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Chapter Text

The alarm buzzed at 6:15 sharp, and Dean Winchester was already awake.

Senior year. The words had a kind of electric charge to them. The last year. The best year. His year.

He rolled out of bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and padded to the bathroom across the hall. A hot shower, a little too much body spray, and a few minutes styling his hair to perfection—he was ready. Jeans, a worn varsity hoodie, and his favorite sneakers. Easy.

The smell of bacon drew him downstairs, where his mom was bustling in the kitchen and his dad already had a mug of coffee in hand.

“Eat up, boys,” Mary said gently as she set the plates down with a soft clink. “First day back—you’ll need the energy.”

John barely looked up from the newspaper, but his voice carried like always. “You ready for practice this afternoon, Dean?”

Dean grabbed a forkful of eggs. “Always am.”

His dad nodded approvingly, then turned to Sam, who was still blinking sleep out of his eyes as he slouched at the table in a KU hoodie that hung a little too big on him. Dean grinned.

“Freshman year,” he sing-songed, nudging Sam under the table. “You nervous, little dude?”

“I’m taller than you,” Sam muttered, taking a sip of orange juice.

“Still a nerd,” Dean shot back, ruffling his hair just to annoy him. Sam ducked away, but he was smiling. Barely.

It felt good. Normal. The way the first day should feel.

By 7:10, Dean was sliding behind the wheel of his pride and joy—a ’67 black Chevy Impala that he’d spent two summers fixing up with his dad. He let the engine growl to life before pulling out onto the road, windows cracked, music low. AC/DC. Because obviously.

He rolled into the school parking lot early, just how he liked it. Enough time to catch up with the team, toss a ball around, and enjoy the fact that—for one more year—he ruled this place.

In the gym, the air smelled like floor polish and sweat. Garth was already bouncing a ball, his shaggy hair flopping as he made lazy layups. Benny and Cole were arguing about who had the better vertical. Ash leaned against the wall, talking crap like always.

“Look who finally showed,” Benny called. “Cap’s here, we can all relax.”

Dean tossed his backpack on the bleachers and grabbed the ball mid-bounce from Garth, spinning it in his hands. “Relax? I’m here to make you cry, man. Try to keep up.”

Laughter echoed through the gym as they messed around, boys being boys. It felt good. Comfortable. Like slipping back into a favorite hoodie.

Later, in the hallway, Dean was halfway through trading insults with Lisa and a few of her friends when it happened.

He turned a corner too fast, and someone was suddenly in front of him. Books scattered across the floor, a small flinch, and then—oh. Castiel Novak .

Dean didn’t stop.

He walked right past, not bothering to glance down as Castiel knelt to grab his books. Just a quick flicker of thought— I used to have a crush on that wimp —and then he pushed it away, stuffing the moment into some mental drawer labeled “stupid.”

Embarrassing.

He didn’t even know why it popped up. The guy hadn’t changed. Still quiet. Still weird. Still wearing those baggy sweaters like he wanted to disappear.

Dean didn’t look back.

First block was math—tragically. But he had a seat next to Jo Harvelle, so it wasn’t all bad.

“Ready for the nightmare?” she asked as he slid into his desk.

Dean smirked. “Always.”

Jo was one of the only girls who could throw a punch and a fastball. She played softball and basketball and still somehow managed to keep up with the guys better than half the team. Their parents had been friends a long time. They’d known each other since pre-school, and Dean counted her as one of his closest friends.

While the teacher launched into a rambling intro about calculus and expectations, the back row—mostly athletes—zoned out completely. Jo threw a paperclip at Dean. He flicked it back. Ashley actually fell asleep. It was a masterclass in senior-level slacking.

The rest of the day blurred by in easy hallway banter and teachers giving up on actual instruction by third period. Lunch was loud, and Lisa sat on his lap like she always did, chatting about summer and who broke up with who. Dean laughed when he was supposed to, tossed his trash in the bin from halfway across the cafeteria, and got a cheer when it landed.

By the time practice rolled around, he was buzzing.

The gym was his place. His throne. And when the whistle blew and his sneakers squeaked across the court, everything else melted away.

He was going to make this year count.

Chapter Text

Castiel

The alarm went off at five, even though Castiel had already been awake for twenty minutes.

He didn’t move right away. He just stared at the ceiling while the buzzing carried on beside him, like a fly he didn’t have the energy to swat.

Eventually, he sat up. The room was cold. Gabriel must’ve turned down the heat again to save on the electric bill.

He pulled on the first clothes he found, layers that didn’t quite match and were a little too big in places, but they were clean. He didn’t bother with breakfast—he wasn’t hungry, and eating alone at the kitchen table just reminded him how long it had been since their parents died. Since anyone had made pancakes for him just because it was the first day of school.

He grabbed his backpack and left without saying anything, shutting the door softly so he didn’t wake Anna.

The air outside was humid and still. Storms had rolled through overnight, and the streets were littered with leaves and puddles. Castiel adjusted his hood and started walking.

The bus passed him about halfway there. He didn’t look up. He knew the driver had seen him. He also knew what waited for him on that bus—taunts, jeers, and the risk of someone tripping him on the way to his seat. Two miles on foot was better.

He got to school damp with sweat and stuck to the shadows, slipping into the gym hallway before the bell. There was a bench outside the locker rooms where no one ever sat, and he sank down onto it with his hood still up, watching as groups of friends passed him without even noticing.

And then he noticed him .

Dean Winchester. Tall. Athletic. Laughing too loud. His arm slung over someone’s shoulder like he didn’t even know he was the center of every room he walked into.

Castiel’s breath caught for just a second.

God, he was hot.

And absolutely a jerk. No one that good-looking and that popular wasn’t a total douche underneath.

Dean didn’t even see him. Just walked past, still laughing, flanked by his friends. Castiel turned his head and tried not to feel anything. Not annoyance. Not jealousy. And definitely not attraction.

When he finally made himself get up to go to first period he turned the corner too quickly and didn’t see the body coming until it collided with him.

His books slipped from his arms and hit the floor with a dull slap. He flinched, heart spiking from the impact, already bracing for someone to yell, or laugh, or shove him harder.

But no one said anything.

He looked up—and it was Dean Winchester.

For a second, time froze.

Castiel barely breathed. Dean was looking right at him—or at least through him. And then, just like that, he kept walking.

Not a word. Not even a glance back.

Castiel stayed kneeling, fingers frozen on the cover of his notebook. Something about the whole thing burned—not from pain, but from that familiar sting of invisibility.

He told himself it didn’t matter. He told himself Dean was just another shallow jock, and this was just another moment he’d forget.

But as he stood and gathered the last of his books, the heat in his chest wouldn’t go away.

Not because it hurt.

Because part of him had still wanted Dean to see him.

The first bell rang, and Castiel got up to face the day.

It didn’t take long.

In third period, Crowley bumped into him hard enough to knock his books out of his arms. “Oops,” he said, smirking. “Didn’t see you there, Ghost.”

“Still haunting the halls, Novak?” Meg added, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You’d think after all these years, you’d learn how to disappear better.”

He didn’t say anything. He never did. Words only made it worse.

He picked up his books, kept his eyes down, and kept walking.

Lunch was worse. No table welcomed him, so he sat outside, under the overhang near the gym. He liked the quiet. Liked watching the way the breeze moved through the trees. It reminded him that there was a world outside this school. One that didn’t call him names or shove him into lockers.

The final bell was a relief.

He walked home slower than he had that morning. His backpack felt heavier, and the heat had risen with the sun. He wanted to go home and curl up in bed and not think about the ninety-seven more days left in the semester.

When he got to the house, the door was propped open and the screen was shut. Gabriel was halfway into his work uniform, his apron already tied around his waist.

“Hey, kiddo,” Gabriel called when he saw him. “I gotta run—Anna’s been solo for a bit so I could see you when you got here. But I left you some food, okay?”

He grabbed a paper bag from the counter and handed it over, along with a folded twenty. “Chicken pesto sandwich and that weird coconut water you like. Don’t ask me how we still had one. It’s basically a miracle.”

Castiel took the bag with a soft, “Thanks.”

Gabriel slowed for a second. Looked at him a little too closely. “You okay?”

Castiel nodded. Not convincing, but Gabriel let it slide.

“Hey,” his brother said, reaching over to gently ruffle his hair. “First day’s always the worst. It’ll get better.”

Castiel didn’t say anything, but he hoped—for Gabriel’s sake—that it was true.

The door shut behind him, and the house was quiet again.

Castiel stood in the kitchen for a long moment before finally setting the bag on the table and taking a seat beside it. He wasn’t hungry. Not really.

But he opened the bag anyway.

Because sometimes, you eat just to remind yourself you’re still here.

Chapter Text

Castiel

Castiel was surprised when his name got called over the intercom during second block. The voice had that same tired, bureaucratic tone every school announcement carried—like even the office staff hated being there.

“Castiel Novak, please report to the guidance office.”

He packed up his things slowly and slipped out the door, ignoring the way some students murmured behind him. He always assumed they were talking about him, and honestly, they probably were.

The guidance counselor’s office smelled like mint gum and burnt coffee. Mrs. Missouri gave him a tight smile over her glasses and gestured to the seat across from her desk.

“Castiel,” she said, tapping something on her keyboard, “we have a bit of an issue.”

Of course they did.

“You’re short a PE credit.”

He blinked. “I thought—”

“You were waived last year because of your brother vouching for your health, but unfortunately, the state’s not recognizing it. If you want to graduate in May, you’ll have to make it up this semester.”

He sat perfectly still. “A gym class?”

“I checked. They’re all full.” She tilted her head like she was about to offer a lifeline, but he could already feel the trap. “But Coach Singer put in a request for a student manager for the basketball team. You’d attend practices during fourth block and some games. You’d get credit for it.”

He stared at her.

Sports.

Basketball.

Locker rooms.

Dean. 

She kept talking, but her voice was underwater now.

Castiel imagined himself on the court, surrounded by jocks who already made fun of him in the hallway. It would be like dropping a bleeding rabbit into a wolf den. Except worse, because the wolves were popular and untouchable.

The edges of his vision pulled in tight.

“I know it’s not ideal,” Mrs. Burnham said gently, “but it’s that or summer school.”

He considered it—really considered it. Dropping out. Just walking out of that office, out of the school, and never coming back. He could work part-time, maybe do his GED later.

But then what?

Keep living off Gabriel and Anna?

He could practically hear Gabriel’s voice: “Cas, you’re not a burden. You’re family.”

And Anna, holding his hand in her hands one night after a panic attack: “You’re allowed to have a future, Castiel.”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw.

They didn’t even want him to get a job this year. Said senior year was supposed to be fun. Said these were the best years of his life.

God, he hoped that was a lie.

So far, his life had sucked.

It had gotten better when he moved in with them, sure. He wasn’t afraid to come home anymore. He didn’t sleep with one eye open. He didn’t flinch when someone raised their voice.

But the damage didn’t just… go away.

Some days he still ducked instinctively if someone walked too fast behind him. Sometimes the sound of a belt sliding through loops made him nauseous. He couldn’t help that.

He didn’t talk about it. He just… lived with it.

Castiel looked up. “I’ll do it.”

…

The gym echoed too much during fourth block.

He walked in with a folded note from the office, trying not to let his nerves show. The team was already warming up, most of them dressed out and talking loudly. A few glanced his way as he entered, then did double-takes.

Whispers.

Stares.

Someone actually laughed.

Castiel felt his whole body go hot.

He ignored them and walked straight to the man barking orders near the bleachers.

Coach Singer was short, bearded, and had the kind of voice that sounded like gravel and old whiskey.

“You Novak?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Here.”

He shoved a clipboard into Castiel’s hands and pointed to the gym bench. “You’ll track practice drills, manage the equipment, handle water, towels, and whatever else I toss at you. I needed someone to take care of all the crap so the team can focus on playing. That’s you now.”

“Yes, sir,” Castiel said again, surprised at how grateful he was for the directness.

“Questions?”

“No.”

“Then get to it.”

He escaped to the edge of the gym like it was a lifeboat, grateful for the clipboard in his hands, for the bullet-pointed list of things to do. It gave him something to focus on besides the way half the team was still staring at him.

Including Dean Winchester.

Their eyes met for half a second. Dean blinked—expression unreadable—and then looked away.

Castiel wasn’t sure what he saw there.

Recognition?

Annoyance?

That flicker of memory from earlier in the hallway?

He didn’t care.

He was just here to survive the hour.

Chapter Text

Dean

The gym smelled like sweat, rubber, and floor polish—same as always.

Dean liked it that way. Predictable. Familiar. He knew where everything was. What everyone’s job was. Where to stand, when to speak, and how to win. The court was the one place nobody expected him to be anything but himself.

Or at least, the version of himself that mattered.

He was tossing a ball lazily back and forth with Benny when the noise started—snickers, muttering, that low ripple of team-wide gossip that meant something was off.

Dean turned toward the door—and sure enough, there he was.

Castiel Novak.

The guy didn’t even flinch under the attention, just marched straight across the gym like he couldn’t feel twenty eyes following him. His sweatshirt was too big, his jeans looked like they hadn’t seen daylight in years, and he clutched some folded up note like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Victor whispered loud enough for half the team to hear.

“Is he lost?” Ash snorted.

“Maybe he’s our emotional support ghost,” Cole muttered. “Can we name him Casper?”

A couple of the guys cracked up. Dean didn’t laugh, but he didn’t say anything either. He just kept watching. Castiel made a beeline to Coach Singer and handed over a folded note.

Coach read it, grunted, and turned toward the team.

“All right, shut your mouths and listen up,” he barked.

Just like that, the room went quiet.

“This here’s Novak. He’s gonna be the student manager this season. That means he handles everything except playing ball. Towels, water, equipment, gear—you don’t like it, tough. You get to focus on plays, not chores, and you’ll thank me for it by district playoffs.”

Someone coughed behind Dean. Someone else muttered, “You gotta be kidding.”

Coach’s eyes narrowed. “No phones on the bus. No girls in the gym. No relationship drama. You bring it in here, you run laps until you puke. This court is a team space. Novak is a part of that team now.”

He let that hang for a second. “You treat him with respect. That’s the end of that.”

Castiel didn’t react. Just nodded and stepped away, flipping the clipboard back up like it was a shield.

Dean watched him go.

The snickering started up again the second Coach turned around. It was quieter this time, but still there.

Dean found himself watching Castiel longer than he meant to—tracking the way the sleeves of his hoodie nearly swallowed his hands, the way his jaw tensed as he walked, the way his shoulders curled inward protecting himself.

It was weird. Dean had seen the guy around school for years, always alone, always quiet. He had thought he was cute a couple time but he never really looked at him, like really gave attention to detail.

There was something kind of sad about it.

Something… haunting.

He wasn’t sure why it stuck with him.

“Dude,” Benny said, elbowing him. “You good?”

Dean blinked and snapped out of it. “Yeah. What?”

“You were just staring at Ghost Boy like he stole your wallet.”

“I was not.”

“You kinda were.”

Dean shoved him lightly. “Shut up.”

⸻

Practice started, and Dean flipped the switch. Once he was on the court, the rest of the world blurred. Basketball was easy. Clean. Physical. It didn’t ask questions he couldn’t answer.

He ran point like he always did—calling plays, reading movement, creating space. Benny held down the paint, solid as a tank and just as hard to move. Cole backed him up, big and bruising. Ash and Victor played the wings fast and loose, chucking up threes and trash talk like they were born for it.

Dean drove, passed, and dished until his lungs burned and his shirt clung to his back with sweat. He lost himself in it, arms and legs a rhythm, heart pounding in time with the bounce of the ball.

He made Adam look slow on a fast break and sank a clean corner jumper with Garth in his face. The ball hit net with a perfect swish.

Coach let out a rare grunt of approval.

Yeah. Dean was good at this.

⸻

By the time they finished, the sun had dipped low enough to cast gold light through the gym windows. Coach blew the whistle, and everyone drifted toward the center circle.

“Good work,” he said, hands on his hips. “You looked sharp. Keep that up and we’ll run this district like a damn freight train. Hit the showers.”

Dean peeled off his sweat-drenched jersey from over his undershirt and grabbed his bag. Most of the guys were already laughing and chirping again, talking weekend plans, girls, and how much they hated math.

He cut around the edge of the gym toward the exit—and almost missed him.

Castiel was crouched near the benches, sorting through a pile of practice laundry with his sleeves shoved up past his elbows. The light caught on his arm, and Dean saw it—faint scars that wrapped around his forearm like old snakes.

He stopped mid-step.

They weren’t fresh. Just old scars—some thin and thick, but unmistakable. Not the kind you get from a rough fall or an accident.

Castiel hadn’t noticed him. He was just focused on the clothes, his mouth a tight line, his hands moving fast and practiced, like he’d done this a hundred times before and just wanted it done.

Dean didn’t say anything.

Their eyes met again.

And as he passed, he gave a small nod.

Castiel looked startled—probably didn’t expect even that.

Dean held it for a beat longer than he meant to.

Then he was out the door and crossing the parking lot, the air felt good against his sweat-soaked shirt.

He slid into the driver’s seat of the Impala, tossed his bag into the back, and just sat there for a second.

Who the hell was Castiel Novak?

And why couldn’t Dean stop wondering about him?

Chapter Text

Castiel

The second day should’ve been easier.

He hadn’t made any mistakes yesterday, at least not obvious ones. Coach had seemed satisfied. Castiel had stayed quiet, gotten through practice without tripping over a water bottle or calling attention to himself.

But high school had a way of punishing quiet victories.

⸻

It happened during lunch.

He was outside again—same spot, same plan: sit near the gym, eat quickly, and be forgotten.

But Crowley didn’t forget.

Neither did Meg or Alastair.

They spotted him like vultures spotting something bleeding on the ground.

“Look at this,” Crowley said, exaggerated delight in his voice. “Our little towel boy.”

Castiel didn’t respond. He kept his head down and kept eating.

Meg crouched beside him. “Did they run out of actual students and just give the job to the school ghost?”

Alastair grabbed his tray and dumped it on the ground.

Before Castiel could move, his backpack was yanked off the bench and kicked open, papers scattering into the grass. Crowley stepped on them. Meg giggled. Alastair leaned in close, voice low.

“Go fetch, Novak.”

Castiel moved to gather his things, already numb. This wasn’t new. It wasn’t even the worst.

But then a boot caught him in the side—Alastair again, laughing as Castiel folded over with a quiet grunt.

No one stopped them.

They walked off like nothing happened, still laughing, tossing jokes between them like he wasn’t even there.

Which, most of the time, he wasn’t.

⸻

He stayed on the ground longer than he meant to. Not crying. Just breathing. Just… waiting.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the gym doors open. A cluster of students spilled out—laughing, relaxed, full of whatever lightness Castiel could never seem to reach.

Dean was with them.

Leaning against the brick wall with Lisa Braeden at his side and a couple of her friends clinging to the edges of his shirt like he was some movie star.

Dean saw him.

He saw him.

And then he looked away.

Didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just leaned his weight into the wall and laughed at something Lisa said.

Castiel sat up slowly.

Gathered his things.

Didn’t let it show that he’d just taken a boot to the gut.

Didn’t even brush off the dirt on his sweatshirt.

⸻

Back in class, he felt hollow. Invisible in a different way now. Not bullied. Just… transparent. Like he was already fading out of his own life.

