Chapter 7: The Temptation
Practice was a fucking haze.
Castiel moved through drills with robotic precision, his body executing plays while his mind drifted miles away, trapped in the phantom scent of Dean’s shampoo and the echo of that gravelly promise. A certain member of yours. He fumbled a simple handoff. Benny’s hand clapped his shoulder pad, heavy and questioning.
“You with us, Novak?”
“Yeah. Head’s just… loud.”
Benny didn’t press. His eyes, though, held a knowing sort of sympathy that made Cas’s skin crawl. He didn’t want sympathy. He wanted the world to narrow back down to a pair of green eyes and a whisper in a crowded quad. The coach’s screamed critiques bounced off him. The thud of pads, the grunts of exertion, the sterile, sweaty smell of the indoor facility—it all felt like it was happening to someone else. He was counting minutes. Each one was a grain of sand through an hourglass, bringing him closer to the knock on his door.
When the final whistle blew, he was the first to the showers. The hot water did nothing to scour the restlessness from his muscles. He dressed in plain grey sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt, forgoing his usual post-practice ritual of reviewing game footage. The whiteboard in his living room, covered in his meticulous play diagrams, seemed to mock him. A monument to a control he no longer possessed.
His apartment welcomed him with its usual silence. It was a one-bedroom box on the quieter edge of campus, chosen for its proximity to the stadium and its total lack of personality. The walls were beige, the couch a utilitarian navy blue, currently hosting a cascade of his practice jerseys. Textbooks and playbooks were stacked like defensive walls on the floor by the TV. The only light came from a single floor lamp in the corner, its glow pooling on the scuffed wooden floor and glinting off the trophies on his bookshelf—lifeless metal symbols of achievements that felt suddenly childish.
He dumped his bag, grabbed a protein shake from the mini-fridge more out of habit than hunger, and sank onto the couch. The silence was a physical pressure. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over Dean’s name. No. He’d said after practice. It was too soon. Dean would still be at stunt practice, a whirlwind of energy and synchronized smiles.
To distract himself, he opened the campus app. He scrolled past announcements for club meetings and lost textbooks, his gaze unfocused. Then he saw it.
The post was in the unofficial “Campus Pulse” forum, a notoriously toxic hive of speculation and gossip. The title was innocuous enough: QB1 and Spirit Captain: Campus Power Couple or Strategic Alliance?
His blood turned to ice. He tapped it.
The post had no photos, thank God. Just text, dripping with faux-journalistic curiosity.
‘Observant eyes on the quad today spotted our star quarterback, Castiel Novak, and head cheerleader Dean Winchester in what can only be described as an unusually cozy configuration. Novak, famously monosyllabic and standoffish, was seen not just tolerating but seemingly enjoying a very public arm-around from the ever-theatrical Winchester. Sources say Winchester then loudly proclaimed they were “getting coffee,” a claim corroborated by several witnesses at the Brewed Awakening kiosk. The two were observed in close conversation for approximately fifteen minutes. This comes after weeks of increased interaction noted at parties and library “study sessions” (wink wink).
So, what gives? Is the golden boy finally thawing? Is this a brilliant PR move to unite the school’s athletic elite before homecoming? Or is there something… gayer… afoot? Sound off below!’
The comments were a sewer. Some were benign, dumb jokes about team spirit. Others were vicious.
‘Novak? Seriously? Dude looks like he’d rather eat glass than have a conversation. Winchester’s probably just bored.’
‘Winchester flirts with anything that breathes. Novak’s just another notch on the bedpost. Bet it’s a dare.’
‘Would explain why Novak never dates any of the cheerleaders who throw themselves at him. Always thought that was weird.’
‘They’d be hot together, ngl. All that tense, repressed energy. Dean would eat him alive.’
That last one made his stomach lurch. He kept scrolling, his jaw aching from how tightly he clenched it.
‘Benny Lafitte looked PISSED when he saw them. Maybe there’s a love triangle? Drama!’
‘If this is real, the football bros are gonna lose their minds. Their precious straight-arrow QB? No way.’
‘It’s just gossip. Novak’s probably just helping him with a class or something.’
‘Or something.’
He threw his phone onto the couch cushions as if it had burned him. It landed face down. He could still see the words glowing behind his eyes. Something gayer afoot. Strategic alliance. Eat him alive.
