So, I started this way back during July when the Wimbledon finals were on, and it's taken me this long to get my act together and finish it. For shame. Anyway.
"With tomorrow forecast to be the hottest day of the year so far at 30˚C, it'll be a tough day for our male finalists," the sports presenter announces from his cool, air-conditioned station. Lucky bastard.
Dean sighed and flicked the remote at the TV to turn it off. He flopped back onto the hotel room sofa and grabbed up one of Sam's geeky journals to fan himself with. Then again, it could have been Cosmo. You never knew with Sam.
The air-conditioning in the hotel room was on, of course, but it wasn't being all that effective, as Dean had yet to master the delicate art of getting the air-conditioning on the exact setting where the air was cool enough to prevent his shirt sticking to him, yet not suddenly arctic enough to freeze his balls off. So, open windows and a magazine it was for now.
The hotel room was pretty nifty as hotel rooms went. It had floor to ceiling windows, a plush cream carpet and a large TV with a gazillion channels on it fixed to the wall. A surprisingly decent coffee maker was parked above the drawer where an apparently very good hair dryer lived. ("Look at this hair dryer, Dean! It's Vidaal Sasoon! In a hotel room!" "Awesome, Sammy. You can use it tomorrow before the match. But if you make your hair all pretty you'll have to pass on that lovely hat with the flower you got especially for the occasion." "Fuck you, Dean." "Don't swear like that Samantha, it's not ladylike.")
The duvet on the bed was tucked in so tightly that it was nearly impossible to actually get in, in customary hotel fashion. Dean had had to hold his breath to squeeze into the bed the previous night, and as he lay flat on his back, staring at this ceiling (he literally could not move an inch), he was convinced that he would be flatter and taller the next morning, like he'd been ironed.
Best of all, there were chocolates on the pillow, because a sugar rush is exactly what you need as you get into bed to go to sleep. Dean wondered if super-posh hotels offered little baggies of cocaine and arranged them prettily on the pillow, maybe in velvet drawstring pouches. Dean had tried to joke with Sam about this before but Sam's reaction had been confusion and a look of concern, so Dean gave up, and brought it up with Jo instead.
Sam was out right now getting him a Quorn burger "for protein that won't screw with your arteries, Dean!" leaving Dean to sit and stew about tomorrow's match. He wasn't nervous. No, really, he wasn't. Not about the match anyway. He'd faced Novak before and won. Castiel had the upper hand on clay and courts, and had won 11 of the 19 big games they played against each other, but Dean had always beaten him on grass, and he was hopeful that he could do so again tomorrow. It wasn't like tomorrow was Wimbledon: the most important event of this year and the chance to make history or anything. Nope.
The hopes and dream nation were resting on him. So no pressure.
Anyway, Novak. Dean still wasn't sure what to make of the guy, even after knowing him for eighteen years. Enough time for a kid to grow up, eat their parents out of house and home, and then fuck off to college, and drain their parents of money for four odd years. People formed entire personalities from scratch in the same duration that Dean had known Castiel Novak, and yet he hadn't managed to learn much about the personality of the other man. They'd first met when they were both eleven, and Novak had been a skinny shrimp of a kid, with eyes too big for his face, and knees as knobbly as a colt's. Who'd have thought that he'd grow up to look the way he did, with eyes you could drown in and lips that begged to be nibbled on? Yeah, so they guy was hot. Sue him for noticing.
Sam would kill him if he knew he was attracted to his opponent. Dean could picture which bitchface he would be faced with perfectly. It would be the "Oh Dean, you really should know better", a timeless classic. Accompanied by a deep sigh and a weary shake of the head. Possibly an eyeroll.
First though, there would be the surprise that Dean was attracted to another man at all. Dean himself had been mildly shocked and horrified when he realized that he would totally tap that. And not only would he tap that, he would stick around for breakfast in the morning. And maybe go out on dates and hold hands and that kind of shit.
Dean couldn't help it. The guy had grown up good.