He thought about dropping out again.

Seriously this time.

Maybe the basketball thing had been a mistake. If this was going to get him even more attention—more bruises, more nicknames, more invisible stares—then what was the point?

Gabriel and Anna wanted him to enjoy his senior year.

Said it was supposed to be the best.

He really, really hoped they were wrong.

⸻

Practice helped, in the way chores sometimes helped. Something to do. A list to check off. Coach Singer barked orders at the players and ignored Castiel, which suited him fine.

He filled water bottles. Swapped out towels. Stayed out of the way.

But he watched.

Dean ran point like he was born for it—confident, sharp, fast. Ash and Victor cut through defenders like knives. Benny held the post like a mountain. Even the bench guys gave it everything.

It made Castiel wonder.

What was so special about it?

Why did people care about getting a ball through a net? About guarding someone? About whether or not you won?

He couldn’t imagine ever being that loud. That focused. That free.

Still, he watched the drills until he almost forgot the ache in his side.

⸻

When practice ended, he packed up quietly and slipped out before anyone could talk to him—if anyone even would.

The guys were outside, still laughing about something. He didn’t want to know what.

But he didn’t have to guess for long.

“Hey, Novak,” someone called out, voice mocking. “Gonna rate our towels next? You got a favorite?”

“Bet he sleeps with one like a blankie,” another voice said.

A ripple of laughter followed.

Castiel kept walking. Head down. Hoodie up.

Then—

“Move on to something actually funny before Singer hears you and runs your asses into the floor,” Dean’s voice cut in, sharp and casual.

The laughter stalled. Shifted. Someone muttered under their breath, and then they changed the subject.

Castiel didn’t turn around.

He wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

Was Dean looking out for him?

Or just trying to save his own hide?

Maybe it was worse if Dean pitied him. If he’d finally seen enough to feel bad, but not enough to care.

That night, Castiel lifted his sweatshirt in the bathroom and looked at the bruise blooming dark across his stomach. He touched it gently, not wincing.

It wasn’t the worst he’d ever had.

But it stayed with him in a different way.

Not just pain—but proof.

Proof that he was still as invisible as ever. Still a target. Still a joke.

And for a split second, he wondered if they were right.

Maybe it really would be better if he just disappeared.

If he became the ghost they all claimed he was.

Chapter Text

Dean’s POV

⸻

Dean couldn’t sleep.

He’d turned his pillow over four times now, kicked the sheets off, pulled them back up, and glared at the ceiling like it owed him something.

But no matter what he did, his brain kept playing the same damn scene: Castiel Novak, lying on the pavement outside the cafeteria, papers scattered, lunch trashed, knees drawn up like he was trying to shrink. No blood, nothing dramatic. Just stillness. Like he didn’t even care.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut.

Not my problem. Not my job. Not my fault.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Lisa.

U up? 😊

He stared at the screen, then turned it over without replying.

⸻

The next morning, he was more tired than he let on. At school, the halls were loud and too bright, and everything irritated him.

He spotted Novak walking toward the gym with his head low, hugging a clipboard and water bottles. He looked… like nothing. Like wallpaper. Like someone born to be ignored. Dean didn’t even think he expected anything more than that—it was more like he expected people not to notice him.

And that pissed Dean off for reasons he couldn’t name.

Victor popped up beside him. “There’s Casper,” he snorted, nodding toward Castiel. “Wonder if Coach is making him mop up all our sweat from yesterday.”

Dean barked out a laugh. Too loud. Too forced.

Benny turned from his locker, brow slightly furrowed. “Dude.”

“What?” Dean shrugged, punching Garth lightly in the arm. “It was funny.”

Benny didn’t say anything, just kept watching him a little too long. Dean ignored it.

⸻

Practice that day was brutal.

Coach Singer was in rare form, pacing the court like a stormcloud. “You think you’re hot stuff just ‘cause you can dunk? That don’t mean jack if your defense is garbage!”

Dean was off. Passes slightly short. Footwork lazy. He couldn’t focus. Not even during their standard motion drills.

At one point, Dean missed an easy assist to Cole—just lobbed it too far, the ball bouncing off the backboard like a bad joke.

Cole shot him a sharp look but kept quiet.

Coach Singer didn’t.

“Winchester!” his voice cracked through the gym. “You wanna tell me where the hell your head’s at today?”

Dean wiped his face with his jersey. “Sorry, Coach.”

“Don’t ‘sorry’ me. Fix it. You’re the point guard—you set the damn pace. If you can’t think straight, sit down and let someone else run the floor.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Dean nodded stiffly, biting down hard on the apology he wanted to spit out again.

Practice resumed, but the rhythm was off.

After drills, while the guys were catching their breath and grabbing water, Castiel approached him—quiet, careful, a bottle of water extended like an offering.

Dean reached out to take it, and their fingers brushed.

He pulled back hard, almost like he’d been burned.

Castiel blinked, startled. Concern flickered across his face for just a second—just long enough for Dean to catch it—before his expression shuttered again, going blank. He gently set the bottle on the bench beside Dean without a word and turned back to fold towels.

Dean stared at the water.

His heart was pounding, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

He didn’t understand what the hell that was. Why it got to him.

But suddenly, all he wanted was to hit something. A locker. A wall. Himself.

Instead, he just sat there, feeling like the gym was closing in around him.

⸻

Why couldn’t Novak just be a weird little dude he never had to think about?

Why did he have to make Dean feel weird? All… twisted up. Like he was fifteen again and didn’t know who the hell he was.

And then, as if Novak could sense all of it, he nodded when he passed Dean on the way to the laundry cart after practice. Just a small, polite thing. Just like Dean did to him yesterday.

Dean’s mouth moved before his brain did.

“Hey, if you’re gonna keep lurking around, maybe try not looking like a kicked dog. Freaks the guys out.”

It hung in the air. The guys seemed taken back by the outburst.

Novak froze.

His whole face even went more blank than before, like a switch flipped. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t frown. Didn’t smile. Just turned and kept walking like Dean hadn’t said a word.

Dean stood there, sweat drying cold on his neck, something churning in his gut like rot.

⸻

The locker room was mostly quiet as the guys filtered out.

Dean sat at his bench, still in half his gear, staring at the floor.

Benny slumped down next to him. “That was kind of harsh, don’t you think?”

Dean didn’t look over. “Yeah, well. He can handle it.”

Benny’s silence said otherwise.

⸻

That night, Dean drove home with the windows down and music too loud.

But the guilt followed him like smoke.

Chapter Text

Castiel didn’t eat dinner. He didn’t even pretend to. Gabriel had left a sticky note on the counter and a wrapped sandwich from the café, but it sat untouched while Castiel lay on his back on the bathroom floor, staring at the ceiling as the hours bled together. The only feeling he could manage was the cold seeping in through his back from the tile floor.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t move much, either.

It wasn’t until the house went completely dark and quiet that he finally stood, walked to the cabinet, and opened the drawer. His fingers found the razor without looking. Not fresh. Not planned. Just… there. He needed to feel something.

And this would enough.

He sat on the cold tile, sleeve already pushed up. Shallow. Quick. A burn just under the skin. Something that proved he was still real, still here, still tethered to something—even if it hurt.

After several lines, he threw up.

By the time he passed out, he was on the floor, wrapped in a towel and cold sweat. No one was home to notice.

When he opened his eyes, the sun was already up, pressing through the blinds like it had no right. School had already started. But staying here, in the silence, felt worse. He got up. Got dressed. Didn’t bother to shower. Didn’t care.

He knew he looked like hell. Hollow-eyed, pale, a long-sleeved hoodie even though it was too hot for one. But he liked the way people recoiled when they looked at him today. He liked that maybe he could disgust someone. Maybe he could make someone feel as bad as he did.

He didn’t make it far before trouble found him. On his way to fourth block basketball. Just outside the gym, in the space between the back building and the lot where the stoners liked to smoke. Crowley, Meg, and Alastair were waiting. They always were.

“Damn, Novak,” Crowley said, flicking ash. “You auditioning for The Walking Dead?”

“Jesus, look at him,” Meg said. “Did a ghost break up with you?”

Alastair grinned. He always grinned before it got bad.

“You know,” he said, stepping closer, “you might be useful for Halloween. Just need to add some blood.”

Castiel didn’t run. Didn’t argue. When the first punch landed, it was almost welcome. A crack to the jaw, another to the ribs. He barely even flinched.

Alastair leaned in, breath rank with smoke. “We all know you’re not gonna tell anyone. So what’s the point?”

Castiel watched them walk away, laughing like they’d won something. But for once, he didn’t feel like he’d lost. He could breathe. Sort of.

He got up, wiped the blood from his lip with his sleeve, and walked into the gym like nothing happened. Even though he could feel his eye swelling shut and blood still on his face.

Coach Singer didn’t look at him, too focused on drills. Castiel stuck to the shadows, running through his task list on autopilot. Water, towels, gear count, laundry prep. Nothing that required his face.

But he saw Dean.

He always saw Dean.

And this time, Dean looked back.

A double take. Quick and sharp. Dean’s brow furrowed just slightly, like he couldn’t quite figure out what was different—but Castiel had gotten good at hiding things. He stood straighter. Smoothed his sleeves. Kept moving.

Dean didn’t say anything. Just shook it off and turned back to practice.

Castiel watched the drills while sorting jerseys, the bounce of the ball and the squeak of shoes on waxed court echoing like a heartbeat. Dean was good. Effortless in a way Castiel could never be. Even when he made a mistake and Coach called him out for it, he shrugged it off with that same cocky charm.

Castiel continued with his duties. Did what was asked. Picked up water bottles, ran towels, and made notes. The guys didn’t look at him. Not really. A few muttered jokes under their breath. One or two glances in his direction.

That was fine.

He hadn’t eaten all day. By the end of practice, everything was swimming. Sound dipped in and out like waves. When everyone left, he stayed. Locked up like Coach asked.

Then the world tilted.

And he fell.

⸻

Concrete rushed up too fast. His knees buckled. He hit the ground with a quiet grunt, arm useless under him.

Footsteps pounded toward him.

“Cas!”

He blinked.

Dean’s voice.

He tried to lift his head, but the world kept spinning. Dean’s shadow loomed above him. Then—

Nothing.

Chapter Text

Dean hadn’t meant to dream about him.

He barely remembered it—just flashes. Messy dark hair. Eyes too blue. Old scars. Then gone.

He woke up pissed off.

Not because of the dream exactly, but because he couldn’t stop thinking about Castiel freaking Novak. Because of the guilt eating away at him with everything about the guy. It was stupid. He wasn’t important. He was weird. Quiet. Ghostly, even. Half the time, Dean forgot the guy was there at all. Until he didn’t.

Dean tore through a quick shower, skipped breakfast with Sam, and spent the morning alternating between tuning out his teachers and subtly scanning the halls between classes. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Just wanted to know if Castiel was there. Existing. Upright.

He didn’t see him during first block.

Or second.

By lunch, his stomach twisted, but not from hunger. He stood with Lisa and her friends near the brick wall outside the gym like always. They were laughing at something dumb, but Dean wasn’t listening. His eyes kept darting around the courtyard. He didn’t see Novak. Not once.

Something was off.

That stupid guilt was worse, wrapping tight around his chest. He didn’t want it. Didn’t ask for it. He tried to shove it down by making out with Lisa for a minute, half-heartedly laughing at one of her jokes, but his eyes kept straying to the edges of the school lawn. To nothing.

No ghost boy.

By fourth period, he’d given up pretending not to care. He was jittery heading to practice, telling himself it was just because of the scrimmage next week.

And then—there he was.

Castiel was already in the gym, lurking near the storage closet. He looked like hell. Dean paused in the doorway, blinking. He almost thought he saw blood, a swipe of red near his cheek, but Castiel turned too quickly and ducked out of sight.

Dean frowned.

“Yo, you coming or what?” Benny called.

Dean snapped out of it and joined the team, but his mind wasn’t in it. Not entirely. He went through warmups, plays, drills—but his eyes kept drifting.

Even from across the gym, he noticed how carefully Castiel moved, like he was trying to make himself invisible. But Dean saw everything. The hunch in his posture. The way he flinched when someone dropped a ball too close. How pale he looked. How he kept his face turned away.

At one point during a fast break drill, Dean missed a wide-open assist to Benny in the paint.

Coach Singer blew his whistle hard. “Winchester! What the hell was that?”

Dean swallowed, hands on his hips.

“You sleepwalking today?” Singer barked. “If your head ain’t in the game, get off my court.”

Dean shook it off and gave a nod. “Got it, Coach.”

He caught Benny giving him a strange look as they reset. Dean muttered something about zoning out and tried to lock in.

He didn’t see Castiel again until drills ended. The team broke to grab water. Dean sat on the edge of the bleachers, wiping sweat from his neck with his jersey.

Then Castiel was still there, quiet as a shadow. Keeping his head down and out of view.

Practice ended with Coach calling them in.

“Good work today. Next week’s scrimmage isn’t gonna play itself—so tighten it up tomorrow,” Singer said. “Get outta here. Hit the showers. Go home.”

The guys dispersed in a wave of clapping and shouts. Dean hung back, heading to the locker room last.

He’d already turned on his car when he remembered—he left his earbuds in his gym bag.

He jogged back toward the locker room.

That’s when he saw it.

Castiel was just ahead, carrying his backpack, just locking up the side exit. His steps slowed. Stumbled. His body sagged—and then collapsed like a puppet whose strings got cut.

Dean stopped short.

“Cas?”

No answer.

Panic slammed into him harder than any guard ever had. Dean ran.

“Cas!” he shouted, kneeling down. “Hey! Hey, man—what the hell—wake up—”

No response.

He was breathing, but barely. His skin felt cold.

Dean’s hands shook as he turned toward the gym.

“Coach!” he yelled, pounding on the gym doors. “Uncle Bobby! Get out here!”

After a few seconds of swearing and grumbling, Bobby Singer yanked open the door. “What the hell, Winchester—?”

His eyes landed on Castiel, crumpled on the ground, and he was all action.

“Get his legs,” Bobby ordered. “We’re taking him inside.”

Dean obeyed without thinking. They got him inside, laying him down gently on the mat by the bleachers. Bobby pulled out his phone.

“I’m calling an ambulance.”

“No.” Castiel’s voice was weak. Barely a whisper. But it stopped everything.

“Please,” he croaked. “No hospital. I’m fine.”

Dean had never heard someone sound less fine in his life.

Bobby hesitated, phone still in his hand. His jaw tightened. “You’re not fine, kid.”

“I’m just sick. I didn’t eat. Slept bad. I just—passed out.”

Bobby finally lowered the phone.

He didn’t like it. That much was obvious.

“You gonna tell me what the hell happened?” Bobby asked, kneeling down near them. “Cause this? This ain’t normal.”

Castiel didn’t respond. He’s closed his eyes again.

Dean looked down at his hands, feeling useless. Furious. Guilty.

“Jesus,” Bobby muttered. He turned on Dean. “And you—you just let this happen?”

“I didn’t know—”

“You should’ve. You got eyes, don’t you?”

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“You think this is some game?” Bobby said, voice low and sharp. “You think just ‘cause you’re good at basketball and got a daddy who runs the place, you can look the other way when someone’s in trouble?”

Dean felt like he’d been punched.

“I—I didn’t mean to—” he tried.

“You need to get your head outta your ass,” Bobby said. “And realize not everyone’s life is as damn golden as yours.”

Dean swallowed the knot in his throat.

“I don’t know how,” he admitted, voice breaking more than he meant it to. “I don’t know how to fix any of it.”

Bobby softened. Just a little.

“You don’t fix it,” he said. “You try. You stand up. You pay attention. You be a decent human being.”

Dean nodded, eyes stinging.

Castiel stirred again. Bobby went to his office to grab something.

Dean crouched beside him.

“You scared the crap out of me,” Dean muttered.

Castiel opened one eye halfway. “Didn’t mean to.”

“You look like you got hit by a truck.”

Castiel gave the smallest shrug. “Had a rough night.”

Dean hesitated. “Was it—Alastair?”

Silence.

“I know it was,” Dean said. “Just—tell Coach. Bobby. He’ll believe you.”

Castiel’s eyes met his. And for the first time, Dean felt something cold settle in his chest.

“Why do you care?” Castiel asked quietly.

Dean blinked. “What?”

“You’re just like the rest of them,” Castiel said. “You watched yesterday. Said nothing. Laughed with your friends. You think I didn’t see?”

Dean flinched.

“I didn’t laugh,” he said.

“You didn’t stop them either.”

Dean looked away, shame twisting in his gut.

“You’re as bad as they are.”

That—hurt.

More than Dean wanted to admit. More than it should’ve.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Castiel closed his eyes again.

Dean sat beside him in silence, unsure what to do next.

Dean looked at Bobby who walked back out of his office, he sighed like a man who had seen too much of this sort of thing. “I won’t call anyone,” Bobby said. “But you’re not going home by yourself. Dean—you’re takin’ him.”

“What?” Dean blinked. “Me?”

“You heard me. I can’t take him in my truck. School rules. I ain’t his guardian, and they’re tight as hell about teachers and students alone. But you—you’re a student. You’ve got a license. You’re taking him, end of story.”

“I can walk,” Castiel mumbled, trying to sit up on his own. “I really can.”

Bobby gave him a flat look. “You’re not walking anywhere. Get in the damn car before I call your siblings.”

That made Castiel freeze. He gave Dean a reluctant glance before nodding.

They got him into the Impala, Bobby holding the door while Castiel moved like his ribs hurt.

“You stay home tomorrow,” Bobby said, firm but not unkind. “I’ll write your excuse. But I expect you back next week. We got scrimmage games. That means I need a manager. You’re it.”

Castiel managed the smallest nod.

Dean got in the driver’s seat, started the car.

“You okay?” he asked after a minute.

“I’m fine,” came the tired reply. “Just point toward Vine Street. I’ll tell you when to turn.”

They drove in silence for a few blocks. Then Castiel said, voice so quiet it barely reached Dean over the engine, “You can just drop me off at the stoplight if you want.”

Dean snapped his head around. “What? No. What the hell, man? Just—shut up and let me help you.”

Castiel didn’t answer. Just stared out the window like the world outside made more sense than the one inside the car.

Dean frowned. “This is a long walk man. Why don’t you take the bus?”

“No one bothers me when I walk. It’s quieter.”

Dean gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening. “Jesus, Cas.”

Cas didn’t react to the name. Didn’t correct him.

“Why do you put up with that crap?” Dean asked suddenly, heat in his voice. “Why don’t you fight back? Hell, at some point, you’ve got to. Punch somebody. I wanna punch someone for you and I’m not even involved.”

Castiel looked genuinely startled at that. Like he hadn’t expected anger on his behalf.

Then he slouched a little more and turned his face away again. “It’s hard to change the way you’ve been your whole life,” he said softly. “After a while, pain is better than feeling nothing at all.”

Dean didn’t speak for a long time.

The rest of the drive was quiet. The closer they got to the edge of town, the more the houses thinned out. The lawns got patchier. Driveways cracked and unpainted mailboxes leaned like they were giving up too.

Castiel’s house wasn’t the worst on the block, but it still looked—empty. No cars in the driveway. Overgrown shrubs. Windows dark.

Dean pulled in slowly and put the Impala in park. “Anyone home?”

