Chapter 2: The Temptation
The whiskey in Castiel’s glass was cheap, the ice already melted into a sad, diluted pool. He traced a finger through the condensation on the wrought-iron table, the cold a sharp contrast to the humid night air. The rooftop bar was all mismatched furniture, strings of Edison bulbs fighting a losing battle against the deep purple dusk, and the low, mournful sigh of a saxophone from a speaker hidden somewhere in the potted ferns.
“You seem a million miles away, brother.” Benny’s voice was easy, a warm drawl that pulled Castiel back. Benny sat across from him, looking utterly at ease, one arm slung over the back of his chair. His smile was knowing. “And not in a good place.”
“I’m fine.” Castiel took a drink. The whiskey burned, but it was a clean, familiar pain. “Just tired. From the scrimmage.”
Benny chuckled, a low, rich sound. “Sure. The scrimmage.” He leaned forward, the table creaking slightly. “Look, I didn’t just drag you up here for the view. Though it ain’t bad.” He gestured vaguely at the city skyline, a smear of orange and blue. “I saw you after the game. In the locker room. You were wound tighter than a drum.”
Castiel’s jaw tightened. He focused on a chip in the table’s paint. “It’s nothing.”
“Didn’t look like nothing. Looked like Winchester was about two seconds from climbing you like a tree.” Benny’s tone was casual, observational, but his eyes were sharp. He took a slow sip of his own drink. “Or you were about two seconds from pushing him through a wall. Hard to tell with you two.”
“There’s no ‘you two’,” Castiel said, too quickly. The denial tasted bitter.
“Alright.” Benny held up a placating hand, but he was still smiling. “None of my business. Just saying… if you ever wanted to… unwind with someone who doesn’t play games…” He let the sentence hang. His foot brushed against Castiel’s under the small table. It wasn’t an accident. It was a question.
Castiel froze. The contact was different from Dean’s. Dean’s touch was lightning, chaotic and terrifying. This was deliberate. Warm. Heavy. A simple, uncomplicated offer. Benny was handsome. Solid. He was a teammate, a friend. He didn’t make Castiel’s brain short-circuit into static. He didn’t whisper filthy things that could be jokes or confessions.
For a second, Castiel considered it. What would it be like? To just say yes. To let something be easy. To exorcise the frantic, humming energy Dean had left buzzing under his skin. He met Benny’s gaze. The offer was right there, clear and unmuddled.
But his body didn’t react. No frantic heartbeat, no confusing rush of heat. Just a low, steady acknowledgment. He could do this. It would probably be fine.
He opened his mouth, unsure what was going to come out.
The door to the rooftop staircase banged open.
Laughter spilled out, loud and uncontained, cutting through the jazz. A specific laugh. Castiel knew it like he knew the playbook. It hit him in the sternum, a physical thing.
He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He felt Dean’s presence the way you feel a shift in barometric pressure before a storm.
Benny’s foot retreated under the table. His eyes flicked past Castiel’s shoulder, and his easy smile gained a slight, hard edge. “Speak of the devil,” he murmured.
“Shots! Charlie, you magnificent nerd, you’re buying the first round!” Dean’s voice, full of punchy joy, carried across the rooftop. Castiel could hear the clatter of chairs, the familiar voices of Dean’s friends—Charlie, Jo, maybe Ash. He finally, slowly, turned his head.
Dean was a silhouette against the glowing neon sign for the bar, backlit in red and blue. He was shrugging out of his leather jacket, tossing it onto the back of a chair. He said something to Charlie, who shoved his shoulder, laughing. Even from twenty feet away, Castiel could see the energy coming off him in waves. He was the sun, and this dim rooftop was his unwilling solar system.
Castiel turned back to his drink. He felt stripped bare. The brief, quiet moment with Benny was obliterated.
“You know,” Benny said quietly, watching Castiel’s face. “It’s okay to want something messy.”
Castiel didn’t answer. He was listening. He heard the clink of glass, the bartender’s greeting, Dean’s easy, flirty reply. He caught snippets. “...terrible day, been saving me all week…” “…no, Jo, I will not do the routine on this table, the last time I did that I got banned…”
Benny tried to talk. About plays. About next week’s game. About anything. Castiel responded in monosyllables. His entire awareness had telescoped down to a single point across the room. He watched from the corner of his eye.
Dean downed a shot, slamming the glass down with a victorious shout. Someone put music on the old jukebox in the corner—something with a thumping, insistent bassline, not jazz. Dean’s hips twitched in time with the beat, an absent, natural motion. He was telling a story, his hands carving shapes in the air, his face alive with expression.