Midway through their teens, Dean realized that he liked the other boy. Castiel was quiet and reserved, and that, coupled with his otherworldly blue eyes, lent him a mysterious air as he entered his twenties. He came across as very intelligent and serious, yet he had a sudden and somehow mischevious smile that made an appearance on occasion. Not to mention the sex hair. Sometimes, Dean could almost feel that hair in the spaces between his fingers, and wondered how it would feel tickling his chin as he pulled Cas to his chest…
Plus, one time Castiel had called his uncle Zacharia an assbutt where Dean could hear him and that had pretty much sealed the deal.
Dean's musings were interrupted by the arrival of a wookie bearing replacement food.
"Dean," Sam sighed, reading his mind. "Just because it's not real meat doesn't mean it's not real food. It's high in fibre and low in fat -"
"Yeah, yeah," Dean flailed an arm, cutting Sam off mid-lecture. "I thought you were a lawyer not a Home Economics teacher. Should I start calling you Mary Berry?"
"Mary Berry only makes desserts," Sam pouted. Dean gave him a look. "Hey! Jess likes her. She made me watch the Great British Bake-Off this year."
"Made you. Like you didn't enjoy it." Before Sam could protest, Dean cut him off again by making grabby motions towards the paper bags he held. "Gimme my food, Chewie."
Sam handed him his meal with a long-suffering sigh. Twenty minutes later they were both installed on the couch, silently chewing, Dean sprawled out with his feet on the coffee table and Sam sitting up straight with his knees together, like a schoolgirl in a convent. He wouldn't even let Dean have seasoning on his fries. ("E numbers, Dean! Seasoning is banned in America for a reason!")
"So, you nervous?" Sam asked, swallowing his last bite of rabbit food and wiping his mouth. With a napkin. Christ.
"Not really," Dean answered, shrugging. He stuffed another handful of fries into his mouth. He knew he didn't have to worry about not eating a huge meal the night before the match. The Winchester metabolism would take care of that. Besides, Dean knew that Sam would make him eat a healthy breakfast tomorrow morning. Hell, he might even imbibe some fruit.
"You spoken to Novak at all?" Sam asked. Dean shook his head. He'd watched some of Novak's more recent matches when he could for strategic purposes, but he hadn't exchanged a word with the other man at all since arriving in London.
"You heard anything about him retiring yet?" Sam continued, slurping at his coconut water.
"No," Dean retorted, rather snippily. "Why should be retire? He's only twenty nine, same as me, and I ain't retiring any time soon. You can count on that."
Sam looked at him with doleful eyes. "Dean," he began, gently. "I didn't mean anything by it. I was just asking. But how much longer are you planning to stay in the game?"
Ignoring Dean's glare, Sam pressed on. "You will have to think about retiring in a few years. And I know you don't want to, but would settling down really be such a bad thing? Look at me and Jess, we're happy! And you could have that, Dean!"
Dean's refusal to find some nice girl, marry her and have 2.5 kids (and a house with a picket fence and a family dog) with her was a bit of a thorn in Sam's side. Sam couldn't be truly content unless Dean was happy, likewise, Dean's happiness was entirely dependent on Sam's. So, they were slightly co-dependent. Just a little. But growing up the way they did would do that to two kids.
Sam's earnest puppy face was doing Dean's head in. "Look Sammy," he said, just to annoy him. "Don't talk to me about retirement the day before the most important match of my life. This is Wimbledon. History could be made tomorrow. You should be encouraging me."
Sam, the sucker, fell for it. He was suddenly overflowing with apologies and encouragements. Dean waved him off, beginning to smile despite himself.
"Shut up, Sam. I was going to let you watch Braveheart with me, but you've hurt my feelings so I'm not talking to you anymore. I expect you to by me chocolate and flowers as an apology when I win tomorrow. Go braid Jess' hair or something."
Sam huffed at him, but hugged him tight before he left which was all the encouragement for tomorrow that Dean needed. Then he was gone, taking his hair and his bitchface with him.
Dean had just found Braveheart on the pay-per-view when the hotel room phone rang.
"Yeah," he answered, after grumbling his way across the room to pick up the receiver.
"Don't 'yeah' me, idgit," Bobby growled at him down the line. "Kids these days, you'd think they'd been raised by bears."