Horror, cold and slick, coiled in his gut. This was exactly what he’d feared. The scrutiny. The reduction of whatever fragile, terrifying thing was blooming between them into campus gossip, a topic for bored students to dissect between classes. He felt exposed, flayed open under a microscope. He hated it. He wanted to find every person who commented and silence them. The urge was primitive, violent.
He stood up, pacing the short length of the living room. Two years of careful, quiet longing, and it was obliterated in one afternoon by Dean’s brazen arm and a gossip-hungry mob with smartphones. He ran a hand through his damp hair, pulling at the roots. Strategic alliance. The phrase was acid. It made what he felt—the earth-shifting, sleep-steeling, all-consuming want—feel cheap and calculated.
He was still pacing, a caged animal, when the knock came.
It wasn’t the tentative tap of a delivery person. It was three firm, confident raps. Bam.Bam. Bam.
His heart slammed against his ribs. Every nerve ending fired at once. He froze mid-stride, staring at the door as if it might transform.
The knob rattled slightly. “Cas? You in there? It’s fucking freezing out here.” Dean’s voice, muffled but unmistakable, laced with impatience.
Cas’s feet carried him to the door before his brain could formulate a plan. He yanked it open.
Dean stood in the dim hallway light, a gust of chilly evening air swirling in around him. He was still in his practice clothes—tight athletic pants and a hoodie with the cheer squad logo, his auburn hair damp with sweat at the temples. He had a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a six-pack of expensive craft beer in his hand. His cheeks were flushed from the cold or exertion, his green eyes bright and searching.
“Took you long enough,” he said, his gaze sweeping over Cas from head to toe, lingering. “You gonna let me in, or are we having our first fight in the hallway?”
Cas stepped back silently. Dean shouldered his way in, kicking the door shut behind him with his heel. He dropped his bag by the door, set the beer on the small kitchen counter, and turned, taking in the apartment. His nose wrinkled playfully.
“Wow. It’s even more… monastic… than I pictured. Where’s the shrine to Vince Lombardi? The framed jockstraps?”
“Very funny,” Cas muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. He felt hyper-aware of everything: the messy jerseys on the couch, the cold protein shake on the counter, the phone face-down where the digital poison lived.
Dean’s smirk faded as he read Cas’s posture. The tension in the room was suddenly thick enough to slice. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his own arms, mirroring Cas. “Okay. What’s wrong? You look like you just watched your dog get run over.”
Cas nodded towards the couch. “My phone. Campus Pulse.”
Understanding flashed across Dean’s face. It wasn’t surprise. It was recognition. A slow, wicked grin spread over his features, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh. You saw that, huh?”
“You knew?” Cas’s voice was low, dangerous.
“Chloe showed me after practice. Some of the girls follow it religiously.” He pushed off the counter and took a few steps into the living room, his movements loose and unbothered. “So what? It’s just idiots typing.”
“‘Something gayer afoot?’ ‘Strategic alliance?’ ‘Dean would eat him alive?’” Cas quoted, the words biting. “They’re talking about us like we’re… entertainment. Like it’s a fucking show.”
Dean stopped. He turned, and now his gaze was intense, laser-focused. “First of all,” he said, his voice dropping, “the ‘eat him alive’ part is none of their business, but it’s not wrong.” He took another step closer. The space between them charged like the air before a lightning strike. “Second, who gives a shit what they think?”
“I do!” The words burst out of him, raw and frustrated. “I didn’t want… this. The staring. The speculation. I wanted…” He trailed off, because what did he want? To hide forever? To have Dean in the shadows, a secret to be hoarded?
“You wanted it to be easy,” Dean finished for him, his voice softening. “To just happen without anyone noticing. To not have to explain it or defend it.” He was close now, close enough for Cas to smell the sharp, clean sweat on his skin, the faint spearmint of his gum. “Cas, look at me. Look at you. We were never going to be a secret. Not really.”
“You made sure of that today,” Cas accused, but the heat was leaking out of his words.
“Damn right I did.” Dean’s eyes blazed. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to touch you when you’re standing right there. I’ve been tired for two years. So yeah, I put my arm around you. Let them talk. Let them write their stupid posts. It doesn’t change what this is.” He gestured between them, his finger cutting through the charged air.