“No,” Castiel said. “My brother and sister run a café a few streets over. They’re busy. Most days I get up after they’re gone and go to bed before they’re back.”

Dean nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Where’re your parents?”

“Dead,” Castiel said, voice like a hollow room.

Dean stared at him.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

Dean thought about Bobby’s words again. How he’d said not everyone got Dean’s easy life. How some kids didn’t have anyone looking out for them. No safety net. Just a bruised belly and an empty house.

“I’ve been to that café,” Dean said after a minute. “It’s good.”

A flicker of something passed over Castiel’s face. Not quite a smile. Maybe something close.

“Thank you.”

He went to open the door, but Dean stopped him. “Cas.”

Castiel paused.

“When you come back, it’ll be different.”

Castiel looked at him then. Really looked.

And the small, sad smile that touched his lips felt like it cracked Dean open.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Castiel said, not unkindly. “But I appreciate it.”

Then he got out and walked up the driveway, slow and quiet. He didn’t limp, not quite. But Dean could tell he was hurting. Could tell that he was already disappearing again, turning back into that invisible ghost that floated through the halls.

Dean sat for a while, engine idling.

The guilt still sat heavy in his chest, and this time, he didn’t pretend not to feel it.

Chapter Text

Castiel stayed home Friday, like Bobby told him to.

He thought it would feel like skipping, like freedom—but mostly he just slept. He curled up on the couch under an old throw blanket and let the daylight move across the ceiling without bothering to follow it. When he did wake, it was usually to the sound of the washing machine or the door creaking open as Anna came or went. Gabriel’s loud music played from upstairs for a while at one point. No one said anything about him not going to school. Maybe they didn’t even notice. He wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.

Mostly, he just thought about Dean Winchester.

He didn’t want to. He tried not to. But his brain betrayed him.

Dean’s voice. Dean’s frown. Dean crouching down and looking at him like he was something fragile—not annoying, not a freak, not some stain on the gym floor—but something worth paying attention to. He’d been so close. His hand on Castiel’s arm had been warm.

Castiel groaned and shoved his face into the couch pillow.

He was the worst.

If anyone at school knew… if they found out that Castiel Novak had a crush on Dean freaking Winchester, the most popular, most golden boy in the whole school—they’d kill him. Probably literally. He’d be dragging Dean down just by existing, and Dean didn’t need that. No one needed that. He messed everything up just by being there. The only right move was to disappear.

By Saturday morning, his body was less heavy, but the guilt stayed.

He got dressed in one of Gabriel’s old long-sleeve shirts and jeans, pulled on his scuffed-up shoes, and slipped outside. It was cool and quiet. The air smelled like the trees were starting to dry out from last week’s rain.

He didn’t have a plan, just a direction.

Eventually, his feet took him to the café.

It had been a while. Long enough for the windows to feel unfamiliar, like peeking into someone else’s life. But inside, it was the same: warmth and clatter and the low hum of conversation and dishes. He opened the door slowly, the bell jingling overhead.

Gabriel was behind the counter, laughing too loud like always. Anna had her hair pulled up in a messy bun and was running plates to a booth full of teenage girls.

As soon as they saw him, both lit up.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Gabriel called, grinning as he tossed a rag over his shoulder. “About time, little bro.”

Anna came over and wrapped him in a quick hug, already brushing crumbs off his shirt like a mom.

“Sit. You eaten yet?”

He shook his head.

“Of course you haven’t,” she muttered fondly, grabbing a plate. “Go sit in the corner. I’ll feed you.”

It shouldn’t have meant as much as it did, but it did. They still loved him. Even when he wasn’t easy to love. Even when he was just… quiet and damaged.

He sat in the corner booth and watched them for a long time. They were busy, sure, but good. They worked like they belonged there. Like the café was something sacred, something alive. And maybe it was.

He remembered, faintly, that it hadn’t just been him who lost everything.

Gabriel and Anna weren’t supposed to be parents. Not to a depressed, half-broken kid with scars and silence where a childhood should’ve been. They’d still been grieving their own losses—Mom and Dad, gone too fast, too violent, too unfair.

And then he’d been thrown to Uncle Lucifer. A man who’d hated kids, hated him especially, and made him pay for existing. The things that happened in that house—Castiel still had nightmares. The scars were hidden, mostly, but they ached. His old wounds were rough and twisted from burns and blades. The newer ones—his own doing—were still tender.

The police had taken one look and hauled the bastard away. That had been over a decade ago. But Castiel never really unlearned the idea that being noticed was dangerous.

Anna came over after the lunch rush and emptied the tip jar into his hands, slipping a wad of twenties in too.

“Go get yourself something,” she said gently. “You need clothes. Not Gabe’s cast-offs. Head down to Ruthie’s before she closes.”

He blinked at the money, stunned. “You don’t have to—”

“Cas,” she interrupted. “Let us take care of you, okay?”

He nodded slowly and left before he could talk himself out of it.

The little clothing store was quiet, with soft music playing over the speakers. Castiel wandered the racks, not touching much at first. Everything felt expensive. But then he found the sale rack, tucked in the back like a secret.

There were athletic long-sleeve shirts—breathable ones, not thick sweatshirts. Comfortable, fitted but not tight. He found a few pairs of athletic pants too, all black. They looked like something the basketball team would wear during warmups. He could almost picture himself on the sidelines, not standing out so much. Just… blending in. Like a real person.

He had three pants and four shirts in his hands when he walked to the register. It felt like a lot. Like too much. But it also felt good.

He paid in cash and didn’t even flinch.

The cashier handed him the bag, and Castiel turned toward the door, already imagining the feel of clean fabric on his skin—something new, something his.

Then he stopped.

Right by the entrance, a display of sneakers caught his eye.

Real ones. Athletic shoes, black and gray with just a hint of blue. They looked like the kind of shoes other guys wore—Dean, Benny, the team. Not broken-down canvas Converse with holes in the soles and laces bleached from rain.

He hesitated.

The price tag made his stomach tighten.

It would take everything left in his pocket.

He looked down at his shoes. The frayed edges. The worn rubber toe peeling back like a ripped nail. He hadn’t had a new pair since middle school.

He looked back at the sneakers.

And then he turned around, walked right back to the counter, and placed them on the register without a word.

The cashier raised her eyebrows. “Nice choice.”

He just nodded and handed over the rest of the cash. All of it.

When he stepped outside, the bag in his hands felt heavier, fuller somehow. He had nothing left in his wallet.

But he didn’t regret it.

Not one cent.

He didn’t go home yet.

The library was right there on the square, old and quiet and smelling of paper and polish. He stepped inside and was immediately greeted by a cheerful, light brown-haired woman in a knit shawl.

“Well, hello there,” she said brightly. “You look like someone in need of a good book.”

Her name was Misses Butters, and she was a force of nature.

Within twenty minutes, he had a new library card, three borrowed books, and a notebook and pen that had been sitting on a little tray labeled Free – For Note Takers! . She fed him cookies from a bakery box and talked about her favorite authors like they were old friends. She didn’t ask him why he looked so tired. She didn’t flinch at his sleeves.

She just talked, and for once, Castiel didn’t mind.

He left the library with his arms full and a strange lightness in his chest.

By the time he got home, the sun was setting. He changed into one of the new shirts—it fit. Not just physically, but emotionally. Like maybe he belonged in it. Like maybe he could belong somewhere.

He started reading, then writing.

Nothing big. Just ideas. Notes. Fragments of something that might one day be a story. It didn’t matter if it was good. It just… mattered.

Sunday, he stayed in. Woke up early. Made toast. Read two chapters of a novel and wrote ten pages of thoughts in his notebook. For once, it wasn’t about running away. It was about staying. About breathing. About finding something to hold onto.

Gabriel and Anna came home early that evening. They all ate dinner together. Just the three of them.

It wasn’t perfect. But it felt like something real.

Maybe—just maybe—life wasn’t always going to be terrible.

Maybe he could survive this.

Maybe.

Chapter Text

The weekend was perfect.

His mom packed the car with way too much food. His dad brought the old basketball and cooler full of drinks. Sam rolled his eyes the whole time, but still got in the water and let Dean dunk him twice. Bobby, Ellen, and Jo met them at the lake with floaties shaped like flamingos, which Dean would absolutely never admit to using, and they grilled hot dogs until the sun went down.

They swam. They laughed. They played two-on-two on the cracked court by the boat dock until Jo accidentally threw an elbow at Bobby’s ribs and declared herself the undisputed MVP.

It was perfect.

And Dean couldn’t stop thinking about Castiel Novak .

Where he was. If he was okay. If he was still hurting. If anyone had noticed he didn’t show up Friday.

The thought stuck in his chest like a dull splinter.

Saturday afternoon, Bobby brought it up while they were drying off by the truck.

“How’d Novak do gettin’ home?”

Dean blinked, towel slung over his neck. “Oh. Uh, good. I mean—I think. I dropped him off. Didn’t let him argue.”

His parents, sitting a few feet away, both turned toward the conversation.

“That’s the kid you said got beat up, right?” Mary asked, brows knitting.

Dean nodded.

John folded his arms. “Is he still getting harassed at school?”

Dean hesitated. “Yeah. Kinda. A lot.”

Mary frowned. “Well, bring him around. We can help him.”

“Really?” Dean asked, genuinely surprised.

“Of course,” she said. “No kid should have to go through that.”

John grunted in agreement, giving Dean a half-nod that probably meant something like do the right thing .

Bobby clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Good on you for trying, kid.”

Sam, leaning against the cooler, scoffed lightly. “That’s Castiel Novak, right?”

Dean looked over. “Yeah. You know him?”

“Everyone does,” Sam said. “They call him the school ghost.”

Dean’s gut twisted at that. The words stung in a way he didn’t expect.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “I’m gonna help him.”

And that was that.

⸻

Monday morning, Dean was up before his alarm.

He grabbed two protein shakes from the fridge, ran a hand through his messy hair, and pulled on his cleanest gym shirt. By 6:30, he was in the Impala and heading to Castiel’s place, windows down, Zeppelin on low.

The neighborhood was quiet. His car rumbled gently as he parked across from the old house. The lawn looked like it hadn’t been mowed in a few weeks. The porch light was still on.

Dean leaned back, sipping one of the shakes, expecting to see that familiar hunched-over shape, dirty jeans, sleeves too long, hood up.

What walked out made him spit his drink all over the steering wheel .

“Holy—”

Castiel stepped down the porch stairs like he wasn’t even aware he looked like a completely different person. His long, shaggy hair had been combed and spiked messily, like someone had actually looked in a mirror for once. He had on a white athletic long sleeve—clean, crisp, fitted just right—and black track pants that actually fit . And his shoes—

Real, clean, black-and-blue sneakers. Not the busted-up Converse Dean had been mentally side-eyeing.

Dean got out of the car and stared. “Dude. What the hell.”

Castiel stopped, halfway across the street. “What?”

Dean ran a hand through his hair, laughing softly. “I mean, seriously. Why do you not wear that all the time? You look—damn good.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Dean winced.

Castiel turned red. Literally red.

“I mean, not like—shut up,” Dean muttered. “Just—get in the car. We’re heading in early.”

Castiel nodded quickly and climbed in, quiet, but he was smiling a little. Dean caught it.

“I figured you could help me warm up,” Dean added, handing him the second shake. “Gym should be open.”

They rode in silence for a few minutes, Zeppelin playing soft through the speakers. Castiel rested the shake in his hands like it was something rare.

Dean didn’t look over. Not much, anyway.

But he felt better with him in the car.

⸻

The gym was empty when they got there—still dark outside, the overhead lights just buzzing on as they walked in. The echo of their footsteps on the hardwood was oddly calming.

Dean tossed Castiel a basketball.

“Alright, let’s see if you can pass.”

Castiel stared at the ball, then at Dean.

“What, you think it’s gonna explode?” Dean grinned.

“I’ve just… never held one,” Cas muttered.

Dean blinked. “Wait—never?”

Castiel shook his head.

“Alright,” Dean said, clapping his hands. “New plan. Ball basics. Come on.”

He showed him how to pass with both hands, how to keep the elbows in, how to dribble without looking down. Castiel fumbled the first few, but picked up fast—like, faster than most guys Dean had seen try out.

Dean passed, Castiel caught. Passed again. By the fifth round, it looked passable .

“Now let’s try this,” Dean said, jogging back toward the arc. “I’m gonna pass, you shoot.”

Castiel blinked. “Shoot?”

Dean pointed at the three-point line. “Yeah, just try. Place your hands like Coach shows us. Elbow tucked. Flick the wrist.”

Castiel stared at him like he’d grown two heads, but slowly shuffled back, ball under one arm.

He adjusted his grip. Set his feet.

Launched it.

Nothing but net.

Dean’s jaw dropped. “No. Freaking. Way.”

Castiel’s eyes went wide. “Was that good?”

Dean threw his arms up. “Dude, yes! That was perfect! How the hell—?”

Castiel blushed again, pushing his sleeves up absently. “It’s just math. Trajectory and force. I’ve seen Coach correct everyone’s form. It wasn’t hard to calculate.”

Dean blinked. “Okay, nerd.”

But he was grinning.

Maybe there was a whole lot more to Castiel Novak than anyone at school had ever bothered to look for.

⸻

The halls were half-empty when they headed in, but the few kids that were there definitely noticed.

Dean stayed close—walked shoulder to shoulder with Cas, who kept ducking his head like he was afraid the hallway might bite. When they passed some guys from the team, Dean nodded at them.

Ash whistled low. “Yo, Novak, you got a glow-up?”

Benny grinned. “Damn, man. Lookin’ clean.”

Victor raised an eyebrow, impressed. “You trying out for something?”

Cas mumbled a barely audible “Thank you,” but Dean grinned and slung an arm across his shoulders.

“Don’t let the looks fool you,” he said. “Guy can hit threes like it’s nothing.”

They all stared.

“No way,” Jake said.

“I saw it,” Dean replied. “I’ll put five bucks on him next scrimmage.”

Castiel looked like he wanted to sink through the floor, but Dean kept his arm right where it was.

Let them see. Let them know .

⸻

At lunch, the whispers started.

Dean didn’t care.

They sat at the end of the table, Castiel picking quietly at his sandwich while Dean stole a few of his chips. The team drifted in and out, giving quick nods or fist bumps, small signs of welcome.

It was fine.

Until Lisa showed up.

She plopped her tray down next to Dean and gave Castiel a look like he’d tracked mud across her white carpet.

“Well,” she said. “Look who decided to haunt lunch.”

Dean looked up, jaw already tightening.

“Didn’t know we were attracting ghosts now,” she added, too sweet to be innocent.

Castiel stood up, tray in hand.

Dean grabbed his wrist.

“Sit down,” he said, calm but firm. Then, to Lisa: “Don’t be a bitch.”

The whole table went quiet.

Lisa blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

She huffed and turned away, muttering something under her breath. Her little posse looked equally stunned.

Dean went back to his sandwich.

Castiel sat down slowly, eyes wide.

Dean didn’t look at him, just nudged the chips back toward him.

“Eat. You earned it.”

Chapter Text

Castiel stood in front of the mirror for what had to be fifteen minutes, trying to convince himself he looked like a person.

Not a ghost.

Not a mistake.

Just… a person.

The white athletic shirt fit better than he thought it would. The sleeves weren’t too long. The collar wasn’t stretched out. It felt light on his skin—not stifling, not heavy, just right . The black pants hugged his legs in a way that made him nervous, but not uncomfortable. And the shoes…

God, the shoes.

He’d been too scared to wear them all weekend. Just stared at them sitting in the corner of his room like they didn’t belong to him. But this morning, for whatever reason, he’d slipped them on and tied the laces carefully, hands shaking.

They looked good.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

He raked his fingers through his hair, staring at his reflection. Usually, it fell in his eyes. A shield. But this morning he’d spiked it up a little—messy, uneven, but open . Like maybe he didn’t need to hide behind it.

He wasn’t sure why he did it.

Maybe because something in him wanted to be seen.

⸻

Dean’s car was already out front when he stepped onto the porch. Castiel froze for a moment, stomach twisting. He hadn’t even made it to the sidewalk before Dean flung open the car door and practically fell out.

“What the hell,” Dean said, eyes wide. “Dude.”

Castiel blinked, startled. “What?”

Dean motioned at him, waving a hand up and down. “I mean—seriously. Why do you not wear that all the time? You look—damn good.”

Castiel’s face caught fire.

He stared at his shoes, unsure what to do. Compliments weren’t something he received. Not unless they were laced with sarcasm.

Dean groaned. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean—I just—never mind. Get in. We’re going early.”

Castiel nodded quickly and slipped into the passenger seat, fingers fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. He felt too warm, too seen, but in a way that didn’t make him want to run.

Dean handed him a protein shake. “Drink that. You’re gonna need it.”

Castiel took it, surprised by the small gesture.

They drove in silence, Zeppelin playing low. Dean didn’t seem in a rush to talk, which Castiel appreciated. The car smelled faintly of leather and something clean—fabric softener maybe. The window was cracked just enough to let in the morning air.

It felt… peaceful.

Almost normal.

⸻

The gym lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows on the court as they stepped inside. It was still early—barely anyone at school yet. Castiel swallowed hard when Dean tossed him a basketball.

“Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“I’ve never held one before,” Castiel admitted, clutching it like it might roll away.

Dean paused. “Wait—seriously?”

He nodded.

Dean whistled. “Alright. Time for Ball 101.”

It started with passing.

Dean showed him how to plant his feet, how to keep his elbows in, how not to throw it like he was flinging a rock. Castiel fumbled at first, the ball bouncing off his palms, but he kept trying. Dean didn’t laugh. Didn’t sigh in frustration. Just showed him again.

They kept going.

It felt strangely good—this physical repetition. The thunk of the ball against his fingers, the sound it made hitting Dean’s hands, the faint echo across the court. Like music, almost.

Eventually, Dean jogged back toward the three-point line.

“Alright, let’s try something different,” he called. “I pass, you shoot.”

“Shoot?”

“Yeah. Hands like Coach teaches. Elbow tucked. Follow through. Just try it.”

Castiel hesitated. He wasn’t sure why he was listening. But his body obeyed.

He adjusted his grip. Watched Dean. Took a breath.

Shot.

Swish.

Dean stared, mouth open. “No. Freaking. Way.”

Castiel blinked. “Was that good?”

“Dude, it was perfect! How the hell did you do that?”

He flushed. “It’s just… physics. I calculated the angle and force. Coach corrects your form constantly, so it wasn’t hard to extrapolate.”

Dean gave him a look. “Nerd.”

But he was grinning.

Castiel smiled back, heart skipping in a way he didn’t understand.

Maybe this day wouldn’t be terrible.

⸻

Walking into school was different.

People looked at him.

Not in the usual way—not disgust or confusion. Just… surprise.

Dean stayed close, his presence quiet but solid beside him. Like a guard dog in a T-shirt. When they passed a few boys from the team, Castiel nearly ducked away, but Dean stopped.

Ash let out a low whistle. “Yo, Novak, you got a glow-up?”

Benny chuckled. “Damn, man. Lookin’ clean.”

Victor just nodded once. “You trying out?”

Castiel opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Then: “Thanks.”

He could barely hear himself over his own heartbeat.

Dean slung an arm across his shoulders like it was nothing.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Dean said. “Guy can nail threes like he’s been playing for years.”

They all stared.

