chest like they’d been burned. It had taken three repeat assurances that James did indeed want to continue before Dean was willing to even attempt to proceed, but the look in James’ eyes after that turned resolved, ready.

It should have scared Dean away. By all rights, this was the opposite of what he intended when he’d gone to the bar tonight. A million things fly through Dean’s mind; possibilities of what James has been through in his past, of how long it’s been since he’s been touched like this, of what it might represent for the gentle man. There’s no way to ask and he’s not entirely sure that it matters, just as long as Dean is willing to be what James needs in a partner, at least for the night. So he doesn’t run screaming, even when a particularly heavy dose of reality hits him. All of those thoughts… they only make Dean want to take care of this man more. To throw his usual hookup standards to the wind and take things slow; to touch, caress, tease, to kiss, to convey as much affection as possible with his actions, if not his words.

This is new territory for Dean, but it’s still within the realm of the rules he’s set for himself. Just as long as everyone understands that it’s only for tonight.

And James does. He says he understands in those exact words, uses the name Michael to emphasize that he knows exactly what Dean is doing and that he’s okay with it. A part of Dean feels guilty all over again but on this one thing, he can’t budge.

The bedroom they’re in is nice if sparsely decorated, but Dean chalks that up to James’ recent move-in. The walls are a comforting dark blue, recently redone if the faint scent of new paint is any indication, and the bedding matches. They’re kissing, once again softer, more careful than Dean would usually bother being in a situation like this, but James responds to it. Dean’s hands slide against the damp fabric of James’ cotton button-down underneath the vest as he pushes it up and over James’ head. “Worth it for me,” he murmurs cheekily as he drops the vest to the floor, pressing a kiss to the hollow of James’ throat where it’s exposed by the undone top buttons of his shirt. He works the rest of the buttons open quickly and waves the fabric away from James’ skin where it had been sticking. The cold air makes James’ tanned skin goose pimple as it rushes over it, sweat evaporating and clearly doing its part to chill him faster. James shivers.

“I’m inside most of the day,” James explains somewhat breathlessly as Dean’s lips roam the length of his neck, his hands running along the toned muscles of his chest and abdomen underneath his undone shirt. “It gets cold,” he continues and Dean murmurs his acknowledgment, biting at one of James’ nipples to get him to stop talking. It works and James gasps, one hand clutching at Dean’s shoulder, the other twisted in his hair. One thing is for sure, Dean was goddamn right about what James is packing underneath all of those dorky clothes. He’s trim but muscular in a stunningly compact way. Probably a runner, considering the thickness of his thighs and the fact that there doesn’t seem to be an ounce of fat on him. Dean digs it, kind of digs the whole damn thing.

To quiet the ramblings of his own mind, Dean focuses on pressing James back onto the navy comforter, shoving his shirt the rest of the way off as he goes. “Damn,” he says softly, licking over the sharp definition in James’ stomach. A flutter of nerves threatens Dean’s own self-esteem and he does what he always does when that happens: he jokes. “Hope you’re not disappointed when my clothes come off. I might look decent in the packaging, but this body is one hundred percent made by pie and burgers.” Of course, that’s not even remotely true. Dean works out nearly every day, alongside his players and alone, but he’s never been able to kick his love for beer, burgers, and bacon (and pie). Secure as he might be otherwise in his appearance, Dean knows that forbidden love shows in the pudge around his middle that he can never quite chase away.

Beneath him, James struggles up onto his elbows, staring down at Dean in disbelief. “That must… must be some sort of self-deprecating joke, yes?” Knowing that his cheeks are red, Dean keeps his head ducked, occupying himself by straddling James’ legs and nipping along the strip of skin just above his belt. He’s hard when Dean’s hands brush over his groin, hips flexing up a little, chasing friction as Dean’s palm skates by. “Let me assure you--” James’ words are cut off by a little moan as Dean gives in and presses down on his hand’s pass back up the top of James’ leg. “Y-you have nothing to worry about,” James manages when he finds his voice again. “I find you... extremely enticing.”

Unable to hold back the small laugh that flies out of his mouth at James’ obvious discomposure, Dean sits up to pull off his own shirt, returning swiftly to work on James’ belt and fly. “I’m glad we settled that,” he replies amiably. Together, they work the rest of their remaining clothes off and then they’re once against pressed from shoulder to knee, this time with nothing between them. The oppressive heat of the summer pushing at the doors and windows and the beckoning heat of James’ body war at Dean’s senses as he lets himself be drawn down, pulled under, enveloped by James in every single way.

The cravings Dean’s body has been subtly reminding him of for a few weeks now surface full force and Dean indulges each and every one of them shamelessly. Feeling the weight of James’ body over him, under him, tasting the salt of his skin, feeling his length, the fullness of him in his mouth… it’s so pleasurable, so thrilling that it’s almost a relief. And James is hard and strong just like Dean’s every fantasy starring a man, there’s no mistaking what he is in what they’re doing and that’s how Dean likes it. But he’s also gentle, careful, an easy sweetness running concurrently to the innate power of his every touch. There’s something about him, the way he kisses, the way he pulls Dean close and rocks their bodies together, the way his hands never seem to stop running over every inch of Dean’s skin that he can reach.

After what feels like an endless, dreamy amount of foreplay, Dean ends up f*cking James slow and deep while they’re face-to-face. Even as he’s doing it, he can’t quite believe he’s letting himself have this. The position is way too intimate, way too telling, but all Dean can do is bury his face in the crook of James’ neck because he’s a coward, and it’s goddamn everything he wants. Well, almost everything. He’d love just as much, maybe even more, to have James above him, pressing inside and tenderly rocking into him too. But Dean shakes that off, lets it go, focuses on how James feels around him and beneath him. With his face tucked into James’ neck, Dean can feel the moans rumbling out of his chest, feel him tensing and twitching, his co*ck pulsing and his breath coming faster as his org*sm crests and hits, roils and then fades away. James’ glorious arms wrap and hold tight around Dean’s shoulders when he comes, sighing that awful fake name in Dean’s ear and making him want to shake the man, to tell him the truth, to beg him outright to stop and say his real name.

Ultimately, Dean does nothing of the sort, just shakes the low key feeling of loss off the best that he can and finishes powerfully inside James. No one moves for several minutes as they both regain their breath, but eventually, things start to get sticky and gross between them and Dean can’t ignore the fact that he’s going soft inside the condom.

But James surprises him again, rolling off the bed to dart away to a hallway bathroom only to return with a warm washcloth, a bottle of water, and a request for round two. “Only if you’re up for it,” he says shyly. “I understand if you have--”

“I’m up for it,” Dean replies breathlessly without a second thought and James’ resulting smile is brilliant. Totally worth it, Dean thinks, ignoring the undeniable fact that he’s a little bit smitten with this man. “Soon as I’m, ya know…” He gestures towards his deflated groin, a little awkwardly. “Actually up for it.” James laughs, nods, and slides back into the bed beside him, stealing the water bottle from Dean’s hands to take a long sip. It feels strangely natural for Dean to pull him close, to rest his head on James’ chest, to tangle their legs beneath the twisted covers and to simply revel in each other. There are no attempts to fill the easy silence with artless small talk, just hands smoothing over skin and through hair and a once again too-intimate soft exchange of kisses. Things escalate organically from there until both Dean and James are pulling and rutting at and against each other’s bodies passionately, desperately all over again.

The rest of the night flies by in the same way, round two melting into three and three into four until both of them are too exhausted to even care that the washcloth has outlived its usefulness at least an hour prior. After mutually agreeing that round five might be pushing both of their limits, Dean falls asleep with James curled around his back, his groin pressed flush against Dean’s ass. Likewise, James’ arms wrap protectively, possessively across Dean’s stomach and in that moment, with the rush of post-org*sm endorphins coursing through his brain, he thinks just maybe, maybe for once, he could stay.

***

Dean doesn’t stay.

When he wakes up late the next morning, he’s alone but there are incredible smells wafting into the bedroom from what Dean can only presume is the kitchen. After quickly recovering his clothes and throwing them on, Dean follows his nose. On the way there he slips into the hall bathroom to relieve himself, stealing a capful of James’ mouthwash to rinse before heading out.

As suspected, he finds the man in the kitchen, wearing only a robe and plating a stack of pancakes neatly next to a pile of bacon, a matching plate of the same items parked next to the in-progress one on the breakfast bar. There are two glasses of orange juice waiting but only one mug of still-steaming coffee, the other already sitting half-drunk next to where James is working at the stove.

“Good morning,” James says, his voice sleep rough and no less sexy without the alcohol to blur the boundaries of Dean’s common sense. “Did you sleep well? I…” James hesitates, smiling softly as he places the hot pan and spatula back on the stove to cool. “I haven’t slept that soundly in ages.”

“Gonna pay for it today,” Dean replies gruffly, sliding onto the stool and downing half of the coffee in one go. He pauses to look over the rim of the mug to where James is still staring at him, his smile wavering. “Not that I have any regrets,” he adds, and there, that fixes it.

Pushing his own mug back onto the counter, James produces a small slip of paper from his robe pocket and slides it towards Dean using two fingers that he doesn’t lift up again immediately. “I’m going to go take a shower,” he says slowly, deliberately. “You’re more than welcome to join me, or not. If you need to head out, I understand, but if you ever…” He trails off, tapping his fingers against the paper. “Well, anyway. I had a wonderful time.”

As James moves away towards the hall, Dean resists his brain’s demands that he stay firmly seated in his chair and not make this worse. Instead, he follows and catches James by the wrist to tug him back around, slipping a hand across the side of his jaw and kissing him deeply. When he pulls away, James’ eyes are shining. He truly is gorgeous with his thick scruff and clear, blue eyes. Definitely no alcohol-soaked trickery there. “Thanks,” Dean tells him. “I had an awesome time. I’ll definitely call you.”

To Dean’s credit, he doesn’t even flinch when he drops his practiced line, but it hurts a lot more than usual to watch James walk away down the hall and disappear inside the bathroom. “Bye,” Dean says quietly after the door closes behind him. He moves back over to the counter and stuffs the pile of bacon inside his mouth before checking his pockets for the Impala's keys and heading for the door. As an afterthought, he goes back and takes the small slip of paper with James’ number on it, tucking it inside his wallet for safekeeping. Dean knows he won’t use it, but he can’t quite convince himself to get rid of it, either.

A reminder of a nice memory, Dean tries to convince himself. A keepsake, or whatever. That’s what this is.

As he strolls down the sidewalk outside James’ house, Dean doesn’t look back.

Chapter 3: Fall

Chapter Text

Fall

Tuesday

As far as Castiel is concerned, there are a million reasons to love Fall. The cooler weather making his sweater vests look far less out of place, for one. The part of the semester arriving where the brand-newness has worn off and everything fades into a predictable rhythm. The holiday season approaching on the horizon… It’s only early October, but Castiel can almost taste it. There’s also the relieving fact that the administration has finally seen fit to at least turn down the air conditioning in the Humanities building from sub-zero to just “chilly.” Also, there’s Castiel’s penchant for carrying a mug of hot coffee in the mornings, which is nice to do without feeling as if he’s melting from the inside out, and the fact that apples, his favorite fruit, are in season. But circling back to that air conditioning thing, that’s definitely at the top of Castiel’s list. In his defense, it was really cold in there.

But there are a few things Castiel isn’t so keen on when it comes to fall, and the pressure and expectations that come along with teaching at a College boasting a Division I football team are quickly becoming a huge part of that. Football, in general, is already a huge part of that. Castiel’s never understood the sport, always found it needlessly violent, its players and fans alike too rough and always more concerned with the silly game than anything going on out in the real world. At least, that’s always been Castiel’s working perception. It’s not like he’s bothered to get close enough to the sport to find out for sure. Unfortunately, those things that used to be a minor annoyance in his periphery are now bleeding unwanted into his professional life and threatening his career.

It all started with Geology 101.

Settling into his new job as the College’s resident Geology expert and the only Geology professor has been interesting, to say the least. His degrees are actually in Geology, Environmental Science and Environmental Studies, but no one seems to care about that. It’s perturbing, after all the years Castiel’s spent studying and the research he’s poured his soul into in order to achieve his Ph.D. to now be relegated to “the rocks teacher,” but here he is. Sometimes he wonders what he was thinking, offering to impart wisdom and knowledge unto the next generation, when he could be back out in the field, actually making a difference in the futures of said generation. Or making money hand over fist as a contractor, or even lobbying for climate change protections in Washington. But all of those things would come alongside the risk of running into people he has no interest in seeing ever again, so a fresh town and a new start in an adjacent field it had to be. Still. The majority of his students could use an attitude adjustment, at least where respect for his class is concerned.

It shouldn’t be this difficult, is the bottom line. “Geology 101: An Introduction to Physical Geology” has existed as a course option for many years prior to Castiel’s arrival on campus. This much he knew, it’s why he applied for the open Professorship. What Castiel had not been warned of in advance was the reputation said class preceded him with. Apparently, “Geology 101” had a long time ago been nicknamed “Rocks for Jocks” and widely touted as the best “easy A” fluff course on campus, perfect for athletes in search of a cakewalk they wouldn’t be required to put much effort into passing. It would appear that at least a quarter of his 101 class registered for it with this misconception in mind, and now Castiel is left to deal with the fallout.

Laying down the law with his misinformed students has been… challenging, to put it mildly. Despite his enthusiastic insistence that Geology can be both fun and interesting, a sizeable number of students steadfastly continue to refuse to put in the effort. As a result, a lot of them are failing. In fact, nearly every student on Castiel’s roster that he can match to the College’s active football team is. It appears that they’re under the false impression that they’ll pass whether they deserve to or not, simply due to their standing on the team. Someone had to have given them that impression, and it certainly wasn’t Castiel.

It’s insulting, is what it is. Castiel resents the idea that he should be obligated to hand out grades a student didn’t earn just so the College can win some sort of ball game. Castiel isn’t stupid, he understands prestige and honor and marketing of the institution via its various achievements, but he didn’t sign up to be pushed around his own classroom, either. No one warned him he’d be pressured by the faculty and administration alike, fielding concerned calls from the President himself about the fact that his “star players” are suddenly at risk of not being able to play because of Castiel.

Unsurprisingly, the President hadn’t taken kindly to Castiel gently reminding him that the students were and are failing due to their own poor choices and that if they did fail, they would bear sole responsibility for that, not him. None of that had gone over well. More to the point, Castiel had essentially been ordered to find a way to help those students pass--whatever it takes--or face termination.

For a brief moment, he actually considered letting the school fire him. No doubt he would have been able to collect unemployment while seeking another position, but uprooting his life again so soon just isn’t something Castiel’s interested in doing. He’s just started to settle in here and his upper-level classes are enjoyable, stimulating, with dedicated and enthusiastic students that are a dream to teach. Plus, he just put those planters on the front porch and filled them with mums. The colors make him as happy as anything these days.

So Castiel grits his teeth and does the only thing he can think to do. He reaches out to the Heach Coach of the football team via email and offers to work out some sort of agreement, some form of a plan to both help his students pass and keep the coach’s players in the game. This is the third or fourth time he’s corresponded over the internal message system with Dean Winchester, football coach extraordinaire, and even Castiel has to admit, he’s reluctantly impressed.

Unlike his own colleagues who were unabashedly appalled and vocally disagreed with Castiel’s decision to let the players in his class flunk out as they deserve, Dean has been surprisingly understanding to Castiel’s point of view. By all rights, Dean should be the most immovable obstacle in Castiel’s path, as Castiel’s fairly certain that if Dean put additional pressure on the administration he’d get his way. But for whatever reason, Dean is quick to offer to work with him, says that he understands the importance of prioritizing the students’ education, and for that, Castiel grudgingly has to give the man his respect.

Without being asked, Coach Winchester had sent Castiel the team’s practice schedules and pointed out that they are free two nights a week in the evenings. Geology 101 also meets twice a week, so Castiel feels like two extra study sessions in the evening are appropriate. The biggest shock, though, is that the Coach offers to accompany his students, to ensure that they all attend and that they’re actually trying. Castiel’s somewhat glad he received that offer over email and not via the phone or in person because he’s pretty sure speechlessness and the look of surprise on his face would have come off as quite rude.

It’s just that Dean Winchester is blowing all of his believed stereotypes about football enthusiasts out of the water, and Castiel hasn’t even met him yet. The man seems warm, friendly and welcoming over email, and for someone as socially awkward and formal as Castiel, that seems like an impossible feat. But it’s because of Dean’s kind demeanor that Castiel finds himself agreeing to pass the students in the meantime, so long as they come to the extra lectures and actually attempt to learn. And that Dean agrees to hold them to their promises. He does.

Which is why Castiel sits in his lecture hall at quarter to five in the evening, actually looking forward to this “extra help” tutoring session with his worst, most undisciplined students, because it also means getting to meet Coach Dean. A nervous flutter arises in his stomach but Castiel dismisses it outright. The man is probably both straight and married, he’s clearly accomplished and from the murmurs around campus, extremely attractive as well. Castiel could look him up, he’s certain there will be pictures plastered all over the school’s website of Dean coaching his team and on his professional page, but he hasn’t. He’s not really sure why he hasn’t, except that he likes to form impressions from actually meeting people face to face.

Which he’ll be doing tonight in a few short minutes.

Absently, Castiel drums his fingers on his desk and thinks about how pathetic it is that he’s so looking forward to meeting someone he’s only corresponded with over email. And only regarding professional topics at that, maybe four, five times at the most. If his family could see him now, what would they think? Well, his brothers would mock him mercilessly, that’s what. They wouldn’t be wrong to shame him, either. Castiel’s been in town for three months now and he’s socialized exactly once. Granted, that night had been incredible and Castiel’s sure even now that it would be impossible to top, but he’d given the beautiful, affectionate one-night-stand his number and the man hadn’t called.

Message received, loud and clear.

And yet, Castiel can’t stop thinking about him. His hands--rough but nimble, warm and sure on his body, Castiel had no doubt the man had worked with those hands his whole life. Michael, he’d said his name was, and though it was blatantly obvious that was a lie, Castiel hadn’t pressed. It wasn’t his business why the man felt the need to shelter the truth of who he really was. Perhaps it was common practice for him when picking up one-night-stands, perhaps he was closeted. It didn’t matter. Castiel didn’t need his real name to feel the connection that snapped and sparked between them, was more than willing to forgive any lies Michael might have doled out to protect his identity that night, should he want to be honest going forward.

But Michael hadn’t called, hadn’t come clean, and Castiel was left wondering if he’d read to much into their encounter. The man said he didn’t do that type of thing often, and Castiel had assumed he meant picking up people in general. In retrospect, he thought it more likely that he simply meant picking up men. Which in turn, made Castiel wonder if his performance was subpar, if it was something about him Michael hadn’t been interested in pursuing further.

If that were the case, though, why kiss him goodbye the way that he did? That kiss… Castiel licks his lips involuntarily to think of it, unquestionably one of the best kisses of his life.

Anyway, Michael’s motivations aside, that night was the most fun--the only fun--Castiel has had since moving here. A few times he’d considered returning to the bar, but he’d chickened out at the last minute, unsure if meeting Michael there again would be a good or a bad thing. In the end, he wasn’t brave enough to try and find out. So he’d simply thrown himself wholeheartedly into his job; preparing for classes to start and then teaching them when they did. Holding office hours, grading papers and tests, arguing with the school about unmotivated, entitled brats who wanted As without putting in the work.

Which brings him here, to where Castiel has become so pathetic that he’s excited to simply socialize with another adult, even if it is over lecture materials and unruly students.

Checking his watch, Castiel notes that the team should be filtering in at any minute. Right on time, the door at the bottom of the lecture hall opens and the students start trudging in, every one of them looking like they’re facing an execution. They’re accompanied by a cool gust of air, presumably from the doors to the outside that are right on the other side of the hallway. Shivering a little and suddenly grateful for his sweater vest, Castiel counts his charges as they walk in, cross-checks faces with names on his sheet. Some of these kids wouldn’t surprise him at all if they tried to get out of this by paying another student to go in their place.

Satisfied that everyone who is supposed to be in the room actually is and that they’re all who they’re supposed to be, Castiel moves to hand out packets before realizing something and coming to a stop. “Where is your Coach?” He directs the question to the entirety of the room which makes the students look around in confusion as if they’re surprised he’s not there too.

“He was right behind us,” a boy in the third row pipes up. “Boy” is perhaps the wrong word since he’s built like a refrigerator and takes up three seats, but all of Castiel’s students look like babies to him, and he can’t recall this particular one’s name. Swallowing the urge to suggest that Refrigerator move closer to the front since they’re a small group, Castiel clears his throat, honestly unsure if he would fit in between his peers.

“I’m texting him right now.” That response comes from a Junior named Aaron, the kicker on the team, if Castiel remembers correctly. He only knows that because Aaron never shuts up about it, finding a way to work his status into every conversation Castiel’s had with him, which was mostly class participation, none of which required discussing football at all. The fact that Aaron is a Junior and taking a 101 level science requirement is really all Castiel needs to know about him anyway, and the football program in general. “He’s--”

“I’m here!” The doors to Castiel’s left burst open again, both of them at the same time, which is both dramatic and unnecessary but also seems fitting for this situation, considering the man that’s now standing between them. “I’m…” The man goes abruptly silent, staring with wide eyes locked on Castiel. And Castiel’s in no better shape, his jaw hanging open as he tries to reconcile the picture in front of him with the last time he’d seen this man.

Beautiful green eyes, gruff voice, his hand catching Castiel’s wrist as he walked away. A warm press of lips, a palm wrapped around the back of his head. The kind of kiss that leaves a person stunned, empty-headed and buzzing, tingling from head to toe.

Michael.

No, Castiel tells himself, blinking and shaking his head to clear it. Dean. Coach Dean Winchester. That much is obvious from the outfit; red shorts, knee-high socks and a matching red warm-up jacket. He even has a sweatband around his forehead. On anyone else, Castiel has no doubt the ensemble would be completely ridiculous. Somehow, Dean makes it look adorable. sh*t.

“So… like, you guys know each other or something?” Aaron’s voices pops whatever bubble the two of them are in and Dean looks away, blushing fiercely and clearing his throat.

“No,” he says far too quickly as he makes his way to the other side of the third row from Refrigerator and plops down. “Nope, we’ve just been emailing and, I dunno, I thought all the Humanities professors were like a hundred.”

“Just the Paleontologists,” Castiel quips and Dean laughs, a little too loud and a little too long. His players look amused, exchanging glances between them. It’s hard not to notice how nervous Dean appears, but Castiel is reminded of his same hesitation when they’d stood close together out on the street, the way Dean had checked for any onlookers before allowing Castiel to stay in his space. He’s closeted, Castiel realizes, though it’s not as if he didn’t suspect that was why “Michael” didn’t call to begin with. Honestly, it’s somewhat of a relief to have that validated.

For days after their encounter, Castiel had stewed, wondering if he’d truly misread the situation. He analyzed all of their interactions from the bar to the breakfast table repeatedly, agonizing over whether he and Michael had actually connected or if he (and the alcohol in his system) had imagined it. It’s good to know there was more than simple attraction at play, though he feels for Dean. The man looks positively terrified and he’s hiding it badly, shrinking into his chair with his face as red as his clothing. Thankfully, all of their students are facing forward and no longer paying attention to Dean at all. Dean looks at him pleadingly, and Castiel flashes back what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

“Well, shall we get started? Let’s talk about what I expect from you all here, going forward. Dean, if you have anything to add, please jump in.”

The two-hour session flies by, at least from where Castiel is standing. Dean seems to loosen up as time goes on, joking with his players and generally appearing less like he’s hoping a giant fissure will open up in the floor and swallow him whole. Also, he has an actual notebook and writes down more things than any of the actual students, which both surprises and impresses Castiel. The man is clearly serious about this, very obviously cares about whether or not these kids actually learn and not just pass. It’s admirable, the way Dean is striving to set a good example and it’s not at all helping Castiel stay on topic.

At one point, he breaks the students into small groups and assigns them each a specific section of Earth Materials to discuss and present to the rest of the class. It would be an opportune time to bring Dean down front and talk to him about their joint plans going forward, but due to current circ*mstances, Castiel refrains. Instead, he opts to sit behind his desk and pretend to read the course syllabus while secretly watching Dean shift nervously in his peripheral vision. All the while, he can’t stop thinking about those anxious hands of his fiddling with a pen doing other, much less safe for work things. Things Castiel squirms in his seat to remember.

Except, the other thing Castiel remembers is what it’s like to be closeted, and he has no desire to yank Dean out into the open before he’s ready. Or ever, if that isn’t what he wants. But something about the way Dean steals glances at him, something in how he was so eager to be touched and held in an affectionate way when they shared a bed… Castiel can’t help but wonder. Is hiding who he is what Dean wants or what he thinks he has to do?

But he’s getting ahead of himself. The fact is that Dean didn’t use his number, didn’t try to contact him, and his reasons why are Dean’s business alone.

That’s harder to remember when Castiel happens to look up and catch his eye and Dean’s immediate reflex is to smile widely, before catching himself and quickly wiping the expression away. Still, Castiel finds himself smiling back, the corner of his mouth quirking up in amusem*nt at the awkwardness between them, especially on Dean’s end.

When he finally dismisses the students, the whole lot of them slam their books shut and are out of the room before Castiel has barely finished his, “See you all on Thursday” closer. He turns to wipe down the whiteboard, fully knowing that Dean is lingering but wanting to give the man an out. It seems very apparent to Castiel that the more Dean feels the ball is in his court, the better things will go. He reflects back on their night and can now see all the ways in which Dean was careful to keep control of the situation. Dean taking the initiative to invite him over to his side of the bar. Dean making sure “James’” home was within walking distance. Dean going out of his way to make clear that he wouldn’t bottom. Dean leaving on his own terms while Castiel was still in the shower. Dean never calling.

But to his surprise, when Castiel turns around Dean is still there, standing on the other side of the desk and clutching his notebook like an anxious Kindergartener on the first day of school. He’s adorable, sweatband aside, and Castiel has so many questions. But he keeps them to himself, starting to pack up his belongings as if there’s nothing out of the ordinary going on here at all.

“I hope it wasn’t too dull for you,” Castiel says casually.

Dean’s eyebrows raise and he looks around as if he’s missing the joke. “I… what?”

“The course material,” Castiel explains. “I know what your students say about my class. ‘Rocks for Jocks,’ yes? Up until this year, it’s always been somewhat of a joke, if I’m understanding the rumors correctly. That’s alright. Geology isn’t for everyone. More rocks for me.” Castiel smiles warmly when he looks up, but his actual joke falls flat as Dean continues to stare at him in confusion. Castiel sighs. “There’s no reason this has to be awkward, Dean,” he says. “And there’s no reason anyone has to know that we’ve met before.”

At those words, Dean blows out a long stream of air and slumps over Castiel’s desk, notebook dropping with a splat as his hands wrap around the edge, knuckles turning white. Dean hangs his head and shakes it between his shoulders. “I’m sorry, man,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting…” He goes quiet and shakes his head again, but lifts it to meet Castiel’s eyes. They’re just as clear and gorgeous as Castiel remembers, and the prolonged eye contact has that spark between them firing all over again.

Still, Castiel knows he has to respect Dean’s wishes and boundaries, so he pushes those thoughts and feelings aside. “I would never out you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Though this area and the campus, in particular, are very LGBT friendly. As a gay man, I made sure of that before I took the job offer. I know what it’s like to try and function in a world that isn’t accepting of you.”

Scratching at the back of his neck, Dean looks away before replying. “Yea, I do know that. It ain’t that simple for me, unfortunately. Sports world plays by a different set of rules.”

Castiel tips his head to the side in acknowledgment. “I’ll have to take your word for it,” he says. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never even seen a football match.”

“Game,” Dean corrects automatically and then flushes. “Sorry,” he says.

Fighting back another grin (Dean seems to bring those out in him), Castiel shrugs and then has a thought. It’s probably a very bad idea, getting involved even peripherally with such a deeply closeted man. It’s undoubtedly an even worse idea to try and strike up a friendship with someone he would very much like to bend over his desk and have his way with. But it’s been several months and he’s only made one friend here, a lovely girl named Charlie who works in Campus IT and pegged him from across the campus dining hall as the “lonely and lost new gay guy,” not that she was wrong. And he is going to have to work closely with Dean to get their students passing over the next couple of months at least...

“Would you like to get some dinner? Assuming you haven’t already eaten,” Castiel offers and Dean’s face goes from pink-tinged to pale in no seconds flat. “Not like that,” he adds hastily. “We should discuss the class, our plans to keep the students on track.” Castiel’s flat-out lying at this point, he really doesn’t have much more to discuss and Dean’s own motivations to keep the kids on track are self-evident. But the caveat serves its purpose and some of the color returns to Dean’s face. “If you’re worried about people seeing us in public and getting the wrong idea, we could go back to my place.” Alright, now he’s pushing it.

“‘M not sure that’s such a good idea,” Dean mumbles, though he certainly doesn’t look disinterested. Castiel watches as his emotions war across his face, pleased when resolve seems to win out, closely followed by curiosity. “Nah,” Dean says finally. “We’re coworkers. It’s normal for co-workers to hang out. I hang out with Charlie all the time, and no one thinks we’re hooking up.”

“Also, we’re not hooking up,” Castiel reminds him helpfully and Dean cringes.

“Yea… About that, listen, I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

Dean sounds more sincere than Castiel would have expected and that’s encouraging. He hoists his laptop bag over his shoulder and starts for the lecture hall doors, Dean trailing behind him like a kicked puppy. “You don’t owe me anything, Dean,” Castiel says easily. “I knew what I was getting into.”

“True,” Dean allows. “James.”

“James is my middle name.” Holding the door for Dean, Castiel shivers a little as they step out into the cool night air. The thin cotton of his button-down is sufficient for inside and was adequate for the warmth this morning had offered, but it’s lacking now. Dean must be freezing in his shorts, but if he is, he doesn’t show any sign that’s the case.

“Way to make me feel worse.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, Dean shuffles along beside Castiel. His car is parked in the main lot and that’s more or less in the same direction as the athletic complex. Well, it’s not completely out of the way. Castiel’s willing to make allowances. Dean doesn’t seem to notice or he’s just not calling it out and instead, continues talking. “The first time I went lookin’ to pick up a dude, I didn’t think it through. It was only when there was a guy standing in my face, hitting on me that I realized I didn’t want to give him my name.” Dean shrugs. “Michael was the first name that popped into my head. ‘Course, that was probably because his name was Michael, too.”