"Close enough," Dean grinned. John Winchester had been a bit of a bear, but then again so was Bobby and he'd had his part in raising the Winchester boys. Bobby and John had been buddies for years, so when John died in a car accident when Dean was eighteen, Bobby took over as Dean's tennis coach and father figure.
"You restin' boy?" Bobby demanded. As the TV presenters had speculated, Dean was meant to be relaxing and keeping his mind off tennis for the evening.
"Yes, sir," Dean answered. "I'm watching a movie and going to bed early. Ate my peas. Brushed my hair a hundred times. You got my racquets?"
"Yeah," Bobby grumbled. "Those and all those shoes you ordered. I thought only girls bought entire shoe stores at once but I guess I was wrong."
"Shut up," was Dean's brilliant response.
"I'll see you in the morning then, boy. Get some sleep." Bobby's tone was as gentle and caring as his gruff voice and persona would allow.
"Thanks, man." Dean rang off, in as close to a fit of sentimentality as he could get.
It took a while for Dean to get to sleep that night, but when he did he dreamt of flamingos in a bubbling Jacuzzi, drinking milk out of champagne glasses while discussing the new Bond movie.
So, needless to say, he was a bit confused and disoriented when he woke up to find himself clamped to the mattress in a hotel room that was bathed in the cold light of early morning.
Well. This was it. Time to get up and face the most important day of his life.
The morning flew by in a blur of racquets, tennis balls, blindingly white clothes, and journalists.
"You and Castiel Novak met when you were both very young, isn't that right? Tell us, what was he like?"
Dean grinned charmingly for the camera. "He was tiny! But we were both only eleven, and as everyone knows, there's only seven days of difference between us in age. We've obviously grown a lot since we first met, in more ways than one."
They had indeed. When they were eleven, Castiel had had the knobbliest knees and elbows Dean had ever seen… until Sam hit puberty.
Before long, it was swelteringly hot and the stadium was packed. Dean felt sorry for the poor bastards in suits, bantering in front of the cameras. Dean hadn't even started warm-ups yet and already his skin was covered in a light sheen of sweat.
The last time Dean checked his phone before tossing it aside, there was a text from Jo.
I'll be cheering for you. Don't suck.
Typical Jo. Dean smiled, despite the growing nerves beginning to make him quivery. He knew that no matter what happened today, he would always have the love of his family. He knew this subconsciously of course, he didn't think it in so many words. This is Dean Winchester we're talking about.
Nevertheless, he appreciated the support. His family was an odd one, but a good one. Great, even. Someone else might think it weird to consider an ex-girlfriend family. Bu with Jo, it really wasn't. They were good friends before they dated, and sometimes during their relationship they were more like siblings than a couple. After Bobby and Ellen got married, Dean and Jo's relationship started to feel even more incestuous than ever, and they broke up. That didn't mean they saw each other any less though, not at all. Dean loved Jo fiercely, but he wasn't in love with her. And that was perfect. Sometimes Dean felt that he and Jo were closer now than they had ever been when they were dating.
So, today's cheering squad would consist of Bobby, Ellen, Jo and Sam. Jess had really wanted to be there too but a packed stadium which was nearing 40˚C wasn't the best place for a heavily pregnant lady. So Jess would be staying back at the hotel with little two-year old Jude, with the air-conditioning on full blast.
Jess of course, wouldn't be worrying about freezing her balls off because, firstly she didn't have any, and secondly because as she was so constantly overheated that the arctic breeze probably wouldn't do that much to cool her down. "This baby is a furnace! Why couldn't you have knocked me up March, Sam? This would be lovely in winter, but now I'm just sweating my skin right off!" had been Jess' mantra for the duration of the hot spell of weather. Dean thought that a crabby Jess was adorable, her blonde curls and pink cheeks making her look like a pouting cherub. However, Sam had spent the whole of this pregnancy and the last one falling over his gigantic self to keep Jess' hormonal rages at bay, which amused Dean to no end. His enormous brother, living in fear of the most good-natured woman in the world, who was half his size. Priceless.