“You’re joking,” Jake said.

Dean grinned. “I’ll put money on it.”

Castiel ducked his head, too hot, too visible.

But part of him—some tiny ember deep in his chest—was proud.

Still, as they walked away, something prickled at his skin.

He couldn’t shake the feeling someone was watching.

⸻

Classes passed in a blur.

Dean walked him to each one. Waited outside like a sentinel. Didn’t say anything when people stared—just stood there, calm, grounded.

It was… strange.

And kind of wonderful.

The whispers didn’t bother Castiel as much as they used to. Not with Dean beside him. He almost felt safe.

But every so often, that tingling sensation crawled up his spine. Like eyes were following him from corners. Like someone knew.

Someone wanted it all to fall apart.

⸻

Lunch was where the illusion cracked.

They sat at the end of the table, away from the loud crowd. Castiel nibbled at his sandwich, more comfortable now, even if his hands were still a little shaky. Dean stole some of his chips like it was normal. Like this was normal.

The team gave little nods, said hi, even fist-bumped him. Benny leaned over and told him he looked “better than a day off.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say to that. So he just nodded and tried not to smile too much.

Then Lisa showed up.

She dropped her tray beside Dean like she owned the seat, like she always had, and looked Castiel up and down like he was mold on her designer shoes.

“Well,” she said loudly. “Look who decided to haunt lunch.”

Dean stiffened.

Castiel tried to stand, but Dean grabbed his wrist—gently, but firm.

“Didn’t know we were attracting ghosts now,” Lisa added, saccharine sweet.

“Sit down,” Dean said quietly.

Castiel sat, heart racing.

Dean turned to Lisa. “Don’t be a bitch.”

The table went silent.

Lisa stared. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

She scoffed, flipping her hair, and turned away. The girls around her muttered, confused, clearly unsure how to react. Lisa fumed but didn’t say another word.

Dean went back to his sandwich like it was nothing.

Castiel could barely breathe.

He sat in silence for the rest of lunch, eyes on his tray, the heat in his cheeks burning. But under it all… something warm stirred in his chest.

Dean had stuck up for him.

Out loud. In front of everyone.

And even though that crawling sensation returned—like someone was watching from just out of sight, waiting for the perfect moment to pull the rug out—Castiel held onto that feeling for the rest of the day.

Warmth.

Safety.

Like maybe… just maybe…

He wasn’t alone.

Chapter Text

The gym was loud when they walked in—sneakers squeaking, basketballs thudding, laughter echoing against the rafters. Castiel felt the sharp edge of anxiety crawl back under his skin the moment the door slammed shut behind them. The boys were gathered at center court, jostling and heckling each other in the easy, physical way Dean seemed to thrive in. Castiel had always found that kind of energy overwhelming. But now they were turning, grinning, calling Dean’s name.

“Alright, Winchester,” Benny said, dribbling lazily between his legs. “You said he could shoot—prove it.”

“Yeah, let’s see the ghost drop a three!” Ash hollered, laughing.

Castiel’s stomach twisted. He froze mid-step, the warmth from the day gone all at once.

Dean glanced at him, then back at the others. “You guys are idiots.”

“Put your money where your mouth is, captain!” Cole jeered. “We ain’t just gonna take your word for it.”

Dean smirked and turned toward Castiel, his voice lowering. “You okay?”

Castiel wasn’t. Not even close. His palms were damp, his ears already burning, and he knew—he knew —his face must be bright red. Still, he nodded. Sort of.

Dean stepped back and said quietly, “Just look at me. Block everyone else out. Just me and you.”

That helped. Somehow.

Castiel took a slow breath, walked to the three-point line. The ball came to him in a soft arc from Dean, and he caught it without fumbling. The boys were quiet.

He adjusted his stance, lifted the ball the way he’d practiced that morning, and shot.

Swoosh.

The net barely moved.

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then chaos.

“No freakin’ way!”

“Did you see that?!”

“Dead center!”

Dean whooped and sent him another pass. Grinning like a cat who caught a mouse.

Five more balls. Five more swishes. Dean moved him around the arc—top, wing, corner. Castiel hit every one. The gym was roaring now, the guys falling over themselves with disbelief.

“Dude, you hiding a whole life on us?” Garth asked.

“He’s a sniper,” Adam muttered, grinning.

Castiel flushed so hard his face hurt. He dropped his head, unsure where to look, but Dean clapped a hand on his shoulder and kept grinning like he’d won something.

It felt good.

It also felt terrifying.

Coach blew his whistle then, striding out from the office with a clipboard. “Alright, clowns, let’s get warmed up.”

Dean gave Castiel a look—serious now—and passed him the stat board. “Think about something for me, alright?”

“What?” Castiel blinked.

Dean leaned in a little, voice lower. “I think you should play. Not just do the house cleaning mess.”

Castiel stared at him. Him? On the team?

He couldn’t even imagine it.

He gave the smallest nod, more a reflex than a promise, then turned and hurried off to the bench to complete his list. His face was still hot, but under the burn of embarrassment was something else—something that curled in his chest like cautious pride.

For the first time in a long time, he felt… useful.

He kept his head down the rest of practice, but he couldn’t ignore the way the others kept sneaking glances at him, nudging each other, muttering things that—for once—didn’t sound cruel. They weren’t mocking him. They were impressed.

When practice ended, Coach gave him a long, unreadable look before muttering, “We’ll talk later.”

Castiel didn’t know what that meant, but he nodded anyway and grabbed his bag. He headed out a few minutes before the others and realized that was a mistake.

He should’ve gone straight to the car. But of course they were there.

Alastair was leaning against the school wall, Meg and Crowley flanking him like shadows. Castiel’s steps slowed. His heart stuttered.

“Well, well,” Alastair drawled, pushing off the brick. “Look who’s all shiny and new.”

Meg snickered. “Nice shoes, Ghost Boy.”

“Trying to be somebody now?” Crowley asked, voice syrupy and mean. “That’s cute.”

Castiel stopped, fists clenched around his bag strap. His breath went shallow. He knew better than to speak. Knew better than to move.

But then Dean’s voice cut through the dusk.

“Hey!”

They turned as Dean stormed out of the building, his whole team behind him. The moment he saw the three of them, something in his face changed—sharpened. Dangerous.

“Step away from him, Alastair.”

Alastair smiled slow. “Just talking, Captain.”

Dean didn’t blink. “If I see you near him again, I’ll take it to Coach. You mess with Cas, you mess with the whole team. Got it?”

Benny and Victor stepped forward behind Dean, arms folded. The others lingered like backup, watching.

Alastair’s smile didn’t fade, but his eyes narrowed. “Big words. You sure you know what you’re inviting in?”

Dean didn’t answer. Just stood his ground, jaw tight, radiating fury.

Alastair finally stepped back, his gaze flicking to Castiel. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

They walked away, and the others slowly filtered off with Dean, muttering threats and shaking heads. Castiel stood frozen until Dean came back to him, still fuming.

“You okay?”

Castiel nodded, but it wasn’t true. Not really.

They got into the car in silence, Zeppelin humming low from the stereo. The streetlights passed overhead in gold streaks. Castiel stared out the window, heart still racing.

“I shouldn’t have let that happen,” he whispered finally.

Dean glanced over. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Castiel shook his head. “They’re going to come for you next. I should just go back to being invisible.”

“Screw that,” Dean snapped. “You’re not a ghost. You’re Castiel. And you’re a damn good shot.”

Castiel couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “That’s not the point.”

“I know the point. And I don’t care. They come at me, I hit back harder.”

Castiel turned toward him then, finally meeting his eyes. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “I don’t care. He doesn’t get to win. Don’t let him win Cas.”

Castiel looked away again, out into the trees, his fingers twisted in his sleeves. There was a warmth in his chest from the compliment. From being seen. From being stood up for .

But underneath it all, that awful chill was still there.

He felt it deep—somewhere bones couldn’t hide from.

This wouldn’t end clean.

But for now, he let himself sit beside Dean, in his car, in the quiet hum of music and loyalty.

And for the first time in his life, he was almost afraid of being cared for.

Almost.

But not enough to run.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

Dean couldn’t stop thinking about it—the way the ball left Castiel’s hands, clean and fast and perfect. He’d sunk three after three without even blinking. No big ego about it, no celebration. Just… precision.

It stuck with Dean.

He hadn’t even realized Bobby was watching until he saw him nod once from the bleachers, slow and thoughtful. Bobby saw it too. The potential. The raw edge of something good.

And damn if it didn’t make Dean feel proud. Not like a coach or anything. More like… he didn’t even know. Just proud that Cas did it. That he didn’t hide.

But that feeling burned out fast when Dean stepped outside the gym and saw Alastair leaning against the fence, arms crossed, grin crooked and cruel. He was saying something low and sharp to Castiel, who stood there with his shoulders hunched, not making eye contact.

Dean didn’t even hear the words—he just saw Cas flinch.

And that was enough.

“Hey!” Dean barked.

Alastair looked up, smirk dropping a little when he saw Dean storming over. “Relax, Winchester,” he said, lazy and smug. “Just saying hi to your little pet.”

Dean got right in his space. “You say hi to anyone else like that? Or just the ones you think won’t fight back?”

Alastair rolled his eyes and sauntered off, muttering something under his breath that Dean didn’t catch—but Castiel did. He saw it in the way his jaw tightened, in how he wrapped his arms around himself and stared at the ground.

Dean’s fists clenched. He wasn’t scared of Alastair. Never had been. But Cas… Cas looked like he’d already lost. Like some part of him believed he deserved it.

Dean was gonna fix that.

—

The next morning, Dean rolled up to Castiel’s house again. Cas opened the front door slowly, backpack slung over one shoulder. He didn’t look surprised to see Dean.

“Gym again?” he asked.

Dean nodded. “Defense today.”

Castiel got in without a word, but Dean could feel the tension coming off him like static. He didn’t push. Just turned up the music and drove.

Once they were in the gym, Dean tossed him a basketball. “Alright, manager. Let’s see what you’ve got on the other end of the court.”

It was a mess at first. Cas kept stepping back instead of holding his ground, letting Dean fake him out without resistance.

“C’mon,” Dean said, panting a little after the fifth round. “You’ve got instincts, man, but you’re not using ’em.”

Cas caught the ball, frustrated. “I don’t know how to be… aggressive.”

Dean blinked, caught off guard by how honest that was.

He held up a hand. “Okay. Time out.”

They both sat on the bleachers, sweat cooling under their shirts.

Dean tossed the ball between his hands. “What gets you mad?”

Castiel looked down. “I don’t know.”

“Seriously? Nothing?”

Cas hesitated. “It used to be worse when I had reactions to things that happened. If I got angry, or cried, or acted out… there were consequences. It was safer to feel nothing.”

Dean stared at him. That hit too hard. Too close.

“I learned to be quiet,” Cas said. “To go unnoticed. It was easier.”

Dean’s throat tightened, but he pushed through it. “Okay. So anger doesn’t work for you. What does?”

Castiel gave a helpless shrug. “Maybe… numbers. Or logic. If you explained it like physics, maybe I could get there.”

Dean grinned. “That’s actually kind of brilliant.”

Cas looked at him sideways. “You’re mocking me.”

“I’m not,” Dean said quickly. “I’m saying we can work with that. Defense isn’t all about being mean. It’s angles, anticipation. Reaction time.”

Cas was quiet for a beat, then nodded slowly. “Okay.”

—

That day felt different.

At lunch, Lisa didn’t show. Dean didn’t care.

He hadn’t heard from her since yesterday and he still didn’t care.

He and Cas sat under the stairs again. Dean had brought chips and a sandwich; Cas grabbed a tray. They shared, like they did the last few days.

They ended up talking about books.

“You’ve really read Slaughterhouse-Five ?” Cas asked, eyes wide.

Dean shrugged, a little sheepish. “Yeah. I mean, Sam had to explain some of it, but… I liked it. It’s weird, but it makes you think.”

Cas smiled—really smiled—and Dean felt it in his chest like a kick.

“That’s one of my favorites,” Cas said quietly.

The team gave them a few glances as they passed. No one said anything, though. Dean kind of liked the quiet. The way Cas looked when he talked about something he loved. It was deeper than the usual school crap. Better.

—

At practice, Dean ran drills like usual, but his eyes kept drifting.

Cas was sweeping the floor, folding towels, filling water bottles like he always did. Like he wasn’t the best shot in the building.

Dean growled under his breath.

Ash was good—quick on his feet, solid with the ball—but his shooting had nothing on Castiel’s.

It felt wrong. Like they were wasting something just because no one had taken it seriously.

He glanced at Bobby on the sidelines. The old man met his eyes and gave a barely-there nod.

Yeah. Bobby saw it too.

After practice, Dean waved Cas over. “Weight room. C’mon.”

“I’ve never—” Cas started.

“Then today’s your first.”

—

The weight room was quiet except for the steady rhythm of the bar clinking in its rack. Dean spotted for Cas from behind, watching him lower the bar to his chest, slow and controlled, then push it back up with a grunt that was more focus than strength.

“Better,” Dean said. “You’re keeping your wrists straight this time.”

Castiel replaced the bar on the rack and sat up, brushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead. His face was pink with exertion, but his eyes flicked sideways, still unsure.

“That was only the bar,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” Dean said, clapping him on the back. “And you didn’t drop it. That’s the point.”

Cas leaned forward, hands hanging loose between his knees. He looked like praise confused him.

Dean grabbed a towel from the bench and tossed it at him. “Next time we’ll add tens.”

Cas caught it and gave a tiny, uncertain nod.

“You know,” Dean said, leaning against the next bench over, “I don’t just bring people here for kicks.”

Castiel blinked. “You don’t?”

Dean smirked. “Nope. This is sacred territory. You’re officially being trained.”

“Trained… for what?” Cas asked slowly.

Dean didn’t answer right away. He watched the guy—still too small for his shirts, still too hesitant—wipe down the bar like he was afraid to leave a mark.

“For the team,” Dean said eventually, voice a little lower. “If you want it.”

Castiel paused mid-wipe. His eyes darted to Dean’s, then dropped away. “But I’m the manager.”

“You’re a sniper,” Dean corrected. “I’ve never seen anyone hit from the arc like you did yesterday. Hell, I don’t even hit five in a row from five different spots. Ash sure doesn’t.”

Cas swallowed and stood a little too quickly, turning his back to Dean as he hung the towel.

“That’s different,” he said. “That was just shooting.”

Dean stepped in front of him. “No, man. That was talent . That was practice . That was the kind of thing coaches drool over. Bobby already knows it. He was watching you, you know.”

Castiel didn’t respond. He stared down at his shoes—at the new sneakers, still stark white against the dusty gray mat. Something about that image—those spotless shoes on someone who looked like he’d been stepped on his whole life—hit Dean square in the chest.

“I’m not trying to mess with you,” Dean said. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” Cas said it too quickly. Then quieter: “I just don’t know if I can… be that.”

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it. This wasn’t about basketball anymore.

“You don’t have to be it all at once,” Dean said. “You just have to start.”

There was a long pause. Castiel finally nodded, slow and uncertain, but it was something.

—

Dean dropped him off again that night, the weight session leaving Cas quiet but not withdrawn. He gave Dean a small wave before heading toward the porch. The light was off again.

Dean waited until the door shut behind him before pulling away.

At home, Sam was at the kitchen table doing homework. Their mom was cleaning up dinner plates. John wasn’t home yet—thankfully.

“Did you talk to Bobby today?” Dean asked, grabbing an apple from the counter.

Mary glanced over. “He said you’ve got a good shot at regionals this year. Why?”

“No reason,” Dean said around a bite. “Just wondering if he said anything about… anyone else.”

She smiled a little. “He mentioned a quiet kid who made six three-pointers in a row. Didn’t say much more, but he seemed impressed.”

Dean’s chest tightened with pride. “Yeah. Thought so.”

He didn’t mention Castiel’s name.

Didn’t need to.

Not yet.

But he would.

Soon.

Chapter Text

The ache in his arms lingered like a memory he didn’t want to forget.

It wasn’t sharp pain. Not like the kind he was used to. Not the quick sting of belt leather or the ghostly burn of open skin pressed to hot metal. This was deeper—solid and quiet. Honest, in a way. The kind of pain you could claim as your own, instead of something inflicted on you.

Castiel rolled his shoulders where he sat on the edge of his bed, flexing his fingers and watching the muscles tense and loosen. It still didn’t feel real—that Dean Winchester had taken him to the weight room, taught him how to lift, encouraged him like it mattered. Like he mattered.

He thought about what Dean had said. About the team. About potential.

Could he really be a player?

The idea felt laughable. Insane, even. He was Castiel Novak. A background blur in the hallways. The boy who flinched when a door slammed too hard. A ghost in a long-sleeve shirt.

And yet…

He closed his eyes.

There had been something in Dean’s voice when he’d said it. Not teasing. Not pity. Just belief.

Castiel didn’t know what to do with belief.

But he knew the ache in his arms was the most alive he’d felt in a long, long time.

⸻

The next morning, he was still sore. And he loved it.

The burn made his fingers tremble when he gripped his toothbrush. His shirt sleeves rubbed against skin that felt raw and tight. His spine straightened when he walked out of the house.

Today was scrimmage day. Nothing big—just a preseason game with the school down the road. A tradition, apparently. Something Coach Singer and some man named Rufus did every year just to give the boys a feel for competition.

No one really came. Just family. Friends. A few teachers.

Still, Castiel was nervous.

He’d be the manager, like expected. Towel runner. Water duty. Fix whatever needed fixing. He’d worn the long-sleeve blue shirt Anna had picked out to match the team’s colors. The sleeves were pushed down over his wrists, snug against his palms, hiding what he didn’t want seen.

He went with Dean to the gym before school. The moment Dean smiled at him, all the nerves settled.

It was strange—how quickly this had started to feel normal. Talking to Dean. Riding with him in the mornings. The quiet car rides and ridiculous music. The half-laughs and real ones.

Castiel didn’t remember what life had felt like before Dean. And the terrifying thing was… he didn’t want to.

They sat near the bleachers while the other boys practiced. Castiel watched, taking notes on their defensive rotations like he’d been taught, and when Dean flopped down next to him, sweaty and grinning, he felt like he belonged.

“Think I need to work on zone coverage?” Dean asked, sipping from a water bottle.

Castiel tilted his head. “You’re over-rotating on the second switch. It throws your spacing off.”

Dean blinked at him. “You just say that to sound smart?”

“No,” Castiel said, flushing. “I mean… it’s geometry. Angles. Timed movement.”

Dean grinned like he was impressed. “Okay, Professor. You’re not wrong.”

They kept talking about defense in terms of math and physics, and for once, Castiel didn’t feel like a freak. Dean listened. He even nodded. He asked questions.

It was one of the best mornings of Castiel’s life.

⸻

The game itself wasn’t stressful. The gym started to fill in the hour after school, mostly with siblings and a few bored parents. Castiel kept his head down. He made sure the towels were set, the water stocked.

The team got ready in the locker room, and Castiel stayed outside, leaning against the wall near the benches.

That’s when Lisa came up.

She had a paper tray in her hands and that familiar smirk on her face. Her voice was sugary and sharp. “Oops.”

The food—nachos, he thought—splattered against his front, cheese and sauce bleeding across his blue shirt.

Time slowed.

The laughter from behind her hit him like a slap.