The unexpected twist makes Castiel burst out laughing and he covers his mouth quickly, worried he offended Dean. Thankfully, when he turns his head to check, Dean’s grinning and his eyes are twinkling “I’ve uh, never told anyone that story,” Dean admits. “Which is a damn shame, ‘cause it’s f*ckin’ hilarious.”

“Let me take you to dinner, Dean,” Castiel says impulsively, circling back to their earlier conversation. “It can mean whatever you’d like it to mean. I could really use a friend, to be honest, and it seems like you could use one too. You can be yourself with me, if that’s something you’d like. I will never pressure you, either way.” There’s a moment of silence and Castiel’s heart sinks as he waits for Dean to say no, to say “Thanks but no thanks, I just can’t do this with you,” but that doesn’t happen.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Dean replies after a while, his tone thoughtful. “I’ll go to dinner if you come to the game on Saturday.”

“The… football game?” Castiel wonders out loud.

“Yea,” Dean affirms with a nod. “I mean, it’s only fair.” He elbows Castiel, nudging into him as they walk down the hill and past the sophom*ore dorms. “I’m learning all about your precious rocks.”

“Precious stones,” Castiel corrects reflexively, even though they haven’t reached that portion of the syllabus yet and Dean snorts.

“That was a joke, Cas.” The easy nickname makes Castiel tingle, makes him want to get closer to Dean, to score that relaxed, comfortable affection from him in any way Dean might be willing to give it. This is dangerous territory, but Castiel’s not scared. “Anyway, the way I figure it, you owe me. Let me bore your socks off too. Plus, you’ll get to see what your students are working for, why football matters so much to them.”

Castiel tips his head in acceptance. “That does sound very fair,” he agrees, though he doesn’t voice the excitement he feels that Dean apparently wants him around, wants to share his passion with him. Relax, Novak, he tells himself. It’s not that serious. “I’ll be there. Are you that bored in my class?”

When Castiel glances over, Dean’s ears are pink, and Castiel wonders if it’s from the cold or the conversation. “Nah,” Dean replies, forced-casual. “Stuff’s actually pretty cool. The uh, the way you teach it, anyway.”

“Hmm,” Castiel replies, pleased. “So, dinner?”

Dean just grins. “I have an idea. You like burgers?”

Chapter 4: Fall

Chapter Text

Fall

Tuesday

It’s not until Dean’s halfway through frying his homemade burgers in a pan on Castiel’s stovetop that what he’s doing really starts to penetrate through his thick skull. But Dean’s nothing if not a professional and Castiel has been far more friendly and understanding towards him than he deserves. Plus, there’s the whole... being stuck with each other, at least for the foreseeable future, thing. So it probably wouldn’t be a good idea for Dean to abandon the burgers and bolt for the door the minute Castiel pops off to the bathroom. He doubts he’ll be forgiven for that twice. With all that in mind, Dean manages to last until they’re both seated at the table and Castiel’s tucking into his meal before he lets the panic completely take control.

Well, he eats his burger first. No sense in wasting good food.

But after the burger’s gone, when Castiel turns to look at him and says, “So,” Dean’s officially reached the end of his “ability to act normal” rope. If he were any good at communicating his feelings to others, this would be the point in the evening where he’d tell Castiel that this whole situation is a lot. A f*cking truckload of lot, actually. Coming to terms with his bisexuality was one thing, back when it was all compartmentalized and kept separate from anything even remotely labeled “Dean’s real life.” But this… Dean’s aware that it wasn’t intentional, that Castiel didn’t plan this or overstep any boundaries. If anything, it’s his own fault for giving a fake name. If Dean had only been secure enough to be himself, Castiel never would have felt the need to call himself James. Then Dean would have recognized his name and bailed out before things could become… well, this.

But now their lives are intertwined, messy. Dean believes that Castiel has no interest in either pressuring him into something he doesn’t want or exposing him, but that isn’t the problem, is it? No. This thing between them is messy because Dean wants to be here. Hell, the feeling that swept over his body when it was James standing at the front of that classroom… Dean’s not sure he has words to describe it. Fear and shame, sure, but also elation. Because yes, Dean didn’t call. But “James’” number is still tucked away in his wallet and not a day has gone by that Dean hasn’t thought about him, about being with him. Not just sexually but… more. Those fantasies that he usually outright denies himself, they keep popping up, forcing their way into his daydreams, haunting his nights, taunting him with everything he could maybe have but won’t dare to let himself consider.

And now all of that is sitting in front of him, casually wiping the remnants of a burger he cooked from the sides of his mouth and staring at Dean with an unreal amount of concern and interest in those big, blue eyes.

Panic.

“Hoo boy,” Dean wheezes, a half-formed laugh punching its way awkwardly out of the back of his throat. “D’you have any… I’m just gonna…” He raises a finger as he shoves his chair haphazardly away from the table and stumbles towards Castiel’s fridge. Flinging open the freezer, Dean grabs a bag of frozen peas and presses them to his forehead, sucking in several deep breaths before turning around to face Castiel again. The guy is just sitting there watching him lose it, one hand still holding his napkin partially lifted like he was thinking of dabbing at his face again but forgot. His eyebrows are raised but Dean’s not getting a particularly judgemental vibe, not that he’s in the best state to be assessing other people’s emotions right now. The squinty expression on his face makes him look even more adorable, God help Dean.

After another minute of staring, Castiel speaks. “Are you… Can I help?” Dean squeezes his eyes shut and when he opens them again, Castiel’s shifted in his chair to face him. He’s got both arms resting on his thighs, palms up, and while Dean is no Ph.D., he did take Psych 101 and he knows what that body language means. Open, approachable, non-threatening. Castiel thinks he’s one banana short of a bunch, fantastic, this is going great. How did they even get here? Wasn’t this supposed to be grub and a simple, easy conversation about class? Just some professional note-sharing between totally platonic co-workers.

Right, sure.

Even Dean’s not so good at denial he can pretend that’s the reason he came here. He’s also not so good at repression that he’s able to forget making the truly pathetic noise he hears come from his own mouth, but hell, what’s one more humiliating straw on this camel’s back?

And then Castiel’s there, in his face. “Dean, it’s alright,” he says soothingly, and Dean hates it, doesn’t want his pity. Instead of engaging with Castiel, Dean looks at the ceiling and shakes his head.

“It’s f*ckin’ embarrassing,” he grunts. “I’m just… I got a lot on my plate. I care about these kids, man. I care about being a good example for them, about being the kind of man they can look up to. I can’t come out, Cas. Not with my job, not with the expectations the whole world has for someone like me.”

“I’m struggling not to take offense to that but Dean, I told you, I would never--”

“But that’s the thing, you know?” Dean continues, running a hand through his hair and tugging the strands slightly in frustration. “I want it. sh*t, Cas. I can’t help the things I want. Being here with you…” Dean trails off and finally lets himself look down at Castiel, feeling helpless. And hell, if that doesn’t make everything so much worse. Yanking his gaze away from Castiel’s all-seeing one and the temptation of his slightly parted mouth only inches away, Dean drops the peas onto the counter. Clearing his throat, he heads back over to the table and gathers up the dirty dishes, relocating them all to the sink. Castiel just lets him and Dean sees in his peripheral vision that the only movement he really makes is a slight turn of his head to watch Dean as he moves around.

Time to change the subject. “I, uh, like what you’ve done with the place,” Dean offers and it sounds stupid and desperate, even to his own ears. Why is he so bad at this? It’s not like Castiel is contributing to this awkwardness in any way, oh no, this is all Disaster Dean.

At least he’s telling the truth, as far as the house is concerned. The kitchen and eating areas are tucked underneath the loft, open-plan and facing the living room which boasts an enormous, welcoming stone fireplace. There are a ton of candles in various eclectic holders around it and above it, which seems so damn Castiel. The furniture in the room is earth-toned and appears comfortable as hell, the curtains on the windows creamy and heavy. The lighting is soft and there are piles of books and plants f*ckin’ everywhere. There are green accents on the walls that match the green marble of the kitchen countertops and all of it complements the dark wooden beams that crisscross the ceiling above the kitchen and carry through to the rest of the house. Even the u-shaped staircase that goes up to the loft continues with that same rich wood and has a built-in bookcase on the side of its lower flight. Full to bursting, of course. It’s all incredibly homey and inviting and God, it makes Dean want things that he shouldn’t even more.

This was a terrible attempt at a subject change.

He gives up. For several minutes, Dean just scrubs at the dishes in the sink silently before abandoning the pretense of cleaning and tossing the sponge into the suds he’s created. “f*ck,” he murmurs, wiping the back of his wrist across his forehead and watching the sponge sink to the bottom of the basin. When he feels a hand in the middle of his back, it’s hardly unexpected. Dean tenses, but holds his ground and doesn’t pull away. Patient as ever, Castiel just waits, and Dean knows without asking that it’s not a demand, just an offer. When he doesn’t say anything, Castiel starts to move his hand slightly in soothing circles and Dean lets out a breath, allowing himself to relax, just a little.

“You are safe here, you know,” Castiel’s low voice reminds Dean gently.

Breathing somewhat raggedly, Dean has several false starts before he’s finally able to make words again. They stick in the back of his throat but he forces them out anyway. What does come out isn’t exactly what he really wants to say, but it’s something, and Castiel deserves that. Deserves better than the neurotic, babbling idiot he’s turning out to be tonight, but Dean’s trying, for once. “I, uh, I like it… here,” he says, slowly turning around to find himself once again only inches away from Castiel’s face. He’s so damn beautiful. Prettier than any woman Dean’s ever been with, effortlessly sexy in a way that just can’t be faked. That persistent five o’clock shadow, those soulful, intense blue eyes, those perfect, plush pink lips.

God, they call to Dean.

“I’m glad,” Castiel says, fingering the edge of Dean’s jacket. Presumably, he’s responding to Dean’s reply about liking it here, but Dean’s already forgotten what they were talking about. Just like that, he’s flipped from bisexual-in-distress mode to fully losing himself in fantasies of what being close to Castiel again, this time as himself would be like. In Dean’s defense, they’re good fantasies.

f*ck it, he thinks. I’m in this deep.

When he leans forward to kiss Castiel, there’s no secondary explosion of panic and regret like Dean half-expected. It’s just softness and want and satisfaction. Castiel’s sweet and pliant and careful under his grip, letting Dean lead, allowing him to control how fast and how far and to where this incredibly ill-advised kiss goes. It feels good. It feels like that moment where his team bursts through the paper banner as they rush onto the field before the first game of the season. Dean can almost hear the crowd roaring their support, feel the stadium lights shining down, taste all the excitement and hope and enthusiasm zipping through the air like static electricity. Castiel hums and opens his mouth just a little and Dean pulls him closer, holds him tight.

“I don’t know how to want you,” he mumbles into Castiel's mouth, accidentally letting out another one of those breathy moans as Castiel’s hands smooth over his hair, down the sides of his face. He pulls away a little, thumbs over Dean’s bottom lip before leaning back in to deliver another short, chaste kiss.

“We’ll figure it out,” Castiel whispers against Dean’s mouth. “We’ll--” But Dean cuts him off, kisses him hard, backs him up against the island with the range on it, careful to avoid the cooling burners. Without knowing exactly how long they keep it up, they kiss for enough time that Dean’s anxiety dims and goes out, his arousal doing its best to take over in its place. Despite how incredible Castiel feels pressed up against him, Dean’s not quite ready for that. Not yet and not tonight. When he pulls back, Castiel’s eyes are heavy-lidded and hazy, his mouth slick and already quirking up in that little smile he always seems to do when he’s amused.

“You laughin’ at me?” Dean asks, low and a little self-conscious. Castiel just shakes his head no, takes Dean’s hand and squeezes it. With one last deep breath in and out, Dean steps away. “I’m gonna head out,” he says, fumbling around on the counter for his keys.

“Alright,” Castiel says softly. “Would you take my number this time? I hope…” He trails off, leaving the rest to Dean, who fishes his wallet out of his back pocket, somewhat red-faced. But when he pulls out the little slip of paper, Castiel’s face lights the f*ck up. Really, Dean’s never seen anything like it, he’s so obviously thrilled at the fact that Dean kept his digits.

“I’ll put it in my phone this time,” Dean promises. “I’ll text you when I get home.” He starts for the front door before stopping to turn halfway around, stalling and fiddling with his keys. “I ain’t makin’ any promises here,” he says gruffly.

“Okay,” Castiel replies. “What are you doing, exactly?” His tone isn’t accusatory, but that doesn’t mean Dean’s got a good answer for him.

“Not sure,” is what he finally lands on, and Castiel nods.

“Alright,” he says again. “Will I see you on Thursday?”

Dean co*cks his head and raises his eyebrows. “‘Course,” he replies. “Made you a deal.” Despite the emotions and anxiety beginning to swirl inside him again, Dean smiles and winks. “Besides,” he says, “Wouldn’t want to miss out on getting to see another one of those sexy sweater vests in action.” Before Castiel can reply, Dean’s out the door and on his way home, all the while unable to decide whether to congratulate or kick himself.

What the hell is he doing?

***

Wednesday

Wednesdays are busy, and that’s a relief for Dean because it means he has to concentrate on his job and not the choices he made the night before. Meetings all morning and prepping for drills in the afternoon means there’s hardly a spare moment to even think about Castiel. And when things slow down post-lunch slump, Dean marches his ass to the weight room and pushes himself on the toughest machines until he’s sweating and exhausted. His anxiety never has a chance to sink its teeth in, not today.

Practice that evening really drives that home. The air outside on the field is cool and crisp and perfect for a workout. Dean puts the team through their paces and joins in on a fair amount of it, to set a good example as much as to blow off steam. When the team does Monkey Rolls, Dean starts out right there in the middle, rolling and hopping under and over his players like it’s his ass on the line and not theirs. When he calls for burpees, he stays in the thick of it, catching and passing the football when it’s thrown to his place in the line. And even after that, when Dean’s thighs and arms are already burning and his brain is screaming that he’s way too old for this, Dean demands 50 40s and runs them right alongside his team.

Most of the players are dry-heaving or outright vomiting by the end of their sprints and Dean’s in on that too. But when he’s eventually able to suck in air without extreme pain in his lungs and ribs, he actually feels better. Collapsed on his back with his players doing the same all around him, Dean’s brain is all but cemented in the “off” position. He takes a long time recovering, just staring up at the blackness, stars drowned out completely by the bright stadium lights.

“Ughhh.” Dean’s starting quarterback, Max, groans and curls in on himself somewhere to Dean’s left. “Why do you hate us?”

“Bitch, do you not see me down here with you?” Dean fires back, though his words come out slightly wheezy.

“Yea,” Max rasps, his hand reaching out to pat Dean’s head and accidentally (or not) whacking him in the face. “I’m sure someday I’ll appreciate that. Maybe when the feeling returns to my legs.”

“Ice,” Aaron grumbles, shoving himself up off of the ground to his feet and staggering for the locker room. “Gonna shove a whole bucket straight down my pants.” Dean tries to laugh but it hurts, so he stops with a grimace and an arm wrapped across his chest.

Benny, one of Dean’s assistant coaches, blocks out the light as he appears above Dean’s head and peers down at him with a raised eyebrow. “Chief?” He asks. “You need a hand up?”

“Ice machine full?” Dean asks, slapping his palm together with Benny’s offered one and allowing himself to be pulled vertical. He winces at the ache in his shoulders. And his back. And his legs. And especially his bum knee. Alright, maybe he went a little overboard.

“‘Course,” Benny replies. “Damn, brother. What did they do to you to deserve this? Or should I be asking, what did you do to you?” Benny’s a great friend, knows him far too well, and honestly, Dean could probably confide in him. There’s very little doubt in Dean’s mind that Benny wouldn’t judge him, for Castiel or anything else. But that would require talking, not to mention a lot more energy and interest than Dean can dig up at the moment. Also, courage, which he may or may not have in short supply. So Dean just grunts and limps past his friend towards the locker room, his players gingerly struggling to follow.

While Dean might slightly regret how hard he pushed his body tonight, he can’t argue with the results. At this point, he can barely focus on putting one foot in front of the other, never mind muster up the enthusiasm to be anxious about Cas and whatever it is they’re doing together. One thing at a time. One foot in front of the other.

***

Thursday

By the middle of the next day, Dean is siding a little bit more with Benny. His body is extremely sore, the ice bath he took at home only taking the worst of the edge off. Most of the day involves Dean trading off his heating pad for sacks of ice, unsure which is more effective and ultimately deciding that neither are of any particular use. Extra-strength Motrin every four hours keeps him from flat out giving up and laying down on the floor of his office, but only just barely. To make things worse, Dean still has to trek a quarter of a mile uphill to the Humanities building tonight and then sit through two hours of Castiel’s sex-smooth voice and everything it does to him. At least the pain in his body should go a ways towards discouraging his junk from letting everyone in the room know exactly what he thinks about listening to Castiel.

At the last minute, Dean calls Benny and gets him to run the team practice, opting to stay in his office and review films, go over the game plan for the coming Saturday. It’s a good excuse, and one his players might not even poke at too hard in an effort to make fun of him.

Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Dean eyes the bottle of Motrin and then the clock, moaning a little as he laments the time he still has to wait before taking another dose. “Damn him,” he mutters out loud, but it’s without heat. Despite everything and particularly his own brain, Dean can’t wait to see Castiel again. He’s got no idea what might happen next, but there’s something about the guy that Dean’s drawn to, and denying the pull between them seems flat out idiotic at this point. Not to mention, Dean probably wouldn’t get to kiss him anymore if he did that. And weirdly enough, kissing Castiel is slowly but surely climbing his priority list.

Just as long as they’re only doing it in private.

So Dean trudges through the rest of his day, body aching and mind ripped in various directions. Half of Dean can’t wait to see Castiel, half of him is still scared sh*tless and wants to do anything but that. Part of him wonders whether he should be worried about his students picking up on the tension between them, but ultimately, most of him just flat-out hurts.

When quarter to five rolls around, Dean finishes off a protein bar and chucks the wrapper into the trash like he’s shooting a basket. The muscle in his right bicep spasms at the last second, causing him to flinch and miss the shot, the wrapper bouncing off the rim. Briefly imagining the discomfort of either crouching down or bending over to retrieve it, Dean decides to simply leave the trash on the floor where it lies. He gets up and hobbles over towards the door, wincing enough during the short walk to abandon the idea of getting to the Humanities building on foot completely. Thankfully, there’s a golf cart stored in the garage built into the side of the academic complex, and Dean has the key. The thing is usually only used for transporting VIPs around campus and at games, or occasionally to remove hurt players from the field.

But what fun is it being Head Coach if Dean can’t abuse his power, just a little? Golf cart, it is. On his way up the hill, Dean passes Aaron and Max and he’s slightly less humiliated about his current state when he sees them limping too. Not nearly as much as Dean, of course, but he’ll take it. Like the good coach he is, Dean takes pity on them and lets them cop a ride after he gives them both once-overs to ensure their injuries aren’t anything more than soreness. As he’s doing that, two more players happen by and pile in behind him. By the time he’s pulling up outside the Humanities building, all of the players currently flunking Geology 101 (except for Calvin, who would topple the cart even if the rest of them sat on the opposite side) are packed in around him.

They all tumble off, horsing around and complaining, and Dean narrowly dodges a few friendly shoves, cringing at the idea of anything touching him roughly right now. He’s pretty sure that if he gets knocked to the ground, he’s not getting back up. Old age is a bitch. He holds the door for his students as they file in, along with the few others that aren’t athletes but that Castiel was gracious enough to offer the same extra credit option his players are getting. As he was on Tuesday, the man himself is front and center of the lecture hall, looking stupidly gorgeous in a navy blue sweater vest and tie over a baby blue button-down and khakis. Not for the first time, Dean wonders how an outfit so objectively dorky could possibly look so damn hot.

When the door closes behind Dean, Castiel’s attention is automatically drawn his way. Dean has to fight the blush that crops up when the man smiles widely at him, like he’s surprised he came back or something. In response, Dean salutes and waves his notebook as he skates across the classroom, desperately trying to distract from the pink rush that he can feel staining his cheeks. He slides into a seat in the third row since most of the students are in the first two. It ain’t foolproof, but Dean knows himself well enough to be sure that his red face won’t be the last dumb mistake he makes under Castiel’s gaze.

Today, Castiel’s reviewing his lecture on “The Earth’s Mantle and Core,” and he’s brought along this weird looking globe Dean remembers seeing perched on one of his many bookshelves. The sphere is set into the same sort of stand and spins just like a regular globe, but there are cracks running through it, sort of like a slice of pie that’s been cut and then re-inserted back into the dish. Dean watches with interest as Castiel removes the slice, revealing a painted diagram of all the earth’s layers inside.

“Cool,” Dean blurts out, his eyes immediately going wide and dropping to his notebook when he realizes it wasn’t in the privacy of his own head.

“It is very cool, Coach Winchester,” Castiel agrees, amusem*nt laced through his voice as the class stifles giggles.

“Whatever,” Dean scoffs, proving himself right as his face heats up again. He busies himself taking notes as Castiel hands the globe and its slice off to be passed around, but when the model comes to him, Dean takes all the time he wants checking it out. He even draws a little picture of it on his page and labels it accordingly. It is pretty cool. Dean wonders if Castiel has any other neat stuff like that at his house, wonders if he’d let Dean come check it out. For the class, of course. Strictly science-related. Just in case the students ask him any questions or need his help studying.

Speaking of studying, there’s a quiz on Monday, and Castiel jumps ahead to their current material to go over expectations and answer questions. It’s a little dizzying for Dean to follow since he’s not in the regular lecture, but he tries. It seems like Castiel’s doing his best to use a balance of reviewing older class topics that the students likely didn’t pay attention to while also attempting to keep them on track with what’s currently being taught. It’s an ambitious, daunting strategy from where Dean’s sitting, but Castiel handles it with ease, moving fluidly between the units and buoying the class along with him. Dean has to admit, he’s impressed. If he’d had teachers this committed and captivating, he might never have bailed out of his degree.

Okay, that’s a lie. Lecture halls versus sold out football stadiums; it was never a contest. But he might have felt bad about it, anyway. Maybe even have held onto the desire to finish what he started when he came back here to coach. It crosses Dean’s mind that he still could, that he’s basically doing a practice run right now and handling it quite well. Maybe he’ll ask Castiel if he can take some of the quizzes and tests, see if his geriatric brain is still capable of doing the whole test-taking thing at all. Listening and participating in a class is one thing… actually passing it is something entirely else. Dean taps his pen against the edge of the little half-desk before shoving the end of it into his mouth.

He should call Sam later, see what he thinks about all this. Or maybe not, Sam might have an actual heart attack from excitement if Dean so much as hints at the idea of going back to school, the giant nerd. Thinking about Sam has Dean zoning out a little, but he comes back around when Castiel turns his back to write on the whiteboard, breaking down the Earth’s various layers with pictures and arrows. Dean shifts in his chair, thighs growing increasingly sore against the uncomfortable seat, and tries not to check out Castiel’s ass, but it’s fruitless. Those khakis hug his thighs like they were sewn on him and Dean’s eyes glaze over a little.

Unfortunately for Dean’s notes, Castiel spends the majority of the rest of the session utilizing the whiteboard, and Dean just hopes he manages to record all of the main points. Or that no one ever asks him what he was doing while Castiel was reviewing the Asthenosphere. Still, as much as he’d like to hang around and chat up his new… what, friend? They’re not exactly friends, they barely know each other. Co-worker? No, that would be the understatement of the year. Occasional kissing buddy? Casual hookup? Secret lover? The downfall of Dean’s entire career and everything he’s worked for? That last one is probably excessively dramatic, but Jesus Christ, Dean needs help. Well, whatever the hell Castiel is to him, Dean would love nothing more than to hang out and shoot the sh*t.

But his lower back is aching something fierce, his hips and knees (especially the bad one) are crying out begging for Dean to get into a tub of either hot or cold water and then lay himself out on the nearest memory foam mattress for as long as humanly possible. Preferably with a bottle of something strong and liquid at his bedside, and Dean’s definitely not referring to his Motrin gelcaps. So when Castiel calls it for the night and the students all bolt for the door, Dean gathers his things and moves to follow.

He makes it, even has a hand on the wood and is pushing forward when Castiel’s voice finds its way to his ears, low and sultry and inviting, or at least, Dean thinks so. And maybe Dean is imagining it or projecting, but he also thinks there’s a touch of hurt there too. “Leaving so soon? Are we avoiding me, by chance?”

Withdrawing his hand from the door like it’s a hot pan, Dean whirls around a little too quickly. The motion tugs on his hamstring and thus his busted knee in just the right way to cause a firey-hot flash of pain that travels down his leg and up into his pelvis. “Augh!” Dean groans. Involuntarily, he crumples inward, grabbing his thigh and barely maintaining vertical status by reaching out to hold onto the back of one of the chairs in the front row of seats. There’s a hand under his elbow almost immediately, firm and steady, and another on the small of his back. Dean winces and leans into Castiel just slightly--but only so he doesn’t end up on the floor.

“Dean, are you alright?” Castiel’s voice is full of concern, and Dean manages to flash the “OK” symbol as he straightens up, opening his squeezed-shut eyelids to find pools of blue staring back.

“f*ck me,” he breathes and the corners of Castiel’s eyes crinkle in amusem*nt, which is embarrassing as hell. So naturally, Dean overcorrects, going for casual but ending up sounding about as happy as a mall Santa at the end of a ten-hour shift. “I mean, yep. Yep, I’m good. All good.” Narrowing his eyes, Castiel moves to let go of Dean’s elbow but thinks better of it as Dean tries to step away and wobbles, visibly grimacing. The hell with it, Dean thinks and comes clean. “I uh, tried to keep up in practice with a bunch of kids whose joints are a decade fresher than mine. Also, none of them have a career-ending knee injury, so. Wasn’t the smartest decision I’ve made this week.”

Stepping closer, Castiel winces in sympathy, his arm winding more securely around Dean’s waist. “You didn’t need to come here tonight,” he says. “I would have understood. Though, I am glad to see you.”

“I do need to come,” Dean insists, allowing Castiel to escort his limping carcass over to the slightly more comfortable-looking chair that sits behind his desk. Lowering him into it, Castiel kneels immediately and touches Dean’s right knee. “These kids are my responsib… what are you doing?”

“It’s this knee, yes? I noticed you favoring it when we walked together after class on Tuesday evening.”

“Um, yea,” Dean affirms hesitantly. “But you don’t need to--oh, God.” As Castiel’s deft, dexterous fingers dig into his calf, massaging deeply but carefully, Dean’s eyes roll and his head drops back onto the chair he can’t help but slump down into. “ That-- holy hell, you are in the wrong profession. Oh, yea, right there...”

“I dated a physical therapist while I was getting my doctorate,” Castiel says conversationally, his fingers working their way slowly around the muscles that support Dean’s knee. “I suppose I picked up a few useful things. Dean, you’re very tight. This must be excruciating. Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but I believe I could be of some help. If you’d let me drive you home, I would be glad to try and work some of this tension out.”

If Castiel’s offer hadn’t come with the incredibly persuasive demonstration his hands are currently putting on, Dean might have been a bit more reluctant to accept. Might have gotten caught up in his head, worried about one thing or another. Someone seeing them together, nearly two nights in a row, that sort of thing. As it is, those self-sabotaging thoughts don’t even occur to him. In fact, it doesn’t even cross Dean’s mind to say no. Not with Castiel’s kneading touches sending him sailing into a state of bliss he couldn’t even imagine five minutes ago, and those are on his calf, over his jeans. Dean’s already ranking this massage way up there as one of the best he’s ever experienced, and it’s barely anything. He’s just that sore that any soothing touch is an abject relief at this point. Plus, as a professional coach, he can’t argue with the recovery value of massage for sports injuries. Really, it would negligent to turn Castiel away, especially when he so obviously wants to help.

“I mean, I don’t wanna put you out,” Dean replies with his arm draped over his face, his words somewhat mumbley as he tries not to drift off into dreamland.

Laughing softly as if the idea of him having anything better to do than dole out free intimate massages to a closet case is ludicrous, Castiel stops rubbing and squeezes Dean’s calf affectionately. He gets to his feet and tugs on Dean’s hand. “Come along, Dean,” he says. “I rode my bicycle here today. Would I be able to put it in your car?”

Blinking dazedly as his eyes adjust back to the lecture hall lighting, Dean hesitates. He’s not big on stuff that could muss up his Baby’s interior going inside of it, but the alternative is possibly not getting Castiel’s hands back on his body as soon as possible. But then Dean has another idea. A very awesome, terrible idea. “Or,” he says carefully, making a big show of checking his watch. “You could just stay over, I can drive you back tomorrow morning.” There’s a weighted pause, a long moment where Castiel just stares and doesn’t respond and Dean hurries to fill it. “I have an awesome couch, it pulls out, memory foam and everything, I--”

Dean’s cut off abruptly by Castiel’s mouth on his, capturing his lips and holding them. Dean’s hands tighten on the arms of the chair as Castiel pulls away slightly and then dips back in--once, twice, kisses short and sweet, lingering. He tastes like cinnamon gum, hot damn. When Castiel shifts back for real, still leaning down over the chair and only a few inches from Dean’s face, he stares into Dean’s eyes with questions swirling in his own. All Dean can do in response is gulp. He is so f*cking screwed. Part of him wants to panic, but the other part…

Reaching up, he slides a palm along the outside of Castiel’s jaw, smooth with just the slightest prickle of the day’s stubble growing in. Shaved this morning, probably. Dean applies enough soft pressure to draw him closer, to bring their mouths back together softly. “Okay,” he sighs against Castiel’s lips. “Okay.”

***

They bicker about who is going to drive the golf cart. It’s not long before Castiel wins, Dean’s knee threatening to freeze up completely in the chilly night air. Cas takes advantage of that which sucks, asking a question about what Dean would do if that happened while they were coasting down the hill behind the dining hall. Dean’s muttered “something would stop us,” didn’t satisfy, so with an annoyed grunt he relinquished the keys and dragged himself around to the passenger’s side. Folding himself in, Dean reflexively clutches at his knee, hoping the pressure from his hands will lessen the stabbing ache and the near-constant shooting pain moving up and down his leg. It’s not particularly successful.