As the morning wore on, the buzz in the stadium became almost visible. Dean heard whispers of the assortment of famous people that were in the crowd, but he was more interested in the other people that he had spotted. The Novak clan, or at least the members of the Novak family that weren't complete dicks: Gabriel, Balthazar and Anna. Seated beside Anna, wearing huge sunglasses and a bright red pout, was Meg. Dean wasn't sure what Meg was to Castiel. He'd first met her some years ago at the Australian Grand Slam of 2011 when she'd been his girlfriend. Then Castiel had married and divorced Daphne, a woman sweeter than a confectionary factory. Now, here was Meg, looking as bored as she usually did. Dean might have liked her in different circumstances, she had a snarky sense of humour and a tough as nails attitude that Dean appreciated. Still, there was something about her that repelled him. She had an edge that spoke of danger, and sometimes her mouth curled into a cruel little twist. Then again, it could have been the fact that he wanted her boyfriend for himself that made Dean dislike her. Never mind.
Then again, she had thoroughly pissed him off and creeped him out at the 2013 Australian Grand Slam.
Dean had been practicing before the match when he'd spotted Meg out of the corner of his eye. With her hair pulled back into a ponytail, and make-up free, her round face had looked deceptively sweet. Dean, while annoyed at being interrupted, made an effort to be friendly and greeted her.
Meg had smiled in a way that, in her cute little sundress, had made her look like a possessed doll. Dean shook off the "Chuckie" flashbacks. Meg's flat voice had made Dean's skin crawl as she told him that he looked off his game, and that Australia was Cas' and that Dean hadn't a chance at Wimbledon.
Dean hadn't been sure whether to laugh or to take her out with a well-aimed tennis ball to the throat.
He appreciated her effort to rattle him on Castiel's behalf, but it confused him further regarding their relationship. Dean had seen Meg and Cas a few times throughout the tournament and he hadn't got any relationship vibes off them. Their interactions reminded him a little of his own interactions with Jo: the most platonic flirting possible. It seemed to be their default setting.
Dean had actually managed to get some time alone with Castiel during that Grand Slam, sometime around the semi-finals. They'd run into each other on the practice courts and ended up discussing an event that Dean had been involved in the previous June.
"I heard about the Rally Against Cancer event last year," Cas had said, in that gravelly voice of his. "I was impressed. That was a great thing you did."
Dean was embarrassed and internally freaking out a little bit. He said he was impressed. Ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck in an attempt to hide his blush, he mumbled "Not really. I was glad to do it. Really glad. I…uh… see, a good buddy of mine was really sick and I wanted to do anything…everything I could."
It was true. Dean's very best friend apart from Sammy, Benny, had been diagnosed with Hodgkins Lymphoma and Dean had never felt more useless. Watching Benny remain chipper and brave while simultaneously wasting away before Dean's very eyes had cracked something deep inside him.
Dean had been told that his friend suffered from dreadful night sweats, but whenever Dean saw him Benny would smile and insist in his warm Southern drawl that he slept like a baby every night and that "You'd better watch your back Winchester, I'll be back before you know it and kicking your ass all over the courts."
Benny had opted to take part in a clinical trial, and this had gotten Dean thinking about research. Cancer research is something that everyone hears about, but may not really think about much until they are somehow touched by the disease.
When Benny started chemo and lost all his hair, including that scruffy beard that Dean had been at him to get rid of for ages, Dean started doing his own research. What he found horrified him.
He learned that people with Hodgkin's Lymphoma patients have a higher chance of contacting leukemia or another type of cancer later in life. Some drugs used to treat HL could cause heart disease. Chemotherapy could damage a man's chances of fathering children and Dean knew how much Benny and Andrea wanted kids.
And so, the Rally Against Cancer campaign was born: a fundraiser tennis tournament. Even Bobby had competed in some matches during the event, and when Dean won the final he donated every sent of the $80,000 prize pot to cancer research.
This had not been hardship. Dean was determined to do what he could to help Benny and others like him, people who had families: parents, siblings, children and partners that would be lost without them.
Dean hadn't really expected to feel any better after this donation, and sure enough he hadn't. It wasn't enough, he wanted to do more, but he couldn't and it was killing him. He didn't know peace again until the amazing announcement that Benny was in remission and progressing very well, and soon afterwards, that Andrea was pregnant.