Castiel’s throat went dry. He took another gulp of whiskey, but it was just wet. It did nothing.
“You’re not even here, are you?” Benny’s voice held a hint of resignation.
“I’m here.”
“Right.” Benny sat back, crossing his arms. He followed Castiel’s stolen glance. “He’s something, I’ll give him that. All that… spark.”
Spark. It was too small a word. Dean was a five-alarm fire in a crowded building.
The song changed. Something faster, with a driving synth line. Dean let out a whoop, grabbed Jo’s hand, and pulled her into the open space between the tables. It wasn’t a dance floor. It was just a patch of worn Astroturf. It didn’t matter.
Dean danced.
It wasn’t the precise, explosive choreography of the sidelines. This was something else. Unstudied. Instinctual. His body moved with a fluid, reckless grace that made Castiel’s breath catch. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, just feeling the music. The colorful lights played over the sharp line of his jaw, the column of his throat. His shirt clung to his chest with a light sweat.
Castiel was pinned. The noise of the bar faded. The taste of whiskey vanished. There was only the sight of Dean’s hands running through his auburn hair, the shift of his shoulders, the confident roll of his hips. A laugh burst from Dean’s lips as Jo spun under his arm, pure, unfiltered joy. He was radiant. He was impossible.
And he was completely, utterly oblivious to Castiel’s stare.
A hot, sharp shame twisted in Castiel’s gut. This was pathetic. He was hiding in the shadows, watching like a thief. Benny was right there, a solid, real option, and he was mooning over a sunbeam he could never hold.
He forced himself to look back at Benny. “Sorry. I’m… distracted.”
Benny’s expression was unreadable. A little sad. A little amused. “Yeah. I see that.” He knocked back the rest of his drink. “You want another?”
“No.” Castiel’s voice was rough. “I should go.”
He made no move to get up.
On the makeshift dance floor, Dean had detached from Jo and was now dancing with Charlie, a goofy, exaggerated swing that made Charlie double over laughing. He was magnetic. Everyone around him was caught in his gravity, smiling brighter, laughing louder. Castiel remembered the whisper in the locker room. It makes me wanna do very inappropriate things. Was that gravity? Was that what it felt like to be pulled in?
Then Dean’s head turned.
Not all the way. Just a slight shift. His dancing didn’t stop, but his eyes, green even in the low light, scanned the rooftop. They passed over Castiel’s table. Passed over Benny.
And stopped.
The connection was a live wire. Dean’s smile didn’t fall, but it changed. It softened at the edges, lost its performative shine. His dancing slowed to a subtle, rolling sway, his gaze locked on Castiel from across the space. He raised his chin, a barely-there nod. Acknowledgment.
Castiel’s heart hammered against his ribs. He gave no nod in return. He just held the stare, his fingers curling around his empty glass.
Dean’s tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. He smiled, a different one now—smaller, more private. A secret just for the two of them in this crowded place. Then Charlie said something, pulling at his arm, and he broke the look, turning back to his friends with a renewed, louder laugh.
But the air had changed.
“Well,” Benny sighed, pushing his chair back. The legs scraped loudly on the concrete. “I think I’m gonna call it a night. This,” he gestured between Castiel and the distant figure of Dean, “is a spectator sport. And I’m not much for watching.”
Castiel finally looked at him, feeling a pang of guilt. “Benny, I—”
“Don’t.” Benny held up a hand. His smile was genuine, if tired. “It’s alright, Cas. Really. Go handle your… situation.” He leaned down, his voice dropping. “But a word of advice? That boy over there burns bright. You gotta decide if you’re gonna stand in the light or get burned. Can’t do both from the shadows.”
He clapped Castiel on the shoulder, a firm, final gesture, and walked away, weaving through the tables toward the exit.
Castiel was alone. The space beside him felt suddenly vast and empty. He was exposed. Dean could see him clearly now, just one person at a table for two.
He expected Dean to come over. To saunter up with a smirk and a comment about him being a loner. He braced for it.
Dean didn’t come.
He kept dancing, but Castiel could see the shift. The performance was back, but it was cranked up, somehow frantic. He was too loud. His laughs had a sharp, ringing edge. He bought another round of shots for his whole group. He flung an arm around Jo’s shoulders, leaning in close to say something that made her blush and swat his chest.
It was a show. A message. See? I’m fine. I’m having fun. I don’t need your weird, intense staring.
Castiel understood it perfectly because he’d have done the same thing. He just wouldn’t have been as good at it.
The song ended, merging into something slower, a melancholic indie rock tune. Dean’s friends began to migrate back to their table, chatting, but Dean lingered by the jukebox, his back to Castiel. He was just standing there, head bowed, one hand braced against the side of the glowing machine.