From across the seat, Castiel notices his discomfort and looks on sympathetically, but when he reaches out to touch, Dean slaps his hand away. Darting glances around the darkened quad, he only relaxes when he’s reassured that no one saw. With a sigh, Castiel turns his attention back to the cart and navigates them toward the athletic complex without comment. Once there, Castiel unloads his bicycle from where he dumped it in the back of the cart and Dean locks it inside his office. And then they’re off, and this time, Dean’s too damn sore to argue about who’s going to drive. In fact, he barely even thinks about it as he hands over the keys to his Baby, something he rarely ever does, even to the person he trusts most in the world; his brother, Sam.

It’s just too damn easy to let his guard down with Castiel.

As humiliating as it is, Dean’s glad to have Castiel around when he attempts the two flights of stairs up to his apartment. While the rest of his body is simply sore and in pain, his knee is another story altogether. That reality is something Dean frequently lives in denial of, and as a result, he pays for it just like this more often than he needs to. Sometimes his knee will hold up when he pushes it, for longer than it should, even. The problem there is, it always eventually gives out, and from one step to the next can become quite literally useless. Naturally, this happens on the walk from the car up to his apartment, resulting in Dean almost taking a header down the stairs and Castiel coming to his rescue like some sort of sweater-vested superhero to Dean’s damsel in distress.

And Castiel is weirdly strong for a nerdy dude, though Dean already knows what he’s packing underneath those clothes. As Castiel grips his waist and half-drags him up the stairs, Dean will never, under penalty of death, admit how hot under the collar that makes him. He covers pretty well though, and the distraction of doubling over to clutch his throbbing knee isn’t even an act. Still, even Dean has to admit that his priorities have gotten a little twisted as he tries to sort out this thing with Castiel.

But at the end of the day, Dean is tired of running and hiding, tired of denying himself the things he wants. And Castiel is so stupidly persistent that it’s almost easy to convince himself it’s solely Castiel driving this thing between them along. Dean’s just being hospitable, offering his couch up to the friendly guy who’s doing him a huge favor. Sure, Jan. Barely catching himself before he scoffs out loud, Dean wonders if it’s possible for that to sound as dumb out loud as it does in his head.

No, Dean knows exactly what he’s doing here, and even though he worries, he’s honestly having a hard time feeling sorry about it. So long as it stays between them, in the privacy of their own homes where no one can see and judge, what harm is kissing Castiel doing? Or getting to know him, spending time together. Castiel certainly seems to have his number, and he’s a big boy, he’s seen Dean panic and he knows what he’s getting into at this point.

“Oh sh*t,” Dean says out loud, abruptly realizing the irony of his thoughts. Castiel still does not have his number. “I never texted you.”

“Oh,” Castiel replies. “No, you didn’t.”

“It was an accident,” Dean presses, stopping their slow ascent of the stairs to unwind himself from Castiel’s grip and dig his phone out of his red warm-up pants’ pocket. “I’ll fix it, right now.”

“You don’t need to--”

“I want to,” Dean insists. “Besides, I could use a break here.” He leans back against the wall of the stairwell and lets his bum leg dangle off the step he’s standing on. Pulling up Castiel’s name on the screen, he fires off a text message that dings in the pocket right next to him.

With a roll of his eyes, Castiel extracts his phone. “As I was saying, you don’t have to prove anything to me, Dean.” He swipes open his phone with a click and visibly bites back a smile when he reads the message. Dean looks back down at his own screen and grins.

To Castiel: It’s me, Michael. Sorry it took me so long.

“My phone is suggesting I add you to my contacts as “Michael,” Castiel replies without looking up. “Well, I suppose technology is never wrong.”

Pulling a faux-shocked face, Dean touches his hand to his chest. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” Castiel replies smugly, flipping his phone around to show Dean the screen that proudly displays a text from ‘Michael’. “I did.”

“Fine, f*cker,” Dean growls, swiping and punching at his phone before similarly turning it so that Castiel can see ‘James’ now headlining the top of their text message thread. Castiel laughs before tucking his phone away and lifting Dean’s arm over his head to wrap around his shoulders again.

“You know, James isn’t nearly as good a masseuse as Cas,” Castiel tells him as they hobble up a few more steps. “He also drinks only fourteen-dollar-a-bottle craft beer and plays elevator muzak in the car.”

“I’ve been misled,” Dean moans. “I changed my mind, I want Cas back.”

“James needs love too,” Castiel replies straight-faced, as he hauls Dean up the last of the stairs.

The only part of this plan Dean didn’t quite think through is his apartment itself. It’s small; pretty much one big shared room portioned into living areas (TV and sofa, kitchen, dining table), a small bedroom, a bathroom, and a tiny balcony that’s empty except for an equally tiny grill. Considering how often he’s not home, the lack of space has always served Dean just fine, but he also rarely brings anyone back here, either. Even Charlie, when they get together for monthly movie nights and the even rarer game night, always hosts. Looking back, Dean can’t recall if she’s ever actually been here at all, and Charlie’s his best friend. Well, aside from Sam, obviously.

Of course, once they’re standing in his doorway and Castiel’s looking on expectantly from less than six inches away as he holds Dean upright isn’t the greatest time to have second thoughts. So Dean shoves his embarrassment at being a thirty-something-year-old man who lives like one of his students way down deep with the rest of his shame and self-loathing and unlocks the door. Mumbling and waving Castiel off, Dean limps around the space using walls and furniture alike to keep himself standing. He leans on the back of the couch with his hip and lifts his hands to gesture around. “So this is it,” he says awkwardly, expecting some sort of moment where they dance around each other and can’t quite segue into whatever comes next.

But Castiel’s oblivious like he seems to be with so many social cues, although in this case, Dean is grateful for it. He moves around Dean’s space easily, like he belongs there, letting his fingers drift over chairs and peering curiously at the photos hung on the walls. “Is this your family?” Castiel asks, pausing in front of a haphazard collage of photos with mismatched frames.

“Uh, yea,” Dean replies, shuffling over. His knee comes back online somewhat, enough that he can make the short trek from the back of the couch to the wall across the room without help. “That’s my mom, my Uncle Bobby, Aunt Ellen, little cousin Jo. The gangly dork with the hair is my brother Sam. This was a while ago, at Sam’s college graduation. He’s a lawyer now. teaches at Stanford, too. Here.” Dean points. “This is him with his wife, Sarah, and my nephew, John, the day John was born. Our dad died a couple of years after Sam went off to college. They didn’t get along, Sam moved out in the middle of a knock-down, drag-out fight. They never had a chance to make up before Dad passed. Not that I’d ever call him on it, but I’m pretty sure Sam named his son “John” as a namesake completely out of guilt.” Dean stops, flustered. “And you don’t care about any of this,” he tacks on, turning to move away, stopped by Castiel’s hand on his wrist.

“I do,” Castiel says softly, tugging Dean back around. “I’d love to know anything you cared to share with me about who you are.”

Clearing his throat, Dean shakes his arm free, though it’s the last thing he really wants to do. “So, anyway,” he says.

To his credit, Castiel shifts gears immediately. “May I peruse your kitchen?”

“Uh,” Dean replies, beginning to feel frustrated at the way Castiel seemingly reduces him to monosyllabic stupidity without even trying. “Yes?”

With a nod, Castiel starts towards Dean’s cabinets and then stops. “Go lie down, Dean,” he suggests, motioning towards the open door that obviously leads to Dean’s bedroom. “Take off whatever clothing you feel comfortable removing and I’ll be right there. Are there any drawers or cabinets I shouldn’t open?”

Dean shakes his head ‘no’, somewhat bewildered at being ordered around in his own home, but surprisingly, not particularly opposed. By the time he gets himself into his room and strips, settling face-down on his queen-sized bed in only boxers (this is no time for games), he’s too exhausted to argue anyway. He brought Castiel here for a reason, knew exactly what he was getting into when he agreed to it. There’s no sense in wasting precious energy pretending he doesn’t want it now, not when they’re all alone and there’s no one else here to impress.

The mattress feels heavenly under his abused body and it’s not long before Dean’s sinking into a light doze. He’s out of it enough that Castiel’s presence beside him doesn’t immediately register, though he snorts awake when a bunch of bottles are dumped next to his hip. “Ah, cold! Jesus,” Dean hisses, scooting away from the feel of chilly plastic on his bare skin.

“Apologies,” Castiel murmurs, picking up the items he’s dropped and arranging them methodically on the bedside table. “I found your medicine cabinet.”

Reaching out and picking up the only glass jar on the table, Dean waves it at Castiel. “Pretty sure I keep this with my smoothie supplies, not my antacids.”

Smoothly removing it from Dean’s hand and returning the jar to its spot, Castiel ignores Dean’s snark. “Coconut oil is excellent for massage.”

“I eat that,” Dean protests. “Sam sends me it with long-winded notes about medium-chain fatty acids and brain health. You know what, on second thought, have at it. Imagining his face if he knew what I was using it for has to be better for my brain than even the longest chain fatty acids.”

Castiel squints. “That’s not…”

“It was a joke, Cas. I do know some stuff.” Dean grins up at Castiel’s tilted, skeptical expression for all of two seconds before there’s a hand on the back of his head shoving his face down into the pillow. “Oof,” he grunts, voice muffled by cotton. “Thought massages were supposed to be relaxing.”

“Then stop trying to out-sass me and let yourself do so,” Castiel replies without missing a beat. And Dean would fire back, he would, but Castiel’s hands find their way to his shoulder blades, working the tension from his spine outward, and he’s pudding. Oozing, useless, gooey pudding, melting down into his mattress and probably all over the floor. Cas’ hands are bigger than they look at the end of his arms, taking up so much of Dean’s back at one time, and the feeling is beyond pleasurable. Comfort, safety, relief, all of it. Drifting off becomes an inevitability; there’s no way in hell Dean would be able to stay awake through this on a normal day, never mind when he’s already half-dead from pain and exhaustion. He thinks at some point he mumbles about the massage being “better’n sex,” but can’t honestly say for sure if it was out loud or only in his head.

And then he’s out.

Chapter 5: Fall

Chapter Text

Fall

Friday

The mattress beneath him is unfamiliar. So is the weight on Castiel’s chest and the hair tickling his nose. Even the air in the room feels wrong, cooler than the temperature he keeps his own home despite the warm sunlight streaming through the half-curtained window. Typically, Castiel’s a stomach sleeper, sprawling out like a starfish and taking up as much of the bed as possible. It’s been ages since he’s been in a position to share, save for the one other night he’s spent with the man who’s curled up next to him now.

And yet, the shift to accommodating a partner is seamless. Last time, Castiel had slept on his side, curled shoulder to toes around Dean and perfectly peaceful because of it. He hadn’t so much as stirred until he’d been woken by his bladder, and at that point, it was too strange to get back into bed with a man who he knew might not even want him there. Hence the giant breakfast. This morning, though, Castiel extracted himself from Dean’s octopus-like cuddling, used the bathroom, and returned without thinking twice. When he’d slipped back beneath the covers, Dean had rolled over immediately and tucked himself up under Castiel’s chin. He’s still asleep, Castiel’s sure of it, which is somewhat telling and not just a little bit daunting. Dean really craves touch and comfort, and Castiel feels a bit awed that he’s being allowed to provide it. In a way, this is far more intimate than anything else they’ve shared yet and Castiel’s somewhat disappointed that Dean isn’t awake for it.

His hand finds its way to the middle of Dean’s back in between his shoulder blades, settling there just to feel the warmth of Dean’s skin. It’s still slightly slick from the coconut oil, soft and supple beneath the pads of Castiel’s fingers for the same reason. As he blissfully recalls the feeling of Dean’s body and limbs from the night before, pliant and loose as his own hands worked through exhausted muscle, Dean begins to stir. Castiel feels him tense, the lashes of his left eye brushing barely-there soft against Castiel’s ribs; open, closed. Open, closed. Dean’s hand twitches just below that, like he’s fighting against his own instinct to yank it away. In what he hopes is a reassuring move, Castiel rubs softly where he’s touching Dean’s back, letting the man know that he’s awake and not unhappy about their current situation.

The bedhead Castiel’s staring down at shifts and a bright pair of apple-green eyes come into view. “Hey,” Dean rasps, stretching his limbs. To Castiel’s dismay, Dean then pushes up and Castiel prepares for him to turn and roll out of the bed. But in actuality, Dean only sits vertical for long enough to turn himself around so that he’s perpendicular to Castiel and facing him. In a shocking twist of events, Dean actually puts his head back down on Castiel’s chest, palm next to it in a mirror of how he was laying unconscious only moments earlier. His sleepy, innocent blinking is incredibly endearing, and if Castiel ever has doubts that being patient with Dean is worth it, he’ll just look back on this moment in time.

“How are you feeling?” Castiel’s hand skims over Dean’s shoulder and flank, across the curve of his hip and all the way down to his injured knee. Said knee pulls out of Castiel’s reach as Dean stretches again, but he smiles, looking both relieved and sunny.

“f*ckin’ awesome, ” Dean replies. “I’m keeping you.” Arching an eyebrow, Castiel suppresses a smile as Dean realizes what he said, flushes, and looks away. “I just mean, I’m barely even sore. Work shouldn’t be too much of a nightmare and I’ll rest up and be golden for game day tomorrow.” He lifts his head back up so that he’s looking Castiel in the eye. Solemnly, Dean drops a hand to where Castiel’s forearm is draped across the bed and squeezes. “Thank you.”

This time, it’s Castiel’s turn to change the subject, to lighten things up between them, because Dean’s stare is a lot to cope with before he’s even had his coffee this morning. And sure, they spent the night together, and yes, Castiel had his hands all over Dean’s body just hours prior, but there’s a line here, and Dean has to be the one to cross it first. But Castiel’s only human and he’s extremely attracted to Dean, and keeping his lips to himself is just not as easy when he’s basically been in a constant state of semi-arousal for the last… however many hours since he saw Dean laying mostly naked on top of his bed. “So what’s on your agenda today? Filling game balls with the correct amount of air?”

Dean’s brow furrows and he tips his head to the side. “I don’t know whether to be impressed that you made a sports joke or correct your sad, sad misconceptions about what it is I do.”

With a grin, Castiel nudges Dean’s back with his knee. “Please,” he says genially. “Enlighten me.”

With a grunt (perhaps he’s not as completely healed as he claims), Dean shoves over onto his stomach and props himself up on his elbows. “Maybe I should tell you about your students, first,” he offers and Castiel shrugs. “Dude, I know they were dicks to you but damn, you are underestimating them.” When Castiel doesn’t reply, Dean reaches over his chest to grab his phone off of the side table, checking the time. “Alright, it’s almost eight AM. All the guys on my roster have to do ninety minutes of strength and conditioning every single day. Most of them do it before class, so somewhere in the neighborhood of six to eight AM, and don’t forget they gotta get up, get their crap together, and eat breakfast before that. Yea, you should make that face, most of my starters get up at five, five-thirty every day.”

“Then team meetings happen. They review whatever’s pertinent, my assistants usually handle that but sometimes I do it. Shower, classes, lunch. Afternoon, lot of times we review game films or if they didn’t get to work out, they do it then. Powerlifting. Or both. Then they get ready for practice, tape up, team practice itself. Then it’s showers, time with the trainers since most of them need it to work on sore spots and injuries, ice and massage, you know this part. But did you know sometimes they even eat dinner in the athletic complex? So they can train at the same time? Then it’s tutoring, homework, studying--whatever the coursework du jour is. Sometimes I shift stuff around for them, like I do on Cas-days. Practice is earlier and they don’t have a choice but to condition in the morning. But this is every damn day, buddy. Can you imagine? Listen, I did it. I can speak from experience, it’s f*ckin’ hard, man.”

It’s true that Castiel is appropriately kowtowed to hear the reality of his athletic student’s lives. He wouldn’t have guessed their schedules were so packed, so rigid, though he probably should have, considering how seriously the College takes football. His imaginings of a life full of girls, parties, drinking, and ESPN interviews weren’t exactly a fair assessment, and Castiel nods his understanding. “I truly had no idea,” he admits, and Dean nods too.

“I get that,” he says. “Most people don’t. For me, it’s not so bad on the day-to-day. I got a lot of kick-ass support, other coaches and strategists and recruiters making me look good. But also, the team’s my responsibility, at the end of the day. I gotta be there for them, can’t let them down.”

“I’m sure the team appreciates having a coach who has been where they are,” Castiel says carefully, wanting to shift the conversation back to Dean but not wanting him to feel dismissed in advocating for his players. “You played in college?”

“Was good too. NFL good. ‘Til this happened,” Dean affirms, hand reaching out to take Castiel’s fingers and drag them down to where his knee is splayed out on the mattress. It’s such an unnecessary action, one that is so clearly a thinly veiled ruse to touch, and Castiel is melting. Dean notices, lets his hand go and ducks his head down between his shoulders. “Anyway, we should get moving,” he tells the sheets. “Don’t you have a class at nine-thirty?”

Castiel squints. “Did you memorize my schedule?”

“No,” Dean replies way too quickly, eyes going wide as he shuffles backward off of the bed and hightails it for the bathroom. “Why would I do that?” The door slams behind him, and Castiel can’t help but laugh.

***

The rest of Castiel’s Friday passes miserably slow and dull in comparison to his wake-up. Dean basically makes him sneak in and out of the athletic complex with his bicycle, even though no one so much as gives them a second glance. On the way there, he talks about the whole story he has prepared, something about giving Castiel a ride home after his bicycle broke last night and bringing him back this morning. Understanding that poking holes in Dean’s logic won’t make him feel any better, Castiel just rolls his eyes and stares out the window until Dean shakes his thigh and makes him promise to back him up, if necessary. In response, Castiel nods and doesn’t clarify the fact that riding away on his bike will inevitably blow Dean’s whole cover story to sh*t. It’s not really his problem.

Anyway, it’s not necessary, which Castiel figured from the jump. No one is even in the staff parking lot outside Dean’s office when they arrive, and the handful of players they see inside are completely focused on getting to wherever it is they’re going on time. Absolutely none of them appear to give one single sh*t what their nerdy Geology professor and neurotic coach are doing walking in with matching takeaway coffee cups.

By that same token, while Castiel hasn’t changed his mind about Dean being worth it, this “back in the closet” stuff isn’t the easiest to cope with. Having been out for years now, Castiel has no interest in hiding or being made to feel like he is something to ashamed of. At some point, he and Dean are going to need to have a major conversation about boundaries, as well as Castiel’s inability to actively participate in Dean’s lies. Not that Castiel would out him--he would never do that, not in a million years. But he also can’t be tasked with fabricating and upholding cover stories, if that’s what Dean feels he needs. It makes Castiel nervous to consider the inevitabilities of that discussion… because clearly, Dean isn’t ready to come out. Which leaves only one possible outcome there.

So for the time being, Castiel lets it all go. And when Dean closes his office door and presses Castiel up against it, threading fingers into his hair and kissing him deep and thorough before sending him off into the day, it’s hard to remember why any of that even matters.

“Will I hear from you later?” Castiel asks as he wheels his bicycle into the reception foyer of the athletic complex, Dean trailing behind with a giant armful of folders in danger of toppling over. Castiel clocks Dean’s brief glance around to see if anyone is paying them any mind, but despite the few people wandering by, Dean’s apparently satisfied with their level of privacy.

“The day before and gameday are pretty hectic for me,” Dean replies apologetically. “But I’ll text you? Sometime tonight, if you don’t mind hearing from me late. I’ve got meetings all day, a phone interview with some magazine, practice, and then prep so I might not be home until…” Pausing and looking up towards the ceiling, Dean’s eyes glaze over a little as he thinks about the day ahead. Honestly, Castiel’s right there with him, it all sounds daunting. “I got no idea, actually. Thing is, we lost last week and we shouldn’t have. I gotta be on my game if I don’t want to worry about being replaced next season.”

Without thinking, Castiel reaches out to touch Dean’s arm, pulling away quickly when he remembers they’re in public. Surprisingly, though, Dean doesn’t seem bothered. “I understand. That sounds very stressful. Whenever you’re free,” Castiel tells him. “I’ll be looking forward to it.” He glances back as he rides away to see Dean smiling dopily after him, the folders slipping perilously close to escaping his grasp.

***

The first order of the day for Castiel is to deliver a lecture for Sedimentology & Stratigraphy, an advanced course that attracts mostly geology and other related science majors. It’s pertinent subject matter but it is somewhat dry, even for Castiel’s interests, and there’s only so much he can do about that. The class goes as expected, nothing special but nothing out of the ordinary, either. After that is the lab portion for Earth and Planetary Materials, a 200-level lecture/lab that Castiel enjoys immensely, not in small part due to the high-temperature experiments that are part of the curriculum. There’s also a strong focus on crystallography and its many applications, and Castiel’s extremely partial to working with both crystals and gemstones, so that’s pleasant as well.

The particular lab activity they’re doing today is extremely technical and requires all of his attention, so Castiel happily throws himself into teaching for the entirety of the period. His students in this group are focused and dedicated, many of them vocally appreciative of the expensive equipment the college has to offer, taking full advantage of the opportunity to learn all about x-ray diffraction and crystal structure. Castiel has no doubt that some of them will be the next innovators in this field, as bright and committed to the subject as they are.

It’s nice, to drown himself in his work and not be sucked into thinking about Dean, at least for a short period of time. Unfortunately, the distraction works so well that he runs over the class’ allotted time frame and is late releasing his students. None of them seem to mind, but Castiel’s well into his own normal lunch hour by the time he makes it out of the lab and starts over towards the dining hall. He’s halfway across the Quad when a familiar voice causes him to pause and turn around.

Charlie’s bright red hair blows wildly in the cool breeze as she hurries after him. Presumably, she’s coming from the Engineering building where, in between running the college’s IT department, she teaches a small handful of Computer Science courses. To Castiel’s knowledge, Charlie doesn’t have a P.h.D., she’s just that good at what she does that the school begs her to teach. From what he knows, Charlie is much more interested in the actual IT part of her job but humors the administration because, in her words, “It’s not like anyone can teach it better than me, anyway.” She waves like a lunatic as she jogs to catch up and Castiel stops to wait, an involuntary smile spreading across his face. Charlie’s the kind of person it’s nearly impossible to be grumpy around. “Hey! Professor McDreamy, wait up!”

“That’s McSteamy, to you,” Castiel replies when she’s close enough to hear as they resume walking in the direction of the dining hall. “No one gives Sloan the recognition he deserves. His abs put Derek’s to shame.”

Charlie laughs and holds her hand out like she’s assessing Castiel’s vibe. “I was just grooving with the whole… tall, dark, and sex hair thing, you big ‘mo. I’ll have to take your word for it. Me? I’m an Arizona girl, all the way. Even after she got that prosthetic. I like a woman who’s seen some sh*t.”

Nodding, Castiel nudges his friend with his elbow. “How are you, Charlie? It’s been a while since we’ve had the time to do lunch. I’m sorry about that.”

“Pfft,” she replies, blowing her bangs out of her face. “Tell me about it. Isn’t this the part of the semester when things are supposed to calm down? Half of my Intro to Comp Science is failing. I’ve actually had to hold office hours for the entire posted period the past two weeks. Can you believe that? Who has time for that crap? I’ve got sh*t to do. This keeps up, I’m not teaching next semester.” Castiel hums noncommittally since Charlie told him weeks ago that she threatens to quit every semester and never does. If he didn’t know better, Castiel would suspect she enjoys the challenge, but he’s certainly not going to call her on it. “Anywho, I’m the one who should be sorry. You’re new and friendless and I promised to be your guide to all things gay--the fun and the same-sex loving kind--and here I am bailing on you for school. Lame. Don’t hate me?” She turns wide, doe eyes on Castiel and blinks in what he assumes is supposed to be an innocent manner.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replies, holding the door to the building that houses the main dining hall and gesturing Charlie to go in front of him. She swipes her ID card for the meal and Castiel does the same, following the redhead down the ramp into the lower part of the building where the cafeteria is. “I’m doing fine,” he continues, grabbing them both trays and dropping into the buffet line behind a handful of cheerleaders in uniform. “You can be proud, I’m not even friendless anymore. Or, well, not exactly, anyway.”

“Oh?” Charlie looks up with interest from where she’s already sampling a basket of onion rings, half of one sticking out of her mouth as she talks. “ Oooo. Is this a romantic not exactly? Or the much less interesting one-sided friendship? God, I hope it’s not that. Please tell me you’re not excited to share about a one-sided friendship.”

Castiel laughs softly as he selects a chef’s salad and a bottle of water. He’s been slacking on running in the mornings and all the sedentary desk work is going to catch up with him eventually. That’s part of why he started biking to school instead of driving. If Dean ever decides he wants to jump in bed again, Castiel’s certainly not trying to make him jump right back out again in repulsion. “I don’t know,” he replies honestly. “I don’t think it’s one-sided, but I’m not convinced it’s the other thing, either. Well, on his end, anyway. On mine…”

Wielding her tray in one hand, Charlie grabs his arm with the other, stopping the line from moving and causing the students behind them to grumble. “Dear God, why didn’t I see it? You have all the signs. Broody, smiley, preoccupied… you’ve got it bad, buster. Alright, when do I get to meet him?”

With a glance around, Castiel mirrors Charlie’s motion with a hand on her arm and guides her to a table in the corner by the windows. “Keep your voice down,” he says. “It’s not that simple. He’s closeted,” Castiel admits quietly as they take their seats. “I probably shouldn’t even be talking to you about him, about this. I can’t imagine he’d appreciate it.”

The way Charlie’s brow furrows and the burger she’s unwrapping goes forgotten, Castiel realizes he’s made a mistake. A big mistake. She raises her eyebrows. “And why wouldn’t you be able to talk to me about him?”

Castiel shrugs and keeps his head down, focusing on dressing his salad and poking at it with his fork. “No particular reason, he’s just extremely anxious regarding coming out and--”

“Oh no,” Charlie interrupts. “That was not a “no particular reason” I can’t talk to you, that was an “I can’t talk to you because I’d out him”! Hello, gay here, I would know! Cas,” Charlie hisses. “Does he work here? Is it another professor? Come on, Scout’s honor, you can trust me!”

With a pointed sigh, Castiel drops his head into his hands and rubs at his temples. “I can’t,” he stresses. “If you knew how upset he’d be--I’m regretting saying anything at all, I just… it’s been difficult for me. I have no interest in going back in the closet, but this man, Charlie .” He risks a glance up and finds Charlie’s expression locked on his own like Castiel’s a movie she can’t wait to find out the ending to. Castiel hesitates, knowing he should be quiet, that he’s already said too much. But it’s true that he could use someone to talk to about this, and what harm could speaking in generalities do? “He’s very special,” Castiel says finally, and Charlie’s expression melts.

“That is adorkable,” she near-squeals.

“Shh,” Castiel tells her, motioning with his hands for her to pipe down and looking around anxiously. He suddenly feels very much like Dean, and it’s not a feeling he’s enjoying. “Keep it down, some of my students are here.”

“Your students?” Charlie’s face crinkles again and Castiel follows her train of thought. “You’re not--”

“No,” he interjects quickly. “I would never. It’s not a student.”

“Phew,” Charlie says, pretending to wipe her brow. “But then, why would you care if your students overheard? Oh, it is a professor! Someone you interact with in front of them!”

“Christ, Charlie,” Castiel mutters. “I didn’t realize you had CSI credentials.”

“Hey, hacker here.” Charlie shrugs unapologetically and stabs a forkful of onion rings, shoving them into her mouth. She swallows heavily and waves the fork at him. “Can’t ask me to change my nature. You give me a mystery, I solve it. It’s like, in my DNA or something. It’s what I do. ”

“I thought you kept the school’s website from going down during class registration,” Castiel snarks and Charlie nods.

“Do that too,” she concedes. She opens her mouth to say something else, undoubtedly to terrorize Castiel further with more interrogatory questions, but winds up distracted by her phone buzzing on the table. Castiel takes the opportunity to eat several forkfuls of salad, hoping his mouth will be too full to fit his foot in there by the time Charlie inevitably circles back to him. It takes several minutes of uninterrupted eating for him to notice that she doesn’t, and when he checks he finds Charlie still staring down at her phone with a frown marring her features.

“Something wrong?” Castiel continues chewing and Charlie continues staring, though she does glance up to narrow her eyes at him more than once before returning to scrolling her phone screen.

“Alright,” she says after a while, placing her phone down on the table and folding her hands in front of her. “I’m going to say one thing and you’re going to react to it, however you think you should.”

“What?” Castiel’s lost, and he doesn’t like it. “I don’t--”

“Dean Winchester is my best friend.”

Whatever Castiel was expecting, nothing could have prepared him for that. As such, he’s not remotely ready to school his face, and whatever it does seems to tell Charlie everything she needs to know. “ How?” Castiel sputters, at a complete loss, the sinking feeling in his stomach at how Dean will react to his betrayal making it impossible to think straight.

“Uh-huh,” Charlie says, following that with a sigh. “I know all about your little extra-credit sessions.” At the look on Castiel’s face, she clarifies. “Oh, ew. The real ones, with your students. Rocks for Jocks? Dean’s been texting me about them, about you. I thought he was acting weird, dancing around what he really wanted to say, trying to get me to pull it out of him. I suspected he might have met someone but, you know, I didn’t have enough info to piece it together. And trust me, it wasn’t for lack of trying. But anyway, you didn’t out him. Well, not to me at least. He may not have told me, but you already know my gaydar is impeccable. I’ve had that boy pegged since we were in school together here and he was in love with his receiver.” She blinks a little and then makes a face. “That’s not a euphemism either, by the way, Dean was the starting quarterback.”

“I did know about the last part of that sentence,” Castiel says reluctantly. “Charlie, I don’t--This conversation feels like a violation.”

But Charlie just shrugs and sighs. “Yea, I get that. And I get if you wanna bug out. But hear me out before you do. I love Dean. I want what’s best for him. And you…” She sits back in her chair and folds her arms, assessing Castiel with her eyes. “He clearly feels some type of way about you, whether he’s ready to admit it or not. I can tell in the way he keeps bringing you up, dancing around the subject. And don’t even try to tell me the feeling isn’t mutual, Smitty McSmitten. So, we can pretend this never happened, if you want. Or… I could help you.” Charlie leans forward conspiratorially. “What do you say, Cas? Operation ‘Free to Be You and Me’?”

Castiel squints at Charlie for a minute before leaning in to meet her. “You have my attention,” he says. “What did you have in mind?”

***

Hours Later

“This is a bad idea,” Castiel murmurs from beneath the monstrous stack of pizza boxes in his arms.

“It’s your call,” Charlie demurs, similarly shifting under the weight of too many two-liter soda bottles. “But if you back out now, I’m totally gonna make you eat all of this pizza.”

“Oh, well then.” Castiel rolls his eyes sarcastically.