Somehow, that day in Australia, the whole story had come spilling out. Cas had listened solemnly and intently, and when Dean was done talking, finishing by enthusing about the news that the baby was going to be a boy, Cas had looked at him in a way that had made Dean's breath catch in his throat. His tight grip on the hummingbird of hope slipped, and loosened without his say-so.
After that, Dean found it more difficult that ever to keep a lid on his fantasies of having more than friendship with Cas. Their friendship was limited but strong, Dean thought. They only saw each other a couple of times a year, if that, and they were always technically rivals but off the courts their interactions were easy and comfortable.
At the London 2012 Olympics, they had even gotten together to hang out for a while staying in the Olympic Village.
They ended up back at Dean's room, which he was supposed to be sharing with a weightlifter and a sprinter, but who had fucked off somewhere unknown, not that Dean was going to complain.
They sat at the coffee table in the corner of the room, their knees towering comically over the surface of the tiny piece of furniture. Dean felt as if he was in a kindergarten classroom, trying to balance on one of those tiny chairs, even though right now there was ample room in his seat for his very-perky-thank-you-very-much butt.
It was pitch dark outside, not a single star to be seen in the sky thanks to the city lights, but the air was balmy with the promise of an uncomfortably warm day to come. The Olympic village below them was absolutely deserted; Dean was reminded of visiting Sam at college at the weekend, when the dorm became deserted and it was unnaturally quiet on a Saturday nights.
He and Cas nursed mugs of lemon water like good little athletes, even though what Dean really wanted was a beer. But he was supposed to be asleep like every other goddamn person in this place, so Dean decided to leave one last rule unbroken. Because sitting around chatting amiably with an opponent was probably breaking a rule, right? Maybe not, but it was freakin' weird.
Castiel was so much softer like this, the hard lines of his body hidden by thick grey sweatpants and a baggy hoodie that was probably years old by the look of it. His hair was clean and shaggy-looking, and Dean wondered if it really was as soft as it looked. Castiel's jaw was hinting at stubble and his eyelashes were long and dark where they brushed against his cheeks when he looked down, and Dean had to stop staring now because this was getting really weird. He looked down and suddenly became strangely fascinated by Castiel's feet. Cas had shed his socks along with his shoes, and his feet looked surprisingly smooth and soft, his toenails neatly clipped, cut perfectly straight across, all the same length. Dean was glad he's kept his own socks on. He wasn't ashamed of his callouses and blisters or the scar on the top of his left foot where Sam had accidentally dropped a bread knife on him when they'd been kids but – he really needed to stop thinking about feet and stop staring, and what was Castiel saying?
The other man was saying something about his family, and Dean remembered that he had asked about his siblings, but he'd also tuned into the answer so late that all he picked up was something about Gabriel's feisty girlfriend and Balthazar being crap at French.
Dean felt guilty when he pulled out the smile and nod he always used to use on girls in bars to convince that he had indeed been listening to them, and felt even dirtier when Castiel inquired about Sam with such genuine interest. Nevertheless, Dean never could resist talking about Sam so before long he was boasting about his kick-ass little brother, so smart he'd gotten into Stanford with a full ride and bitched at Dean for insisting that he pay the rent on Sam's apartment, and bragging about how great Jess was with as much pride as though she were his own wife instead of Sam's. By the time Dean got the end of his rant about how Jude was the brightest and handsomest kids since the invention of the wheel, Dean was grinning widely, but was soon embarrassed when he realised how much his pride was leaking out all over the place.
"Doting uncle, huh?" Castiel noted drily, and Dean blushed. He missed the presence of a bottle of beer acutely as the need to fidget hit him and didn't have a label to pick at. He picked at a hangnail instead, swore when it started to bleed, and blushed even hotter when Castiel noticed.
"You're very close to Sam," Castiel commented, perhaps offering a Dean a relief from his embarrassment and Dean took it gratefully.