Castiel couldn’t breathe.

His arms curled in. His eyes dropped. He felt himself collapsing inward, folding in on some invisible line.

He heard Dean’s voice—loud, furious. But the words didn’t stick.

All Castiel knew was that the world had shifted back.

Back to before .

Before Dean.

Before hope.

Back to the version of himself that expected cruelty, that flinched before it came.

⸻

Dean’s hand was on his arm, steady and hot.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Castiel didn’t argue. He followed because he didn’t know what else to do.

They slipped into the locker room. Everyone else was about to start warming up. Twenty minutes till game time. The room was empty.

Dean went to his locker, rummaging for something. “Here. This should fit.”

He held out a black t-shirt. Simple. Short-sleeved.

Castiel stared at it like it might burn him. “No.”

Dean frowned. “What do you mean, no?”

“I can’t,” Castiel said quietly.

“Why not?”

Castiel’s voice caught. “It’s… short-sleeved.”

Dean looked at him, really looked, and something softened behind his eyes. “Cas. It’s just a shirt.”

But it wasn’t.

It was a spotlight. It was exposure. It was memory.

“I—Dean, I can’t—”

“You can,” Dean said. Not angry. Just… steady.

And Castiel didn’t know why, but something in him cracked.

He turned around. Fingers shaking, he pulled the stained blue shirt over his head and let it drop to the bench.

The silence was instant.

Dean didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Castiel didn’t look at him. He stood, arms slightly curled in, his bare skin exposed.

The scars were everywhere.

Long, thick ropes of scar tissue wrapped around his biceps. Searing lines across his chest. Symbols—crude, angry carvings—cut into his skin like some ancient ritual. Burn marks flared across his shoulders and ribs.

He didn’t even bother hiding his back when he sat down.

“I told you,” he whispered. “I told you I can’t.”

Dean didn’t answer.

Castiel reached for the shirt but paused when he felt Dean’s presence move—slow, deliberate.

Dean sat down across from him, his eyes wide and hollow.

“What…” he started, then stopped.

Castiel didn’t want to say it. But he owed him the truth.

“My uncle,” he said finally. “Lucifer.”

Dean blinked. “Like… the Lucifer?”

Castiel gave a hollow laugh. “No. Just a man named Lucifer. He was my guardian for a time.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Dean didn’t speak again. He just sat there, elbows on knees, looking like someone had punched the air out of him.

“Now you know,” he said softly. “So maybe next time… you’ll understand.”

Deans POV

Dean blinked hard, still sitting on the bench, trying to swallow the lump rising like bile in his throat. His brain couldn’t quite keep up with what his eyes had just seen—scars like twisted rope, burn marks scattered randomly, carved symbols he didn’t understand. All of it over skin that looked too thin to hold that much pain.

Lucifer.

His uncle.

That was the part still echoing, still thudding in Dean’s chest like a second heartbeat.

Castiel was sitting a few feet away, hunched over, bare arms tight around himself, shirt balled in his lap like it might still protect him somehow. Dean didn’t know what to say. Not yet. There was too much. Too much pain and too much time and not enough air in the room.

But they didn’t have time. Not now. The scrimmage was starting soon, and Cas still had a job to do.

And Dean still had a team to lead.

He stood up slowly, gave Castiel one more glance, then crossed to his locker and pulled it open. Hanging on the inside hook was a soft gray hoodie—his favorite, old and worn in the sleeves, stitched with his number in bold navy on the back.

It was gonna look weird as hell.

Castiel, in a hoodie two sizes too big, with Winchester and a giant #67 across his back.

People would talk.

Let them.

Dean tossed it over. “Here,” he said simply. “It’ll cover everything. It’s stupid hot for it, but it’s this or your shirt.”

Castiel looked up at him, still shaken. “That’s… your number.”

Dean shrugged. “Yeah, well. Not like you’re gonna steal it. Just wear it ‘til the game’s over. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, without a word, Castiel slipped the hoodie over his head. It hung low past his hips and swallowed his arms, but he pulled the sleeves up a little and zipped it halfway, eyes on the floor the whole time.

Dean grabbed his water bottle and tapped Cas gently on the shoulder as he passed. “You’ve still got towels to set out, man. And I’ve got a game to win.”

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

And the rest? Dean would deal with the rest later. Somehow.

Chapter Text

Dean knew he should be locking in—hyping the team, getting in the zone. That’s what the scrimmage was for. It wasn’t a conference game, but it mattered. It was the unofficial start to the season, the first impression for the crowd, for scouts, for his dad.

But all he could see were the scars.

Etched across Castiel’s ribs and shoulders like someone had taken a branding iron and a knife to him, then just… left him like that. Dean couldn’t stop thinking about it. The rope scarring, the burns, the symbols—actual symbols like someone had carved meaning into Castiel’s skin. It made him sick. Made his fists clench like they had to hit something, someone. Made his jaw lock so tight it hurt.

His chest felt heavy. Too full. Like his heart had nowhere to go.

The team was buzzing around him—Benny cracking jokes, Garth messing with his shoelaces, Jake tossing balls too hard at the rack to “warm up.” Dean was in the middle of it all, but barely there.

Then suddenly—

A hand landed on his shoulder.

Dean flinched but didn’t pull away.

“Stop,” Castiel said, voice quiet but firm, blue eyes sharp. “Get a grip.”

And then he was gone, walking off with his clipboard like he hadn’t just pulled Dean back from the edge of a full-blown spiral. Like he hadn’t just pulled Dean back from something that might’ve unraveled the entire night.

Dean stared after him for a second, heart thudding.

The team was still joking, still stretching, still pretending they didn’t see Castiel in his hoodie—Dean’s hoodie. His number bold on the back, unmistakable.

Nobody said anything.

Dean didn’t care. Not right now.

The buzzer sounded. The gym lights flared full. Their names echoed off the walls as the starting lineup was announced. And they ran out.

Dean took the court, mind buzzing but lighter somehow.

Get a grip.

He could do that.

⸻

They started fast. The other team wasn’t bad—more scrappy than clean—but Dean liked scrappy. He knew how to dance around chaos.

Ash opened with a long three—brick. Dean grabbed the rebound mid-air, landed, spun past two defenders, and shot it off the glass. Two points. Simple. Efficient.

“Nice clean-up!” Benny bellowed, jogging backward to defense.

They played hard. Victor locked down the perimeter while Jake pushed in under the net. Garth worked the sides, always where he needed to be. And Dean?

Dean moved like water.

The play that got the crowd loud was all instinct—Dean feinted left, passed back to Ash, who was guarded, then ducked through two defenders and caught Victor’s alley-oop for the lay-in. It wasn’t flashy. It was fluid. Perfect.

Dean didn’t think about the scars again until a timeout was called and he looked toward the bench.

Castiel stood near the gear bin, arms crossed, a little clipboard in hand, oversized hoodie hanging low on his frame.

Dean smiled.

But someone else had noticed, too.

Up in the stands, John Winchester was seated with arms folded tight and a set expression. He hadn’t said much before the game—just the usual Play smart. Show ‘em what we’re made of. But now, his eyes were on Castiel.

Or more specifically, on the hoodie.

Dean could see the frown twitch at the corner of his father’s mouth from all the way across the gym.

His gut twisted.

⸻

Castiel POV

Castiel had never watched a basketball game this closely. Not really.

He’d attended games before—Gabriel dragged him to one once,  with loud commentary and way too much nacho cheese—but he never understood the appeal. Too loud. Too fast. Too much.

But this?

This was different.

Dean moved like someone built to move. And he didn’t hog the spotlight—he didn’t need to—he positioned his teammates, nudged them into better plays with nothing more than a flick of his hand or a sharp look.

Castiel found himself impressed.

Then entertained.

Then—alarmed—because he almost cheered.

Ash took a long jumper that clanged off the rim. Again. Castiel winced.

“You’re going to break the backboard if you don’t fix that arc,” he muttered, barely realizing he’d spoken aloud.

Jake dove for a loose ball, rolled twice, and flung it to Garth, who no-look passed it to Dean. Swish. Clean. The bench erupted, and Castiel felt that same tiny lurch in his chest again.

Maybe it wasn’t such a terrible sport after all.

The student section wasn’t full—some parents, a few girls in glittery shirts, and two younger boys holding handmade signs that said “#1 DEAN” and “WIN-CHESTER” with glitter glue. Castiel scanned the bleachers, caught Lisa staring.

She didn’t smile.

Didn’t blink.

Her eyes burned holes through him like she could see the hoodie, see the bruises under it, see everything.

He looked away.

He didn’t have time for that. He had towels to manage. A water bottle to refill. The quarter was nearly over.

Dean caught his eye once from the court. Just a glance.

Castiel gave a small nod.

Dean smiled back.

⸻

When the buzzer finally sounded—20 to 14, their win—Castiel didn’t know what to do with himself. The team stormed mid-court, clapping hands and hollering like they’d won state.

Dean jogged over, flushed and grinning, still bouncing from the adrenaline.

“That was fun,” he said, slapping Castiel’s shoulder. “Can’t wait to get you out there.”

Castiel shook his head, laughing under his breath. “You’re ridiculous.”

Dean’s grin widened. “And you’re not denying it.”

He didn’t bring up the scars. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t pry.

And somehow, that meant more than anything else.

⸻

Later

The Impala was warm, the air turned up just enough to cool them off even with the windows down.

They didn’t talk much on the way back. Dean let the radio hum, tapping his fingers on the wheel occasionally, his energy still buzzing low from the win.

Castiel rode in silence, holding the sleeves of the hoodie in his lap. It still smelled like detergent and faintly like Dean.

When they reached the house, Dean parked and turned to him.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Keep the hoodie.”

Castiel blinked. “What?”

“I don’t wear them. You clearly do. And—” Dean hesitated, then shrugged. “You make it look cooler than I ever did.”

Castiel smiled without meaning to. His cheeks flushed and his throat tightened around the words he didn’t say.

“Okay,” he whispered instead.

He didn’t say thank you.

Dean didn’t mention the scars.

And Castiel had never been more grateful for anything in his life.

Chapter Text

By the time Dean got home, the adrenaline from the game had drained out of him, leaving him heavier than when he started. His body felt used up—sore, warm, floaty—but his head was still too full to settle.

The porch light was on. The front door creaked open before he even touched the knob.

“Hey!” Sam’s voice met him first. “Good game.”

Dean blinked at his little brother standing in socks and pajama pants, a glass of milk in hand like he was still ten. “Thanks,” Dean said, trying to smile.

Mary stepped into view next, arms already open. “There’s my boy,” she said warmly, wrapping him in a hug and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You were incredible out there. I’m proud of you.”

Dean felt something tight unwind in his chest. “Thanks, Mom.”

John was sitting on the couch. Watching. Arms crossed. Calm. Too calm.

“Who’s the kid in your hoodie?” he asked as soon as Dean stepped past the threshold.

Dean exhaled, shoulders straightening. No warm-up, no easing into it. Just straight to it. “That’s Cas,” he said. “He’s been helping out with the team. He’s got some issues, and I’m trying to help him.”

Dean rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “He was embarrassed,” he said. “Lisa dumped a tray of nachos right before the game. In front of everyone. She was being petty.”

John’s brow furrowed. “So Lisa doesn’t like him?”

Dean gave a dry laugh. “No. I’ve been giving Cas more attention than her lately, and she lost her mind.

Sam’s eyes widened from the hallway.

John’s jaw flexed. “Why not a regular shirt? I know you carry a hundred.”

Dean nodded once. “He doesn’t wear short sleeves.”

Silence.

John’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not so sure you should be getting that involved.”

Mary, still hovering nearby, winced.

John went on. “Being nice, standing up for the guy—that’s one thing. But letting him wear an old hoodie that we got custom-made for you, with your name and number on the back? That’s another thing.”

Dean’s stomach churned.

“It didn’t look good,” John said flatly. “Not for people watching. Not for scouts. A boy in your hoodie, Dean—it looked weird.”

Dean stared at him for a long beat. Then said, “I’m not gay, Dad.”

“I didn’t say you were,” John said, not missing a beat. “I said it looked that way. Tonight it did. And people noticed.”

Dean stood there, blinking slow. The back of his neck burned. His muscles twitched with the urge to walk away or yell or just throw something hard.

He settled on none of the above.

“I’m going to bed.”

He turned and walked upstairs without waiting for a response.

⸻

His room was dark, the air cooler near the window he never bothered to close all the way. Dean tugged off his jersey and sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, mind racing.

Cas. That damn hoodie. The way he looked in it—too small, swallowed up, blue-eyed and sharp and soft all at once.

Dean hadn’t even said two words to Lisa tonight outside of snapping at her for being a jerk.

Honestly? He was done with her.

He probably should’ve broken up with her already. He just… hadn’t.

He thought he liked her. Thought he liked what they had.

But then she’d dumped food on a quiet, awkward boy who’d done nothing wrong. And Dean hadn’t felt protective of Lisa. He’d felt furious .

And Cas…

Dean didn’t know what the hell was happening with him. He couldn’t stop thinking about the scars. Not just the sight of them—though that image was burned into his mind—but the fact that someone had done that to Cas. Someone had tied him up, burned him, carved things into him. It wrecked Dean.

Sure, he’d feel bad seeing that on anyone.

But it destroyed him seeing it on Cas.

Dean flopped back onto his mattress, staring at the ceiling, heart beating too fast.

Why had he given him that hoodie? It wasn’t just any hoodie. His parents had had it made—his name, his number, when he first made the team his freshman year. It wasn’t something someone would loan out lightly.

But he liked seeing it on Cas.

Liked what it said. Liked how it looked.

Like maybe, in some subtle way, it told the world that Castiel was his .

Dean squeezed his eyes shut.

He’d always known he found guys attractive sometimes. He’d just never acted on it. Never needed to. Lisa was easy. Familiar. Popular. Everything was simple with her—until it wasn’t.

But with Cas…

It was complicated and fast and terrifying. And real.

They clicked. That wasn’t up for debate. It had only been two weeks, and Dean already trusted Cas more than half his own team. He’d put Cas above Benny, and he’d known Benny since they were both building Lego castles in the sandbox.

Dean rolled onto his side and stared at the shadows on his wall.

He thought. And thought. And thought.

It was becoming a habit, really. Lying in the dark and thinking about Cas. About the way he’d never stand up for himself. About the way he’d told Dean to “get a grip” and snapped him out of a full-on meltdown. About the way his voice had softened when Dean gave him the hoodie and he said, “Okay,” like it actually meant something.

Dean didn’t know what to do.

He knew John was going to flip if he kept hanging around Cas.

But honestly?

He didn’t care.

Not tonight.

Chapter Text

Castiel’s POV

The last two weeks had been, without a doubt, the best of Castiel’s life.

He still woke up every morning expecting the other shoe to drop. But it hadn’t. Not yet. Instead, each day had brought something small and good—something that made the weight on his chest a little lighter. Dean had a lot to do with that. Most of it, really.

Dean made it harder to hide. Not because he forced him out into the spotlight, but because… Castiel wanted to be seen when Dean looked at him like that. Like he mattered.

Monday morning started with another early gym session before school. They ran drills—layups, short passes, and defensive footwork. Castiel was getting better. Still clumsy in spots, still too hesitant on the attack, but he was improving. Especially at defense, where they had turned it into a science.

They spent time breaking it down—angles, force, timing, leverage.

“I’m telling you,” Dean had said, bouncing the ball between his hands, “this is just physics in motion.”

Castiel had smiled. “A chaotic, sweaty, high-speed demonstration of physics.”

“Exactly,” Dean said, then spun and drove toward the basket.

Castiel blocked him.

Clean.

Dean whooped and clapped once. “There we go!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel saw movement near the bleachers. Bobby. Standing in shadow, arms crossed, watching.

Dean saw him too.

A beat later, Dean passed Castiel the ball. “One-on-one,” he said with a grin. “Let’s show him what you got.”

Castiel blinked, heart jumping.

“You said you’d try,” Dean reminded him.

So he did.

They played. Hard. Dean didn’t go easy on him—not that Castiel wanted him to—but he didn’t steamroll him either. He made Castiel work for every point. They battled under the rim, sprinted sideline to sideline. By the time Castiel hit a smooth jumper from the wing, his lungs were burning.

Bobby stepped out of the shadows.

“Novak,” he called.

Castiel turned, wiping sweat from his brow. Dean jogged over beside him.

Bobby looked him up and down, expression unreadable.

“What number you want on your jersey?”

Castiel froze. “What?”

Bobby raised both hands in peace. “Relax. We can talk number later. Today at practice, I want you to come out and play with the guys. Full contact. Full speed.”

Then he turned and walked off, just like that.

Dean practically bounced in place. “Did you hear that? You’re in. ”

But Castiel couldn’t breathe.

His chest squeezed tight. His mind flooded with reasons why this was a bad idea. The gym blurred at the edges.

Dean stepped in and pulled him into a hug.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t timid.

It was solid and grounding.

“Hey,” Dean said quietly. “Get a grip.”

Castiel sucked in a breath. Then another.

Dean pulled back, keeping a hand on his shoulder. “You’re gonna be fine. If you trip up, you trip up. So what? There’s no harm in trying.”

Castiel’s voice was barely there. “I’ll try.”

⸻

The rest of the day was a blur. He couldn’t focus in class. Couldn’t eat much at lunch. Every glance from Lisa, every stare in the hall, made his stomach twist. But none of it compared to how he felt when the fourth block bell rang.

By the time practice rolled around, Castiel was a wreck.

Dean noticed right away.

“You okay?” he asked quietly as they stood outside the gym.

Castiel swallowed hard. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Dean handed him a practice jersey. “You don’t have to know everything today. Just change in the side bathroom. There are stalls. Wear it over your shirt.”

Castiel looked down at the jersey—navy blue, plain, with the team name in bold white. No number yet.

“And keep your pants on,” Dean added. “We’ll get you some proper gear later.”

Castiel nodded and turned to go.

When he came out of the locker room, the gym went quiet.

The noise didn’t stop—it just pulled back like a tide, like the team had all paused mid-motion to stare.

He was sure his face was on fire.

Dean, of course, was smirking like the damn Cheshire Cat.

“Let’s go,” he said, and before Castiel could panic, Dean grabbed his arm and pulled him onto the court.

Practice started and didn’t wait for nerves.

They ran drills—fast ones. Passing lanes, shot contests, pick-and-rolls. Dean stuck close for the first few, barking encouragement and offering corrections like a coach, but then stepped back and let Castiel move.

And move he did.

He landed two mid-range jumpers, fumbled one pass, and got called for traveling once. Not perfect. Not terrible either.

Bobby blew his whistle and called for scrimmage teams.

Castiel ended up on the second string, sitting on the bench and feeling like a mannequin in a window—everyone looking, but no one saying anything.

Then Bobby pointed at him. “You’re in.”

Castiel nodded and stepped onto the court.

At first, it was ordinary. Ball movement, short drives, nothing flashy. He stayed out of the way, played smart.

Then Dean got the ball.

Castiel read his move and cut across. His hand met the ball just in time. He stole it.

And he ran.

Down the court, fast, lungs screaming. He went up for a layup and nailed it. Clean.

The gym was silent.

Dean stood mid-court, frowning hard. Shocked.

Then someone clapped.

Jake gave him a fist bump. Benny grinned. Ash hollered, “Go, Cas!”

Victor nodded at him.