Turning to face him, Charlie puts on what Castiel’s quickly coming to recognize as her resolve-face. “Cas, we talked about this. Two things, remember? One, you’re doing this for your students. To show that you support and want to encourage them. Because, you know, you didn’t understand how difficult their schedules are and you want to reward their hard work, both in class and out.”

“Right,” Castiel agrees uncertainly.

“And two, Dean finds out we’re buds. No possibility of him thinking we’re sneaking around behind his back. I mean, you said yourself he mentioned a friend named Charlie and you didn’t put the pieces together. No offense, but you both are pretty damn dense. Plus, I get to act like I figured him out from seeing the two of you interact and boom, everyone’s in the know. Bonus, Dean gets an instant gay-loving support system that isn’t just you .”

“This is ridiculous,” Castiel mutters. “We should just tell him.”

Hefting the slipping bottles up once more, Charlie turns back towards the athletic complex doors, appearing to contemplate the building deeply. “You think? How well do you imagine Dean will take the news of how completely obvious he is?”

“Point,” Castiel acknowledges. “Alright, let’s go.”

Security directs them to where the entire football team is crowded into the screening room, watching recordings of their competition playing in preparation for the following day. Dean’s perched on a stool at the front, tapping a pointer at the screen and going on about various weaknesses he’s picked up on. When he sees Castiel and Charlie lingering in the open door, his face does several things in quick succession and Castiel clutches the pizza boxes so tightly he dents one of them. It’s only when Charlie elbows him under the ribs that he remembers he’s supposed to speak. “Oh,” he says awkwardly, holding the pizza boxes up and sliding them onto the table. “I… We brought sustenance.”

“And fizzy caffeine,” Charlie chimes in, finally unloading her burdens and shaking out her arms. “You’re welcome for the extreme ouch my arms are gonna be feeling tomorrow.”

“Please,” Castiel says, gesturing towards the boxes when no one moves. “I worried you all wouldn’t get to eat, and you work so hard. I was hoping to tell you, ‘good luck’ tomorrow.” He accompanies his words with an emphatic thumbs-up that makes Dean snort.

“Not bad,” Charlie mutters. “Little dorky, but not bad. Big on the adorable factor.” Castiel shoves her aside as Dean gives an approving nod and the pizza boxes go flying to a chorus of “thanks Professor”s. In the following flurry of excitement, Dean manages to make his way over to the two of them while everyone else is paying attention to food and stuffing their faces.

“What’s this?” Dean asks suspiciously, eyes narrowed as he looks between their guileless faces. Castiel can’t help but notice that Charlie has apparently abruptly run out of sarcastic yet insightful things to say because of course, she has. It’s a goddamn set-up.

“I’m taking your advice,” Castiel replies defensively. “You told me that I was underestimating them, underappreciating them, and you were right. I’m here to show my support.”

“Oh,” Dean says, deflating a little before eyeing Charlie in distrust all over again. “And what’s your excuse?”

“I’m here supporting my new friend Castiel,” Charlie tells him brightly with a wide grin splitting her face. She and Dean hold eye contact for several seconds and then Charlie giggles and Dean’s eyes go wide. Castiel has the distinct impression that he missed something, some form of conversation that passed between the two long-time friends, but then Dean is sweeping him out into the hallway by one arm, Charlie held tight in his other.

“Say goodnight to Charlie and Cas,” Dean calls over his shoulder and the team mumbles a distracted reply. “Two minutes to shove that pizza down and then we’re back to work.” He slams the door to the screening room behind him and then turns around with his arms crossed. “ How?” He asks Charlie, his words barely more than a pained, twisted hiss.

“Relax, cowboy,” she replies, rubbing his arm soothingly while Dean continues to fume. “Everybody here is on your side.” It hurts Castiel a little that Dean seems like he can’t even make eye contact with him, but better now than later, he supposes. At least that’s what he’s telling himself. “Dean,” Charlie tries again, ignoring Dean’s attitude. “I’m proud of you. We’re gonna leave you alone now so you can do your badass coach-y thing, but me and Cas are gonna be in the stands tomorrow yelling our voices hoarse. We’ll catch you after the game. Good luck,” she finishes, standing on her tiptoes to press a kiss to Dean’s cheek before grabbing Castiel’s arm and hauling him away. Castiel is just barely able to cast a glance over his shoulder in time to see Dean disappearing into the screening room without so much as a backward glance.

“It’ll be alright,” Charlie says, this time soothing him. “That went pretty well, I thought!” She looks over at Castiel for confirmation and all he can do is stare back at her like she’s nuts.

“You’re insane,” he tells her.

“I’ve been told that before,” Charlie replies solemnly.

Castiel looks back longingly at the building as they walk away, struggling with the fact that it’s not his place to go back inside, to make sure that Dean’s okay. Struggling with the fact that Dean wouldn’t want that and that doing so at this point would unquestionably hurt more than help. He just has to trust that Charlie has been Dean’s friend for a decade now and understands what he needs. Hopefully, she knows what she’s doing, because Castiel can already feel Dean slipping away.

Chapter 6: Fall

Chapter Text

Fall

Saturday

It’s just after midnight when Castiel’s phone dings, rousing him from a fairly fitful slumber. After fumbling a hand across his nightstand and almost knocking over his water glass, Castiel eventually locates his phone and picks it up. He blinks blearily into the light coming from the too-bright screen, squinting his eyes nearly shut in an attempt to read the new notification.

Michael: You up?

That silly little nickname in the contact bar seems much less funny now. Castiel wonders if Dean’s struggling equally as much with seeing “James” at the top of his own screen, or if he’s simply being a bit dramatic. Pushing himself up to a sitting position, Castiel settles back against his headboard before texting Dean again.

Castiel: Hello, Dean

He doesn’t have to wait long for a reply.

Michael: Hey… thanks for the pizza

Somewhat startled, Castiel’s thumbs still above the keyboard, unsure how to reply. This isn’t the angry, openly hostile message thread he was expecting. While he considers what this development might mean, several more messages come through (one at a time, like Dean’s having a difficult time getting them out), and Castiel’s surprise turns to disbelief.

Michael: sorry for getting pissy with you

Michael: i talked to charlie

Michael: you did me a favor, cas. shoulda told her a long time ago. not like i don’t trust her completely

Michael: my guys like you btw

Michael: not just because of the pizza

Michael: you there?

Castiel: I’m here. I’m relieved you aren’t upset with me.

Michael: no worries. see you tomorrow?

Castiel: Looking forward to it immensely

Michael: nerd

Castiel: :)

Michael: you wanna hang out tomorrow night after we win?

Not that he’s in any way considering saying no, but Dean’s question gives Castiel pause. What exactly does he mean by “hang out”? That phrase potentially covers everything from a casual date to raucous sex to completely platonic TV watching with beer and chips. Oh well, Castiel thinks. That’s a problem for future Castiel to deal with. He takes a chance.

Castiel: I’d love to, Michael, but you see, I met a wonderful man named Dean. I’m hoping he’ll want to see me tomorrow night.

Michael: If it’s the same Dean I’m thinking of then you’re making the right choice, that guy is smokin’ hot

Michael: And way cool

Castiel: And humble

Michael: Not to mention, I don’t bottom. But I’ve heard Dean might.

Not for the first time since Dean texted tonight, Castiel freezes, unsure how to reply. This conversation sure took a hard left-turn out of friendly banter and into dangerous territory. His hand shakes slightly and his head swims. The last thing Castiel wants to do is f*ck this up by saying something stupid and driving Dean away. It’s extremely likely, considering how seemingly easily the declaration popped out, that Dean’s been looking for an opportunity to slip that particular desire into casual conversation. Up until this point, Castiel wasn’t positive Dean would ever even want that sort of intimacy from him, infrequent kisses aside. So to find out not only that he does but that he’s considering trusting Castiel with essentially taking his virginity… well, that’s a lot. Castiel licks his lips and says the only thing that feels appropriate over a text message.

Castiel: If Dean ever decides that’s something he wants, I would be honored to share that with him. I hope Dean knows that he’s safe with me.

Michael: Jesus, Cas. Don’t make it weird.

Michael: I gotta sleep. See you tomorrow ;)

Castiel: Goodnight Dean. Please tell my students “good luck” again from me.

After his phone screen goes dark, Castiel lies awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling and thinking about Dean.

***

Gameday

The next morning, Castiel busies himself with grading, lecture preparation and when those are done, cooking an elaborate breakfast for himself that he barely even touches. In truth, he has no idea why he’s so nervous. Surely many of the College’s teachers attend home football games. In fact, Castiel’s heard several of them discussing exactly that outside their offices on Mondays. He won’t be out of place in the slightest. And Dean isn’t even going to be sitting with him, likely won’t interact with Castiel or Charlie at all while they’re there. He has responsibilities, needs to keep his head in the game, so to speak. Still, though. After their brief text conversation last night and especially the information Dean shared at the end, Castiel can’t help but feel that this whole thing is a strange bit of foreplay.

“That’s ridiculous, right?” He asks Charlie later, when she picks him up in her yellow Gremlin to head to the stadium. The car is so very Charlie, Castiel likes it.

Pursing her lips in what looks a lot like a hidden smirk, Charlie just shrugs. “For you it’s ridiculous, sure,” she says finally when Castiel glares for long enough. “For Dean, this is his life. It’s what he loves.” She inadvertently lets out a punchy little laugh. “I’m pretty sure football has always been foreplay for Dean. He gets… uh… pretty amped up after they win.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “I hate to ask how you know that.”

“We were roommates when he was a junior, before he went off to the NFL,” Charlie explains, adjusting her grip on the steering wheel. “He barely had time to breathe back then, never mind have a relationship. Training and practice and classes from sun up to sundown. But Dean’s one exception was after he won a game--and the team was undefeated that year. Sometimes he was nice enough to go elsewhere, and you know I suspect he was hooking up with guys when he did that, but more often than not I’d come back from the post-game party to find him plowing some chick on our countertop. Rude. ” Charlie sighs wistfully. “But that’s our Dean for you.” Tearing her eyes away from the road to look Castiel up and down, she grins widely again and winks. “So, I guess what I’m saying is no, definitely not ridiculous.”

“Noted,” Castiel replies, turning his head so that she can’t see his cheeks burning a little. Charlie steers them into the stadium lot and parks what feels like half a mile away, thanks to the giant crowd that’s already gathered. Despite the game not starting for another hour at least, nearly every spot is taken.

“Our tickets are sweet,” Charlie is saying. “If Dean weren’t my best friend I wouldn’t bother, but ticket lotteries are for losers who never learned how to hack.”

Castiel squints back at her. “The closest seating to the field is general admission. They’re bleachers. How could you possibly hack that?”

Narrowing her eyes, Charlie shakes a finger at him. “You’re not supposed to question my methods. Alright, you got me. Dean sections off part of a primo row for his friends and his coaches’ families. But you should know, if asked later, I’ll completely deny that I ever suggested hacking can’t fix everything. C’mon, let’s go.”

Charlie wasn’t kidding, primo is definitely the right word for their seats. In a small, cordoned off area in the middle of the home bleachers, Castiel finds himself sitting front and center, within spitting distance of where Dean and his team will shortly be crowded onto the sidelines. There are a few other people seated in the reserved section who seem closer to his and Charlie’s ages than the students’, and Charlie makes introductions all around. Two of the women are apparently the spouses of Dean’s assistant coaches, and one of them, Andrea, has her and Benny’s two-year-old son on her lap.

“He’s adorable,” Castiel coos with a smile as the tot aims a berry-stained grin up at him and yanks on the long, dark braid framing his mother’s face.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Andrea warns, though her expression is soft, despite the grimace she makes while having her hair pulled. “He’s a holy terror.”

“Me and Jodes have been thinkin’ of takin’ the plunge into parenthood,” the other woman, Donna, chimes in. “Scary, you know? But I think we’re ready.”

Andrea gets excited and puts a hand on her belly. “Oh, Donna, please don’t tease me. I’d commit murder if I thought it’d get me some adult interaction these days. You know how their schedules are, I’m alone more often than not right now. If you get knocked up quickly, your baby will be in the same school year as this one. Honestly, what are you waiting for? You’ll both be amazing parents.”

“I think so, too,” Donna replies sunnily and winks. “I’ll tell Jodes we’re on a timeline. Though it’s not quite that simple and easy for us, for obvious reasons.” Andrea hums in agreement.

Castiel wonders what that’s all about, but ultimately decides it’s not his business to ask and turns his attention to the phone buzzing in his pocket.

Michael: Come tell them yourself. we have a couple minutes

Unsure what Dean is referring to, Castiel has to scroll back up in their text thread to see that his last message was requesting Dean convey another “good luck” wish to his students. He elbows Charlie and shows her the screen. “Go!” She encourages him, poking Castiel’s side through his coat until he grumbles and gets up out of his seat. “See the tunnel right there? Go down the steps and through it, make a left. If Dean’s inviting you back then he already put you on the list.”

As usual, Charlie is right and Castiel has no issues getting from the field into the locker room. It feels a bit strange to be allowed this sort of access, though. Between this and the reserved seating situation with the spouses, Castiel’s wondering if Dean even remotely realizes how it all looks. Not that he minds in the least, but he thinks Dean would. Perhaps the coach is too preoccupied to have considered it. That possibility makes Castiel feel torn. He’s perfectly happy for people to come to the conclusion that he’s anything special to Dean, but the last thing he wants is for Dean to be upset by those same thoughts. Really, the last thing he wants is for Dean to decide that their budding relationship is too much for him because he’s upset by something like that.

Still, Castiel supposes that ball needs to stay in Dean’s court. He’s only doing what Dean asked him to, what he was offered. And that’s how he finds himself pushing open the door to the locker room, which is abuzz with pre-game excitement. Everyone is busy and no one pays Castiel any mind, though Dean spots him from the other side of the room as soon as he enters. Waving enthusiastically, Dean tries to call out over the ruckus but Castiel can’t make out what he’s saying and he points to his ear to tell him so. He glances around the room, watching as the players finish taping up, snapping on braces, tying off laces and smearing grease under their eyes. It smells exactly like Castiel’s always assumed a locker room would smell, and it makes his eyes water a little, which is somewhat disturbing since they haven’t even played yet. With some amusem*nt, Castiel makes a mental note to decline any invitation back here after the game.

When he looks back over at Dean, he finds him frustratedly weaving through bodies and still clearly trying to call out to Castiel. He’s close enough now that Castiel can distinguish his voice over the din but not hear what he’s saying. All of a sudden, Dean stops short and sticks his whistle in his mouth, blowing it as hard as he can while continuing to make his way towards Castiel. Instantly, the room goes quiet and the players all turn their attention towards their red-shorted coach.

“The whistle makes me their god,” Dean declares proudly as he finally reaches Castiel’s side. “Listen up, ladies,” Dean yells to the room. “I know some of you don’t have a clue who this is--besides the pizza man, no dirty jokes please,” he says, with a twinkle in his eye and a giant grin on his face. The room groans. Apparently, none of them are strangers to Dean’s eye roll-inducing sense of humor. “Yea, yea, you love me,” Dean continues. “Anyway, this is Cas, he’s the reason we even have a functioning team to play with this week, since some of you can’t be trusted to listen and do your work like you’re supposed to. Say thank you to Professor Novak, boys.”

Fiddling awkwardly with the zipper of his coat as the room erupts into a chorus of variously worded ‘thank you’s, Castiel holds up a hand and waves them off. “You’ve all been putting in the work this past week and I’m extremely proud. I don’t wish to take up any more of your time, I just wanted to stop by and wish you good luck once again. I’ll see those of you who are in my class next Tuesday and I expect your celebratory hangovers to be resolved by then.” The players laugh and Castiel waves as he backs towards the door.

“Back in a minute,” Dean advises the room, which has already burst back into excited chatter and activity. He follows Castiel all the way out into the tunnel, silently grinning at him the whole way.

“Someone is eager,” Castiel observes.

Dean just shrugs happily. “I live for this, Cas. f*ckin’ live for it. You’ll see, it’s gonna be a great game.” They stand there staring at each other for a long moment, both of them smiling somewhat stupidly at each other until a woman with closely-cropped grey hair comes jogging down the tunnel and punches Dean in the shoulder.

“Flirt later, Winchester,” she says and Castiel’s eyebrows feel like they hit his hairline.

For his part, Dean looks slightly flustered but not upset, especially when he glances around and sees that there’s no one else nearby. “Not a funny joke, Jody,” he scowls.

“Wasn’t joking,” Jody replies with a straight face.

“Whatever. Cas, this is Jody, my Defensive Coordinator. I think you’re sitting with her wife, Donna.”

Very quickly, Castiel connects the dots to the conversation Donna had been having with Andrea. Oh. That’s why it’s not so simple. “Very nice to meet you, Jody,” he says out loud.

“Likewise,” Jody replies with a nod and a thumb hitched over her right shoulder. “We got ten minutes, Dean-o. I’m gonna go rev them up. See ya, Cas.”

Dean dismisses her with a nod before turning back to Castiel, who can’t help himself. “I thought you said being out was frowned upon in the football world.”

Furrowing his brow, Dean looks around like he can’t figure out what Castiel is talking about. “What? Jody?” When Castiel nods, Dean scoffs. “Cas, she’s a girl. It’s totally different. Heck, they expect chicks that do what Jody does to be gay.”

Floored, Castiel just stares at him until Dean shuffles awkwardly under the attention and scratches the back of his neck. “Can we talk about this later? I gotta…”

With a roll of his eyes, Castiel checks one last time to ensure the coast is still clear before leaning in to peck Dean on the check. “You are impossible, Dean Winchester. You make things so difficult for yourself.” Without another word, he turns on his heel and trots away towards the light and the cheering crowd. When he looks back, Dean is gone.

***

The game turns out to be a lot more fun than Castiel anticipated. It doesn’t hurt that Dean is in his line of sight most of the time, strutting and yelling and slapping his players on their shoulders in encouragement. He’s in his element; talking on his headset, running down the sidelines during a play, screaming at the refs when he feels they make a bad call. The game itself is exciting, the teams well-matched and both scrapping hard, but the smile plastered across Castiel’s face is all for Dean.

By the time the fourth quarter rolls around, he’s starting to get it. Not just the appeal of the game itself, the camaraderie of all the fans screaming and cheering together, but the foreplay thing Charlie had been alluding to earlier. Seeing Dean so happy, so determined and in charge and focused on managing his team, well, it’s not not doing it for Castiel. And when the game buzzer sounds right as Aaron leaps into the air and completes a Hail Mary pass in the endzone from almost eight yards away for the win, Castiel’s on his feet screaming with the best of them. He catches Donna shooting him curious glances a few times, but brushes them off because Dean’s much more interesting to fixate on, and whatever she thinks doesn’t matter, anyway.

After the team has swarmed and lifted Aaron into the air, they come back around to dump the Gatorade container over Dean’s head. It’s cold as hell and Dean’s shivering almost instantly, but he’s also smiling from ear to ear and hugging all his players, getting them wet, too. Eventually, the team disperses for interviews and to return to the locker room to change, and Dean’s swept up in a wave of post-game obligations. The stands start to clear out and Castiel and Charlie bid their goodbyes to Andrea and Donna, who both voice that they hope to see Castiel again at a future game. He smiles and thanks them for being so welcoming but intentionally doesn’t make any promises, just in case Dean doesn’t want him to make a fixture of himself.

It’s a relief to get inside Charlie’s car where the increasingly biting breeze can’t get reach Castiel’s stinging skin. He thinks again about Dean and the ice water falling over his head, shivering as he imagines how uncomfortable that must have been. Still, Dean had seemed nothing but thrilled. “Should we head to the bar?” He asks Charlie. “Will Dean want to be with his team for a while to celebrate? We haven’t… I don’t even know that he’d want me there.”

Charlie snorts. “Trust me, wherever Dean is, he wants you there. But if it were me, I’d skip the bar. All of them within a half-mile of the school are gonna be packed with students. And anyway, I told you what Dean likes to do post-game. I mean, don’t get me wrong, if you wanna hang out some more then I’m totally game. But if it were me, and if you’re asking my advice, I’d head home and take your pants off.”

“Charlie,” Castiel scolds, but the redhead just shrugs unapologetically and follows the line of traffic moving slowly out of the lot. Despite her crude delivery, Castiel decides to take Charlie’s advice. Totally unfazed at being cut from his evening plans, she drops him off with a salute, a knowing look, and a command to, “Be safe!” that he pointedly ignores. Once inside his house, though, Castiel’s not entirely sure what to do, though he leaves his pants on for the time being. Ultimately, he ends up splitting his time between checking his phone and whipping up a few burgers, since he knows Dean loves them. An hour later, the burgers are starting to cool, Castiel’s phone remains dark and silent, and his hopes are beginning to sink.

That is, until there’s a familiar rumble in the driveway followed by a knock at the front door that Castiel cuts off by opening it before Dean can even finish. And there he is in all his glory; red shorts and white polo shirt still damp, sweatband and whistle still firmly in place. It’s the smile on his face that captures Castiel’s attention, though, bright and real and addictive beyond all measure. Dean surges forward to kiss him and Castiel presses back into it without hesitation, hands coming up to cup the sides of Dean’s neck, his face, allowing himself to be manhandled back against the wall of his entryway as Dean kicks the door shut.

The notion that Charlie was right flashes through his mind, but Castiel shoves that thought away as quickly as it comes. Now is definitely not the time to be thinking about Charlie. To chase her memory away he breathes in deep, clutching the collar of Dean’s shirt as he inhales the heady mix of sweat and grass, petrichor and musk that clings to his clothes and skin. Dean pulls away from where he’s been mouthing at Castiel’s jaw to make a sound of protest. “Are you smelling me? I stink,” he complains, dipping back in to nip at Castiel’s neck. “Should’ve showered first, I know, but I wanted to see you.”

“Shower now,” Castiel replies. “Shower with me.” The noise Dean makes in response to that is a low growl, his fingers tightening where they grip Castiel’s ribs and hip. Castiel takes that as a yes and starts walking them backward, turning left halfway down the hall instead of continuing on to the living room and kitchen. As they pass, Dean pauses to sniff the air. “Do I smell burgers?”

“Made you dinner,” Castiel replies in between kissing Dean’s mouth, his cheek, the lobe of his ear.

“ God,” Dean practically purrs, his hands dropping to Castiel’s ass cheeks and squeezing. “How are you so f*ckin’ perfect? Cas, f*ck. I want you so goddamn bad.”

They’re outside Castiel’s room now, kicking off shoes and stumbling as they make their way to the bathroom, anxious to take things to the next level. Despite that, Castiel stops them with a hand on Dean’s hip and one on the side of his face. “You have me,” he says, far too serious, everything considered, but Castiel can’t help it, he means every word. “I’m right here.” Dean’s breath goes a little ragged, his eyes bright and shiny as he drops his face into the curve of Castiel’s neck, holding him tight with a palm in between his shoulder blades. For a moment, Castiel thinks Dean might actually break down and lose it, but then he rallies, a hand coming up to frame his neck as Dean latches on and sucks at his skin. “How do I feel?” Castiel’s voice comes out low, husky, and it’s a risk, but he needs something from Dean, needs to hear that they’re on the same desperate page right now. “Tell me how I taste.”

“Cas,” Dean murmurs, clearly embarrassed as Castiel tugs them from carpet onto tile, reaching out to flip the shower on and warm up the water. His bare feet are cold against the hard floor and Castiel makes a mental note to turn on the heat when they’re done. He’d do it now, but… Dean’s hands are pushing underneath his shirt, lifting it up and over his head, and there’s no way Castiel’s walking away.

“Please,” he asks again, fingers trailing softly down one side of Dean’s back, making him shiver. With a little grunt, Dean pulls away, ripping his own shirt over his head and once again backing Castiel up against the wall, fingers tangling and tugging in his hair. With his nose firmly planted below Castiel’s ear, it’s Dean’s turn to inhale deeply before licking up the side of Castiel’s jaw. Beneath him, Castiel squirms and sighs, his eyes sweeping over the smattering of freckles on Dean’s shoulder, the muscles rippling beneath the skin of his back. Like this, Dean is a work of art; beautiful, stunning perfection, Castiel’s every fantasy come to life. Except better, because he’s real; warm and sweet and wanting Castiel too.

“I don’t do sappy,” Dean tells him, shifting away with a soft kiss to the corner of Castiel’s mouth. His hands drop from where they’ve been palming across ribs and shoulder blades down to work at Castiel’s belt buckle, making quick work of both pants and boxers before doing the same with his own. “But if I were… ” Dean trails off, leaning back in to kiss Castiel’s mouth again before considering him thoughtfully. “You taste like sunshine, if sunshine tasted like anything at all. Like the calm before a storm and what it feels like to be inside the eye of a hurricane. Like the first time I broke a tackle and ran for a touchdown, thirty yards straight, no one could touch me. You feel like…” Dean stops suddenly and ducks his head, cheeks aflame, but Castiel just grabs his jaw and tilts it up, leaning in to smash their lips together.

“That thing we talked about last night,” Castiel murmurs against Dean’s mouth. “Is that something you still want?” Dean makes a frustrated noise and pulls away, leaving Castiel cold against the bathroom wall as he steps into the shower and helps himself to a bottle of body wash sitting on the ledge. Confused, Castiel pushes the bathroom door shut to preserve the heat and follows him in. “Did I say something wrong?” Shaking his head no, Dean remains facing away, avoiding eye contact and Castiel altogether as he soaps himself into a lather with his hands. “Dean,” Castiel says patiently, venturing to place a hand on the back of Dean’s hip, just above the curve of his ass, where the soap sluices down.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” Dean says in a rush, barely audible over the sound of the water streaming down over his head. He turns around suddenly and shakes his hair out, sending water droplets flying, some of which hit Castiel in the face. It’s hardly bothersome, though, not when the reward is Dean in front of him, wide-eyed and flushed, no doubt from both heat and shame. His skin is pink and his hair is wild and clean and begging for Castiel to sink his fingers into its strands. Castiel knows that if he buried his face in Dean’s neck now, he’d smell like him and his body wash, and just that thought makes his co*ck fill out a little more. He manages to resist either jumping Dean or sinking to his knees for the time being, but it’s no small achievement.

“You spoke about it quite easily last night,” Castiel points out carefully, taking a page from Dean’s book and soaping himself up. It’s for lack of anything better to do with his hands as much as needing to get clean, but standing and staring at each other in the shower is awkward. When he’d suggested getting in together, admittedly, the fantasy had been scrubbing each other down, but Dean’s clearly having a moment. Castiel has a feeling that if he wants to salvage the evening, he’s going to need to tread lightly. But Dean surprises him again, sighing and wrapping an arm around Castiel’s waist, pulling him close.

“I’m trying, here,” he says quietly. “I want… I want all kinds of things with you. Stuff I’ve been shoving down for years. Please don’t make me say it.”

Wrapping both arms around Dean’s shoulders, Castiel kisses his bottom lip, draws him back in softly, gradually, until their tongues are sliding together and Dean’s filling out against his thigh. He pulls back just far enough to speak, puts a finger on Dean’s chin to stop him from leaning in for more. “Are you able to say ‘no’?”

“Hmm?” Dean’s gaze is hazy, heavy-lidded, the steam rising around him making his green eyes that much more ethereal.

“No,” Castiel repeats. “You have to let me know if this is something we need to table altogether until you’re ready to vocalize your limits. If that’s the case, you know that I have no problem with you topping tonight. But if you want something else… You can trust me, Dean. Can I trust you to tell me ‘no’ if I do something you don’t enjoy?”

With a slow grin, Dean nods. “I can say no,” he replies, blinking away water droplets from his dark lashes and Castiel’s heart squeezes in his chest. Somehow, he finds the wherewithal to shut off the water and locate a couple of towels from his linen closet. They dry off separately but close together, like two charged magnets being held just shy of touching. Dean lets Castiel lead him by the hand to his bedroom, and Castiel reflects back on the last time they were here, like this, together.

This is nothing like that. The fury and passion Dean had come charging in the door with has melted away, though it’s clear to see the want still simmering just below the surface. Even still, when they kiss, it’s undercut with notes of anxiety and anticipation from Dean, his hands shaking a little as Castiel presses him back into the mattress. “Relax, Dean,” he murmurs.

“‘M fine,” Dean insists, though his breathing is more rapid than usual, chest expanding, fists clenching, and back arching in a way that shows he’s crazy desperate for Castiel to touch, but not entirely confident in his role. For a moment, Castiel wonders if putting him in the literal position Dean probably mentally associates with bottoming was a mistake, but it’s a little late now, and besides, Castiel has a plan.

A plan that can wait until he indulges, just for a second… Castiel mouths down Dean’s chest, his hand trailing behind and then ahead, over the planes and curves of Dean’s muscles, all the way down to wrap around and grip his thigh. He smells as good as Castiel imagined, like his own soap, yes, but still very much Dean, too. It’s intoxicating, all of it is, and Castiel can’t get enough. He sucks salty bruises into Dean’s abs, relishes the moment where Dean whines and clenches his thighs around his abdomen, hands grappling at Castiel’s shoulders, his hair, Dean’s own hair, unsure what he wants but positive that it’s more.

So Castiel gives him exactly that, loosening his jaw and swallowing Dean down as far as he can until the head of his co*ck is bumping the back of his throat and threatening to make him choke. It’s worth it though, to feel Dean go loose, boneless beneath him, moaning and carding fingers through Castiel’s hair, encouraging him on. He could keep this up, Dean would probably barely flinch at a few slicked up fingers inside of him like this. Not when Castiel has him on the edge of org*sm already. But is Dean ready for that? Is that what he wants?

With no way to know and Dean in no position to tell him, Castiel reverts back to his original plan. He fumbles in the bedside table, dropping the bottle of lube nearby but not opening it up yet. Dean flinches a little at the motion and Castiel feels more confident about his choice. He shushes Dean, kisses him on the mouth, deep and soothing, until Dean relaxes again and Castiel tries not to think too much about how good it feels to be lying in between Dean’s legs like this. He won’t-- can’t-- rush this. Looking down at Dean, Castiel smoothes a hand over the side of his face and neck. “You trust me?”

Dean smiles slightly, nods, and to Castiel’s surprise and amusem*nt, parts his legs a little. With a mischievous grin, Castiel sinks down and gets his palms on Dean’s ass, squeezing playfully before sliding his hands up and pushing Dean’s thighs back in one movement. The squeak Dean lets out would be hilarious and worth laughing at if Castiel weren’t on a mission, but he is. Ducking his head, he parts Dean’s cheeks and licks unflinchingly at his hole, pleased when his tenacity pays off and Dean’s perturbed noises turn to very clear moans of enjoyment. He relaxes further the longer Castiel keeps at it, licking and nipping at the sensitive skin there, stroking Dean’s co*ck in time until he’s an even worse writhing mess than before. And when Castiel deems Dean sufficiently distracted, he slicks up his fingers and works one in.