"Yeah, well, we stuck together a lot as kids. Mom died when I was four. House fire." Dean waved away Castiel's condolences, not lookingat him, still uncomfortable with the look of sympathy and pity that people would display when they heard about his mother. "I sort of raised Sam I guess, Dad was a mess for a while. And when he picked himself up, he was crazy busy, and by then, well…uh, we were already pretty much joined at the hip, so… yeah."
Dean shrugged, not yet completely secure enough in his friendship in Cas to admit that he had a hard time making friends that he didn't end up sleeping with, and ruining everything with, whereas Sam collected friends like Garth collected fridge magnets. That was probably not very attractive. (Holy shit, when did he turn into such a teenage boy? He was twenty nine.)
Dean and Cas traded stories well into the night, late enough that Dean knew he'd be knackered in the morning, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to care. Now he knew that Gabriel's girlfriend's name was Kali, that Anna had a thing for trees, and that Cas was the youngest of all of his siblings and wasn't sure whether he loved them enough to shift heaven and earth for them, or whether he wanted to murder them all. With a sword.
And what made Dean laugh ruefully at himself was the fact the he cared about this stuff. He couldn't count all the beautiful, leggy girls who plastered themselves to his side and told him "hilarious" stories about their flatmates and goldfish, when he couldn't give a flying fuck about how their friend broke their arm on a night out; he just acted interested until they fell into his bed.
And now he was finding the story of how Balthazar's high school French tutor had slapped and kicked him in the balls for suggesting that she bring douze of her friends to the house so they could have filthy dirty sex genuinely hilarious, even delivered in Cas' deadpan manner.
He laughed and laughed that night, mostly sincere but just sometimes a little exaggerated to prevent himself from just looking and smiling at Cas, and to try to distract himself from the sidelong glances they were shooting at each from underneath their lashes.
Man, he was in trouble.
Now, here they were back in London again, rivals once more.
Dean and Castiel were to share a dressing room, and Dean arrived first and kitted out quickly. Castiel arrived just as Dean was doing up his shoelaces.
"Hello, Dean," Cas spoke first, startling Dean into looking up and blurting out "Hey, Cas."
Castiels didn't react to the nickname that had never passed Dean's lips in front of him before, to Dean's relief. Both men did the rest of their prep in silence until it was time to go out.
"Hey, good luck today, man." Dean had to make a special effort to grin, nerves freezing his face, but the sentiment was, somehow, very genuine.
"Good luck to you as well." Cas nodded to him, ever solemn.
In the blink of an eye, amidst a storm of cheering from the assembled crowd, they were out on the grass under the sweltering sun. The crowd erupted. Dean, the favourite to win, waved and grinned. Working the crowd was part of his game plan; Bobby had said that the crowd being so supportive of Novak's opponent in the semi-finals had thrown him slightly. Despite how much Dean liked the other man, he knew what he was up against today and he wanted to win. They weren't men anymore, they were sports personas. He was going to use any advantage he could get.
The game began and Dean quickly became absolutely focused. Not even the grunts of the other man could distract him. He was going to file those sounds away to use as a soundtrack for his "special alone time" later. Much later. Dean remained in a state of complete concentration until the end of the first set. Even then, after winning that small victory, he didn't allow himself to admire the view of Novak without a shirt as they cooled off between sets, though a tiny part at the back of his brain lamented the wasted opportunity for ogling.
The match continued for a long time, not quite the five hours that various people had predicted, but it was long enough for the member of the audience to get hungry and look forward to their dinners, and for the back of Dean's neck to get sunburnt, despite the sun lotion that Sam had forced him to slather on before the match while clucking like a mother hen.
It was a great game, with blistering focus apparent on both sides of the net. Space, sound, and time outside of this rectangle of grass ceased to exist for Dean; all he knew was the blur of the ball, the sound of it ricocheting off the ground or his racket, and the burn of his own muscles. The human body really was the most marvellous machine, nothing illustrated this quite as well as sports did.
Some suspense, a few racquets and a lot of sweat later, victory was Dean's. He shook Novak's hand, for once not feeling electric sparks at the skin on skin contact, as the shock had nearly numbed him, hefted his plate into the air and gave the journalists their sound-bites. ("That game took pretty much everything out of me. I worked so hard in that last game. They will be the hardest few points I have to play in my life. Some of the shots he came up with were unbelievable.") Later, he vaguely remembers climbing over a wall to hug his family in a flurry of sweat, smiles and tears.