Without thinking, Castiel stood up.
His legs carried him across the rooftop. He didn’t have a plan. The world narrowed to the space between his back and Dean’s. He passed the laughing group at Dean’s table; Charlie saw him, her eyes going wide, but she didn’t say anything.
He stopped a foot behind Dean. He could smell him now—cologne, sweat, the sweet tang of whatever shot he’d been drinking. Dean didn’t turn.
“You’re not dancing,” Castiel said. His voice sounded foreign to him.
Dean’s shoulders tensed. He still didn’t turn. “Ran out of steam.”
“You? Never.”
That got a reaction. A short, harsh exhale that was almost a laugh. Dean pushed off the jukebox and finally turned around. Up close, Castiel could see the faint sheen of sweat on his temples, the dilated pupils. The playful mask was cracked, revealing the raw, strained energy underneath. He looked wired and exhausted all at once.
“What do you want, Cas?” The question was blunt, stripped of all its usual playful coating. “Come to give me more mixed signals? Or did Benny leave you wanting?”
The jealousy in his voice was a naked, raw thing. It should have been satisfying. It wasn’t. It hurt.
“Benny’s a friend,” Castiel said.
“Right. With very friendly feet.” Dean’s gaze was a challenge. “Looked real cozy.”
“We were talking.”
“About what? My terrible taste in music?”
“About you.”
The words landed between them, stark and heavy. Dean blinked, his bravado faltering. He looked away, scratching at the back of his neck. The music swelled around them, the singer’s voice aching about wasted time.
“Why?” Dean asked, quieter now, studying a stain on the Astroturf.
Castiel took a breath. The rooftop felt miles high, the city a distant dream. “Because I can’t stop thinking about what happened in the locker room.”
Dean’s eyes snapped back to his. The green was dark, intense. “Which part? The part where I was being a jackass, or the part where you looked at me like you wanted to murder me?”
“The part where you touched me.” The admission cost him. He felt laid open. “You meant it.”
It wasn’t a question.
Dean stared at him. All the noise, the music, the chatter, it all receded until it was just the two of them in a silent, trembling bubble. Dean’s chest rose and fell quickly. The defensiveness bled out of his posture, leaving something uncertain and young in its place.
“Yeah,” he whispered, the word almost lost. “I meant it.”
The confirmation was a seismic shift. The ground didn’t just tilt; it fell away. Every doubt, every overanalyzed glance from the past two years, crystallized into this single, terrifying point of truth.
“Why?” Castiel echoed Dean’s earlier question, his own voice barely audible.
A slow, wry smile touched Dean’s lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were scared. “Come on, Cas. You’re a smart guy. You really need me to draw you a picture?”
He did. He desperately needed the picture. He needed the lines defined, the colors labeled. He needed Dean to say it so he could know it was real.
But Dean just shook his head, a tiny, defeated motion. “I can’t… do this right now. Not here.” He glanced back at his table, where his friends were pretending not to watch. “They’re waiting for me.”
He made to move past Castiel, back toward the safety of the crowd.
Instinct, raw and overwhelming, took over. Castiel’s hand shot out, not to grab Dean’s arm, but to clasp his wrist. The skin was hot, the pulse beneath his thumb frantic and alive. Dean froze, his eyes widening as he looked down at Castiel’s hand, then up at his face.
“Don’t,” Castiel said. It was the same word he’d used in the locker room, but the meaning had flipped. Now it was a plea. “Don’t walk away and pretend this was another joke.”
Dean’s throat worked. He looked from Castiel’s eyes to his hand, and for a heartbeat, Castiel thought he might pull away. That the fear would win.
Instead, Dean turned his hand, just slightly, so their palms slid together. His fingers didn’t interlace with Castiel’s, but they curved, a tentative, breathtaking hold.
“It was never a joke,” Dean breathed. The words were for Castiel alone. “That’s the problem.”
He squeezed Castiel’s hand, once, a pulse of shocking warmth and pressure, and then let go. The loss of contact was immediate, a cold shock.
“I have to go,” Dean said, his voice regaining a sliver of its normal composure, but it was thin, fragile. He didn’t smile. He just looked at Castiel, really looked at him, letting him see all the hope and terror churning behind his eyes. Then he turned and walked back to his friends, sliding into his seat and immediately launching into a loud story about the jukebox eating his dollar.
Castiel stood rooted to the spot, his hand still burning where Dean had held it. The ghost of the grip was more real than the iron railing, the empty glass, the city below. He had his answer. It was messy. It was terrifying. It was everything he couldn’t control.