By that point, Dean’s so lost in his head, caught up in savoring the moment that he’s seemingly forgotten to be embarrassed or worried. He’s got an arm over his face, bottom lip pulled in between his teeth, and Castiel wants him like he’s never wanted anyone or anything before. As he f*cks him slowly, Dean pushes back on his finger, slaps his own hand on the mattress and rumbles something that sounds a whole hell of a lot like, “more, Cas,” so Castiel complies. Two and then three, crooking his fingers to brush Dean’s prostate, enjoying the shivery tremor-spasms that result almost as much as Dean. Castiel loves him like this, does his very best to be worthy of seeing Dean so taken apart. Kissing his thighs, rolling his balls in his mouth, sucking him down intermittently, dragging out Dean’s pleasure for as long and as far as he can. Just like the last time, the first time, the whole world around them seems to disappear, and Castiel’s not even being touched.

In fact, at some point, he gives up completely on the idea of f*cking Dean tonight at all. Just seeing him so carefree and lost in his bliss, Castiel knows this is what Dean needs right now, and giving it to him makes Castiel happy. Splayed out below him, Dean’s totally gone on sensation now, head thrown back and hand clutching Castiel’s old, wooden headboard like his life depends on it. The incoherent mutterings spilling from his lips become slightly more focused, “Cas, Cas, Cas,” becoming audible and leaving Castiel entranced.

Begging. Gorgeous, stunning, “I don’t bottom” Dean is begging Castiel to come, on his fingers. Delighted and increasingly lust-drunk himself, Castiel takes Dean in his mouth one last time, sucking and swirling his tongue determinedly while he pumps his fingers and takes Dean screaming and clenching over the edge.

And Castiel’s generous but he’s not a goddamn saint, so as soon as Dean’s org*sm has petered out and he’s floating his way back to reality, Castiel removes his fingers and relocates them to his own neglected co*ck. He’s so hard that it’s slightly painful at first to touch and he winces a little. But then the lube and friction take center stage and it’s all relief from there on out. Castiel kneels between Dean’s legs, the man looking up at him drowsily through his long lashes, f*cked out and wrecked and no less devastating for it. “ Dean, ” Castiel sighs as his peak rapidly approaches. Suddenly, Dean reaches out to lift Castiel’s hand away from his co*ck, making him grunt in frustration and almost lose his balance on the bed. That feeling is short-lived though since Dean replaces Castiel’s hand with his own and swiftly takes him the rest of the way.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean says softly. “Come for me, come on me.” As if a sweeter invitation couldn’t possibly exist in this universe, Castiel does, lips parting around a moan as he spills onto Dean’s chest and falls forward, nearly toppling into the mess himself. He pants and struggles to come back to himself quickly, knowing Dean still needs to be cleaned up and probably should be held. While not exactly a scene, the first time bottoming for a man with anxieties like Dean’s undoubtedly calls for aftercare.

But as Castiel’s quickly learning to appreciate, Dean surprises him again, working the fingers of both hands back into Castiel’s hair, turning his head this way and that to kiss his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. “Thank you,” Dean says softly, and Castiel relaxes down onto his chest, f*ck the mess, just for a moment.

“Are you alright?”

Dean hesitates, and for terrifying moment Castiel worries that he’s going to say no. But then he looks up, green eyes bright and playful, crinkling at the corners as he grins widely. “So when can we do that again?”

***

Chapter 7: Winter

Chapter Text

Winter

Sunday Before Thanksgiving

Things settle into a surprisingly domestic routine for the two of them far more quickly and easily than Dean ever could have anticipated. With football season in hardcore full swing and every game on the line, it’s not like Dean has spare time coming out of his ass. The team’s record is 9-1 (way better than Stanford’s 4-6, to Sam’s chagrin and Dean’s absolute delight). At the rate they’re playing, Stanford likely won’t even be bowl-game eligible, and Dean’s team still has a shot at the playoffs. Just as long as they keep winning and beat LSU on their home turf Thanksgiving weekend. Piece of f*cking cake, right?

Not so much, but Dean’s not particularly worried, either. His team is driven, in great shape, and they look flawless on the field. He’s got NFL recruiters sniffing around several players and Max basically guaranteed first-round draft offers or at least an All-Star invite. At some point, Dean’s going to need to sit the boy down and have a real conversation with him, he knows it. Max is talented, but he’s also whip smart. He doesn’t have any threatening injuries and will likely only keep getting better and more seasoned over the next two years. Dean just has to convince Max himself that his degree and the opportunity to hone his skills is worth putting aside NFL glitz and glamour for the time being. While he knows it needs to happen, Dean can’t help but dread it. This particular conversation never gets any easier, especially when he feels like such a hypocrite doling it out.

But aside from all that, he and Castiel are all but official, in every way that matters. Even if that doesn’t include “out in public.” And Dean’s coping with that reality, he is. Enjoying it even, most days. Castiel feels worth so many things, so many risks, for everything he gives Dean in return. As such, Dean’s stopped denying his feelings, at least to himself. The rest of the world… well, the Earth keeps turning, the sun rises and sets, and nothing outside of his and Castiel’s little bubble is any different than it was that day back in August when Dean decided not to call his incredible one night stand’s proffered number.

But inside their bubble, things are easy, life is good. They both have their own separate interests; Castiel with his classes, academic meetings, and the new research project he’s signed on to assist one of the College’s doctoral candidates, Hannah, with. Dean, on the other hand, has all the usual on his plate, plus the weighing knowledge that his team has a very real shot at the playoffs this year. They’ll have to beat a big name team on their home turf on football’s biggest holiday, but if/when that happens, short of the Playoff Committee f*cking them for some other bigger name team, they should be in.

But in between all of that, Castiel and Dean have each other. Tuesday and Thursday nights, Castiel runs the study sessions that brought them together in the first place, now affectionately (instead of mockingly) referred to as “Rocks for Jocks.” Dean is there without fail, taking notes, participating in discussion groups, marveling over rock samples Castiel brings in to pass around the class. Afterward, he drives Castiel home and doesn’t even pretend that he isn’t going to stay the night. Weekend evenings go about the same, with Castiel regularly taking up a spot in the reserved section of the bleachers for home games and Dean hightailing it to his house as soon as the game is over. Obviously, the team has to travel, so on nights Dean is away, Castiel watches the game on TV and then they text and call and sometimes fall asleep together while doing so. As reluctant as Dean was to get into any kind of relationship at all, never mind one he has to hide, it’s hard to argue with domestic bliss. Any way you slice it, that’s what this is.

Tonight, the Sunday before Thanksgiving and approximately one month since Dean and Castiel were reintroduced in that lecture hall, Dean pulls his car into Castiel’s driveway and catches sight of him curled up in the rocker on his front porch. He’s wrapped in a warm coat and has a fleece blanket that definitely came from Dean’s apartment draped over his legs, but it’s freezing outside and Dean can’t help but roll his eyes. While he greatly appreciates the “welcome home” display after being gone all weekend, it’s a little much for Cas to be risking frostbite.

Still, something about seeing Castiel waiting there creates a warm and fuzzy feeling just behind Dean’s sternum in his chest. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of how easy it is to be with Castiel, how perfectly they seem to fit together. There’s no pressure, no struggle to act like people they aren’t, no awkward silences needing to be filled. It’s just… simple. Some nights, after class or a game, Dean cooks for them both. Some he stretches out by the fireplace and lets Castiel take his turn, though he’s not nearly as good a chef as he is a teacher. Other evenings, they order out and indulge in languid makeout sessions on Cas’ couch or up against the counter while they wait for their food to arrive. Later, Dean does work on his laptop while Castiel grades papers next to him on the couch, both of their socked feet propped up on the coffee table and kicking at each other playfully. Or Dean screens previous games and recorded practices with Castiel’s head in his lap and Dean’s hands in his hair. Whatever they do, at the end of every night, they fall into bed kissing and touching and bringing each other off in all the various ways they can think of.

Except for one, and Dean’s been meaning to come back to that, really, he has. Maybe tonight. It’s just that, Castiel’s been incredibly clear that he won’t f*ck Dean until he asks, and without the drive of post-game adrenaline amping him up, he hasn’t exactly been able to work up the courage.

As he gets out of the car, a few snowflakes drift lazily through the gray, late-afternoon November light to join the scattered smattering of their peers on the ground. For once Dean is wearing an actual winter coat, but the cold breeze cuts through his track pants and makes him shiver, despite his carefully built tolerance to being outside in all temperatures. “Hey, sunshine,” he calls softly, stopping just shy of the porch with one foot propped on the lowest stair. Castiel has of course been watching as he drove in and made his way over, but the smile Dean’s rewarded with when he drops Cas’ pet name is blinding. “Missed you.”

The blanket slips down and Castiel stretches slightly, folding his hands on top of it instead of tucking them back underneath. “It’s funny,” he says. “I’ve slept alone for so many years and loved every minute of it. I didn’t think twice about purchasing a King-sized bed knowing that I would be the only one in it, barring an extremely rare anomaly. But now, I find it difficult to sleep without you overheating my right side and snoring in my ear.”

“I think there was a compliment in there somewhere,” Dean replies with a smirk. “Just say it, you missed me.” He moves to step up, but Castiel throws up a hand and stops him.

“Wait! Stay there for a moment, don’t move.” Dean blinks in confusion but obeys, watching as Castiel leans forward a little, poking at a small bowl Dean hadn’t noticed sitting on the porch slats next to his feet. Rubbing his fingers together and making soft kissy-type noises with his mouth, Castiel’s full concentration is suddenly focused on something Dean can’t see, thanks to the porch railing. He can hear though, and the sound of nails clacking on the steps that go down the other side of the porch reaches his ears.

“Dude, what--”

“Shh,” Castiel hushes him and then tips his chin forward. Dean leans around the pole slowly, just in time to see a little whitish-grey bundle of fur making its way cautiously across the length of the porch. “I’ve been waiting,” Castiel whispers. “I tried to catch him earlier, but he ran.” The walking allergy attack gets close enough to sniff at the bowl before quickly gobbling up whatever Cas has left inside of it. As soon as the food is gone, Castiel swoops down and scoops the thing up. Instead of scrambling and clawing to get away, the bundle just shakes and shivers, ears going flat and tail drooping down like it thinks it’s going to be punished. “You poor thing,” Castiel coos. “You’re safe now.”

“Cas,” Dean says in disbelief. “What the hell is it?”

“It’s a dog,” Castiel replies, a bit defensively. “Likely a Shih Tzu or perhaps a Lhasa Apso. They’re wonderful companions. He has no collar and he’s quite unkempt, but it’s nothing a bath and quick trim can’t fix.”

“That dog is scared,” Dean points out, watching warily as it trembles. “Someone f*cked with him but good.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees as he gets to his feet, blanket forgotten and pooling on the floor. “There are a few sores on his skin and he’s a bit thin. He just needs some love and affection.”

Dean grabs Castiel’s blanket before following him and the dog in the door. “Not exactly the kind of love and affection I was hoping for this evening,” Dean complains, but stops when Castiel turns around. Unwittingly, he catches sight of the big brown eyes under the mop of dirty hair the dog is sporting, and man, are those suckers designed for heartstring-pulling. Without a word, Castiel dumps the dog into Dean’s arms.

“I’m going to gather some gear for a bath and trim,” he says. “I have a box of dog supplies around here somewhere. Always knew I’d need them again someday, just have to dig it out.” With that, Castiel leaves Dean and the dog alone in the entryway, staring at each other and unsure what to do next.

“What?” Dean grumbles, but he scratches the dog underneath the chin and gets nuzzled for his efforts. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re a little co*ckblock is what you are, yes you are.” The dog just stares up at him longingly and when Dean leans close, licks his face before making a happy little grunting sound. “Oh,” Dean says. “Damn it, who am I kidding? You had me at herro. You had me at herro.” When he looks up, Dean catches Castiel wrapped around the doorframe just down the hall, smiling from ear to ear. “Shut up,” he warns, finger pointed, though he doesn’t stop the dog from continuing to snuggle his face. “You did this.”

***

Two hours later, the newest member of Castiel’s household is washed, trimmed, and named “C.B.”, which Dean tells Castiel is for the radio since dogs are good at helping people communicate their feelings. In reality, it most definitely stands for “co*ckblock,” since Dean is apparently no closer to getting laid. Reluctantly, he has to admit he likes the little fluffer and it appears to be housetrained, which is a relief.

“I think he may actually be very old,” Castiel says, a little sadly. “Elderly dogs get dumped frequently. But look how mild-mannered he is, how well-behaved, how much he wants to trust us. I’ll have to take him to the vet tomorrow, just in case he was abandoned due to medical problems. But in the meantime, snuggling seems to be the best medicine. Come,” Castiel tells Dean, cradling the dog in the crook of his elbow while holding out a hand. “Let’s all lie in bed together. We’ve barely gotten to speak this weekend, I want to hear what’s on your mind. Oh, and I missed you too. Very much.” Hearing that, Dean stops Castiel in the hallway and tugs him back, sliding a hand across his shoulders and cupping the back of his head to draw him in and kiss him deeply.

The dog just hangs out on Castiel’s arm, unbothered. Good boy, CB, Dean thinks. “Wanted to do that since you sent me that picture of you last night. All wrapped up in a blanket, biting your lip like you don’t know what that does to me. Hell, I couldn’t even pretend you were next to me, not with Benny in the bed three feet away. Don’t think he would’ve appreciated that much.”

With a squeeze of his hand, Castiel smiles and leads Dean down the hallway to his bedroom. The room itself is so wonderfully familiar these days, with its calming blue walls and inviting bedding, and Dean realizes with a start that he’s beginning to feel more at home here than at his own apartment. After he’d gotten off the bus with his team earlier, he’d dropped by his place to grab some necessities before heading straight over here without even thinking about it. And looking back, it wasn’t putting the key in his lock or seeing his familiar couch, TV, or bedspread that made him breathe that sigh of relief like he was finally home. It was pulling into Castiel’s driveway, hearing his voice, feeling his recently-shaved cheek soft and warm against Dean’s own. It was the fact that Castiel had apparently adopted a stray animal and Dean hadn’t even blinked because it so obviously made Castiel happy. It was the smell of enchiladas wafting from Castiel’s homey, well-used kitchen, the warmth that pervades the entire space, the way Castiel welcomes him into it like he belongs there.

With a jolt, Dean realizes how desperately he does want to belong here. Working to school his expression, Dean swallows all the emotions that are bubbling up, not ready in the least to voice any of that sh*t out loud. He’s going to need to sit with this particular revelation for a hell of a long time before that’s happening, if ever. For his part, Cas is wholly distracted by the way the dog is letting him lay him down and tuck him under the covers like a little doll and doesn’t seem to pick up on Dean’s dry-mouthed shock at his own self-discovery. To further cover it up, Dean strips to his underwear and turns out all the lights before he lays down.

It’s only around six PM, but Dean’s exhausted from traveling and can’t think of much he’d rather do than lie in a blanket and pillow nest with Castiel and get his hands all over his body. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be sexual, they can just touch, hold each other. Dean would be more than happy to simply feel the weight of Castiel’s head on his chest, smooth hands over his perfect, supple skin, and yea, maybe squeeze his ass. Just a little. Maybe even get his own ass squeezed, if he’s lucky.

Even with CB in the way, they manage to get close. The dog is little enough that two grown men can still more or less wrap around each other without issue. Dean knows Castiel wants to talk, but he needs a few minutes of pure touch and sensation, and Castiel gives it to him. They kiss softly, the gentle, lingering kind that makes Dean sigh with satisfaction. Castiel’s hand feels good on his bicep, dragging the back of his nails down his side, working its fingers in between his own. When the exchange of kisses naturally peters out, Dean feels recharged, peaceful, and once again full of emotions he’s not ready to deal with.

So he turns onto his back and talks about football. Castiel rearranges the dog so that he can snuggle into Dean’s chest, humming and clarifying various things as Dean rambles on. He listens patiently while Dean bitches about the ridiculous nature of Bowls and collegiate playoffs; limited berths and all of them chosen by a committee that frequently prioritizes big names and money over talent and worth.

“So you could have the same record as another team and be passed over because that team is a bigger name school that attracts larger sponsors?” Castiel asks, his index finger drawing abstract pictures on Dean’s chest.

“Yup,” Dean affirms. “Happens all the time. I mean, record like ours, we’re definitely going to a bowl, no question. But that’s basically a showcase. Might get us more money, sponsors, things like that, but it’s not a title game. And we’ll send some players to the All-Star games, too. Definitely Max, maybe Aaron, especially if Max doesn’t wanna risk injury.”

“All-Star games?”

“They’re like a pre-draft scouting event. Potential first-round draft picks get rounded up and play each other for the NFL recruiters. I did it, way back when. It’s stressful but fun. I won’t be there, though. It’s really only for the players and select elite coaching staff.”

“I thought bowl games were the playoffs,” Castiel admits softly. “I have trouble following the whole thing, it’s confusing.”

“It’s stupid confusing,” Dean agrees. “All you gotta know is that when it comes to playoffs, only two of the bowls matter, and they rotate. This year it’s the Fiesta Bowl and the Peach Bowl. When the top four seeds are chosen, they’ll play each other in those bowls and the winners will face off at the National Championships in Louisiana. Gonna be at the Superdome this year, pretty f*ckin’ cool.”

Castiel makes a contented noise and pinches Dean’s nipple which makes him squirm, although not unpleasantly. “And what are your team’s chances of making it to either of those particular games?”

His hand stills on Castiel’s back as Dean stops to think for a moment. Eventually, he shrugs. “Hard to say. We’re good, but we lost to Ohio State early on, you remember? Thing is, Ohio State’s undefeated, so if we beat LSU next weekend, we still have a shot. Problem is, your record isn’t the only thing the committee looks at, it’s also who you played. Take Clemson, last year’s National Champs. They’re 11-0 right now but they haven’t played anyone who matters. So technically, our record is worse, but we’ve beaten better schools. If it came down to us or Clemson, so long as we beat LSU, it should be us. But,” Dean shrugs again. “Politics. Clemson has the bigger name. In the end, the committee would rather have a 9 and 2 nationally recognized program versus an 11-0 no name. It ain’t fair, but it’s our reality.”

“I believe I’m following so far, but I have to say, I’m surprised you aren’t more frustrated with that system.”

“It’s a stupid system,” Dean agrees. “The problem is that schedules are made years ahead and you gotta try and find a balance between playing good teams that’ll boost your ranking and taking the chance of getting stomped left and right every week. Some years you win, some you lose. Most coaches are trying to do just enough to claw their way up to the biggest name school that’ll have them, the one with the most money and visibility. I guess I just don’t think like that. I know I’m a good coach, I know I have a kickass team. And I’m happy here. Plus, the administration here knows me well enough that so long as we at least go to a Bowl, my job is safe. But it’d be nice, you know? My guys deserve playoff seeds as much as any of the big names out there. Guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Hmm,” Castiel replies. “When do you leave for LSU?”

“Thanksgiving morning,” Dean groans. “Awful, right? We play Friday, not much I can do about it. College is treating us to a big spread before and after the game, though. Should be a good time.” At the last second, Dean stops himself from telling Castiel he wishes he could come. He does wish Castiel could come, but it’s not a possibility, not yet, maybe not ever. Still, in that way he always does, Castiel seems to read his mind and pokes at the issue.

“I was wondering… What do the families of your other coaches do for these sorts of games? Thanksgiving and all that.” He doesn’t look up from where he’s nuzzling Dean’s chest, and that’s another obvious clue that he’s digging. Does Castiel actually want to come with him? Dean hadn’t even considered that it might hurt his feelings to be left out. They haven’t been together that long. They aren’t even out.

“Um,” he hedges. “Well, the school’s a little more generous around the holidays. They’ll put Benny and Andrea up in their own hotel room instead of making us share, and she’ll probably bring the little one. Donna comes with Jody. And probably a bunch of the players’ families will meet us there, stay over in their own rooms and have family time, maybe even take their kids back with them since the school has half of next week off. All kinda depends.” He knows he’s skirting the issue, but in his defense, Dean doesn’t even know what Castiel wants. He changes the subject. “So… you gonna go see family?”

“What? Oh,” Castiel replies. “Yes, I have a flight out Wednesday night after my last classes. My family is still in Illinois, they always do a big get together for the big holidays. I suppose I should be grateful, but honestly, I hate it. I’ve never had much in common with any of them and my siblings tend to get down on me.”

“For what?”

“For anything they can think of. My career choices, my sexuality, my lack of a spouse or children, you name it.” Castiel finally tips his head up and smiles ruefully at Dean. “Family,” he says with a helpless lift of his shoulder.

Dean looks back at him for a long, silent moment before blurting out, “Are you going to tell them about me?”

His mouth dropping open a little, Castiel doesn’t even try to hide his surprise. “I... I hadn’t thought about it, if I’m being honest. Would it bother you if I did? What if I didn’t use your name?”

Swallowing heavily, Dean gathers up every ounce of courage he’s been slowly saving up for this moment. In truth, he’s been thinking about it now for almost a week, and he’s ready. “Thing is,” he starts, licking his lips when they feel dry, “Mom and Sam are flying out to Louisiana to see my team play. You know, so we can do the family thing like everyone else afterward. I don’t get to see them much, so it’s kind of a big deal. And, I dunno. I was thinking… I was thinking I might try and tell them. About you. And me. You and me.” Dean stumbles over the last few words and then adds in a rush, “Maybe don’t tell your family who I am, though. I’m not there… I ain’t ready for that yet.”

As he waits for a reaction, Dean cringes internally, worried that he’s handling this wrong, that Castiel will feel slighted and uncomfortable with being asked to keep things from his kin. But then Castiel shoots upright, slinging a leg over Dean’s hips and framing his face with his big, warm hands. CB yelps a little and scoots off to the side of the bed, curling up with his head on Castiel’s abandoned pillow. Dean barely notices, though, because Castiel is kissing him like he just won the Superbowl himself, and well, Dean is A-OK with that.

“You’re wonderful,” Castiel murmurs between presses of lips and Dean can’t help but feel guilty.

“You’re using a low bar, sweetheart,” he replies, but Castiel just shakes his head and pulls the covers up and over his body, sinking down between Dean’s legs and using his mouth to show just what he thinks of Dean’s willingness to come out to his family. And Dean has to admit, there may be something to be said for positive reinforcement.

***

Black Friday

They beat LSU in the last thirty seconds of a five-minute sudden-death overtime, and Dean’s flying. Sam comes running down the aisle of the stadium seating and leans over the railing to wrap him in a hug, their mother not far behind. When the celebrating and handshaking and interviewing is finally over, Dean and the team retreat back to the hotel, where the members of their families that were able to join them in Louisiana are waiting. There’s a giant post-game spread catered by the College and set up in the common room of the suite Dean, his coaches, and their families are put up in, and everyone eats to their heart’s content. It may not be the most conventional holiday, but Dean’s grateful. Football, friends, family, the best of all worlds.

He’s only missing one thing.

Later that evening, when everyone is stuffed full and dozing (or totally f*ckin’ weird like Sammy and downstairs working out in the hotel gym), Dean sneaks out to the courtyard behind the hotel. Dialing Castiel’s number, he locates a bench and spreads out, thankful that the average temperature in November in Louisiana is seventy, and not seven. When the phone picks up and a familiar voice sounds over the other end, Dean can’t help but smile. “Hello, Dean.”

“Heya, Cas. Did you see?”

“I saw.” While Dean might be unable to enjoy watching the smile spread across Castiel’s face, he can hear it in his voice. “I’m very proud of you all. The game was extremely exciting.”

“We’ve got a real shot at the playoffs now,” Dean says proudly before clearing his throat. “So, what are you up to? How’s the family reunion?”

“As awful as I predicted,” Castiel replies with a sigh. In the background, there’s a crash accompanied by what sounds like children screeching and a chorus of raised voices. “Apologies… If I thought my brothers might stop competing simply because they got older and produced children, I am ready to admit that I was extremely wrong.”

“This Michael and Luke?”

“The very same.”

“They being nice to you at least?”

“Not at all,” Castiel replies with a laugh. “Also, my mother is currently locked in her room, crying over the fact that I will never give her grandchildren, as I’m still gay and you are not a woman.”

“sh*t,” Dean says, dragging a hand down over his mouth. “What, uh, geez, Cas, I’m sorry. That’s… upsetting, isn’t it?” He only phrases his reply in the form of a question because Castiel doesn’t sound upset at all. In fact, Dean likes to think he knows him pretty well by now, and his voice is tinged with amusem*nt, if anything.

“It’s not,” he says simply. “It’s nothing I didn’t expect or anticipate. Dean, I love my family, faults aside, but they aren’t the ones who have to live my life. I long ago decided not to let their beliefs and dramatics influence my ability to be happy with who I am. You make me happy. You are what’s important to me, not Naomi Novak’s crocodile tears. And anyway, she’ll be on to harassing Anna for granddaughter number three by brunch tomorrow,” Castiel concludes dismissively. “And then I’ll be on a plane home.”

Unsure what to say to that, Dean just hums, wishing Castiel were beside him so he could demonstrate the swell of affection he feels by kissing that sensitive spot on his neck. “Miss you,” Dean offers when the silence stretches out too long between them.

“I miss you,” Castiel answers immediately. “I spotted Mary and Sam at the end of the game, when the cameras were tracking your celebrations. I must admit, I was somewhat jealous. I’d love to be there for you like that someday.” There’s another crash and then some directed yelling that’s still unintelligible but feels closer to the phone and Castiel sighs again. “I have to go,” he says regretfully. “Will I see you tomorrow night?”

“Soon as I get off the bus,” Dean replies without even thinking about it. It only feels natural at this point, to return home to Castiel as soon as possible. They’ve only been apart since Wednesday morning, but it’s been a long week, and for Dean, it feels like ages. “Can’t f*ckin’ wait.”

“Me either. I’ll see you then.” Castiel pauses for a moment, the static thick over the line like he’s holding back something he wants to say. But the moment passes and Dean finds himself letting out a breath when all Castiel says is, “Alright,” and the phone clicks off.

For some time, Dean just sits on the bench, staring down at his darkened screen. The breeze is warm on his face, a hell of a contrast to the freezing weather the northeast is being bombarded with, and the likely subzero temperatures Castiel’s dealing with in Chicago. The part of the courtyard he’s sitting in is secluded, large hedges sculpted like walls to a maze cordoning off various sections for privacy. It’s dark, but the gaslamp-style lanterns dotting the pathways provide plenty of light for anyone who might want to escape the stuffy hotel and get some fresh air.

As it turns out tonight, that’s not just Dean.

The two familiar voices he hears nearly have Dean stepping out of the shadowed, leafy alcove to say hello, at least until he registers their tones. One angry, one just sad, maybe a little desperate.

“Don’t do this.” Dean strains to listen, registering that one as the sad voice, its owner being Aaron, Dean’s kicker and as of late, up and coming receiver. Dean’s heard him belting out Journey in the showers often enough to be able to recognize his voice without question. “Max, Max don’t.” There’s a rustling noise, like windbreaker fabric being pulled from hands before Max replies.

“Get off of me, man.” More scuffling, enough that Dean feels sufficiently worried to peek around the corner and check in on them. When he does, his heart drops into his stomach. Max is bigger than Aaron, could undoubtedly take him easily in a fight, and yet Aaron has him backed up against the hedge, the lapels of Max’s team jacket gripped in his hands. It looks like they’re fighting, and yet, why would Max let himself be cornered that way if he’s upset? Dean’s answer comes in the form of Aaron leaning in and pressing his lips to Max’s, when Max grunts like he’s angry but then gives in, grabbing Aaron’s face and kissing back, at least for a few seconds.

But then Max is whipping his arms up and tossing Aaron away, making him stumble backward on the cement path. The light from the nearest gaslamp casts strange shadows over their faces, making Max look ominous as he approaches Aaron again. “I said, back off. We’re done with this, it’s over. We had fun, but you know we’re both being looked at right now. If you think I’m gonna throw away an NFL career to be your boyfriend, you’re nuts.”

“Max,” Aaron whispers, cowering a little in front of the other man, but Max just shakes his head and turns to walk away. Not to be dismissed so easily, Aaron follows and grabs his wrist. This time, when Max turns around he’s less angry, and Dean can see even from his little hiding spot that his eyes are bright and shiny with tears.

“f*ck off, Aaron,” he insists, shaking his wrist free. “It doesn’t matter what we want. We’ve got a limited number of years here. I wanna play football, I wanna be a star. Think about everything Dean’s taught us.” Those words make Dean start, make his mouth snap closed and his brow furrow.

“It’s killing you,” Aaron argues. “Last semester, you were on the verge of… f*ck Dean, what does he know about it? I know football isn’t enough for you. I know you f*ckin’ cried when I did this same sh*t to you last year. You can’t lie to me, Max, I know you. It doesn’t matter what you try and tell yourself to justify it. You said you’d rather die than live a lie.”

“That was before. And what does Dean know? Dean knows what it takes, that’s what Dean knows. C’mon Aaron, we all know the truth. Guys like us just can’t have it all. The team’s got a real shot at the playoffs after today and I’m going to be a first-round NFL pick. So I’m choosing. Leave me alone.”

Max storms off in a huff leaving Aaron behind, hands wrapped around the back of his head in frustration. “ f*ck ,” he mutters, stomping off in the opposite direction and barely giving Dean time to scoot back into the sanctity of the nook carved out by the hedge.

***

“Benny!” Dean half-yells as he starts to pound on Benny’s door and then thinks better of it, remembering that the Lafittes have a toddler who is probably trying to sleep at this hour. Sam narrows his eyes skeptically from across the common room of the suite where he’s sacked out watching TV and Dean waves him off nervously. “Team stuff,” he mutters, averting his eyes with the obvious lie.

The door swings open and Benny looks out at Dean, exasperated. Behind him, Andrea shoots them both the evil eye as she continues attempting to rock the baby, whose head is now peeking up curiously at the newcomer. “sh*t, I’m sorry,” Dean apologizes as Benny steps outside the room and closes the door behind him.

Raising his eyebrows, Benny grabs his hat from the table and makes for the main door of the suite. “No need to apologize, brother, I’ve been trying to get out of there for over an hour now. That baby ain’t goin’ to sleep any time soon and I’m about to lose my skull listening to Andrea bitch. Bar?”