“And what is it?” Cas whispered, the question hanging, vulnerable and enormous.
Dean didn’t answer with words. He closed the final distance. His hands came up, not grabbing, but framing Cas’s face. His palms were warm, his thumbs brushing over the high bones of Cas’s cheeks. The touch was so shockingly tender it made Cas’s breath catch.
“It’s this,” Dean murmured.
And then he kissed him.
It wasn’t like the frantic, desperate kisses in the car. This was slower, deeper, a deliberate sealing. Dean’s lips were soft but insistent, moving against his with a focused intensity that burned away the last shreds of Cas’s panic. Cas’s arms uncrossed, his hands coming up to grip Dean’s hips, anchoring himself as the world tilted off its axis once more.
Dean made a low, approving sound in the back of his throat and leaned into it, his body aligning flush against Cas’s. He was all solid warmth and restless energy, even standing still. His fingers slid back into Cas’s hair, tugging gently, angling his head to get a better fit. The kiss deepened, turned wetter, hotter. Cas could taste the spearmint, and underneath it, something uniquely, essentially Dean.
When they broke apart for air, Dean didn’t go far. He rested his forehead against Cas’s, his breath coming in short, warm puffs against Cas’s lips. “It’s this,” he repeated, his voice rough. “Just this. Fuck everyone else.”
The gossip post, the comments, the whole outside world shrank to a distant, irrelevant buzz. Here, in the dim pool of lamplight, with Dean’s body solid against his and his taste on his tongue, nothing else held any power.
Cas slid his hands under Dean’s hoodie, splaying his fingers over the thin layer of his practice shirt, feeling the heat and the defined muscles of his back. Dean shuddered at the contact.
“You’re so tense,” Dean whispered, his own hands moving, stroking down Cas’s neck, over the hard line of his shoulders. “Still thinking about it.”
“Trying not to.”
“Let me help.”
Dean kissed him again, and this time it was a deliberate mission of distraction. His mouth was relentless, his tongue sweeping in, claiming. He was everywhere all at once—his hands moving from Cas’s hair to his shoulders to his chest, mapping him through the thin cotton of his shirt. He was a squirm of sensation, never still, a live wire sparking against Cas’s skin.
And Cas loved it. He loved the overwhelming lack of stillness. He loved that Dean communicated with touch as fluently as he did with sarcasm. Where Cas was rigid control, Dean was kinetic surrender. Every shift of Dean’s hips, every brush of his fingers, every hungry noise he swallowed against Cas’s mouth was a brick pulled from the wall around Cas’s heart.
He let himself be pushed back, step by step, until his calves hit the edge of the couch. He sat down heavily, and Dean followed, straddling his lap in one fluid, confident motion. The weight of him, the perfect fit, drew a ragged groan from Cas’s chest.
“See?” Dean breathed, grinning down at him, his eyes dark with want. “Better.” He dipped his head to nip at Cas’s jawline, then soothed the spot with his tongue. His hips made a slow, circular roll against Cas’s, creating a friction that made them both gasp.
Cas’s hands gripped Dean’s thighs, feeling the powerful muscles tense and flex under his palms. He let his head fall back against the couch cushion, giving Dean access to his throat. Dean took it greedily, his mouth tracing the same path as the night before, but without the frantic bite. This was worship. Open-mouthed kisses along the tendon, a scrape of teeth over his Adam’s apple, a soft suck on the very spot where his mark had been. Cas’s hands crept up under Dean’s shirt, dragging it up his back. Dean broke away long enough to yank it over his head along with his hoodie, tossing the bundle to the floor.
The lamplight painted Dean’s torso in gold and shadow. He was lean but defined, the muscles of his chest and abdomen carved from constant motion. A dusting of freckles Cas had never seen cascaded over his shoulders and down his pecs. Cas stared, his throat tight. He was beautiful. Fierce and alive and here.
“Your turn,” Dean said, his voice husky. His fingers hooked in the hem of Cas’s t-shirt.
Cas lifted his arms, letting Dean pull it off. The cooler air hit his skin, but Dean’s gaze was like a brand. He looked at Cas with a raw hunger that stole the air from the room. His hands came to rest on Cas’s chest, palms flat over his pectorals, fingers spreading wide as if trying to cover as much territory as possible.