Something shifted after that. Not in a big, dramatic way—but in all the small ones that mattered. He rotated in and out, played every drill, didn’t collapse. His feet were too stiff, sure. His angles were off sometimes.

But he felt like he belonged.

And at the end of practice, Dean clapped him on the back and said, “You crushed it.”

Castiel smiled. “It was… good.”

Dean beamed like it was the best thing he’d ever heard.

And maybe for him, it was.

Chapter Text

Dean’s POV

Dean couldn’t stop smiling.

Practice had just wrapped, and his skin still buzzed with energy. His muscles were sore in that good way—earned, steady, alive. But most of all, he felt something warm and tight in his chest he hadn’t felt in a while.

Pride.

For Castiel.

From the first layup drill that morning to the final whistle, Castiel had shown up. Not just physically—he showed up. He had blocked passes, moved smart, and yeah, he was stiff on a few transitions, but he looked like he belonged out there.

And when Castiel had actually stolen the ball from Dean and sprinted down for a layup?

Dean hadn’t even pretended not to be surprised. He’d just stood there at midcourt for a full second, mouth open, processing what the hell had just happened.

Then came the fist bumps. The nods. The acceptance.

Dean had never been so damn proud.

After practice, Castiel didn’t say much, just smiled when Dean asked how it was. That quiet, soft kind of smile that stuck in Dean’s head long after he’d dropped him off at home.

Dean was halfway back to his own place, streetlights flicking past the Impala’s windshield, when his phone lit up.

Lisa.

He sighed. Right. That conversation.

Might as well get it over with.

He answered. “Hey—”

“What the hell, Dean?” Lisa’s voice was already raised. “You don’t even care about me anymore, do you? Just parading around with Castiel Novak like you’re some kind of savior—what is wrong with you?”

Dean winced, holding the phone away for a second. She kept going.

“You didn’t even look at me tonight. Not once! You’ve been ditching me for weeks and now you’re—what—getting it on with that freak?”

He tried to cut in. “Lisa—”

But she barrelled over him again. “Do you even know what people are saying? How stupid you looked letting him wear your hoodie—”

“Shut up,” Dean snapped.

Silence.

He didn’t raise his voice often. But when he did, people usually listened.

“Just shut up for a second,” he repeated, quieter now. “I’m not ‘getting it on’ with Cas. I’m trying to help him. He’s got a lot going on, and I’m being a decent person for once. You should try it sometime.”

Another long pause.

Dean exhaled and softened his tone—not out of guilt, just honesty.

“Lisa, your actions lately… they changed the way I see you. You dumped nachos on someone because I paid attention to them. You’re mean when you don’t get your way. I should’ve ended this earlier, and I’m sorry I didn’t. But we’re done.”

She didn’t like that.

“Are you serious?” she shrieked. “You’re breaking up with me over the phone?!”

Dean didn’t answer. He just hit end call.

Mary was in the kitchen when he got home, chopping vegetables for something that smelled like soup.

She looked up and smiled. “Hey, sweetie. You hungry?”

Dean leaned against the counter, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not really.”

She gave him a long look. “Wanna talk?”

He shrugged. “I broke up with Lisa.”

Mary blinked, then set the knife down and turned fully to him. “Oh, honey.” She walked over and pulled him into a hug. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

Dean didn’t hug often, but his mom always made it easy.

“Yeah,” he said into her shoulder. “I think so.”

She pulled back to study his face. “You did the right thing?”

“Yeah. I think I did.”

Mary nodded, her eyes kind. “You’ve been doing a lot of right things lately. I’m proud of what you’re doing with Castiel.”

Dean’s brows lifted. “You are?”

“Of course,” she said. “He needed someone. You stepped up. Don’t worry about your father. He’ll get over it.”

Dean nodded slowly. He didn’t know if she was right about John, but it felt good to hear it anyway.

“Thanks, Mom.”

Later that night, Dean collapsed onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling.

He should’ve felt drained.

Instead, his mind was spinning—only now, it wasn’t with worry. It was with possibilities.

He reached over and opened his drawer, digging past loose change, old receipts, and a few tangled cords. There, near the bottom, was his old phone.

The thing was scuffed and probably slow as hell, but it still worked.

A small idea sparked in the back of his brain.

Does Cas even have a phone?

He didn’t think so. Castiel never pulled one out, never texted, never took notes digitally. He was always scribbling in a notebook or listening like it was still 1995.

Dean booted up the phone and started a factory reset.

If it only worked on WiFi, that was fine. They had it at school. Hopefully Cas had it at home too. And on the bus? Dean could just hotspot him.

He grinned, watching the loading bar creep across the screen.

He told himself it was just practical. Just a way to make sure Castiel had someone to reach out to.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

He liked the thought of texting Cas.

Of hearing from him out of nowhere.

Of being in touch—literally.

He felt a little guilty about how much he liked the idea.

But mostly?

He just couldn’t wait to hand it to him tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Castiel’s POV

Dean looked like he was about to explode when Castiel got into the car.

“Okay, okay,” he said, digging into the center console. “Close your eyes.”

Castiel blinked. “Why—”

“Just do it.”

With a sigh, Castiel humored him. He heard Dean fumble for a second, then felt something cool and rectangular press into his hands.

“Okay, open.”

He opened his eyes and stared down. “It’s… a phone.”

Dean beamed. “Yes! It’s a phone.”

Castiel arched an eyebrow. “I know what a phone is.”

Dean rolled his eyes, still grinning. “It’s for you, smartass.”

Castiel blinked. “What?”

Dean nodded, excited. “It only works on WiFi, but I wanted you to have it. So you can message me. You know, about practice and games and stuff. Just in case we’re not together.”

Castiel’s mouth opened. Closed.

He tried to speak, but nothing came out.

Dean nudged him gently. “C’mon. I know you want to say something.”

Castiel swallowed and shook his head. “I… I can’t accept this. It’s too much.”

“It would make me happy if you did,” Dean said simply. “And I’ll be pissed if you don’t. You need one, Cas. For emergencies. Or just to talk.”

“Do you guys have wifi?”

Castiel hesitated. “We have WiFi,” he finally admitted. “For Netflix. We don’t have cable, so… Gabriel thought about getting me a phone a while ago. But I barely see him. It kind of got forgotten.”

Dean smiled softly. “Well. Not anymore.”

⸻

At school, Dean walked Castiel through the phone like it was a brand-new game. He showed him Instagram and Snapchat, even put his name in with a dumb basketball emoji.

Castiel couldn’t stop smiling. Dean’s excitement was… contagious.

They sat in the parking lot ten minutes after the bell just laughing and playing with filters like two kids who didn’t have a care in the world. And for once, Castiel let himself enjoy it.

But the second they walked through the front doors, the stares started.

Harder than usual. Longer.

He could feel them on his back, and on the way he stuck close to Dean.

Dean didn’t seem to notice.

The team didn’t care—same daps, same “What’s up, Novak?” energy. They were getting used to him, and maybe even liking him. That part was something he clung to like a lifeline.

Then he overheard it.

By the lockers near second block, two girls were whispering—just loud enough to be overheard.

“Did you hear Dean dumped Lisa?”

“Yeah. Over the phone, apparently.”

“Oh my God, do you think it’s because of him ?”

They glanced his way.

Castiel didn’t flinch this time.

After class, he caught up with Dean near the vending machines. “Why didn’t you tell me you broke up with Lisa?”

Dean snorted. “I don’t know. It didn’t seem important. Best thing I’ve done in a while.”

Castiel tilted his head. “I’m… sorry?”

Dean laughed. “Don’t be. She was a bitch. You saw it.”

Castiel shook his head, but he smiled. “Still. It couldn’t have been easy.”

“It was,” Dean said honestly. “We weren’t really anything anymore.”

They talked the rest of the break. About nothing and everything—basketball, school books they hated reading, weird cafeteria food. Their conversations always flowed easily, like they’d been talking their whole lives instead of just a few weeks.

Then lunch came.

Mary was in the cafeteria that day, clipboard in hand, talking to the lunch staff. Dean’s eyes lit up, and he jogged off to catch her.

“I’ll meet you outside,” Dean said.

Cas never should have split off, he should have followed Dean.

He barely made it halfway across the back hallway when it happened.

Crowley. Meg. And Alastair.

He hadn’t seen them in days—maybe longer. Long enough to forget the twitchy fear that used to coil in his chest every time he turned a corner.

“Hey, Novak,” Alastair said, stepping into his path.

Castiel didn’t say a word. Just tried to keep walking.

“You know, I thought you disappeared,” Alastair continued. “Then I heard you were hanging off Dean Winchester like a wet rag. That true?”

Castiel didn’t look at him.

“I’ve been real nice lately,” Alastair went on, stepping closer. “Haven’t touched you. Haven’t even talked to you. But now? I don’t know. Maybe I need to have a word with Dean. He’s getting way too involved.”

That did it.

Castiel stopped.

Slowly, he turned and looked Alastair in the eye. His skin prickled. He felt like he might be shaking. But he didn’t back down.

Alastair grinned, eyes lighting up like he’d just found something fun to break. “Oh,” he said, voice low and mocking, “ that’s the button, huh? Should’ve figured. You don’t care what we do to you—but Dean ? That’s different. Maybe I’ll shove him into a locker next time. Or tell one of those scouts his little point guard’s been cozying up to a nutcase. Wonder what his old man would do if I stirred that pot?”

“If you hurt Dean,” he said, voice low and tight, “it’ll be the last thing you do.”

Alastair raised his eyebrows. “Is that a threat?”

“If you can’t tell, maybe you’re dumber than I thought.”

Castiel walked away before his legs gave out.

He didn’t even know how he made it through third block. His mind spun the whole time. Had he just made it worse? Should he tell Dean? Should he distance himself?

Could he?

By the time the bell rang for practice, his stomach was in knots.

He found Dean right away, pulled him aside before anyone could notice the tight look on his face.

“I need to tell you something,” he said quietly. “About Alastair.”

Dean’s jaw tightened as Castiel recounted what had happened. His fists clenched. His eyes blazed.

But when Castiel finished, Dean let out a long breath and nodded. “They’re just washouts, Cas. Angry nobodies. They’re trying to scare you.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Castiel said.

Dean turned fully to him. “And I don’t want you to get hurt. So let’s stick together. If we’re together, it won’t happen.”

Simple as that.

“He said he was going to start rumors,” Castiel admitted, voice quieter now. “To the scouts. Or to your dad. Said he’d stir things up, make it look like something it wasn’t. I don’t want to ruin things for you, Dean. I ruin everything.”

Dean huffed, stepping in closer. “You’ve never ruined anything, Cas. What other people say or do? That’s their crap—not yours. None of this is your fault.”

Castiel stared at him, stunned, and before he could speak, Dean added, “And for the record? I don’t care what they tell anyone. Scouts, students, my dad—who gives a damn? Let ‘em talk.”

That part hit Castiel harder than any threat ever could. Dean didn’t care? Not even if people thought they were together together? That left him reeling. He didn’t know if he wanted to run, or fall into Dean’s arms. Maybe both.

They went into practice.

The games were getting closer—first week of November—and the team was sharpening. Everything moved faster now. Fewer drills, more scrimmages. Castiel kept up. He wasn’t the fastest or the smoothest, but he held his own. And he wanted to be there.

When practice ended, Dean clapped him on the back. “You’re killing it,” he said.

Castiel smiled.

He needed to tell Anna. And Gabriel.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but for today?

He was still standing.

And that felt like a win.

Chapter Text

Dean’s POV

Dean didn’t say anything when he picked Cas up the next morning.

He didn’t need to.

Castiel was quiet when he got in the car, sleeves pulled down over his hands again, eyes fixed out the window. Dean didn’t push him. Just let the silence fill the space between the guitar riffs on the cassette and the slight hum of the air.

But Dean’s mind was anything but quiet.

He couldn’t stop replaying what Cas had told him the day before. Alastair threatening to start rumors. Telling scouts. Telling John .

Worse than that was the look in Castiel’s eyes when he said, “I don’t want to ruin things for you. I ruin everything.”

Dean had felt something in his chest crack.

He didn’t say it out loud yesterday, but the thought had been bouncing around in his skull since: If anything gets ruined, it’ll be because of me, not you.

⸻

At school, Dean stayed closer than usual.

Not in a hovering, obvious kind of way—he just… made sure Cas was always in sight. He waited near Cas’s locker between classes. Walked next to him in the halls. People had noticed. The staring hadn’t let up, and the whispers were still there, but Dean didn’t care.

It didn’t bother him.

That was the thing that stuck with him the most from the day before: how Castiel had looked at him after Dean said it out loud.

“I don’t care what they say. Let ‘em talk.”

Cas had looked stunned. Like someone had just handed him a key to a locked room in his chest.

Dean wanted to keep giving him those keys.

⸻

After lunch, Dean stopped by Bobby’s office between periods. Just poked his head in, made sure it was empty.

“Hey,” he said, stepping inside.

Bobby looked up from a clipboard. “You’re not in trouble.”

“Good to know,” Dean muttered. “Just wanted to ask something.”

Bobby raised an eyebrow.

“About Cas,” Dean said.

That got his full attention.

“He doing okay?” Bobby asked. “Looked good at practice yesterday.”

Dean nodded. “He’s getting better. A lot better. And… he wants it, you know? He’s not just helping out anymore. He’s in.”

Bobby leaned back in his chair. “You asking if he can play real minutes?”

“I’m asking if you’d let him.”

The silence stretched a little.

Then Bobby said, “You think he’s ready?”

Dean thought about it. “Not yet. But he will be. We’ve been working on footwork and strength and situational stuff. He gets it. He just needs to trust himself.”

Bobby didn’t answer right away. Just scratched something down on the clipboard and said, “Tell him to keep showing up like he has been. That’s how you earn it.”

Dean nodded. “Thanks, Coach.”

“And Winchester?” Bobby added as Dean turned to go. “Whatever you’re doing for that kid—keep doing it.”

⸻

After the final bell, Dean met Cas in the gym hallway.

They didn’t have workouts today, but Dean had other plans.

“You free for a few?” he asked.

Cas nodded, adjusting his backpack. “Sure.”

Dean led him to the weight room.

“Again?” Castiel asked, eyeing the bench press.

“Yeah. You did good last time, and we gotta build consistency. Plus, lifting clears the head.”

Cas hesitated, but followed him inside.

Dean kept it simple—just the bar again, with light weights this time. Castiel didn’t complain. He was still awkward, but he was learning. His body was learning.

Dean stood behind him while he squatted, hands hovering in case Cas lost his balance.

“You’re doing better,” he said.

Cas blew out a breath. “Still feels weird.”

Dean smiled. “Weird is just the first step to strong.”

They worked in near silence, save for the clank of metal and the occasional “one more rep” from Dean.

When they finished, Cas leaned back against the wall, panting slightly. “Thanks.”

Dean grabbed a towel from the shelf and tossed it to him. “You’re earning it, man.”

Castiel smiled at the floor.

Dean watched him for a second longer than he meant to.

⸻

Later, driving home, Dean let his thoughts wander.

He hadn’t told anyone—not even his mom—but Castiel had become the person he thought about the most. Not just the scars, or the hoodie, or the awful way Cas had said “I ruin everything.” It was more than that now.

It was the way Cas listened.

The way his brain worked—so smart and fast, but quiet about it. The way he kept showing up even when it scared him. The way his eyes lit up when Dean showed him something new. How his fingers always tugged the sleeves down over his hands like he was trying to disappear.

Dean didn’t want him to disappear.

He didn’t want him to hide anymore.

He thought about what it would mean if people really did think they were together.

And for the first time… he didn’t hate the idea.

He wasn’t sure what it meant yet. But he was sure that protecting Cas was starting to feel less like a choice and more like a part of who he was now.

⸻

That night, Dean sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, scrolling through Snap and half-smiling at the few messages Cas had already sent—mostly memes Dean had shown him, but one had just said:

“Thanks again for the phone. I really like it.”

Dean stared at the message longer than he needed to.

He typed out a reply, then deleted it.

Then typed again.

“You’re welcome. I’m glad you have it.”

He hit send, set the phone down, and laid back against his pillows.

He wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring, but for now?

He just felt lucky Cas wanted to talk to him.

Chapter Text

Castiel’s POV

Saturday afternoon was unusually calm in the Novak house. For once, no one was running late, burning anything, or dropping a tray of hot muffins on the kitchen floor. Castiel sat at the table with Anna and Gabriel, a rare alignment of free time and attention. It wasn’t going to last, so he took a chance.

“I’ve been playing with the basketball team,” he said.

Anna spit her tea back into her mug, coughing.

Gabriel fell off his chair.

“Who are you, and what have you done with our brother?” Gabriel said from the floor.

Anna wiped her mouth. “You’re serious?”

Castiel smirked, just a little. “Yeah. I have my first game Tuesday.”

“You mean, like— on the team?” Anna asked. “Not just folding towels?”

He nodded. “I play wing now. Dean’s been helping me train.”

“Ohhh,” Gabriel said, eyes lighting up. “So that’s what this is. Dean Winchester.”

“It’s not like that,” Castiel said quickly. “He’s just—he’s helping me.”

“Sure,” Gabriel said, grinning. “But you like him.”

Castiel went still for a second. “Dean’s not like that.”

Anna tilted her head. “Are you?”

Castiel hesitated. Then, quietly: “I think I could be.”

Anna smiled softly. Gabriel’s grin couldn’t be contained. “God, finally,” he said. “You deserve something good.”

Anna reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “One of us will be at your game. Promise.”

⸻

Castiel reflected on the last month.

October had rolled in with chilled air and sharp skies.

Since the phone, Dean and Castiel were practically inseparable. Mornings, practices, late-night chats, quick Snap messages between classes. Dean even let Castiel drag him to the library one Saturday where Miss Butters had fawned over Dean and given him an extra cookie. Dean called it the best day of his life and asked when they could go back.

They went and watched a movie in the next town. Played weekend pickup games at the concrete park court. They even went to Benny’s Halloween hangout, where the team carved pumpkins and destroyed three bags of candy. Dean dressed as Indiana Jones. Castiel came as a reluctant vampire in a hoodie. Benny called them “Team Tall and Broody.”

Castiel was happy.

Then came Monday morning.

They walked into school to find it plastered with flyers.

DESTIEL 4EVER

Dean x Castiel. In bold Sharpie. Dozens of copies. All with a fake photo of them kissing. The lighting was terrible, the editing worse—but the implication was clear.

Castiel froze.

Dean didn’t.

He started ripping them down one by one, muttering under his breath. So did Benny. Then Garth. Then Victor. No one spoke a word about it—not to Castiel’s face.

Dean looked over and said, “It’s okay.”

Castiel tried to believe him.

⸻

Dean’s POV

Game day.

Dean couldn’t believe it was here. The first real game. His senior season officially starting.

He should’ve been focused, but as always lately all he could think about was Cas.

They hadn’t talked much about the flyers since. Dean had meant what he said—it didn’t bother him. Let them talk. But he could tell it still haunted Castiel. He could see it in the way he held himself tighter again, the way his shoulders hunched just slightly when they walked through the halls.

Still, Castiel didn’t back out.

Dean was proud of him just for showing up.

They sat in the locker room before warmups, the team still out in the hallway watching the girls game, they were buzzing with energy. Castiel sat on the bench beside him, hands shaking slightly.