“Bar,” Dean echoes, relieved. “I’m buying.”

When they’re settled downstairs, each with several fingers of whiskey in front of them, Dean clears his throat. “Out with it,” Benny insists, tapping his index finger on the bartop. “I might’ve been lookin’ for an escape, but you rarely see Sam and you’ve run out on him twice tonight. What gives?”

After a deep breath in, Dean exhales the entire story, from his phone call to Cas (minus details) to Aaron and Max storming off in opposite directions, including the confusing things they said about him. When he’s done, Dean tosses back at least half of what’s in his glass and grimaces; it’s not the good stuff. “I mean, what are they thinking? That I’m hom*ophobic or something?” He glances over at Benny, who is suddenly finding the bottom of his glass extremely fascinating. “Benny!”

Benny sighs heavily and motions for the bartender to refill both of their glasses. “You’re really in it now, cher,” is all he says at first, no matter how much Dean huffs and makes ‘on with it’ hand gestures. After several quiet moments, Benny asks, “Why were you callin’ your professor friend?”

His tone is innocuous, the question seemingly innocent, but Dean knows a trap when he sees one. “Whatsat matter?” he mumbles, lifting the glass to his mouth again and choking down another big gulp. At least the liquor is doing its job, making him sufficiently fuzzy around the edges for Benny’s next bomb.

“Dean, sugar,” Benny claps him on the shoulder and waves his hand around. “Everybody knows.”

“Every…” Dean trails off and swallows hard. His heart is thumping a million miles an hour and his stomach is in his throat. Benny looks exhausted, but Dean’s habits are too ingrained to just be f*ckin’ normal and real with him. “Knows what?” Feign ignorance, yea, that’ll help.

“ Dean, ” Benny says, completely fed up. “Alright, clearly we ain’t there yet. Let’s back up. Your players. Our players. Our apparently at-least-bi-possibly-gay players. You don’t think you’ve led them to feeling some type of way about being open with who they are?”

“No,” Dean replies petulantly. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

“I can’t do this with you, brother.” Benny shakes his head. “It’s been a long week and we’ve got longer ones ahead. I got a wife and kid waitin’ for me upstairs, so Dean, I love you, but if you’re gonna play games with me, I’m headin’ out.” Dean just gapes. “We all know you’re hopelessly in love with Cas. Nobody cares, man. Hell, most of us are rootin’ for it to work out. S’plain as day to see how happy he makes you. But you hide it, you hide who you are. Kids are smart, cher. Monkey see, monkey do. They see you hiding, they think they gotta hide too.” Benny raises his eyebrows. “You don’t think all this with Aaron and Max is just a little bit your fault?”

“My fa-- No, ” Dean growls, angry now. “I never told Aaron or Max not to be who they are. I never said anything about staying in the closet or otherwise. And I definitely didn’t make either one of them depressed or suicidal.”

“You ain’t listening. You didn’t have to tell them anything. They watch you, they see you--”

“Those are my choices, ain’t got nothin’ to do with them.”

“They look up to you! It’s got everything to do with them!” Benny’s visibly irritated now. “You know, I always gathered you had some self-worth issues, but I never knew you were stupid, cher.” Draining the dregs of his glass, Benny stands up and drops it back onto the bartop with a clatter. “You want your players to feel something different than you were taught ‘bout how the world works, maybe you should try settin’ a better example for ‘em.”

As he starts to walk away, Dean turns on his stool and calls after him, just loud enough to be heard without broadcasting an announcement to the entire bar. “Me comin’ out ain’t gonna change football,” Dean says, eyes downcast. “Or the NFL, or the way people don’t wanna shower in a locker room with a gay teammate, or draft him onto their team at all, or even root for him.”

Benny tips his chin over his shoulder, acknowledging Dean with a nod. “No, it won’t. But it changes the culture in your locker room, for a start. Unless you want these kids to grow up as sad and lonely as you.” He steps away and then hesitates. “You deserved for someone to tell you it was okay to be yourself, Dean. I’m sorry that didn’t happen for you. But one of these days, you gotta stop wallowing and start actually being the example you say you want to set for these kids, ‘cause brother, they deserve better too.”

***

Three more whiskeys and Dean can barely stand up straight, but he’s finally ready. Somehow he makes his way from the hotel bar through the lobby to the elevator and gets his key card into the door of the suite without falling over. He’s pretty sure he used a little old lady for balance somewhere along the way, but sacrifices have to be made. When he stumbles into the common room of the suite, Sam is exactly where Dean left him.

“What’re you doin’ up so late?” Dean knows he’s slurring, but it was this or chicken out, so here he is.

“It’s nine-thirty,” Sam replies with not a small amount of confusion, and Dean nods as he slumps down on the couch beside him.

“Where’s everybody else?”

“Uh… Mom’s reading in her room, Jody and Donna are sacked out, Benny rolled through here about a half-hour ago and hasn’t been out since. I think his kid only stopped crying maybe five minutes ago.”

“What about you?” Dean asks, slinging his feet up onto the coffee table and going for casual. “How’s your wife and kid?”

“Dean,” Sam says, holding up a hand and turning slightly so that he’s closer to facing his brother. His giant leg takes up most of the cushion he’s sitting on and Dean stifles a laugh. His brother is enormous. “What are you doing? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ll gladly talk your ear off about Sarah and John all night, but we all Skyped earlier and you spoke to them. I can’t help but feel like you’re trying to tell me something and avoiding it at the same time.”

“You always were able to see right through me,” Dean muses, tracing the pattern on the fabric of the couch with his finger. “Even when we were kids, couldn’t get sh*t past you.”

“Dean?”

“‘M gay, Sammy,” Dean blurts out, sort of apathetic about it in the end, throwing his hands up and leaving them smack against his thighs when they come down. “That’s…” He hiccups a little. “There it is. ‘M gay, or… I guess I’m technically bi but it doesn’t matter because I’m gay with Cas.”

Sam’s eyebrows knit together. “Cas? Wait, the professor?”

“Hell yes,” Dean says with a big smile, dropping his head back onto the overstuffed cushion behind him. He sobers a little when he remembers the gravity of the conversation and that Sam hasn’t actually reacted yet. Sorrowfully, he raises his eyes and meets Sam’s concerned ones. “You think less of me yet?”

Sam shakes his head, hair flying like a dog. Dean wonders if Sam is ever going to get a damn dog like he’s wanted his whole life. He opens his mouth to say so, but Sam cuts him off. “Listen, Dean, I dunno how to break this to you, but I’ve kind of always suspected you swung both ways. Maybe this makes you mad or whatever, but remember Leo?”

Dean does remember Leo. Junior year of high school, the first boy he’d ever had feelings for and subsequently, the first boy he’d ever acted on his feelings for. But Sam couldn’t… how? His mind drifts off, searching his memories of the past, wondering where he f*cked up. Back in the present, Sam clears his throat and Dean looks away, probably blushing, ‘cause that’s all he seems to do these days. “Saw you guys in your car, one time. You weren’t… I mean, I didn’t see… whatever. You looked close, or something. I dunno. Does it matter? Dean, did you think I’d care?”

Dean breathes out, snatches the can of soda Sam’s left on the table in front of them and downs it. Too fast, too much carbonation; he burps and Sam grimaces. “I guess it was stupid to get so in my head about it,” Dean says quietly. “Turns out, everyone already seems to know anyways.” He laughs and then frowns. “Coulda been happy all along, apparently.”

“I get why you weren’t open about it,” Sam offers. “I mean, I always assumed you knew I knew and you’d tell me if there was… someone. But your job, the field you’re in. It’s not all that simple is it?”

“No,” Dean replies sullenly. “It’s not. Guess it’s time I did something about that, or whatever. Hey.” He brightens as he looks over at Sam again. “You think I should tell Mom?”

“I’m pretty sure she knows, Dean,” Sam replies in what he probably thinks is a soothing way and Dean sulks. “She’s your mom. It’s her job to know that stuff. And, you know, we might’ve talked about it once or twice.” Dean’s frown deepens and he shoves at Sam’s shoulder.

“Bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam says casually. “But you should definitely tell her about Cas.” He reaches up to tug Dean back down when he stands up and wobbles. “Tomorrow,” he adds, patting Dean’s shoulder. “Tell her tomorrow.”

With a yawn, Dean nods in agreement. “Tomorrow,” he says.

***

Saturday

Mary reacts about the same as Sam, though their talk is much more awkward and stilted without the assistance of the conversational lubricant known as alcohol. Still, Dean doesn’t have any regrets, especially when he gets to see his mom’s reaction to the news that he’s dating someone. He hasn’t seen her so excited since Sarah announced she was pregnant with Sam’s sasquatch spawn. It’s a nice feeling, and they part at the airport with Mary making Dean promise to at least consider bringing Castiel home with him for Christmas, if they’re “in that space,” as she says.

Oddly, the most difficult part of the whole weekend comes during the time when Dean least expects it. Arriving home is the pleasant affair Dean daydreams about it being all the way back on the plane and then the bus. Castiel meets him at the door and kisses him silly, up against the wall and needy as can be, like they’ve been apart for weeks and not days. He drags Dean into the kitchen, sits him down with a mug of hot, homemade cider and a slice of warm blueberry pie. Between the cozy warmth of Castiel’s house, the delicious scents wafting through the air, and the comfort of being in Cas’ arms again, Dean’s guard drops immediately, and he relaxes.

And maybe it’s all of that, affecting his ability to feel Castiel out. Maybe the kisses and pie and the drop of bourbon in his cider just make him a bit too giddy, too cavalier for the story he’s telling. Or maybe it really is the subject matter himself, the way Dean’s painted himself into a shameful corner, but that one is harder for him to accept. Of course, it is. Regardless though, Dean doesn’t pick up on the way Castiel tenses when he recounts the story about Aaron and Max, doesn’t laugh at Dean’s drunken coming out stories, and he takes his hand away from where it’s been resting comfortingly on Dean’s arm.

Finally, his pervasive quiet makes it register with Dean that something is very wrong, and he glances up. Castiel’s holding his hand to his chest like he’s been burned, and he looks extremely unhappy. “Where are Aaron and Max now?” is all he says.

Making a face, Dean shrugs and shoves another forkful of pie into his mouth. “I’unno,” he mumbles before swallowing. “Probably their apartment? They live together on West Campus, I--hey!” Dean shoves his chair back as Castiel swipes the plate with the pie on it away from Dean, sending it sliding across the counter and onto the floor, where it smashes into a million pieces and a purplish-blue smear on the tile. “Cas, what the f*ck?”

“Dean Winchester, I can put up with a lot from you, but not this. You’re sitting in my kitchen eating pie while casually telling me that two of your players and my students are struggling with their sexuality, so much so that one or both of them may be depressed or even suicidal?” He huffs and the fury in his eyes makes Dean feel more ashamed than he ever has in his life, about anything.

“I didn’t think--”

“That much is very clear.” Castiel stands and grabs Dean by the elbow, tugging him towards the entryway. Once there, he scoops up Dean’s boots, coat, and the duffel bag he brought with him, having come straight from the school after retrieving his car, wanting so badly to see Castiel. Without pretense, Cas shoves the whole bundle into Dean’s arms and opens the front door. “Believe me, I understand being closeted, I do. I have and will continue to be patient with you, where it concerns only us and our life together. But this… Dean, your choices are no longer affecting just you. Those men are hurting, and you’re sitting here eating pie. ”

“Yea, you said that already,” Dean replies, frustrated. “I know that Cas, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I want to be better, I do. For us. For them. I came out to Benny, to Sam, to my mom. I’m trying.”

“This is bigger than us,” Castiel replies, stone-faced as he grips the heavy front door in one hand. “Your players could be in danger as we speak. You need to realize that you’ve apparently cultivated an atmosphere that hurts people, which is something I didn’t realize until now. Your views, the mentalities you uphold, they’re causing students who look up to you, who depend on you to feel unsafe being themselves in your care. Fix this, Dean. And don’t come back here until you do. I love you, but I can’t be a part of causing or enabling you to cause young queer men this type of pain.”

Stunned, Dean watches helplessly as Castiel closes the door in his face, leaving him shoeless and shivering on the front porch. Big, fat snowflakes fall softly as he trudges towards his car, leaving his socks soaking wet and freezing. Dean’s chest aches and his head pounds; he’s exhausted and wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and forget that the last two days ever happened. And yet, he knows in his gut that Castiel is right. After everything he’s done, ignoring the impact of his actions is the last thing he should be doing. No, Dean knows what he has to do. All that’s left is to make it happen.

***

Chapter 8: Winter

Chapter Text

Winter

Saturday

Castiel’s hands shake as he leans back against the door, fully aware that Dean is likely still staring after him in shock on the other side. Part of him wants to rip it back open, to lean out and call after his man, bring him back inside. He could, he could do that. Promise to make this his problem, to help Dean work out this mess he’s made together. But although Castiel’s never played football, he’s been Aaron and he’s been Max, and he’s had to cope with people in positions like Dean’s who were anything from outright hateful to passively ignorant. People who made his life worse by acting like he didn’t exist, like if he dared to be himself, he didn’t deserve to take up the same space in the world that others did. It seems like Dean falls somewhere in the middle of that spectrum, with his internalized self-hate and the way he feels he has no choice but to uphold the Unspoken Rules of the football world. Thing is, of course, all of that is bullsh*t, and Castiel knows that deep down, Dean knows it too.

No, this is a tangled web Dean has to unravel on his own. Not just for himself and his team, but Castiel needs to see him do it, needs to know that he’s capable, of having compassion and empathy for others, if not for himself. Because it’s one thing if Dean wants to hide who he is. It’s one thing if Dean never feels safe or comfortable being publicly out of the closet. But like he told Dean outright, Castiel draws the line at actively teaching this bullsh*t to the next generation. At some point, someone has to stand up and say, “that’s enough, I don’t accept this.” And if that person isn’t Dean, then the buck is going to have to stop with Castiel. It wouldn’t be the first time Castiel’s sacrificed something—someone—he wanted very much for similar reasons.

But ultimately, Castiel believes that Dean will come through. Even as he trudges back to the kitchen, stooping to clean up the shattered pieces of plate and pie all over his floor (which feels like a bit of a heavy-handed metaphor at the moment, honestly), it all feels temporary. Or perhaps that’s just what he hopes since not having Dean either here with him or on the way feels so very wrong. When the floor is free of debris and a lot less purple, Castiel washes his hands at the sink and grabs the remainder of Dean’s abandoned cider. It’s cold now, but still a good enough vehicle for bourbon, and so Castiel adds some more. He sinks down onto the couch that faces the fireplace and stares into the flames, trying not to fall into melancholy wondering about whether this is to be his life now.

The cider is mostly gone when Castiel’s phone rings. The screen shows a local number but one he doesn't recognize and as such, he almost sends it to voicemail. It’s possible it could be someone from the Administration, though, or maybe Hannah calling from one of the landlines about an issue in the lab, so with a resigned sigh, Castiel answers. “This is Castiel Novak,” he says, a bit sullenly.

“Brother, whatever you did to him, I owe you one.” The gruff voice with its familiar southern twang lets Castiel know immediately who’s on the other end, despite the fact that they’ve only interacted in passing a handful of times.

“Benny?” Castiel questions. “Is something wrong?”

“Kind of the opposite. At least, I’m thinking it is,” Benny tells him. “Figured I owed you one, for kicking Dean’s ass or whatever.”

“It wasn't like—Owed me…?”

“I got a place and a time I think you should show up to. Dean’s talkin’ kind of crazy, called me all worked up in a tizzy, asked me to pull together a team meeting this evening, mandatory, no exceptions. I had to do a little piecing together of this and that from what he was sayin’, but I’m guessing you already have the information to come to the same conclusions I did. Anyway, seems like he’s gonna try to do this on his own, and ain’t that jus’ like Dean? Always all or nothin’ with that boy, no happy medium. So I thought you might like the heads up, maybe grab him his support redhead if she’s around.”

Castiel grips the phone tighter; this is certainly happening much faster than he thought it would, not that he’s complaining. He feels a swell of pride and affection for Dean, accompanied by the sting of tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, and then, worry. “I didn’t think it would be so soon,” he tells Benny. “We argued earlier, I gave him what probably felt like an ultimatum. I didn’t think he would take it this far.”

There’s the faint sound of amused chuckling over the line and Castiel can’t help but smile a little. “Well, you can rest easy knowing he heard you loud and clear,” Benny replies. “And then some.”

“Oh,” Castiel says suddenly. “In that same vein—and I feel somewhat awkward bringing you into this, it isn’t that I don’t trust Dean—but do you happen to know if was able to get ahold of two players, in particular, Aaron and Max? They’re both my students and I have reason to believe they may be in trouble. If Dean was unable to reach them—”

“Mmm,” Benny grunts noncommittally. “He called me from the emergency room, actually. Seems like Aaron needed more help than Dean could give, but he’ll be alright. Not even sure they’re gonna admit him, just set him up with some services. The other one is with him there. Supportin’ Aaron, I mean. Well, I suppose I mean it both ways, don’t I?”

Castiel’s eyes close and he sighs in relief. “That’s very good to hear, Benny,” he says.

“Right, so, Conference Room A in the athletic complex, seven PM unless you hear otherwise from me. We good?”

“We are good. Thank you, Benny.”

“Pretty sure I’m the one who should be thanking you, Chief, so we’re even now. See you in a bit.”

“You will.” Castiel hangs up with his heart feeling much lighter than it was previously. Now, he just has to locate Charlie and convince her to drop everything in favor of attending what’s shaping up to be an impromptu coming out party for Dean. And despite what he thought before, Dean’s already living up to his end of the deal, so Castiel knows one thing for sure. He’s not about to let him do it alone.

***

Saturday, Seven PM

Conference Room A

The conference room is crowded enough that a bunch of the players have to stand, lining the walls on three sides and stirring restlessly as they wait for Dean to show up. Castiel finds himself grateful for the lack of space, it’s making his and Charlie’s ability to blend into the background fairly easy. They stick to one corner, linebackers on either side keeping them somewhat hidden. This is still Dean’s show, Dean’s decision to make on his own. While both he and Charlie are ready and willing to hold Dean’s hand, to support him in whatever way he needs, the point of their presence is not to pressure or influence what he says or does. Those things are up to Dean and Dean alone.

When the man himself finally walks in, Castiel briefly considers that this must be what so many reporters vying for his attention after big wins and losses must feel like. Waiting with bated breath to hear what Dean has to say, to ask him questions, to strip him bare and raw, turning his words inside out to scratch at the insinuations behind them. Castiel glances uneasily around the room, really takes in the wall-to-wall display of muscle and hypermasculinity, and for the first time, wonders if he’s pushed Dean too hard. This isn’t his world, after all. Sure, he’s witnessed firsthand how much the players respect Dean, but does that respect have limits? With some trepidation, Castiel considers that this is not, perhaps, the best place—the best way—to try and find out.

It’s too late for second thoughts now though, because whatever Dean’s come here to do, he’s currently opening his mouth to do just that. Sitting perched uncomfortably on the edge of the stool someone left in the front of the room for him, Dean folds his hands in his lap and studies them like they’re the most interesting objects in the known universe. Castiel finds himself holding his breath, and next to him, Charlie grips his arm so tightly her nails dig into his skin, even through two layers of long-sleeved dress shirt and flannel-lined trench coat.

“Today, I’ve had to face some hard truths,” Dean begins. “You may have noticed by now that two people who should be here right now aren’t, and that’s partly my fault. Aaron’s given me permission to let you all know that he’s been struggling, so much so that he’s thought about taking his own life. And I didn’t see it.” Dean looks up, his expression pained but determined as hushed murmurs erupt across the room. He holds up a hand, asking for quiet. “That’s on me,” he continues. “Thankfully, Aaron’s getting the help he needs, and Max is with him, doing what friends do for each other, what I should have known to do ages ago. It ain’t fair that one of you—one of us—was shouldering a burden like that alone, feeling like he couldn’t be open about it for fear of being mocked or outcasted. So I’m here to make sure something like this never happens again. That none of you ever think you have to pretend to be someone you aren’t, whether it’s to get my approval, my respect, or for any other reason. And beyond that, I think it’s just long past time I set the record straight about some things.”

Licking his lips, Dean sits up a little taller, seems to gain more confidence the longer he speaks. He starts to glance around the room, making eye contact with various players, all of whom are watching with rapt attention. “Thing is, I can’t make any promises about how the world is gonna treat you outside of this room. It ain’t no secret that football, especially pro football, isn’t for the weak. You won’t survive in this sport if you don’t have a tough skin, mentally and physically. Am I right?” Dean raises his eyebrows and the players all nod in agreement. “Most of you have been playing since you were kids. You grew up with dads, coaches, maybe even friends who told you this was a manly sport. That you had to act a certain way, be a certain kind of man to play it, to be accepted. It’s no secret that people in this sport are quick to throw around words like “girly” or “gay” as insults. I’m guilty of it. It’s how I was raised, how I was taught, not that that makes it okay.”

“Maybe you were also taught that needing safe spaces is for wusses, that having feelings and emotions makes you weaker, less manly than the guy next to you. I’d be willing to bet that all of you at one time or another have hidden things from your teammates, from your friends, because you didn’t want to seem less tough, less of a man than you thought you had to be. Listen, I’m not an idiot. I can’t change the way the world treats you all. I can’t make the NFL or the sponsors or the fans give one single sh*t about you as people. But what I can do is tell you that I give a sh*t about who you are as people. And I know from experience that hiding who you are ain’t worth all this. It’s not worth the pain and aggravation of ending up alone and lonely. It’s not worth trading your happiness, your self-worth, your freedom for a shot at big money and fame. And it’s definitely not worth hurting yourself over. Whatever I did to make Aaron think otherwise, I’ll never forgive myself for it. But it ends here, today, least as far as this team is concerned.”

Castiel tugs Charlie closer and shuffles between the two linebackers who finally take notice to them and shift a little so that they aren’t blocking his view. The next time Dean glances up he looks right at him, their gazes locking from across the room. He looks so goddamn sad, so worried. All Castiel can do is stand there and watch as Dean closes his eyes, a hand coming up to cover his face for a brief moment. When he drops it again, his eyes are bright and shiny, and he sniffs, swallowing hard.

“So here’s the deal,” Dean continues after clearing his throat. “I get that this all might be a little too late, for some of you. That your feelings and beliefs about who you need to be are drilled into your heads so deeply it’s just too much to change it all now, overnight. But it’s been brought to my attention that while I talk a big game about being a good role model for you guys, I haven’t exactly been walking the walk. Because of that, we came way to close to losing one, maybe more than one of you, possibly for good. That changes now.

This is a safe space for you all to be whoever the f*ck you are, whatever that means to you. Whether that has to do with being bisexual or gay, or you like to knit to relax, hate beer, and love Titanic over Rudy. There’s nothing about who you are or what you like that means you can’t play football, can’t be the baddest asshole out on the field and soft as f*ck in your spare time. I’m tired of pretending otherwise. And no, I can’t promise the NFL feels the same way I do. But what I can tell you, from someone who has been there, is that I’d pick Cas over all of it, every damn time. I wouldn’t even change injuring my knee if fixing it meant never having him. And I’m only real f*ckin’ sorry I haven’t modeled that for you sooner.”

Dean motions for Castiel to come forward, holds out his hand for him to take when he gets close enough. Charlie comes with, following behind as Castiel squeezes between players and joins Dean at the front, because she’s Charlie. Holding Castiel’s other hand and standing on his opposite side from Dean, she waves at the players while looking extremely pleased with herself. “We’re not a triad,” she tells the room gladly. “I’m just their support-gay.” Dean leans forward around Castiel to frown at her before turning his attention back to the room.

“Don’t end up like me,” Dean tells the room, clutching Castiel’s hand tightly in his own, privately betraying his fear and anxiety, though his voice is strong and clear. “I was stupid, for so long. I thought I had to hide, to pretend to be some caricature version of a macho man for you all to look up to. But I’m starting to realize, you don’t need any more of that. Hell, the world don’t need the heaping helping of toxic masculine bullsh*t it’s already got. It needs men who know that their worth—and your worth—isn’t based on who they sleep with. Or who they l-love.” Stumbling a little over that last word, Castiel grips Dean’s fingers tighter, gently releasing Charlie’s hand so he can use his own to cover Dean’s. For her part, Charlie comes around and puts a hand on Dean’s back. “I got this,” Dean says quietly, just for them. To the room, he says, “I want to be the guy who shows you all what it’s like to be proud of who you are, no matter what anyone else thinks about it. Because the only person you answer to at the end of the day is yourself. You gotta do what makes you happy, whatever that is, whatever the consequences. You get me?”

There’s a low hum of acknowledgment that ripples through the space, and when Castiel really starts to look, most of the players are smiling. At the very least, no one looks angry or like they might want to catch Dean outside. The boy Castiel still only knows as Refrigerator raises his hand. “Yea?” Dean calls on him, tipping his chin up since both of his hands are occupied.

“So... you and Professor Novak are together then? Like, boyfriends or whatever?”

Castiel can see the tension that pulls at Dean’s neck and shoulders as he nods. “We are,” he replies simply.

“f*ck yes,” Refrigerator hisses, fist-pumping the air several times in a row. “Andy, you owe me twenty bucks.”

“Dammit.” Andy sighs where he’s sprawled out in a rolling chair that clearly was dragged in from someone’s office. At Dean’s questioning look, Andy waves him off. “My money was on you and Benny, boss,” he explains.

“He’s married,” Dean protests. “That’s what you think of me?” Benny laughs heartily from somewhere to Castiel’s left and that makes the entire room erupt along with him. “Whatever, you guys suck,” Dean pouts. “I’m trying to do a thing here.”

“And we all appreciate it, don’t we boys?” Jody chimes in, coming up behind the weird little trio to clap both of her hands on Dean’s shoulders and squeeze reassuringly. “We love you, Dean.” There’s an echoing chorus of similar sentiments that follows and then Jody smirks. “Even if we all already knew, it was still a nice speech.” She smacks Dean on the butt and then retreats.

Dean sighs and then shrugs, apparently deciding to let it go. “Alright, well, I’m gonna shut up now. Pizza will be here any minute, my treat. Don’t any of you leave this building if you haven’t gotten your conditioning in today,” he warns, sweeping a pointed finger across the room. He turns to leave and then hesitates. “And seriously, you guys. My door is always open. You find yourself going through some sh*t, whatever it is, you are not alone. We good?”

“Coach Dean!” One of the players towards the front of the room stands and calls out as Dean moves towards the door. The kid looks around at his teammates and with some unspoken signal passing between them, suddenly the whole room is standing and converging on where Dean and Castiel are still tucked together, holding hands. The room is nowhere near big enough for this, but with a loud cheer, all of them are enveloping Dean and Cas in an enthusiastic group hug.

Amidst the chaos, Dean, with an enormous, relieved smile painting his face, meets Castiel’s eyes and pulls him in for a kiss.

And as they say, the crowd goes wild.

***

Ultimately, this is not a cheesy rom-com, so there’s no way to cut past the awkward portion of the evening where Dean and Castiel stand in Castiel’s kitchen and both try to make their apologies. After a few false starts and muttered “no, please, you go ahead”s, Dean sinks onto a stool and Castiel gives up the idea of doing this sober altogether. Uncapping the bourbon once again, Castiel takes a large swig directly from the bottle and makes a face that involves sticking his tongue out in disgust.

“Thank God,” Dean grunts, gratefully accepting and downing a large gulp of the harsh drink when it’s offered to him. It’s not unimpressive, Castiel thinks, the way Dean’s able to take in such a giant mouthful and swallow without hardly blinking. He can’t help but track the motion with his eyes; Dean’s Adam’s apple bobbing as the liquid slides past it, making Castiel mentally substitute the man’s throat working similarly in other, much less tense circ*mstances.

Not that things between the two of them are tense, per se, they’re just not as easy as Castiel’s become accustomed to. Both of them are clearly still feeling slightly uncomfortable, maybe even slighted. He wants that gone, wants to go back to this afternoon when Dean walked in the door and directly into his arms. Before the real world came tumbling in, with all its confusing problems and complications. Still, Castiel can’t bring himself to have any regrets, especially knowing where Aaron currently is, or more accurately, how close Dean might have come to not getting to him in time.

Dark thoughts aside, everyone is safe, and Dean… well. “I’m very proud of you, Dean,” Castiel says quietly while Dean stares down at the island counter and pokes at the bottom of the bourbon bottle’s label. “It was never my intention to push you into coming out before you were ready, I hope you know that.”

With a scoff, Dean nods, but he doesn’t look up. “Do I look like somebody who does anything he doesn’t want to do?” Dean sounds confident, but Castiel knows him well enough to parse out the insecurity beneath his tone. After a few moments of silence, he looks up uncertainly. “Cas? Listen, I know that this is… that we need to talk this out. You clearly have things to say and I’m salty about being put out on the porch the way you did. Not that I don’t understand why, I just. You know? We need to talk. We need to… sort out why this sh*t came to a head like that, why you didn’t feel you could come to me before. It’s a long, important process, and... can we just skip it? Can... can you just be kissing me now?”

With a sharp intake of breath, Castiel’s around the counter, nearly over it, in fact, the second Dean’s sad-eyed plea is out of his mouth. Grabbing Dean’s face, he barely gives Dean time to react never mind get up off of the stool he’s sitting on. He also doesn’t hesitate to shove his way in between Dean’s legs, tipping Dean’s head back and kissing him soundly, thoroughly, pawing hands through his hair. In return, Dean’s fingers twist in Castiel’s shirt, pulling him even closer, and Castiel realizes with a jolt, whimpering a little into his mouth. “I’m scared,” Dean admits without pulling away, tightening his grip on Castiel’s shirt when he tries to move back to look at him. “Don’t, don’t. Just…” Dean’s stubble rasps against Castiel’s cheek, grown in from his few days on the road, making him seem even less put together, which is saying something.

Cupping the back of Dean’s head, Castiel shushes him, sweeps hands across his back, tries his best to reassure him without words, since Dean said he didn’t want to talk. In the end, though, he can’t resist, with Dean near-shaking in his arms. “Are you sure you don’t want to discuss this some more? You’ve been through much today, and I--”

But Dean cuts him off by pulling back with his head whipping back and forth, no. His face is damp and desperate and he drags Castiel down again, presses their lips together while holding onto both sides of his jaw. “I know what I need,” Dean says. “I know what I want, just, don’t make me say it. Feel like I earned a pass today.” Dean strokes the side of Castiel’s face, fingers trailing down his neck as the meaning of Dean’s words slowly sink in.