He was itching to get off the grass though, and change his clothes. After the adrenaline and the euphoria of the win, he was just beginning to notice how hot and uncomfortable he was. He was looking forward to changing out of his damp shirt. He wasn't quite sure though how he felt about going back to the same dressing room as his opponent.
He was high on the atmosphere of the hour and he feared that when he was alone with Castiel, he'd do something dumb. Then again, it could be awkward and tense and terrible even if Dean didn't do something stupid. Dean wasn't sure which prospect he dreaded most.
When he was finally released, Dean stumbled into the dressing room on numb legs to find Castiel already there, bare-chested, holding his shirt in his hands. He looked up when Dean came in, his face unreadable.
Then, in that shared dressing room, the media missed the moment that would undoubtedly have made the next day's front pages absolutely sensational.
In a heartbeat, Cas dropped his shirt on the floor, crossed the few feet of ground between the two men, seized Dean's face and crushed his mouth to his. Dean, startled, floundered. His balance was off, sending him stumbling backwards, away from Cas' kiss. The two men stared at each other for a moment, shock, wariness, and uncertainty brewing between them. Time seemed to stretch until suddenly, they were both in motion again, grabbing at waists and biceps to meet again in an almost violent kiss. They fell against the lockers with a metallic crash, clawing at each other, parting only for minute seconds to suck in tiny breaths before surging forward again. Dean raked his short nails down Cas' bare back, selfishly hoping that some of the red lines would stay to be loved again later.
This was a completely different heat to before, when they were out under the scorching sun, and the temperature seemed to triple after Cas wrestled Dean out of his shirt and the skin of their bared chests brushed together, sending a spark racing down Dean's spine and a gasp flying into his throat. There was frustration and anger, joy and triumph in that kiss, and something else, something that been brewing for a very long time.
Dean scarcely dared hope that his long-felt and long-buried attraction wasn't one sided, but the tiny, breathy sounds that Cas was making in the back of his throat were encouraging this wild hope.
At last, slowly, they drew apart, wariness creeping back into their expressions now that the frenzy had passed. Their eyes searched each other's faces carefully. Finally, Dean couldn't take it anymore and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. Which turned out to be: "Great game!"
Shit.
Cas' eyes shuttered and he began to turn and withdraw completely, out of Dean's reach. Dean could see his chance with this man dissolving before his eyes, and desperately tried to grab it back. He wasn't going to examine where the bravery to do so came from, or if was just pure panic.
"No!" he cried, seizing Cas' forearm. "I wanted… I've wanted that…for…for a while," he gabbled, desperate for Cas to turn back around and look at him. He just hoped that what he saw on the other man's face wouldn't crush him.
It didn't. Cas's expression made Dean's heart throb in his throat, where it had previously taken up residence. Although Cas didn't say anything immediately, Dean dared to believe that he understood, and tentatively rejoiced. Cas' face probably matched his own; he could see hope, relief and stirring happiness there, with a lingering of surprise and a healthy dose of desire.
Before long, they would have to face the world again, the media, their fans, their families. Dean didn't know where they would go from here. But this was it. This was the most important day of his life.
"If only he'd come back!" Dara O' Brien, the comedian, faux-sobbed on Mock the Week, the comedy news show popular in the UK.
Cas snorted from his seat on the couch, at the clip of Dean laughing in the studio audience of the show, filmed last year, that was being shown for the nth time. This week's show was rife with jokes about Dean Winchester, Wimbledon, and tennis, and Dean was being even more good-natured about it than he ordinarily would have. Which was saying something. And why not?
Dean plopped down on the sofa beside Cas who was now snickering over the "77 years of hurt!" that was caused by Britain not winning Wimbledon for the aforementioned time. Dean handed his new boyfriend a beer and settled down to see what the panellists came up for the topic of "Things You Wouldn't Hear In A Hospital."
He was the current darling of America, and after sharing laughs and beer with Cas here, they would retire to bed to share something else. All because the 7th of July 2013.