“Jesus,” Dean breathed, his thumbs rubbing over Cas’s nipples, making him jerk. “You’re fucking unreal.”
Then Dean was kissing him again, chest to chest, skin to skin. The contact was electric. Dean melted against him, all that restless energy channeled into a slow, grinding rhythm as their mouths moved together. He was a creature of touch, constantly in motion—his hands carding through Cas’s hair, dragging down his spine, gripping his biceps. He’d kiss Cas deeply, then break to mouth at his collarbone, then return to his lips, as if he couldn’t bear to be disconnected from a single part of him for long.
Cas, who was used to holding himself apart, found himself drowning in the sensory overload. He let his hands roam over the planes of Dean’s back, learning the landscape of him. He loved the way Dean responded to every touch with a shiver or a sigh, the way he pressed into the pressure as if starved for it. He loved the little, involuntary noises Dean made in the back of his throat—soft gasps, low hums, a bitten-off whimper when Cas bit gently at his lower lip.
Dean’s mouth traveled south, littering kisses over Cas’s sternum, down the midline of his stomach. Cas tensed, his abs jumping under the attention. Dean glanced up, his eyes gleaming. “Ticklish?”
“No.”
“Liar.” Dean grinned and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss just below his navel. Cas jerked, a choked laugh mixing with a groan.
“Dean…”
“Just… exploring.” Dean’s voice was muffled against his skin. His hands settled on Cas’s hips, his thumbs stroking the ridges of his hip bones. He was kneeling on the floor between Cas’s legs now, looking up at him with an expression of such naked awe and desire that Cas felt stripped bare in an entirely new way. This wasn’t just lust. This was something deeper, something that had been building in the silence for years.
The promise from the quad hung between them, heavy and potent. Dean’s gaze flicked down, then back up, a question in his eyes. The air crackled.
Cas’s heart was a thunderstorm in his ears. He wanted it. God, he wanted it. The image Dean had painted was seared into his brain. But the vulnerability of it, the sheer enormity of the step, tightened a coil of anxiety in his gut. It felt like crossing a line from which there was no return. Once Dean did that… he owned him. Cas would be utterly, irrevocably his.
As if reading his mind, Dean’s expression softened. The predatory gleam faded into something more patient, more tender. He leaned forward, resting his cheek against Cas’s thigh, his breath warm through the sweatpants. “Hey,” he said softly. “We don’t have to… not tonight. We’ve got time.”
The relief that washed through Cas was tinged with shame. “I want to,” he said, the confession gruff.
“I know you do,” Dean said, nuzzling his leg. “I can feel it.” A smirk. “It’s kinda obvious. And really, really flattering.” He looked up again. “But we can just… be here. This is enough. More than enough.”
He shifted, climbing back onto the couch, curling himself into Cas’s side instead of straddling him. He tugged Cas’s arm until it was around his shoulders, then settled against his chest with a contented sigh, one hand spread possessively over Cas’s stomach. The sudden shift from feverish intensity to this quiet intimacy was disorienting, but profoundly soothing.
Cas held him, his nose buried in Dean’s damp hair, breathing him in. The frantic beat of his heart began to slow, syncing with Dean’s.
“They’re still wrong, you know,” Dean said after a long moment, his voice a quiet vibration against Cas’s skin.
“Who?”
“The gossip page. It’s not strategic.” He tilted his head back to look at Cas. “It’s a complete fucking disaster of a strategy. I’m head over heels for you, and it’s the most reckless, stupid, terrifying thing I’ve ever done. There’s no alliance. There’s just me. Wanting you. For real.”
The words hung in the quiet room, more intimate than any touch that had come before. Cas looked into those green eyes, seeing the fear that mirrored his own, and the bravery that outweighed it. He didn’t have Dean’s eloquence. His feelings were a tangled knot in his chest, too big for words.
So he kissed him again, slowly, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the connection of their lips. When he pulled back, he managed one true thing.
“The ‘eat him alive’ part,” he murmured, tracing Dean’s lower lip with his thumb. “They’re right about that, too.”
Dean’s smile was brilliant, real, and utterly dazzling. He laughed, a soft, happy sound, and burrowed back against Cas’s chest. “Told you. Now shut up and let me enjoy this. My six hours of waiting were torture.”