“Oh,” Castiel replies, looking down at Dean gazing back up at him so hopefully. “Oh, Dean. Of course. If that’s what you want.” Leaning down to kiss Dean again, Castiel lets himself linger, hands framing Dean’s ribs as their mouths come together and part once, twice, and again. After the third time, Castiel drifts back and Dean sighs, already looking a lot less upset. “I love you,” Castiel says softly, lifting a hand to his face and stroking a thumb over Dean’s cheekbone. “I love you.”

“That I can say just fine,” Dean replies, eyes still locked on Castiel’s, bright and serious. “Love you, Cas,” he says. “Do anything for you.”

***

Castiel takes his time, goes slow, is extra careful despite Dean’s protests that he’s fine, that he doesn’t need to be coddled. By the time Castiel deems him ready and stops ignoring his demands, there’s lube everywhere. The sheets and Dean’s thighs are slick with it, so much for the towel Castiel brought in with him containing the mess. He supposes he got distracted, kissing the inside of Dean’s thighs, the back of his knee, his elbow and the tip of his pinky; ridiculous places that made Dean laugh and Castiel smile and both of them hold on just a little bit tighter. But Dean’s not laughing anymore; his breath is coming short and his fingers are tangled in Castiel’s hair, holding him in place as Castiel swallows him down and moves fingers inside him.

The next time Dean tugs gently on his strands, Castiel goes, extracting his fingers and wiping them on the towel. He knows what Dean wants, feels ready to give it to him. Because this isn’t just a big moment for Dean, although that’s certainly there, too. But there’s also something more at play and Castiel understands the gravity, the weight of not just Dean’s first time but of coming together after admitting out loud that they’re in love—it’s a bit surreal. There was a time Castiel wasn’t sure they’d ever get here, didn’t know if he wanted to. And now, he can’t imagine not wanting Dean, can’t picture not loving him.

And Dean looks up at him, so open and trusting, wraps fingers around his neck to pull Castiel down and slide their tongues together, sparks flying, music flowing like a symphony, if only in Castiel’s head. Like it’s completely natural to do so, their free hands find each other’s easily, fingers lacing together as Castiel brings them up above Dean’s head to press into the pillow. “Ready?” His voice comes out rough and low even to his own ears, and Castiel captures Dean’s mouth again before he’s even finished nodding. Dean holds him close around the shoulders as he presses inside, the hand clutching Castiel’s own tightening its grip as he murmurs a reminder for Dean to relax. He does and Castiel slides home, hot and slick and the source of Dean’s little moans and the way he’s got his head thrown back, p*rn-star worthy, and Castiel’s ruined, he’s absolutely ruined for anyone else, ever again.

Moving inside Dean while he clenches his thighs around Castiel’s hips and cries out, digs his fingernails into Castiel’s scalp, it’s some kind of religious experience Castiel couldn’t put into words if he had a gun to his head. He tries hard to make it good for Dean, to f*ck him at the right angle to make him see stars, but it’s hard when it’s so damn good for him too. In truth, Castiel gets a little lost, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind, rocking his hips up to meet Castiel’s thrusts, working his hand down out of Castiel’s hair to stroke in between them, bringing himself off with a yell he muffles into the pillow his head is on. His other hand is still twisted in Castiel’s, both rucked up tight into the other side of the pillow, holding it over his face.

When he’s starting to come down, Dean lets go, tilting his head back to look up at Castiel, dazed and sated and so unbelievably gorgeous Castiel almost comes just from seeing him bite his lip. He gets both hands on Castiel’s ass, tells him to “f*ck harder,” and Castiel’s more than willing to comply. He gets an arm under Dean’s knee, pushes his thigh up and back and really lets go, chases his own finish line freely and with abandon. Everything goes a little white around the edges when Castiel comes, but he can feel Dean squeezing his waist, moaning into his ear and it’s perfect, it’s stupidly perfect, and why can’t he stay here forever?

Maybe Castiel passes out, just for a minute, which is somewhat embarrassing except Dean doesn’t seem to mind at all. When he blinks awake again, he’s on his side and Dean is standing next to the bed, apparently just finishing wiping them both off. “Apologies,” Castiel says guiltily, but Dean just chucks the washcloth over his shoulder and laughs, climbing back into bed by way of rolling over Castiel with a soft grunt. His messy, bed-headed face pops up again with a huge grin plastered across it and Castiel couldn’t help smiling back if he tried. “You look happy,” he tells Dean, reaching out to grip his chin with a thumb and forefinger. “Relieved, even.”

Dean just shrugs and ducks his head, cheeks going a little pink. “Yea, well. The world didn’t end.” Castiel’s confusion must show on his face because Dean rolls his eyes a little and then continues. “All this stuff I did today, I always kind of thought the world might actually end if I ever… you know.”

“Ah,” Castiel replies knowingly. “So now what will you do? Since the world didn’t end and all.”

“Go to the mall,” Dean says immediately and then laughs at Castiel’s responding squint. “That’s a reference… you know what, never mind. What am I going to do? A lot more of this, I hope,” he says, stretching up to plant a chaste kiss on Castiel’s lips. “Try not to freak out about what this means for my career, for recruiting, all that crap. Just ‘cause I sort of came out doesn't mean everything is magically fixed, I know that. But it’s a start.”

“It is,” Castiel agrees with a nod. “And if you believe those things that you told your team, then you won’t regret it, because it’s your life to live, your choice to make. Regardless, you’re not alone, and I hope you saw that today.” Dean nods but doesn’t reply, and Castiel gets the sense that he’s tapped out on conversation again. This has been a lot to ask of Dean, and he deserves to retreat into himself for a bit if that’s what he needs. Still… “But while we’re on the topic of brave ventures you never thought you could succeed in doing, perhaps this might be a good time to revisit the idea of finishing your degree?”

“Cas!” Dean groans and flops over onto his back, grabbing the blankets and pulling them up over his head. His voice is muffled where it filters through the bedding. “You’re really pushing it, buddy.” Castiel lets him go, settling back against his own pillow smugly. He’ll get there. Dean will get there.

Chapter 9: Winter

Chapter Text

Winter

Early December

On the Sunday after Dean’s team trounces the competition in their Conference Championship game, the playoff rankings are made official. They’re together in Castiel’s lecture hall to watch this time, offered up for Dean’s use so that all the players and coaching staff could bring their friends and families and not have to worry about splitting the group into more than one room. Dean bitches about how the athletic complex suffers from not having a proper screening room and Castiel pats his back half-heartedly while biting his lip on comparing their annual budgets. Mostly because Dean left his breakdown sitting on Castiel’s countertop and he’s not entirely sure he’s supposed to have seen it, but suffice it to say, Castiel can’t quite figure out how all of the science labs put together are operating on the same budget Dean’s football team complains about not being adequate. In all fairness though, Castiel’s rock experiments don’t draw nearly as large a crowd as the home games.

The lecture hall suits them well enough for today, ESPN playing on the projection screen while everyone eats, drinks, and lounges in the tiered seating. The room doesn’t normally even get cable, but it does today courtesy of Charlie doing something Castiel is definitely happy to remain in the dark about, plausible deniability and all that. Sitting sideways in his seat with his legs draped over the arm of his chair and across Castiel’s lap, Dean tosses popcorn into the air and tries (badly) to catch the pieces in his mouth. He laughs loudly with a half-chewed mouthful of it as Benny’s toddler goes careening across the room for the forty-seventh time, deftly dodging Benny’s exhausted attempts to scoop him up and nearly sending him stumbling into Castiel’s desk, which is doubling as a snack table.

Castiel pauses where he’s massaging Dean’s calf to smile and steal a handful of popcorn from the bowl in Dean’s lap. It’s all so… domestic and Dean looks so happy, so at ease, and that makes Castiel happy for him. For himself, too, since he gets to sit with Dean and touch him and love him and neither of them has to pretend that’s not something they both want. At the sound of Aaron’s voice reaching his ears over the din, Castiel glances over to where his student is sitting with Max, not quite as comfortable as him and Dean, but they’re not across the room from each other either, which is a start.

He’s just about to elbow Dean and point them out when Dean beats him to the punch, hitting Castiel’s shoulder excitedly and blowing his whistle. Cringing away from the high-pitched blast in his ear, Castiel glares at Dean in reproach but ultimately lets him have his moment. “Shut up!” Dean yells at the room. “Shut the hell up! Charlie!”

“On it, boss,” Charlie calls back, typing away at her laptop to make the lights dim and the volume of the room’s speakers increase.

“Here we go,” Dean mutters, his eyes glued to the screen, popcorn forgotten. Castiel finds himself surprisingly anxious too, probably in part because he’s been unable to escape Dean’s own apprehensive rantings on the daily for the last week and then some. According to Dean, by this point in the season the top four seeds are usually self-evident. This year, Dean’s team is the wildcard. It’s either them or Penn State, and while they have the better record, Penn State has the big name the Committee is always looking for.

The room collectively holds its breath as the top three schools going to the playoffs are announced anticlimactically as the ones everyone expected. A low growl seeps from the back of Dean’s throat unbidden, and Castiel knows he’s thinking that he must be right about the fourth too, that it won’t be them. He squeezes Dean’s hand and presses Dean’s knuckles to his lips. “Either way, I’m so proud of you” he murmurs, and though Dean doesn’t take his eyes off of the screen, he squeezes back, three times in quick succession. I love you.

Castiel’s so busy feeling warm inside that he nearly misses the name-drop over the speakers, but then Dean’s out of his seat, popcorn flying everywhere as he leaps into the air, fists pumping. Dean yells in triumph and Castiel’s on his feet too, Dean slinging his arms around Castiel’s neck and hugging him happily. And then he’s pivoting Castiel to the side, skating by him to hug Benny and Jody and to jump up and down in the raucous mob of players surrounding him. Pressing hands over his mouth, Castiel can’t even begin to contain the joy he feels or bite back the smile splitting his face in two.

He’s never been so goddamn proud.

And to top it all off, before they’d settled in for the results show, Castiel was able to announce that all of the football players are officially passing his class, on their own merit. With finals approaching, all they have to do is get through one more test and they’ll be home free, Geology 101 graduates and ironically, the students Castiel will always owe a debt of gratitude to himself. If it weren’t for their laziness and entitlement, he might have gone years before meeting Dean, the real version of Michael, might never have had an excuse to get to know him, to get close to him. Dean almost certainly wouldn’t have put himself out there without the fantastic cover story he thought he had. Thought being the keyword, of course.

And in that same vein, Castiel realizes as he watches Dean and his students celebrate that he’s going to miss their twice-weekly study sessions. Although, he supposes those can be relocated to his home now, and in much more comfortable clothing, preferably none. That thought causes Castiel’s brain to wander down a related path, one he still needs to bring up to Dean again, about his own schooling. The deadline for next semester’s class registration is fast approaching, and Dean’s been wishy-washy on whether he’s going to officially attempt a class or not. Since that night after Dean came out to his team, Castiel’s casually mentioned the idea of Dean finishing his degree several times, always getting the same noncommittal responses. He’s pretty sure Dean wants to try, he’s just scared of failing. At least that, Castiel can help with. In fact, he can think of several study techniques that aren’t remotely classroom-appropriate but that he thinks would motivate Dean extremely effectively. He’ll have to demonstrate one or two of them later, show Dean what he could be missing.

Within a few minutes of the news dropping, Dean’s phone starts ringing and he excuses himself to his office to field calls for comments. Knowing he’ll probably be a while, Castiel sinks back down into his chair and scrolls his phone, looking up to congratulate the other coaches and to kiss Donna and Andrea goodnight. A few of his students stop on their way out as well, thanking him for his time and effort in helping them pass, and asking if he’ll make it to their playoff game. “I’m not entirely certain,” Castiel answers thoughtfully. “I’ll have to speak to Dean and get back to you.” He smiles warmly as the students voice that they hope he’ll come, that Dean seems to be more focused when he’s there. And then they’re gone, crowding out of the lecture hall in a loud, shoving mess of muscles, letterman jackets and excitement, letting the doors slam shut behind them.

The room is a mess and Castiel feels bad for the night janitor, so he sets about tossing the trash into the giant can at the bottom of the stairs and cleaning up whatever other disasters he finds. By the time he’s done and the room is sorted, it’s been over forty-five minutes since Dean left, and Castiel thinks that’s long enough to at least pop in and check on him. If Dean is going to be a while yet, he’s got half a mind to run home and grab some of his students’ coursework that still needs grading. Unfortunately, they came here in one car, so it’s not like Castiel can go home on his own.

The athletic center is quiet as Castiel makes his way through the halls. It’s a Sunday, so there are fewer students than normal passing through on their way to or coming from working out. Castiel walks by one of the weight rooms and waves to the players he recognizes in there, all of them waving back except for the ones who are otherwise occupied bench pressing or deadlifting. Turning down the side hallway that leads to the suite of offices reserved for Head Coaching staff of various team sports, Castiel makes his way to the singular closed door at the very end. Dean’s office is both the biggest and the nicest, with its own bathroom and enough room to house a couch. Castiel knows, because he’s found Dean passed out on it more than once after going more than twenty-four hours without sleep for one reason or another. He’s also got a mini-fridge and a microwave in there, but Castiel refuses to contribute to keeping those stocked beyond hydration and snack purposes, or Dean might never come home.

In retrospect, he really should have knocked, but Castiel never knocks entering Dean’s office. Granted, Dean usually knows he’s coming, since they consistently exchange text messages before breaking for meals or at the end of the workday. Sometimes Castiel just stops by for a kiss and to see Dean’s face if he knows he’s going to be stuck there late, but often it’s to take him home or at least out to lunch or dinner. And the times when Dean doesn’t answer his phone, it’s usually because he’s passed out for the brief half-hour he can steal between meetings or whatever else is packing his day full. In those cases, Castiel’s fond of walking in and kissing him awake… or even locking the door and taking things further.

So it’s understandable that he just doesn’t think about it, twists the knob without even considering that Dean might not want him in there, for perfectly legitimate reasons. When Castiel pokes his head in the door, Dean starts, looking up from the screen of his open laptop with the expression of someone being abruptly reminded he’s supposed to be somewhere, doing something other than what he’s currently wrapped up in. Except, there are still sounds coming from Dean’s laptop, and as Castiel stands there frozen, Dean holds up a finger to him. “My apologies,” he says to the laptop while flashing a charming smile. “My boyfriend just walked in and I’m assuming he wants dinner.”

There’s a lengthy pause before the voice comes over the laptop’s speakers again and Castiel holds his breath. “We’ll let you go, then. Thank you for your time, Coach Winchester, and congratulations again. Best of luck in the playoffs.”

“Thank you,” Dean replies warmly, smiling wide before clicking around the screen and closing his laptop. “Sorry,” he continues, this time addressing Castiel. “Impromptu Skype interview with ESPN.”

“ESPN—” Castiel sucks in a breath. “Dean?”

Dean just shrugs as he packs up his desk, dropping his laptop into its bag, presumably in case he’s called upon for further interviews while at home. “Don’t make a big thing of it, alright?” He pulls Castiel into his side, kisses him even though Castiel is too shocked to kiss back and drags him out the door. “What do you think, burgers for dinner? Or lasagna? Lasagna’s gonna take a while, but I dunno. Could be worth it?”

***

Casual as Dean may attempt to be about his lowkey declaration to the largest sports news outlet in the world, the college football universe is anything but. Since it was said as part of an interview, the clip exists in perpetuity, being replayed over and over on TV and the internet for everyone and their father to judge and dissect. Castiel waits for the fallout, for Dean to panic and retreat from both him and the world hoping it’ll all blow over, that everyone’s interest in his personal life will wane and disappear like the non-news story it actually is. That doesn’t happen, though. Either thing, Dean’s freaking out or the world suddenly forgetting about him, but Dean does become fairly surly about the fact that his coming out is overshadowing the team’s success.

“Un-f*cking-believable,” he fumes one Sunday, a week after the playoff news breaks, as Castiel drops a still-steaming pile of sympathy pancakes in front of him. “We work our asses off all year, pull off the underdog steal of the decade, right out from Penn State’s noses, and all anyone wants to talk about is where I’m sticking my dick.” Dean glares down at his plate, angrily picking up a knife and fork to first stab and then hack away furiously at the stack of syrup-laden cakes.

“On the plus side, you killed the pancakes, which were looking shifty,” Castiel says wryly, making Dean look up in surprise, glancing in confusion between him and his plate like he wasn’t even aware of what he was doing.

With a resigned sigh, Dean drops his utensils, rubbing a hand across his face. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes, looking up at Castiel with tired eyes. “I just thought… Ah, hell. I don’t have a clue what I thought. That it would be easier to get it all out there in one shot, or something. I didn’t really think people would be all that interested. Definitely didn’t think it would take away from my guys.”

“It hasn’t,” Castiel soothes, coming around the island to lay hands on Dean’s shoulders. “They haven’t even played yet. When they win, their success will speak for itself.”

“And all the post-game interviews will revolve around people tactfully trying to figure out which one out of you and me is the pitcher and which one of us is the catcher.”

Castiel squints and tilts his head to the side, looking down at Dean in confusion. “People think those are fixed positions?”

With a half-snort, Dean shrugs and lets his hands find Castiel’s waist. “In sports,” he says dismissively. “You know damn well how this goes.” He reaches up to pull Castiel down and do what he’s been doing all week, ignoring his problems by taking comfort and drowning himself in their bond, in each other. Not that Castiel has an issue with that particular coping strategy in the least, but he’s starting to worry that Dean’s avoidance is going to catch up with him sooner rather than later.

“Mmph, Dean,” Castiel says, breaking their kiss with a gentle hand to Dean’s chest. Unsurprisingly, Dean pouts, and if he weren’t so freshly out of the closet and only in this mood because he’s dealing with the direct consequences, Castiel would threaten to take pictures of that pout and share them when Dean’s being difficult. He’ll just have to enjoy the mental image himself, shame.

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean murmurs, leaning up to kiss across Castiel’s neck before running a wandering hand down his side and cheekily giving the front of his jeans a squeeze.

“Yes, you’re very tempting, no need for the demonstration,” Castiel replies impatiently. He grabs Dean by the shoulders and struggles with him until he sits up, pout back in full force as Castiel holds him at bay. “Dean, listen to me. Have you given any thought to getting ahead of this? Instead of just letting these people, these news outlets chase you and speculate about you?”

Dean does the kind of squint that’s usually reserved for Castiel himself and it distracts Castiel enough that they end up making out wildly in Dean’s chair for several minutes. Dean pulls him into his lap and gropes whatever he can get his hands on, eventually standing up and shoving Castiel back against the counter, hands working at his belt buckle with clear intent. “Ugh,” Castiel groans. “Dean, be serious for a moment.”

“‘M serious,” Dean mutters against his lips. “Very serious.”

Sensing that this conversation is about to snap the very thin thread it’s miraculously still hanging by, Castiel tilts his head to the side and lets Dean continue doing what he’s doing while he chooses his next words carefully. Which at the moment, is sucking a bruise into Castiel’s pulse point and shoving hands down his pants. When he manages to grab a second of sanity, Castiel blurts out what he needs to say in one breath. “An interview, Dean. Pick an outlet, a magazine, whatever. Something outside the sports world would be my suggestion.”

The only way Castiel knows his idea has hit home is that Dean stills against him, hands ceasing to do the very pleasant thing they were previously up to, and while he’s glad Dean is listening, that’s objectively disappointing. Dean’s face pops into view, hands returning to Castiel’s hips which in any other circ*mstance would result in a very displeased noise. He manages to refrain, but only just, especially when he sees Dean biting his lip in thought. “An interview?”

“Mmhmm,” Castiel manages, unable to resist leaning forward to peck Dean’s spit-shiny lips, to try and draw him back into the moment.

His brow furrows, green eyes pensive. “You know, you were all into talking this out a minute ago, and now that I’m paying attention…”

“What can I say? I came around to your way of thinking. This conversation will keep for an hour or so. Or at least until you get back up off your knees.” Castiel grins deviously and the pensive look melts off of Dean’s face as he wraps arms around Castiel’s neck and loses himself in a kiss. Without further complaint or sass (which is suspiciously unusual for Dean), he sinks to the ground, letting his hands trail down Castiel’s chest as he goes. With a hand in Dean’s hair, Castiel sighs and leans back against the counter. Not that he’s enjoying Dean’s stress, but a man could get used to this.

***

Friday, December 20th

One Week Until Playoffs

Looking up at the clock, Castiel groans and rubs his eyes. Somehow in his effort to finish grading midterms before going home for the weekend, he’s completely lost track of time. Seven PM and Castiel’s still sitting in his lecture hall with stacks of tests and boxes of rocks that need to be carried out to his car. Not the most thrilling prospect, since his car is parked all the way over in Main. “Poor planning,” Castiel mutters to himself, regretting not making plans earlier with Dean to come pick him up in the golf cart.

Speaking of Dean… it’s somewhat unusual for the hour to be so late and for him not to have texted, at the very least. Castiel knows Dean is busy preparing for the team’s first playoff bowl game next week, the Peach Bowl in Atlanta, Georgia, but even when he’s swamped, he’s never not made time to check in on Castiel before. Especially since they’re scheduled to leave on Monday for Kansas, where Mary Winchester has insisted Castiel join them for the holiday. Dean’s been blowing up his phone nonstop about it, ridiculously transparent in his anxious desire to put Castiel at ease, to make him feel wanted and to ensure he’s not just pacifying Dean’s wishes by coming along. Reaching for his phone, Castiel recognizes the problem immediately when he presses the home button and the screen remains dark. Dead.

Thankfully, he keeps a charger in the drawer of the desk in the lecture hall, pulling it out now and plugging it into the wall. His phone lights up and the screen fills with messages immediately, most of them from Dean but a couple from Charlie, too. The last one from Charlie is timestamped only minutes prior, and Castiel smiles when he sees she’s been enlisted by Dean to check in on him when he hadn’t answered. Dean’s own messages start off hours earlier with nearly-incoherent rambling about gingerbread houses and sleeping arrangements and then tangent into asking if Castiel has enough underwear and socks because he’s at Walmart and they’re on sale. Somewhat ruefully, Castiel realizes that Dean apparently isn’t working late after all and that if he’d just charged his phone, he could be with him right now.

As he stares down at the screen, attempting to compose a thoughtful reply to the increasingly frantic string of messages most recently sent, the sound of someone clearing their throat across the room draws Castiel’s attention. When he looks up, he couldn’t keep the smile off of his face if he tried. “Dean,” Castiel says with a small, relieved sigh.

“So you’re just ignoring me,” Dean replies with amusem*nt, nodding at the phone in Castiel’s hands as he approaches, letting the door swing shut behind him.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Castiel rolls his eyes but lets Dean cup his face and kiss him, hello, Dean. He’s a little starry-eyed when Dean pulls back, a combination of too much caffeine and the pleasure of staring at something other than stark typewritten print on bright white paper. Dean’s warmth and his smiling face are almost a brutal relief, the kind Castiel wishes he could tuck himself into and just forget the world. But before he can beg Dean’s help to haul his supplies to his car so they can go home and do just that, Dean’s pulling what looks like a folded in half bundle of glossy paper from where it was shoved into his back pocket. It only takes a second for Castiel to stop blanking and realize what the bundle actually is. “It’s here,” he says, excitedly accepting and unfolding the magazine when Dean offers it up. “Oh, Dean.”

The cover of “OUT” magazine boasts a photo of Dean from the waist up, arms folded around a football and wearing his trademark smolder. Castiel doesn’t need to read the interview that’s inside, he’s scoured it four or five times at this point, including the final proof that came to Dean’s email to approve a few days prior. “Is it..?”

“Exactly as promised,” Dean reassures him, though his own relief is clear in his face.

“I am so very proud of you,” Castiel tells him, hooking fingers through Dean’s belt loop and pulling him close.

“Couldn’t have done it without you.” Their next kiss is shorter than Castiel would have liked or even expected, considering how affectionate and relaxed Dean seems right now. But perhaps he’s over needing to bury himself in Castiel to forget his worries and stresses now that the interview is finally out there. Assuming that the web version has been up for several hours now, things should start to die down going forward, at least where interest in Dean’s personal life is concerned. It’s apt timing, and Castiel is glad to know their mini-vacation and holiday celebrations should be relatively drama-free. Most importantly, by the time the Playoffs happen next week, the media should be over Dean completely, which Castiel knows is what Dean really cares about.

Beginning to gather his work to finish up at home, Castiel watches as Dean takes notice to the box of rocks, wandering over and pulling a few of them out. At first, he just seems interested, especially in the crystals, but it’s not long before Castiel notices the telltale fidgeting he’s doing and narrows his eyes. Dean has something else to say and for whatever reason, he’s struggling to spit it out. But Castiel doesn’t push, just continues separating the tests into two piles, placing his grade book and the ones that still need to be scored inside his bag.

“So,” Dean starts eventually when it’s clear Castiel isn’t going to fill the silence for him. “I have some other news.” Raising his eyebrows, Castiel just waits, zipping his bag closed and then glancing up to lock eyes with Dean. “I registered,” he says, a rock clutched tightly in each hand, the whiteness of his knuckles the only thing betraying his nerves.

“You—”

“For classes,” Dean clarifies. “To finish my Sports Science degree.” His cheeks are pinking up rapidly as he speaks, and for the life of him, Castiel can’t figure out why. Regardless, he knows Dean well enough at this point to recognize that words aren’t going to mean a whole lot, and God knows Dean’s already had to listen to him talk his ear off about the importance of education for hours at this point. Castiel’s feelings on the subject are in no way unclear, but for some reason, Dean’s feeling embarrassed. If he had to guess, Castiel would say that has a lot less to do with him, and a lot more to do with Dean’s lack of confidence in his own abilities.

Still, the man needs reassurance and not just a small amount. Castiel drops his bag and rounds the desk, threading arms around Dean’s neck and kissing him deep and thorough. When their lips break apart, breath still mingling, the taste of Dean lingering on his own lips, Castiel holds his face so that he can’t look away. “I am so unbelievably proud of you,” he reiterates softly, despite feeling like he’s said it a thousand times over the last week. “If I thought…” his voice catches in his throat, surprising even Castiel himself when he chokes up a little. Clearing his throat, he continues. “If I thought I couldn’t be more proud, I was wrong.”

“What if I can’t do it?” Dean mumbles, turning his face to nuzzle into Castiel’s hand.

“You sell yourself so short,” Castiel replies, but Dean glares at him over his palm. He’s serious. Castiel refuses to go down that road with him, though, not before he’s even tried. “Then you’ll be stuck in my extra credit sessions a lot more often than twice a week.”

That combined with Castiel’s nonchalant shrug gets Dean to crack a smile and he drops his forehead to press against Castiel’s. “Not exactly a punishment.”

Castiel feigns innocence. “Oh, was it supposed to be?”

“You’re such a dick.” Dean leans past him to drop the rocks onto Castiel’s desk and free his hands. “Shame there aren’t any geology requirements in my track. I feel like I haven’t exactly learned all you have to teach me. You know, when it comes to… rocks.” Wiggling his eyebrows, Dean leans down and grabs another from the box, a pretty blue Apatite phosphate mineral with gold specks. He presses the crystal into Castiel’s palm insistently. “Why don’t you tell me about this one?”

Looking from the piece in his hand up to Dean’s face, he can see Dean’s tongue pressed against the back of his teeth, the way he does when he’s feeling playful. Alright, perhaps Castiel is a little slow today, but he’s catching on now. As he begins to speak, Dean drops down to his knees and unbuttons Castiel’s pants, nosing and mouthing at the growing bulge in his boxer briefs that hardly needs the encouragement. Castiel stifles a groan and recites one of his relevant powerpoint slides from memory. “The standard enthalpies of formation in the crystalline state of hydroxyapatite, chlorapatite and a preliminary value for bromapatite have been determined by reaction-solution calorimetry.”

“Oh, yea,” Dean mumbles, yanking Castiel’s boxer briefs down and tucking them under his balls. “Talk dirty to me, Cas.” He licks up the length of Castiel’s co*ck and then takes him in his mouth as fully as he can, looking up at Castiel through his lashes and making him stutter, despite himself.

“Spec...Speculations on the existence of a poss—possible fifth member of the calcium apatites family…” Castiel trails off with a moan, cupping the back of Dean’s head and letting his own drop back as Dean works him over, rolling his balls in one hand. But when he stops talking, Dean pulls off with a wet pop.

“Uh uh,” he scolds. “You’re supposed to be educating me.”

“This is dangerously close to student-teacher roleplay,” Castiel growls, but it’s obviously a front and Dean knows it, calls his bluff immediately.

“I can stop,” he says with a shrug, still lazily stroking Castiel with a too-loose fist. Castiel fruitlessly tries to rock his hips into it, begging for friction without so many words, but Dean just smirks and keeps his grip frustratingly lax. “Talk,” he says. “Teach me something.

“Iodoapatite,” Castiel grinds out, annoyed and turned on at the same time, which is a not-unusual sensation for Dean to provoke in him. “Have been drawn from energetic consider—ahh—ations.” Dean rewards him by wrapping his mouth around his co*ck again, sucking and swirling his tongue around the head for a blissful few moments.

And then he’s pulling off, reaching into the box and tossing Castiel another crystal which he fumbles to catch. “Dean,” Castiel warns.

“Sorry,” Dean replies with a grin, not looking sorry at all, though he goes back to mouthing at Castiel enthusiastically, only slowing down when there’s no immediately forthcoming lecture. He raises his eyebrows without opening his mouth and Castiel wonders how it’s possible to both want to marry someone and murder them at the same time.

“Stilbite,” he obliges, because Dean’s mouth is sinfully perfect and it’s clear he’s committed to the game. “Is named from the Greek stilbein which means ‘to shine’.” Closing his eyes, Castiel lets the hand holding the latest crystal drop down to his desk, the other tangling in Dean’s hair. He sighs a little as Dean relaxes his jaw and takes him as far down as he can. Mind going fuzzy, Castiel struggles to finish his sentence. “Christened as such because...” He falters, breath coming short as heat pools in his belly, abdomen tightening in anticipation. Ever the brat, Dean acknowledges his struggle by ceasing his own movement, just sitting there with Castiel’s co*ck most of the way down his throat. It’s not exactly the negative motivation Dean probably thinks it is, especially when he has to swallow instead of, presumably, drool.