“I don’t think I can do it,” he whispered.

Dean crouched down in front of him, grabbing his hand. “You can. When you get out there, the stands disappear. It’s just noise. You and me. We’re on the same team. Just listen to my voice. I’ll call the plays.”

Castiel blinked, chest rising quickly.

“I’m the captain for a reason,” Dean added, smirking.

Cas narrowed his eyes. “Maybe I’ll listen to Bobby instead.”

Dean laughed, and they bumped shoulders. The tension eased, just a little.

They went out to warm up. Dean spotted his dad in the stands immediately—arms folded, eyes hard. No surprise.

But then he saw Gabriel—face half-painted navy blue, holding a foam finger. Dean snorted.

The student section was buzzing when they saw Castiel in a jersey. No clipboard. No towels. Just stretching, taking practice shots.

Cas ignored them all.

Dean loved him for that.

⸻

The game started strong.

They kept pace through the first quarter. It was a scrappy match—aggressive guards, lots of fouls. Dean moved the ball well, set up Garth and Victor for quick cuts, kept the scoreboard steady. Ash kept bricking threes, but they held the lead within three.

Halftime hit, and the team jogged into the locker room, sweaty and loose.

Dean jogged up beside Bobby. “Hey. I’ve been thinking—”

“I know that look,” Bobby grunted.

“I wanna sub Cas in on the wing,” Dean said, keeping his voice low. “Ash has hit too many bricks. We need clean shots.”

Bobby scratched his beard. “It’s your team.”

Dean smiled.

“Novak!” Bobby barked. “Wing next quarter. Get some points on the board.”

Dean stayed behind while the others filed out. Cas sat frozen on the bench, eyes wide.

“Hey,” Dean said gently, crouching again. “You got this.”

Cas shook his head. “I—I can’t breathe—”

Dean didn’t think.

He just kissed him.

Long. Slow. Real.

And Cas kissed him back.

It deepened. For a second it was hot, dizzying, dangerous.

Then Dean pulled back, cheeks flushed. “Get a grip,” he whispered, breathless. He took Cas’s hand, squeezed it once, and led him out.

He dropped it before they exited the side hallway. Didn’t say anything.

Cas didn’t look at the crowd.

Didn’t look at the team.

He just played.

He fumbled the first possession but got into rhythm quick. Dean drove into the paint, drew two defenders, kicked it back out.

“Shoot!” Dean yelled.

Cas did.

Swoosh.

The crowd exploded .

Benny screamed. Garth nearly fell off the bench. Ash stared in disbelief.

Dean grinned like a maniac.

Three more times, Dean set him up.

Three more swishes.

Then Cas drove, hit a floater from the high post like it was nothing.

Dean had never been prouder of anyone in his life.

When the final buzzer rang, the score read 32–16 .

They’d won.

Because of Cas.

Dean looked up and saw his father scowling.

Of course he was pissed. Dean hadn’t taken more than five shots all night. But his assists were through the roof, and the team was alive .

Let him be mad.

⸻

In the locker room, the guys were on fire.

They tossed sweaty towels, shouted praises, clapped Cas on the back like he’d just pulled off a miracle.

Dean sat beside him, still catching his breath, and leaned close.

“Hey,” he said. “Can I crash at your place?”

Cas blinked. “Really?”

Dean nodded. “Don’t feel like dealing with my dad tonight.”

Cas was still too dazed from the win to argue. “Yeah. Of course.”

They smiled.

Both looked at each other’s lips.

Then stood and grabbed the mop buckets.

The gym still needed cleaning.

Dean shot his mom a quick text:

“Staying with Cas tonight. Love you.”

Her reply came seconds later:

“Okay. I love you too.”

Chapter Text

He couldn’t feel his legs.

Not because they hurt—though they did. His lungs burned, his arms ached, and sweat still clung cold under his jersey. But it was like his brain had unplugged from his body. Like none of this was real.

Dean kissed him.

And then they played in a basketball game.

He was almost certain he’d died somewhere in the locker room and this was just… the afterlife. That was the only explanation. There was no version of reality where he got kissed by Dean Winchester and then went on to score baskets in front of a roaring crowd without waking up in a cold panic.

Even now, as they swept up water bottles and trash in the bleachers, Castiel couldn’t shake the feeling that something cosmic had shifted. Like he was living someone else’s life.

“Hey, Novak,” Bobby called across the court.

Castiel blinked out of his thoughts and turned. Bobby was looking at him with one of those gruff, grudgingly-proud expressions he only seemed to use on Dean after a really good game.

“You earned your spot tonight, son. Proud of you.”

That made the warmth in Castiel’s chest flood out through his whole body. He gave a quiet, “Thank you, sir,” and kept his eyes down, trying not to get too overwhelmed.

The team passed by as they filed out—Ash slapped him on the back and said with a crooked grin, “If you start stealing all my threes, I’m gonna have to actually work on my shot.”

“Yeah, Ash,” Benny snorted. “About damn time.”

Victor gave him a fist bump and said something about “Cas buckets.” It was… surreal. They weren’t just tolerating him anymore. They were glad he was there.

Dean walked beside him when they left, practically buzzing with energy.

“Dude. That was unreal. You see how quiet that crowd got when you hit your second shot? And then BOOM—right into a steal—my god, Cas, you were on fire!”

Castiel smiled quietly, but his mind had already drifted again. Not to the game.

To Dean. At his house.

He only had a full-size bed. Unless Dean slept on the couch or they flipped a coin, they’d be… sharing. And after what happened in the locker room, the kiss, the closeness—what did that mean?

Were they something now? Was Dean thinking about that too?

Dean could be flirty. He could joke around like it meant nothing. But Castiel knew that a kiss wasn’t just flirting anymore. It wasn’t something he could just laugh off.

He felt Dean bump his shoulder and they headed out to the car.

“You look like your head’s about to explode,” Dean said with a smirk. “Come on, man. You should be stoked. It was an incredible night.”

“I am,” Castiel said softly, but he hesitated, then added, “I just… I’m trying to figure out what’s going to happen now. After that kiss.”

Dean’s grin faded. His face turned thoughtful, then… serious. Quiet.

He looked ahead as they walked, voice even. “It’s simple, Cas. Either you wanna keep kissing me… or you wanna pretend it didn’t happen.”

Castiel stopped walking.

His eyes widened, completely thrown. “What?”

Dean turned to face him, brows raised in that classic Dean ‘I’m trying to be chill but I’m dying inside’ expression.

“I’m not gonna push you,” he added. “But I meant it. So it’s your call.”

Castiel let out a breath that sounded halfway to a laugh. “I want the kissing,” he said quickly, almost too quickly, then flushed. “I just… I don’t want to lose you. I’ve never been in a relationship. Heck you’re my first friendship. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Dean scratched the back of his neck, looking almost relieved. “Dude, I don’t either. I can’t believe I’m even saying this. Normally I’m like… the world’s worst communicator. Like, full squirrel mode. But I guess…”

He looked back at Castiel, more sure now. “I guess I’m trying. Because I care. And we don’t have to change anything. We can stay friends, we can still hang out—just with, you know, a little touching added.”

Castiel ducked his head, smirking. “I think I’d like that.”

Then, quieter: “But if we take this step… I’m not gonna want to share you.”

Dean snorted. “Duh. I mean it, Cas. It’s not like it was with Lisa. By the way I’ve never been a cheater. But I care about you.”

That silenced Castiel for a moment. Not in a bad way—just in the kind of way where your brain is trying to hold on to every word someone just said because it mattered that much.

They got to the house, and Castiel let them in quietly. The lights were off—Gabriel and Anna had probably already gone to bed or were working late.

He led Dean to his room, tossing his bag on the floor. “So,” he said awkwardly, “we can either watch TV in the living room or… go to sleep.”

Dean looked like he was considering it seriously. “TV sounds good.”

So they curled up on opposite sides of the couch, something mindless like Fast and the Furious playing on Netflix. Castiel was trying to stay calm—normal—even though every inch of his body was buzzing with nerves.

Then, partway through the second car chase, Dean reached out and tugged his arm.

“Come here,” he said casually.

Cas hesitated, but let himself be pulled. He laid against Dean’s chest, his head tucked under Dean’s chin, the heat of him radiating through both their shirts.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that.

Long enough for the credits to roll and the next movie to auto-play. Long enough that Castiel’s mind finally stopped racing and drifted somewhere safe and soft.

He fell asleep to the sound of Dean’s heartbeat.

⸻

Morning came with the sound of a voice.

“Aw, look at the lovebirds,” Gabriel cooed from… way too close.

Castiel startled upright, practically launching himself off the couch. Dean did the same, nearly flipping the coffee table.

Gabriel sat right there on the table, grinning like a devil. “Sleepover party, huh? This what the cool kids are doing now?”

Castiel’s face burned. “Gabriel.”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugged. “You coulda warned me. I’d have made popcorn. Or, you know, knocked before walking into your weird little romance movie.”

Dean looked half mortified, half amused.

Gabriel stood, already heading to the kitchen. “I’ll make breakfast. You two cuddle-demons get yourselves together.”

Dean looked at Castiel, hair mussed, hoodie falling off one shoulder. “Well,” he said with a grin, “so far so good.”

Castiel took a breath and stared up at the ceiling for a moment. “Yeah. Except I think things are about to get a whole lot more complicated.”

Chapter Text

Dean couldn’t sleep.

Not because he wasn’t tired—he was exhausted. Game adrenaline still pulsed through his veins, and every muscle in his body ached in that good, worked-for-it kind of way. But the real reason?

Castiel’s head was on his chest.

They were still on opposite ends of the couch technically, legs stretched out, a throw blanket halfway covering them. But somewhere in the middle of Fast Five , Cas had let Dean pull him closer. And now—now his cheek was pressed right against Dean’s shirt, his breath warm and even, chest rising and falling like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Dean couldn’t believe this was his life.

Three weeks ago, he was brushing past Cas in the hallway, letting his books hit the floor without a second thought. Three weeks ago, he was still pretending to care about Lisa and looking straight through Castiel Novak like he wasn’t even a person.

Now?

Now Dean would break someone’s nose if they so much as shoved Cas in the hallway.

He had changed. Way more than he realized. And lying here with Castiel sound asleep on his chest, he wasn’t even scared about it. Not really. It just felt… right.

He didn’t know how long he stayed awake like that, but eventually, exhaustion won out and he drifted under, warm and full and a little stunned that for once, his life wasn’t a complete disaster.

That peace lasted until morning.

“Morning, lovebirds.”

Dean startled hard, trying to shoot up—and was immediately stopped by a heavy weight in his lap. Namely, Castiel.

In his panic, he flailed so badly he ended up on the floor with a thud , head banging lightly against the coffee table.

“Jesus,” he groaned.

Gabriel was perched on that very table, grinning like it was Christmas morning. “Well, that was graceful. You always sleep with strangers on top of you, or is that a Castiel-exclusive thing?”

Dean rubbed the back of his head, cheeks burning. Cas was now wide awake, having been pushed to the side with Deans fall, sitting up slowly with that adorably confused look like he was still stuck between dreams and reality.

Gabriel just gave them a wink and skipped off into the kitchen. “I’m making waffles, chill.”

Dean groaned again and glanced over at Cas, who looked both horrified and amused. “Well,” Dean said, voice rough from sleep, “so far so good.”

Castiel sighed. “Things are going to get a lot more complicated.”

⸻

They ate waffles. Gabriel claimed he hadn’t gone to work because they’d finally been able to afford to hire a part-time girl, and Anna had already gone to open up. “Besides,” he’d said while pouring syrup, “I didn’t wanna miss this golden moment.”

Dean was just happy Cas’ brother was really trying to make an effort to be present.

The ride to school was quiet but sweet. They held hands across the center console and let the breeze blow through the cracked window.

“I think we should keep things low-key,” Dean said after a minute. “Not because I care what people think, just… I think we should figure us out before we deal with everyone else sticking their noses in.”

Cas nodded quickly. “I agree. I don’t think I could handle it yet anyway.”

Dean gave his hand a squeeze and let that be enough.

⸻

They were barely in the building five minutes before they ran into Dean’s mom.

Mary stood just inside the office hallway, smiling as they came up. “There you boys are.”

“Hey, Mom,” Dean said, feeling about five years old again. “Cas, this is my mom. Mom, Castiel.”

Mary lit up like she’d just met royalty. “Hi sweetheart,” she said warmly, touching Cas’s arm. “You doing okay?”

Cas looked floored. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

She looked back at Dean. “Just so you know, your father is not happy. I told him I gave you permission to stay at Castiel’s for a few days. And I meant that. But if it’s pushing things for his parents, you can always go to Bobby’s instead.”

Dean opened his mouth to answer, but Castiel hesitated.

“His brother won’t care,” Dean said quickly. “He made us waffles this morning.”

Mary squinted. “You’ll tell me that story later.”

Then her face sobered. “Your dad’s in Bobby’s office. Right now.”

Dean’s stomach dropped. “Great.”

He motioned to Cas. “Let’s go.”

⸻

The gym was empty when they got there, which told Dean all he needed to know. No morning practice. No team. Whatever was happening in that office had already cleared the place out.

He could hear raised voices through the door.

“Stay out here,” he told Cas quietly. “Just wait. I’ll be back.”

He opened the door.

John was red in the face and nearly shouting at Bobby. “—irresponsible and completely out of line. You let a kid who hasn’t been on the team five minutes jump into the game like he’s earned it—”

Dean slammed the door behind him. “Hey!”

Both men turned. Bobby looked relieved. John looked furious.

“Dean,” John snapped. “You have any idea what kind of mess you’re stepping into?”

Dean crossed his arms. “Yeah, I do. And you need to calm down.”

John pointed at him. “You’re staying with that boy? The one I told you to distance yourself from?”

Dean bristled. “I have Mom’s permission. And I’m not distancing myself from Cas. We’re not doing anything wrong.”

Bobby stepped in, his voice rough but calm. “Dean’s made a difference in that boy, and vice versa. They’re better people around each other. You should be proud.”

John huffed. “I don’t like him jumping into the game like he did. The other boys have been on this team longer—he hasn’t even done official tryouts.”

Dean’s voice rose. “He started the year with us, Dad. He’s been at every practice for weeks now. The guys love him. He’s earned it.”

“He hasn’t been playing ,” John snapped. “Not since freshman year. That’s not how this works.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Then maybe how this works is broken, better players should play if they earn it.”

Bobby stepped forward. “This is my team, John. And if that kid’s showing up, working his ass off, and helping us win, then he plays. You got a problem with it, try to fire me.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe I will.”

Dean’s blood boiled. “Then I quit.”

The room went dead silent.

John blinked. “Like hell you will. You’ve worked too hard—”

“It won’t mean anything without Bobby,” Dean said firmly. “And now it won’t mean anything without Cas, either. So unless you’re planning to run this whole thing into the ground, maybe it’s time to shut up and back off. Because last I checked—we’re winning.”

Bobby exhaled slowly and stepped back.

John didn’t say anything else. Just stormed past Dean and out the door.

Castiel stood there, awkward and small in the echoing gym.

Dean’s chest tightened.

Bobby clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about him, son. He’ll get over it.”

Dean grabbed Cas’s hand and didn’t let go. Everyone was already in first block anyway.

They went straight to Nurse Mary’s office.

Dean sat down hard on the old leather couch and let it out in a rush. “He’s gonna disown me, Mom. For real this time.”

Mary looked up, calm and steady. “Because of Castiel?”

Dean nodded. “We’re seeing each other. I mean, not officially, but like, we’re… yeah.”

Mary sighed and set her pen down. “I figured something was going on. And I support you. Completely.”

Dean blinked. “You do?”

“I do,” she said, eyes warm. “Convincing your father’s gonna take time. But I’ll try. I won’t say anything yet. But I’ll… nudge. And I’ll be here for you both in the meantime.”

She turned to Cas and smiled gently. “Now. You play basketball. You like books. And you’re smart enough to keep this one on his toes. I’m impressed already.”

Castiel gave a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Mary leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. “Tell me something, Castiel—what do you like to read?”

Dean relaxed a little as Cas started talking—quietly at first, listing titles like Slaughterhouse-Five and Brave New World , and then tentatively mentioning he liked poetry too. Mary lit up at that and asked if he’d ever read Edna St. Vincent Millay. He had, and somehow, just like that, they were talking like old friends.

Dean watched them, heart swelling. Cas wasn’t squirming. He wasn’t panicking. He was just talking , and his mom was treating him with nothing but kindness.

Mary glanced back at Dean. “He’s got a good heart,” she said softly. “Don’t mess it up.”

Dean held up both hands. “I’m trying not to.”

They stayed there until the second bell rang. Mary packed her clipboard and gave Dean’s shoulder a squeeze before they left. “You’ll be okay. One way or another.”

As they walked down the hallway, Dean let out a long breath.

“Sorry I outed us,” he said to Cas as they walked. “But she’s special to me. I needed her to know.”

Cas nodded. “It’s okay. I like her.”

Dean smiled. “Yeah. Me too.”

⸻

They parted ways at the hallway junction, and for the first time in weeks, Dean didn’t feel like he was carrying the weight of the whole world alone.

Still, once Cas disappeared down the hall, Dean lingered for a second, back against the wall.

He thought about the gym. About Bobby standing up to John, about Cas waiting outside like a kicked puppy, about how angry it made him to see his dad talk like Cas didn’t deserve to be there. Like he was some charity case.

Dean had never felt like this before. Not even with Lisa. Back then it was easy. Expected. You dated the pretty girl, you kissed behind the bleachers, and nobody asked questions. But this?

This was different.

This was real.

And that scared him more than anything. Because if he screwed it up, it wasn’t just Cas who’d get hurt. It was him , too. Because somewhere in the last few weeks, Dean had gone from vaguely noticing Castiel to needing him in a way that didn’t make sense.

Cas made him better. Stronger. Softer.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He didn’t know what was coming next—whether his dad was gonna continue to give him hell, whether the team would change once the truth came out, whether he was ready for all this.

But he knew one thing.

He wasn’t walking away.

Not from Cas.

Not now.

Chapter Text

It was just supposed to be five minutes.

Dean had told Cas he’d meet him in the hallway before lunch, but his mom had asked him to stop by the nurse’s office to grab a new form she needed for Sam. Cas said he had to swing by the locker room anyway—he’d forgotten to charge his phone the night before and left it plugged in by the benches during gym.

Cas had fallen asleep on FaceTime that night, voice still sleepy, hair messy, curled in his blankets.

Dean had smiled like an idiot. “See you tomorrow Cas.”

He didn’t expect the chaos.

It had started raining late morning, which meant lunch was indoors—everyone scattered in the gym, avoiding the storm. Dean stepped into the hallway and immediately felt something off. The energy was weird. Too quiet near the gym doors, even though that was usually a loud spot.

Then he heard yelling.

And a crash.

Dean took off running.

⸻

Castiel hadn’t meant to be long.

He’d just grabbed his phone and was walking back out into the gym from the locker room, hoodie sleeves pulled down, head down, trying not to draw attention. But he should’ve known something was wrong the second he saw Alastair leaning against the wall near the entrance to the gym.

Crowley and Meg flanked him like shadows.

“Hey, Novak,” Alastair sneered. “Thought you could hide forever?”

Cas stiffened. Kept walking.