Still, Castiel admires his devotion to the little scheme he’s cooked up, and pulls himself together enough to finish on a high note. With a deep breath, he manages to stutter out the rest of his sentence in one breath. “...Of the pearly luster of the faces which can be colorless or white, also yellow, brown, pink, salmon, orangeredgreenblueorblack.” The last bit comes out in a yelled run-on, a completely garbled mess Castiel couldn’t possibly control as Dean’s nose makes it all the way to his pubic bone and he swallows repeatedly. Castiel comes with a shout and a leg over Dean’s shoulder, flopping back onto his desk with his head hanging off the other side when he’s done and Dean’s still trying to suck him through the aftershocks. “Off,” he mumbles, pushing at Dean’s head weakly as he tries to catch his own breath.

Dean pops up from where he’s been kneeling with that smirk still plastered across his face, thumb wiping at the corner of his mouth as he nods. “A+ work, Professor,” Dean says with a wink. “I learned a lot.”

“You’re carrying these boxes to the car,” Castiel commands weakly with a sigh, one arm draped over his face.

“Whatever you want, Cas,” Dean replies, climbing up onto the desk to straddle Castiel’s hips and pull him unwillingly back to a sitting position. “But can we go? We leave now, you should be good to f*ck again by the time we get home.”

“You are something else,” Castiel tells him from his spot between Dean’s thighs, pants still undone, legs hanging over the side of the desk. “And I love you.”

“Love me at home,” Dean urges, hopping off to scoop the rocks back into their box and stack it on top of the other one to be carried. “I brought the golf cart.” Castiel groans gratefully as he zips his pants, picking up his bag and flipping the lights to the lecture hall off.

“I have to say,” he admits as he locks the doors to the room, nudging Dean with his elbow as they make their way outside into the cold. “I can think of worse ways to start a vacation.”

***

Chapter 10: Spring

Chapter Text

Spring

Spring is a strange time for Dean, always has been. With no competitive games on the horizon and all of the immediate pressure off, things feel almost relaxed. Traditionally, Dean doesn’t do well with relaxed, but this year is different. This year he has Cas, and a lot to look forward to. Still, rounding out the school year comes with its own challenges, especially now that Dean is juggling being back in school alongside his coaching responsibilities. In March through May, that includes traveling for recruitment, Coaches Caravan, and press rounds. All of those things will continue throughout summer, which means they’re a marathon, not a sprint.

In the middle of May, while Cas is preparing for finals and Dean’s players are undoubtedly dreaming about sand, surf, and sun, the bright lights and chilly stadium evenings of fall are never feeling farther away. Like he always does, Dean officially hands his team over to the strength and conditioning staff, kicking off the team’s maintenance schedule. It used to be, back when Bobby was in charge and only changing right around when Dean took over, that Coaches were barred by NCAA rules from communicating with players during the offseason. These days, that isn’t the case but Dean still mostly follows Bobby’s playbook, and it hasn’t failed him yet. This year, it’s brought them a National Championship, and Dean doesn’t see anyone complaining about that.

But following Bobby’s guidelines does mean giving the team a break from him, Benny, and Jody hovering over them, running drills and generally being the hardasses they are. Though with the relaxed NCAA rules the three of them will likely rotate checking in on offseason practices and workouts because it is their job. Ultimately, forgoing all contact and barreling into camp and the next season completely blind would be about as disadvantageous as it gets. More importantly, though, the absence of the strict rules prohibiting Coach/player contact is of particular relief this year. Considering Dean’s new and improved approach to taking an interest in his players’ lives as well as maintaining his open-door policy, severing all contact feels like it would be a big backward step. It wouldn’t sit well with Dean to be unable to speak to his kids at all from May until camp in August, and he’s glad that’s no longer the case.

The blowback from Dean’s coming out is officially yesterday’s news, and as far as he knows, it hasn’t hurt his potential recruitment stats or his own standing with the College. If anything, between the PR surrounding Dean’s magazine interview and the team’s undefeated run through the Playoffs, his job and team are more secure than ever. Some days Dean has a sneaking suspicion that the administration is leaning into his bisexual status as some kind of prop or affirmation on the College itself, but so long as they aren’t upset with him, Dean could really care less. Hell, this is what he wanted, isn’t it? Be a real role model, and all that. At the end of the day, he could do without his face splashed up on the highway billboards, the College’s acronym painted across his chest in rainbow colors, but whatever. It’s probably a good thing, tokenism and the fact that they’ve never cared about representation before aside. Sponsorship and boosters are at an all-time high and most of the promising high school athletes Dean and his crew have shown interest in seem interested back, so he’s good.

It’d definitely be a lot more daunting if he and Cas weren’t so damn stable. That might actually be the hardest thing for Dean to deal with, the fact that he and Cas are all but married, in the practical sense. Sure, no one’s proposed or anything, but they spend every night together, drive to school together most mornings, and Dean’s stopped trying to tell Castiel he doesn’t have to come with on his work trips, not if he doesn’t want to. Because Cas so obviously does want to, and he fits into Dean’s life, into his world, seamlessly. So as long as his trips don’t overlap with Castiel’s classes (or he can’t pass them off to a T.A.), he’s there. When Dean is busy, Castiel entertains himself or hangs out with Donna and Andrea, if they’re along. He never begrudges Dean’s inability to spend time with him and welcomes him into bed at the end of the night. Being on the road with Castiel by his side is such a wholly different experience from what Dean is used to that he couldn’t fight what it all amounts to if he tried.

Cas is home.

As such, Dean’s also given up even the pretense of wanting to spend time at his own place weeks ago. He accepts the key Castiel gives him with grace, and after finals are over and his lease is up, he’s moving in officially. It’s only been nine months since that fateful night at the bar where Michael and James slept together in a purported one-night stand, far less since Dean and Castiel got together as themselves. But in some ways, Dean feels like it’s been an entire lifetime. His life, for sure, is completely different, so much for the better. If someone had told him last August that less than a year later he’d be completely out of the closet and thriving for it, Dean would have laughed in their face. Now, he can’t imagine going back to that lonely, workaholic lifestyle with its bleak nights and nothing to look forward to. Similarly, perhaps the biggest change of all is Dean’s own outlook. Where once all he could see was work and his job, now he sees balance, possibility, hope. Perhaps strangest of all is the fact that he knows without a doubt, if it ever came down to it, he’d choose Cas over it all in a heartbeat.

***

Spring

The Monday After Summer Break Begins

With a strained grunt and the unpleasant feeling of his kneecap popping out and then back into its socket, Dean pushes through the pain, all the while knowing that he’s going to pay for it later. Flexing his leg muscles and pressing the soles of his feet down into the floor, Dean finally manages to get the leverage he needs to shove his sticky office window all the way up. With school officially out for the summer, all of the campus buildings have gone into “offseason” mode too. For Castiel and the Humanities building that means a subarctic-like freeze polar bears would be envious of, but for Dean and the athletic complex, it’s a trip to the tropics. Somehow adequate air conditioning is where the administration draws the line for him, and when Dean points out that he and many of the other coaches have to be in the buildings at least sporadically throughout the summer, all he gets is some line about “making the campus eco-friendly.” No one even tries to explain the Humanities building, even when he points out the hypocrisy.

“Eco-friendly, my ass,” Dean grumbles, closing his eyes and sighing as the comparatively cool May breeze blows through his office and across his face. Not that he’d ever want to go back, but Dean can’t help wistfully remembering the days last summer when his office was a sanctuary from this same sort of heat. Maybe this is the universe balancing itself out, telling Dean he can’t have absolutely everything he wants. If that’s the case, Dean supposes it’s not a terrible trade. Even as the sweat drips down the small of his back and gathers on his forehead, he smiles, thinking of what’s waiting for him at home. Cas is worth a little heatstroke.

Turning to survey his space, Dean mentally catalogs what’s left to be done. Things that he normally keeps here but is bringing home for ease of access over the summer are in boxes by the door. Recruitment folders are sorted and weeded down. His fridge is defrosting, fully emptied at the moment which like, chills Dean to the bone. A true sign that the school year is over and he’s on vacation, not that there’s really a true offseason for college football. Not for coaches, anyway. He’s still got a few folders stuffed with paperwork and junk to sort through, but Dean supposes there’s no rush. He doesn’t technically have anywhere to be until the first Coaches Caravan event in Philadelphia the following Friday, and he can always come back and finish this tomorrow.

Glancing up at the clock, Dean sees that it’s six PM and later than he realized, a thought that’s solidified by the sound of familiar footsteps echoing their way down the hall. Before Cas can round the corner, Dean lifts his shirt to wipe his face, hoping he can at least scrape off the top layer of sweat and grime from all the moving and dusting he’s been up to today. It’s really no use, the shirt does nothing and Dean feels as disgusting as he knows he looks. There’s no possible way he can subject Cas to a dinner with him in this state. Dropping his shirt again, Dean grimaces, at least until he notices the figure hovering in the doorway and ogling him shamelessly. “Don’t even think about it,” Dean warns. “I’m six kinds of nasty, none of which you want pressed up against that hot body.”

“But you look so good dirty,” Castiel replies lowly, his fingers twisting to grip the edge of the door as he bites his lip.

“Uh-huh.” Dean dismisses him with a roll of his eyes. “Listen, I have a decent looking change of clothes in my gym bag, so I’m just gonna run down to the locker room and shower. Then we can head out. Cool? You don’t have reservations or anything, do you?”

Castiel doesn’t answer for a moment, eyes continuing to rake up and down Dean’s body like he’s got all sorts of ideas and can’t decide where to start acting on them. Like Dean is the dinner he’s looking forward to devouring, and under any other circ*mstances, it’s not an offer Dean would be passing up. As it is, he wouldn’t touch Cas with a ten-foot pole, not feeling (and probably smelling) the way that he does. After at least a full minute of silence, Castiel stows the bedroom eyes and smiles. “No,” he says. “We have nowhere to be. Take your time.”

In retrospect, Dean should have known Castiel wouldn’t let it go that easily, but hindsight is twenty-twenty. He makes his way through the deserted athletic complex, down to the men’s locker room off of the football field. There are other showers closer to his office, but this is the room he feels most comfortable in. It’s strange to walk inside when it’s so empty, though, lockers bare and stripped of names, no uniforms or towels stuffed in the laundry bins, no muddy cleats on the floor. It doesn’t even smell right. Dean sniffs and scrunches his nose, irritated with the scent of residual bleach and citrus, instead of the slightly musty odor Dean’s used to. Not that the locker room’s usual scent is anything pleasant, per se, but it’s familiar in a way that’s been with Dean for so long, he’s come to associate it with good things, happy memories. Weird, sure, but Dean got over that a long time ago.

Today it feels too clean, too fresh. It makes him a little nostalgic for fall and for the football season that’s long past; both wishing he could rewind and anxious to fast forward, all at the same time. As he strips and drops his dirty clothes onto the bench his duffel is resting on, Dean starts daydreaming once again about crisp fall nights, the smell of the Homecoming bonfire and the roar of the stadium crowd pulsing through the air. The biggest difference between this summer and the last is that now Dean imagines Castiel sitting in the stands too, smiling and waving, cheering them all on, and it warms him to think of it.

The tiled floor is cool and slick when Dean steps barefoot into the rows of showers, even after the water warms to steaming. He considers briefly that he should have worn flip flops but it’s too late now, and the whole room was apparently just bleached. Shrugging it off, he adjusts the water temperature to something cooler and punches one of the body wash dispensers on the wall until his hand is full of more soap than he needs. Dean closes his eyes and hums some Zeppelin while he works up a lather from head to toe, scrubbing his hair, face, and the rest of his body with his hands until he finally feels clean again. It’s no small task, but by the time he’s stepping out, his reddened skin feels like it can breathe again.

Sticking his arm out from the showers, Dean feels around for the towel he knows he left on the hook just outside, but it’s gone. He pulls his hand back and runs it over his face before blinking water from his eyes and poking his head out to make sure. Yup, the towel is definitely gone, but in its place is something infinitely better. A very naked Castiel, tanned and gorgeous, holding Dean’s towel and a bottle of lube, smirking like he’s extremely pleased with himself.

“Oh no,” Dean says, shaking his head violently so that water droplets go flying, some of them hitting Castiel in the face. To his credit, he doesn’t even flinch. Dean points an accusatory figure and stomps past him. “Locker rooms are disgusting enough.”

“This space is nicer than your apartment, Dean,” Castiel argues as he follows behind, and he’s not wrong. Between the hydrotherapy room and the expensive lighting, the dark wood and the seating area with several sofas and a big screen TV, at least now that it smells decent, the football team’s locker room is a pretty nice place. “Besides,” Castiel murmurs, his voice growing quiet and dropping lower than usual, a trick that makes the hair on Dean’s arms stand up in anticipation. He comes up behind where Dean’s standing over his duffle, facing the fancy lockers and the bench that both run the entirety of the room on three sides. His hands come around Dean’s waist and his chin tucks up over his shoulder, allowing his warm breath to ghost over Dean’s ear. He shivers, and the warmth of the room says it’s not from the water drying on his skin. “I know this is a fantasy of yours.”

Trying his best to keep his cool, Dean scoffs. “Alright, you got me. But you know, it’s the kind of fantasy that lives in your head, sh*t you save for when you need that little— mmph —push over the edge, not the kind you act out.” He tries to stifle the sharp intake of breath that happens reflexively when Castiel’s hands not only keep wandering over bare skin but dance their way down to the vee of his legs. Fingers just barely flirting with the slowly swelling line of his co*ck, Dean huffs in what he hopes isn’t transparently obvious frustration. “Dammit, Cas,” he mutters. “What about dinner?”

“I told you,” Castiel says patiently, index finger dipping down past Dean’s balls, putting pressure on his perineum, nudging between his cheeks to brush dry across his hole. “We don’t have anywhere to be.” With a low hum, Castiel drops a kiss to the curve of Dean’s neck and against his better judgment, Dean sighs. Dropping his head back onto Castiel’s shoulder, Dean lets his boyfriend lift his leg and prop it up on the bench.

“You’re a menace, do you know that? I’m never going to be able to look at this room the same way again. You know how much time I spend in here?”

“Yes,” Castiel replies, unfazed, or maybe that’s the point, determined as he rocks his hips pointedly against Dean’s ass. Dean can already feel that Cas is hard, and he sighs to act resigned, despite the fact that he’s (not so) secretly been into this from the jump. With his head braced on Cas’ shoulder and his lips brushing Cas’ ear, Dean lets himself be moved and propped until Castiel can comfortably reach around and open him up from the prom-pose position they’re already in. And damn him, Castiel knows Dean, knows he loves it like this, being held secure in the circle of Castiel’s arms, free hand splayed across his chest.

Nuzzling against Cas’ cheek, Dean presses his lips to the corner of his mouth he can reach. “Where’d you even get lube, anyway?”

Castiel’s fingers are slick where they work at his entrance, two fingers already inside and sliding, stretching him easily. Dean hums at the pressure and closes his eyes. “Car,” Castiel replies. “Left over from our road trip to that press event in D.C. when you f*cked me in the backseat.”

“f*ckin’ hot .” Dean sighs, wanting to share that he’s recalling the memory while fully aware that the words barely make it out of his mouth identifiable. He relaxes back into Cas’ chest, savoring his warmth and the feeling of his hands on his skin, Cas’ lips on his neck and shoulder. “Hey,” he mumbles softly. “Love you.”

“I love you endlessly,” Castiel replies easily, withdrawing his fingers and making Dean wince, wiping them on a towel before encouraging Dean to bend forward and put his hands down on the bench.

“This is a little bit humiliating, do you know that?”

Not that he can see, not that he maybe even wants to see, but Dean’s pretty sure he can hear the smile and amusem*nt in Castiel’s voice when he replies, the head of his co*ck already nudging at Dean’s hole. “I can stop,” he offers.

Dean just grunts and uses the leverage of his hands to push back, the muscle resistance barely a barrier for Cas to slide inside. It’s all pressure and friction from there, lightning bolt tingles shooting up and down Dean’s spine, all the way to the tips of his fingers and the ends of his toes. Castiel grips his hip, uses his shoulder for leverage, f*cks him hard enough that Dean has to put a hand out to prevent himself from being rammed into the edge of a locker. It’s intoxicating, from the noises Castiel makes to the way he skims hands over Dean’s back, his sides. It’s always like this with Cas, always somehow feels like the first time and at the same time, as if they’ve never been apart.

“Touch me?” He barely has to ask before Castiel’s hauling him upright, back against his chest again, foot up on the bench so he can keep the angle he’s thrusting at and not slip out. Dean groans, chokes a little as Castiel wraps a hand around him and matches his own rhythm.

“Perfect,” Castiel whispers against his skin as his hand speeds up, slick with residual lube. “So good, Dean.” Mouth open, hands gripping Castiel’s thighs, Dean comes just like that and Castiel follows soon after, moving and softening inside him as his strong arms continue to hold Dean upright. It’s hard not to marvel at that, even in the hazy, floaty state Dean’s in, and it kind of delights him. That Castiel’s strong enough to push him around, to match, maybe outdo him in strength, that he can wrap muscled arms around his torso and yank him sideways down onto his lap, even in his own post-org*sm fog. Dean cranes his head back far enough to kiss him, really diving in despite the awkward angle. When he finally pulls away and stands up, Castiel’s gone limp and boneless against the locker divider, a goofy smile on his face. It stays there even as Dean wipes up and complains flippantly about having just gotten clean.

“We could shower again,” Castiel suggests with a wink, to which Dean promptly tosses his pants at his face.

“Red meat,” he demands. “Sustenance. Beer. You owe me.” He pulls a clean t-shirt over his head, only to find Castiel standing and staring at him fondly when it pops free again. “What?”

“I do owe you,” Castiel says seriously, approaching close enough to put a hand on Dean’s newly clothed chest. “I’ll never stop being grateful that you’re mine. I hope you know that.”

“Sheesh, Cas.” Dean deflects the charged moment by sitting down to pull his shoes on, cheeks burning. “You are such a nerd.” He looks up and is glad to see Castiel unaffected by his jab, pleased if anything, as he buttons up his own shirt. Dean knows that sometimes he pushes, that his pervasive dislike of chick-flick moments must at least occasionally bother his openly affectionate man. Which is why he’s relieved that Castiel knows him well enough to see through his bluster, to recognize that his defense mechanisms are just that, and not about Castiel at all. “C’mon,” Dean says, grabbing and shouldering his duffle. “Let’s get out of here before you decide you need to defile the rest of the locker rooms too.”

“Oooh,” Castiel replies, far too intrigued for Dean’s liking. “I don’t know about the locker rooms, but the hot tub in the hydro spa might be worth it.”

Dean sighs. This is probably all his fault for blowing Cas that time in his lecture hall. Apparently, he unleashed a beast.

“Or the cold plunge pool might be even more interesting.”

“It’s fifty-two degrees in that thing, Cas. Your dick would be up in your throat.”

“The sauna then. Or the weight room, there are some interesting benches I noticed in there that I’m sure we could find creative uses for. Oh, or the field itself? What about—”

Dean rubs his temples. He’s created a monster.

***

Spring

Moving Day

The apartment Dean’s spent years of his life in is empty, barren. Not that it was ever particularly personable to begin with, but it’s nothing now. Just a space, a place he used to live, lacking any particular indication that he was ever even here. No furniture or knick-knacks, no football memorabilia lining shelves, no pictures of Dean’s family adorning the walls. All of those things have been relocated, settled in amongst Castiel’s things like they’ve always been there, like they belong.

Dean’s not even sure why he’s back here, not really. He came under the pretense of “one last check,” to make sure every little piece of his life had been packed up and taken with him. And also to bang out a few small repairs so his cleaning deposit would be returned; a little plaster in the wall here, a little carpet glue there, boom, just like new. But none of that had to be done, and certainly not today. There are still a few days to the end of the month or hell, he could just say f*ck it. Two hundred and fifty dollars isn’t exactly going to break him, not these days.

But he’s here now, so he does what he said he was going to and makes the place look presentable. Afterward, he stands in the middle of the small living room and wonders why he’s suddenly feeling nostalgic over a place he’s hardly spent any time at for months now. It’s been over half a year since Dean kicked down the door of his closet and came tumbling out, and even back then, he was only sleeping here two, three times a week max. Castiel’s house has been home for longer than he cares to examine, and Dean’s always been perfectly okay with that. Besides, it’s not like he and Castiel haven’t already bid every surface of this place farewell, because they definitely have, some of them twice.

It’s just that, as he looks around, this feels somehow more momentous than coming out of the closet ever did. There are a lot of memories and feelings here, some that Dean might never get around to unpacking but continues to hold onto all the same. This will always be the place he came home to when he started rebuilding his life here, with Bobby’s help and support. It’ll always be the space he associates with being promoted to Head Coach, with becoming an uncle, with meeting Jimmy for the first time, even though Jimmy never set foot in here. This is the place he was living when his world changed forever, when he decided to come out of the closet, when he fell in love with Cas.

It’s silly, sure, but Dean can’t help how he feels.

Because this is also the place where he hid. Where he played pretend, tricking himself into believing he didn’t need anyone or anything more than his job and his few close friends. Where he spent long, lonely nights convincing himself that being alone was safest and for the best, that the reason he was still alone at all was about his time and not his needs. It’s the place that was his refuge when he was hooking up with Cas but not yet ready to admit he had feelings for him.

This place is the last vestige of that old Dean, and he hasn’t even realized until right now that it’s something he was holding onto. It’s not that he wants to stay here or stay hidden, that isn’t it at all. It just feels like perhaps letting go of this place is the last step out of the closet, the closing of the door. And for whatever reason, it’s harder than the first one.

But in the end, the place is just that, a place. An empty reminder of all the things that Dean doesn’t want anymore, that don’t fit the person he is today. And like a teen with a favorite sweater that was worn nearly daily for an entire season, there will come a time when it is simply too small. Where comfort and routine suddenly feel tight and wrong and the sweater has to be discarded, no matter how good the memories of what it felt like when it fit still are. That’s this apartment, that’s what Dean’s feeling. Too tight and too small, something he’s outgrown, something it’s time to leave behind, no matter how comfortable and safe the memories of hiding within its walls feel.

Once Dean figures that out, it’s easier to lock the doors to the balcony, to pick up his toolbox, and leave. What he’s leaving behind has nothing on what he’s walking towards. As he descends the stairs and pushes the building’s door open for the last time, a weight feels like it’s lifting off of his shoulders, one he wasn’t even aware was holding him down. The air feels a little fresher, the sun a little brighter. Baby’s freshly waxed paint job gleams in the afternoon light.

And Castiel, Castiel is waiting for him.

Dean suddenly can’t wait to get home.

***

Chapter 11: Epilogue: Summer, Ten Years Later

Chapter Text

Summer, Ten Years later

[An excerpt from Sports Illustrated Podcast, July 2029 Edition, Transcribed Interview with the NFL [REDACTED] Head Coach Dean Winchester, M.S.E.S.S.]

SI: ...So, one of the things you discussed in your recent, post-promotion ESPN interview was the way the culture of the football world has changed since back when you were a player and even your early coaching days. Would you be willing to expand on that?

Winchester: Of course, happy to. You know, as you might expect, this isn’t an unusual question for me to field, even so many years later [laughs]. It’s been a ride, it definitely has. Maybe the most telling thing I can say is that I’m glad I’m coaching in the NFL now, rather than ten years ago.

SI: You’re a big part of how that came to be, though, don’t you think?

Winchester: Well, my husband will tell you that I don’t give myself enough credit when it comes to all that. I guess I feel like I’m only one guy. Things change when everyone kind of… collectively decides that they have to change, if that makes sense. When the majority of people are willing to step back and say, whoa. Enough. We don’t think these attitudes are something we want to represent us anymore. We’re better than this. I was… only one small cog in that machine.

SI: And those attitudes you’re referring to would be hom*ophobia?

Winchester: Not just hom*ophobia, but the idea that football players and their coaches have to maintain a certain macho image, that a “man” has to look and act and speak in a particular way, and that anyone who deviates from that norm needs to be weeded out and excluded lest he contaminate the bunch. I think those were all very prevalent attitudes not all that long ago.

SI: That’s harsh.

Winchester: The football world was harsh. I mean, it still is, in a lot of ways [laughs]. I’d like to think that these days, it’s harsh in healthier ways, though. I know my job is hard on me. I don’t always get to spend as much time at home as I’d like. Sometimes I miss holidays or family events because of coaching obligations, or I end up passing out in my office instead of going home at night. All of those things I think can be described as “harsh.”

SI: But the culture isn’t like that anymore?

Winchester: No, no it isn’t. Thankfully. Identifying as a member of the LGBTQIIA+ community isn’t something anyone even blinks at these days, and I’m proud of us for that. You have openly gay and bisexual players, trans and agender players, which, that alone was a huge victory, when the NFL opted to change those rules. It was a battle, but they came down on the right side of history there. We have coaches across the whole spectrum, too. I mean, this is what Pride is really about. I don’t think ten years ago anyone would have ever thought we could get here, though.

SI: Ten years ago, I was in middle school.

Winchester: Jesus Christ [laughs]. You calling me old? Not cool, man.

SI: [laughs] Not at all, just pointing out how some of the younger generations don’t have any idea how tough it used to be.

Winchester: Ah, yes. That’s true. That’s a tough thing to speak to, for me, because I grew up in a very different time. Part of me is relieved that most young players today won’t ever have to go through what I did, what some of my players did. Part of me wants to constantly lecture all of you about our history [laughs]. I guess I am getting old. Get off my lawn!

SI: In that same vein, you’re not the only openly gay—sorry, bisexual—coach working in the NFL anymore, but that hasn’t always been the case. What was it like being the first?

Winchester: Hmm. Well, it wasn’t easy, that’s for sure. When I was recruited to the NFL from my job as Head Coach at [REDACTED] College, it was to intern with the [REDACTED], and then I was brought on as Assistant Coach. I don’t want to say that they pressured me to keep my sexuality under wraps, but… [Winchester clears his throat].

SI: Yikes.

Winchester: Like you said, that was the culture at the time. And that was weird for me. I didn’t necessarily know what to do with it, because I’d been out for a few years at that point as an NCAA coach, and I guess I’d gotten comfortable. Even back then, there were starting to be a fair number of “out” collegiate players, so getting bumped up to the NFL and facing that was…

SI: Culture shock.

Winchester: Absolutely, that’s a great word for it. I was coming from a place where the fall after I came out, my guys wore rainbow stickers on their helmets for National Coming Out Day, just to show their support. They didn’t have to do that. And they defended me, not that I asked them to, but they made it clear that f***ing with me was f***ing with the whole team. I guess it’s not that hard to be confident when you have like, eighty built dudes standing behind you, having your back. And yes, we set the tone. Other teams followed, and by the time I went to the NFL, the tide had really turned in college football.

SI: It took longer at the pro level.

Winchester: It did. And it took a lot more advocating and active involvement on my part, which I’m assuming is what you meant with your earlier question.

SI: The Rainbow Committee!

Winchester: [laughs]. Hell yea, the Rainbow Committee. Though, I wasn’t so sure about it at the time. Here I was, this brand new assistant coach for a pro team, worried about my career and my image and here comes the NFL, wanting me to head up this committee on inclusion and equality in the League. Daunting doesn’t even begin to cover it.

SI: A lot of people forget that you were fired over that.

Winchester: [nods, laughs]. Well, I haven’t forgotten. Yes, the [REDACTED] let me go. They gave different reasons, but everyone knew. I was pushing too hard, I wouldn’t get back in the closet and stay there. They wanted to maintain the status quo and I’d been out for way too long to even consider it. That was a whole year of my life I wasn’t sure I’d ever coach again. And the advocacy stuff was fulfilling, I know I made a big difference, put my ass on the line to do so. But coaching is what I love, it’s my passion. Ironically, or maybe not, that was the year I got married. Ended up all working out in that respect, we had a year-long honeymoon and I can’t say that I regret anything there. I dunno what I would have done otherwise, probably lost my mind.

SI: Your husband Castiel. What did he think of all of this?

Winchester: You know, I’m lucky in about a hundred different ways. Cas is, always has been my rock. But he’s also my touchstone, keeps me pushing to do what’s right, not only what’s easy. I’m a lot more selfish than he is [laughs]. The NFL and the football community, in general, owe a lot to my husband, whether they realize it or not. I had plenty of days where I questioned what I was doing, where I wondered if it was all worth it. He never faltered, never had those same doubts. Not about whether we were doing the right thing or whether I’d coach again. I owe him everything.

SI: And now you’re set to assume leadership as Head Coach of the [REDACTED]. Is Castiel as excited as you are?

Winchester: He’s ridiculous. My number one fan. He’s already traded out all his gear, he’s ready.

SI: Castiel was the reason all of this even began, wasn’t he?

Winchester: I—

SI: Apologies, regarding your coming out publicly. Wasn’t it his idea for that initial interview to run with “OUT” magazine, back in 2019?

Winchester: Oh, right. Yes, yes it was. And at the time, like I’ve said, that was a really big deal. But you weren’t wrong, before. I don’t know that I would have ever had the guts to come out, never mind become some sort of accidental gay football icon. I’m a broken record at this point, but I owe him everything.

SI: Seems like a lot of people, and the current state of the NFL, all owe him a lot.

Winchester: I hate to put so much on any one person’s shoulders, but yea. You’re right.

SI: Is there anything Castiel doesn’t like about your job, or the NFL?

Winchester: [laughs]. He doesn’t like being called a football wife [laughs again]. Don’t call him that. Actually, don’t air that, can we bleep that out? [laughs again]. I’m in trouble.

SI: You’re just going to have to hope that he forgives you.

Winchester: We’re leaving tomorrow for a multi-city, multi-week recruiting tour. I’m going to be stuck in the car with him for hours, no escape. I’m coming back to haunt you if he murders me [laughs].

SI: Somehow, I have a feeling you’ll be alright. Take him to the beach, distract him with waves and sand.

Winchester: [laughs]. Sing him “Summer Lovin’” until he forgets to be mad at me?

SI: Careful, you’re dating yourself.

Winchester [laughing] Speaking of harsh, ouch!

SI: Thanks for talking with us today, Dean, it’s been a pleasure.

Winchester: Psh. Thanks for having me. And thanks for reminding folks that things weren’t always so easy for us LGBT players and coaches. It’s easy to forget, but we shouldn’t.

SI: Congratulations again on the promotion up from Defensive Coordinator to Head Coach. Good luck with recruitment and the upcoming season, we’ll be watching. Excited to see what you do with them.

Winchester: Thanks! I’m excited too.

SI: We’ll be right back.

[end transcript]