“Shame about your uncle,” Crowley added smoothly. “Lucifer, wasn’t it? Real bad guy.”

Cas froze mid-step.

Meg stepped forward. “I mean, with a name like that, you kinda expect some… twisted stuff.”

“I wonder what kind of marks a guy like that would leave behind,” Alastair said.

That’s when he lunged.

Cas struggled, tried to twist away, but Alastair yanked the back of his hoodie hard while Meg grabbed his arm. He lost his balance—stumbled—his phone hit the floor and skittered away.

Then came the tearing sound.

Crowley shoved him forward, and Alastair grabbed the hem of Cas’s shirt and yanked hard.

There was shouting. Someone screamed. Everyone in the gym was watching, almost the whole high school.

Castiel’s shirt ripped up the back and shoulder, and then everything stopped.

Everything.

His breath hitched. His skin was bare. His scars were everywhere . Exposed to everyone. The anti-possession sigils. The burn rings. The carved words. The thick rope damage around his wrists and biceps.

It felt like time was frozen and fire was crawling over his skin.

Then all hell broke loose.

Benny was the first one there—he launched himself at Crowley so hard they both went down in a heap. Victor slammed Alastair into the wall, fists flying. Garth yelled for a teacher. Kevin was calling someone. And Cas just stood there, shaking, his torn hoodie in his hands, eyes wide and glassy.

Coach Bobby arrived within seconds, shoving people back.

“What the hell is going on here?!”

Then came the principal. And Dean’s dad.

John Winchester stepped in, half-scowling, half-drenched from the rain—and then he saw Castiel.

Saw the scars.

He stopped cold.

Even Alastair had gone still, holding his nose now gushing blood. Crowley was coughing on the floor. Meg had vanished. The entire gym was silent.

Dean burst in like he was being chased by a fire.

“What happened?!” His voice cracked.

His eyes locked on Castiel—standing on a wet floor, shirt gone, chest heaving, eyes gone somewhere else entirely.

Dean didn’t think.

He tore off his own shirt and threw it over Cas’s head, wrapping it down and over his shoulders, then grabbing his arms. “Come on. I got you. It’s okay.”

Cas didn’t respond.

Dean dragged him toward the locker room and shoved through the door, heart pounding. Everyone watching, no one saying a word.

“Cas—hey— breathe , man, come on.”

Nothing.

Just gasping, shaking, that distant look like he wasn’t even here.

Dean kicked open the shower stall and turned on the cold water. He pulled Cas in fully clothed and dropped to the tile with him.

“Breathe, Cas. Look at me.”

Still nothing.

He grabbed his face gently. “Castiel. I’m here. It’s Dean. You’re safe. You’re not there anymore.”

The door burst open behind them.

“Dean?” Mary.

Dean didn’t look back. “He’s having a panic attack. He’s not responding. Just—just let me try, okay?”

Mary crouched by the wall, staying back.

Dean stroked Cas’s face with wet fingers, whispered, begged.

“I love you. You’re okay. You’re okay, I’m here, I’ve got you.”

Eventually, Cas blinked. Just once. Then again.

He looked down at his soaked body, then curled into Dean’s lap like a broken animal.

Dean held him tighter.

⸻

They left without saying much.

Bobby got them cleared. Mary followed them out with a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean took Cas home. Put him in bed.

And then Cas didn’t move.

For hours.

He didn’t eat. Didn’t talk. Just laid there staring at the wall. Gabriel got home and tried to get through, even brought him soup, cracked jokes.

Nothing worked.

Dean sat beside him on the bed, rubbing his arm, whispering. Cas didn’t even blink.

That night, Cas whispered something for the first time.

“Hit me.”

Dean froze. “What?”

Cas finally looked at him. Empty. “Hit me. Make it hurt. Please. I need to feel something.”

Dean backed away, horrified. “No. Cas—no, I’m not doing that.”

“I need it.”

“No,” Dean choked. “No, you don’t. Please don’t ask me to—”

He left the room. Just for a second. To breathe.

When he came back, Castiel was sitting on the floor.

Bleeding.

Long, deep slices marked across both arms, fresh and red and trembling. A razorblade lay by his knee.

Dean dropped to the floor instantly, knocking the blade away and grabbing Cas in his arms.

“ No no no no no— ” Dean was sobbing before he even realized he was.

Cas didn’t fight. Didn’t say a word. Just leaned into him and cried quietly.

Dean wrapped both arms around him, holding him down so he couldn’t reach anything else, pressing his forehead to Cas’s shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, over and over. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Gabriel found them like that. Bloody and shaking. He didn’t ask. Just got the first aid kit.

Later that night, Dean sat beside Cas’s bed while Gabriel made a call.

“I found a place,” Gabe said, voice soft. “A center. It’s safe. Good people. He’ll be gone for a little while. Just for help.”

Dean nodded, numb.

“Christmas break’s coming,” Gabriel added. “I’ll take him.”

Dean just pressed his forehead to Cas’s blanket and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

⸻

The house was quiet after that.

Dean didn’t go out. Barely left his room. He texted Cas, even though he knew he wouldn’t respond.

Bobby called to check in. Dean ignored it.

Practice came. Dean skipped.

Finally, Christmas Eve hit.

Mary was trying to cook something downstairs, Sam was helping, and John was pacing.

His dad knocked on his bedroom door. “Can we talk?”

Dean didn’t answer and John left.

Dean came out of his room like a storm cloud and barged into the kitchen.

He didn’t mean to yell. But he did.

“You want to talk?” he snapped. “Let’s talk.”

The room froze.

“Castiel was beaten . Burned . Tied up and tortured by a psycho who thought he was possessed,” Dean said, voice shaking. “He was a kid , and his uncle put him on a rack . And Alastair came here and tore his shirt off in front of everyone like he was nothing . And now he’s gone. He’s in a mental hospital over Christmas, and I can’t even see him.”

Mary’s face crumpled.

Sam looked stunned.

John just stood still.

Dean’s chest heaved.

“We were happy,” he said. “We were happy . And now I can’t even fix it.”

His voice cracked. “I can’t fix him.”

He dropped to the floor and finally let it all go.

Mary rushed over and wrapped him in her arms. Sam sat beside him and didn’t say a word.

And John?

He looked down at the floor and said, very quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Then he left the room.

Dean didn’t stop crying for a long time.

Chapter Text

Castiel barely remembered what happened after the gym.

Everything had gone bright and loud and wrong—shouts, fists, faces, the cold slap of exposure across his body like he’d been dumped into an ice bath. And then, silence.

He remembered Dean’s voice. Maybe. That was the last real thing. Dean’s voice saying “I’ve got you” , over and over again.

After that, it all splintered.

His mind felt like shattered glass. Thoughts came in slivers, cutting and vanishing before he could hold onto them. He remembered begging Dean to hurt him. Not because he wanted pain, but because he needed something . Anything. Something sharp enough to pull him out of the nothing he was drowning in.

Dean had refused.

So Cas crawled out of bed while Dean was in the hall. Found something sharp. Tried to make himself feel again.

Dean stopped him.

Held him.

Held him through the screaming, the shaking, the sobbing. Wouldn’t let go.

And when Gabriel came home, saw the mess, and looked like he wanted to set the whole world on fire, Cas still couldn’t feel anything. Not really. Just numb.

⸻

Gabriel took him to the place the next morning.

He didn’t remember much of the drive—just the way Gabe’s hand stayed on his shoulder for a long time at the red lights. The way he kept saying, “Just a little while, okay, kiddo?” like if he said it enough, Cas might believe it.

The place was quiet. Not cold. Not cruel. But quiet in that weird, sterile way that made Cas feel like a ghost. They gave him a room with too-white sheets and a view of a snow-dusted courtyard. Told him what the schedule would be like. Group sessions. Personal therapy. Journaling. Breathing exercises.

Cas didn’t speak for the first two days.

He let the world pass over him like a shadow.

But they didn’t give up on him.

The therapist was patient. Kind. Smart in the way Castiel liked—asked him questions he hadn’t been brave enough to ask himself.

“Do you believe what your uncle said about you?”

“No.”

“But do you feel it anyway?”

“…Yes.”

That was the beginning of something.

The sessions weren’t easy. Talking about what Lucifer had done wasn’t healing. It was horrifying. But with each word, each admission, the fog began to thin. By the second week, he stopped thinking about pain all the time.

And he started thinking about Dean.

God, he missed Dean.

He missed his crooked grin. The way he used to poke at him for reading poetry. The way he’d say “Cas” like it was the most important name in the world.

Cas started dreaming about his hands.

Started counting days.

He wasn’t allowed contact with the outside, but they told him he’d be going home the weekend before school started again. Just in time for the new semester.

He didn’t know how he felt about that.

⸻

As the third week rolled around, Castiel sat by the window with his knees pulled to his chest. He stared at the snow melting off the grass.

He was terrified.

The school had seen him. All of him.

They’d seen the sigils, the burns, the carved words. He hadn’t chosen to show them, hadn’t had time to hide. His past was exposed, raw, on display for every student, every teacher, even John Winchester.

They’d talked. Of course they had. For weeks, he was sure. About how disgusting it was. Or about how sad. Either way, it would be there waiting for him.

He wondered if Dean would still want him.

He wondered if the team would be ashamed.

If Coach Singer had regrets.

He didn’t know what he would do if Dean turned his back on him.

He wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

⸻

Gabriel picked him up Saturday morning.

He looked tired but happy, and when Cas stepped outside into the weak morning light, he was caught in a bear hug that nearly crushed the air out of him.

“Missed you, kid,” Gabe muttered into his hair.

Cas nodded into his shoulder. “Missed you too.”

The drive was filled with soft music and quiet comfort.

“Where’s Dean?” Cas finally asked after a long stretch of silence.

Gabriel hesitated. “They’ve got a weekend tournament. Coach didn’t want to make him sit out, and Dean said he… he thought maybe you’d need a moment before everyone piled on you.”

Cas went quiet.

He hadn’t thought about basketball. About games. About being on the court again, under the same eyes that saw him carved open like some science class cadaver.

He didn’t know if he’d ever play again.

The season would be over in two months. He could just vanish.

Gabriel glanced over. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” Cas admitted.

⸻

When they got home, the house was warm. Familiar. Safe.

Cas dropped his bag and turned toward his room, not expecting anything except the quiet.

But the second he stepped into the doorway, he was engulfed in a hug so tight his ribs protested.

He tensed—just for a heartbeat—and then recognized it.

Dean.

Dean’s arms.

Dean’s smell.

Dean’s tears against his neck.

Cas crumpled.

He hugged back with everything he had, and the breath that left his lungs shook his entire frame.

They didn’t speak at first. Just held each other.

Then Dean pulled back just enough to kiss him. Once. Twice. Quick, desperate.

Cas kissed him back harder.

They ended up on the bed, tangled up in each other, legs and arms and fingers gripping tight like if they let go they’d fall apart.

Cas buried his face in Dean’s shirt. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I’m broken.”

Dean cupped his jaw. “You’re not broken.”

“I—”

“You’re healing ,” Dean said fiercely. “You’re perfect . You were done wrong .”

Cas started crying again.

Dean pulled him in close and held him until the tears slowed.

“I didn’t come get you from the place,” Dean said quietly, “because I figured we’d need this moment. Just us. No one else around.”

Cas nodded against his shoulder. “Thank you.”

They lay like that for a while, not speaking.

Finally, Dean pulled back slightly. “You gonna go back to school?”

Cas took a breath. “Yeah. I have to. I can’t run from it. I’m gonna try to beat it.”

Dean searched his face. “You sure?”

“No,” Cas said. “But I’ve got you. And Gabriel. And Anna. And maybe even the team. I’ve got things now. I can’t lose them.”

Dean’s voice cracked. “You won’t.”

Cas looked up. “How have they been?”

Dean hesitated. “I… don’t really know. I’ve been holed up in my room, to be honest. I haven’t talked to anybody. I couldn’t. Not without you.”

Cas’s chest ached.

“You didn’t have to wait for me.”

Dean gave a small, sad smile. “Yeah. I did.”

Cas kissed him again, soft and slow.

And for the first time in weeks, he felt something that wasn’t just the numbness he hated.

Chapter Text

He’d never been more aware of his own body.

The shape of his shoulders under his hoodie. The way the fabric touched the scars on his arms. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Every footstep echoed too loud, every whisper too sharp.

Castiel walked into the building with Dean at his side and felt the weight of the school’s eyes hit him like a flood.

People didn’t speak.

But they looked.

Stares trailed him through the main hall. Some were wide-eyed and cautious, others unreadable. He heard one whisper—something clipped, quiet, cruel—and Dean’s hand flexed against his lower back like he was two seconds from turning around and throwing a punch.

Castiel whispered, “Don’t,” without even thinking.

Dean stayed by him. Through the hallway. Through first block. Through every moment where Castiel felt like he couldn’t breathe. Dean didn’t let go.

They didn’t talk much until lunch, when the team found them in the cafeteria.

Victor was the first to speak. “Dude,” he said, dragging a chair up to the table and sitting backwards in it, “this team’s been dead without you. Like, actually struggling.Nobody has talked in days.”

“Hey!” Ash said, sliding in beside him. “I’ve been grieving. ”

Castiel blinked. “You missed me?”

“You’re part of the team,” Benny said simply. “We’re not us without you.”

Garth nodded, grinning. “You’re like… the brainy moral compass with a decent jumper. We can’t lose that.”

Cas was not quite sure what to say.

Dean nudged him with a smile. “Told you.”

When the bell rang for practice, Castiel followed the group down to the gym, heart pounding.

Coach Singer stood at the doors, arms crossed, watching him.

“Well, well,” Bobby said, voice gruff but warm. “There he is.”

Cas stopped a few feet away, still unsure what to do.

Instead, Bobby nodded toward the court. “Team had the break off with you in mind. Figured if one of us needed healing, we all needed a reset.”

Castiel’s throat went tight.

“You don’t have to get back out there yet,” Bobby continued, “but your team wants you here. You’re family now. They need you. But if it’s too much, that’s okay too. You earned a spot just by surviving.”

Cas nodded slowly. “I’d like to… just do the clipboard today.”

“Clipboard it is.”

Practice started.

Dean gave him a grin and a wink before heading off to drills.

Castiel sat at the bench with a towel slung over his shoulder and his clipboard tucked in close. He kept his eyes on the floor and tried not to think about the silence that filled the room when his shirt was ripped off weeks ago. About the shock in their faces. About the burning shame.

Then someone walked in.

Heavy footsteps. Dress shoes on wood.

He looked up.

John Winchester.

His stomach dropped.

John didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him—really looked at him. And for a second Cas thought he might turn and walk out.

But he didn’t.

He walked closer.

Castiel stood out of habit. Respect, maybe. Or fear.

John held his gaze, then sighed like the words were clawing out of him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Cas blinked.

“I was wrong. About you. About all of it.” John’s voice was low, rough, like gravel and guilt. “What I said—what I did. I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t seeing.”

He paused.

“You earned your place. Not because of pity. Not because of what happened. Because you’re strong. And you worked harder than half the boys on that court.”

Castiel couldn’t speak.

“It’d be a damn shame if you gave up on all that now,” John said. “I know Dean needs you. And as much as I might not understand all of this… if he’s gonna be with someone, I’m glad it’s you.”

He extended a hand.

Cas stared at it.

Then shook it.

John gave one stiff nod and turned, walking back toward the doors.

Cas sat down hard on the bench, heart thudding like a drum in his ears.

He didn’t even notice Bobby motioning Dean over until Dean jogged up and crouched in front of him.

“What happened?”

Cas swallowed. “Your dad. He just… apologized. Said I deserve to play. And that… that he’s glad it’s me.”

Dean’s brows shot up. “Holy crap.”

“I know.”

Dean grinned. “Well, he’s not wrong. Be a shame if all your work was for nothing.”

Castiel looked at the court. Then at his hoodie. Then down at his shoes.

“I think I want to dress out.”

Dean beamed. “You sure?”

“No,” Cas admitted. “But I’m ready.”

⸻

The second he stepped onto the court, dressed in his practice jersey with long sleeves on, the whole team started clapping.

Victor whooped. Benny clapped him on the back. Even Kevin, who wasn’t even playing, gave him a proud thumbs-up from the bench.

Castiel blushed so hard he thought his ears might burn off.

But it felt good.

It felt like coming home.

⸻

Later that afternoon, Mary caught up with them as they were grabbing waters.

She pulled them aside gently. “Just so you boys know, the school made their decision over break.”

Dean’s eyebrows lifted. “Decision?”

Mary nodded. “Alastair, Crowley, and Meg are suspended for the semester. When they come back, they’ll be in ALE.”

Cas froze. “All of them?”

“They were caught assaulting and harassing a student with past trauma. School labeled it as severe bullying and said it violated the zero-tolerance policy.”

Dean let out a low whistle. “Damn.”

Cas breathed out. A shaky, relieved sigh that he hadn’t realized he was holding in all day.

“They won’t be allowed near you again,” Mary added. “You’re safe here.”

⸻

That night, they went home together.

Cas was quiet. Processing.

Dean didn’t push.

They changed clothes. Brushed teeth.

Then climbed into bed.

It started as a soft kiss.

Then another.

Then hands. Touch. Warm skin.

They didn’t rush.

Celebration was slow. Gentle. Real.

Dean kissed down his jaw and told him, “I love you.”

Cas blinked, heart thundering.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

They fell asleep naked and wrapped in each other, hearts still beating in sync.

And for the first time since his shirt was ripped from him… Castiel felt okay.

Maybe even whole.

Chapter Text

Dean

January was always the longest month, but this one had flown.

Maybe it was the games every week, the bus rides, the early morning practices with Cas. Maybe it was just him—his smile coming easier now, his body stronger, the way he started talking back when people pushed, shoulders squaring like he knew what he was worth.

Dean couldn’t stop watching him. Not just on the court, though yeah, watching Cas drain threes like it was nothing still made his heart stutter. But off it, too. In the quiet moments. When he’d sneak glances at Dean and try not to smile. When he’d whisper weird facts about bees or tell Dean what kind of mountain trees grow best in moonlight.

And the tattoos… God, the tattoos.

It started with the jar. Dean hadn’t even known Gabriel and Anna were saving up for something like that, but one night, Cas came out of his room holding a glass jar full of crumpled bills and coins, his hands shaking as he told Dean they’d been saving for him. “For when you’re ready,” Anna had told him. “To make something beautiful out of what he took from you.”

Ellen gave him the first appointment for free.

Dean sat beside him in the little parlor the whole time, listening to the buzz of the machine, Cas breathing slow and steady, eyes locked on the wall. Ellen worked fast and kind, and even though it was just outlines at first, Dean could already see the beginning of something powerful.

His right arm started to look like a library come to life—books stacked with a dragon curling around the pile, smoke winding between them. Tiny bees buzzed near his elbow, and little wildflowers peeked out beside the stars. His left arm was darker: a full mountain range, trees curling toward the sky, a night sky full of stars. Near his wrist, a panther prowled—Blackridge’s mascot—but hidden in the shadows, Dean spotted the number 67 , and a tiny W stitched into a constellation.

Dean touched it softly. “You serious?”

Cas just nodded, cheeks red.

Dean had to kiss him for that one.

By the last week of January, the tattoos were finished. Cas kept wearing long sleeves—hoodies, pullovers, the shooting top Coach gave him—but Dean was over it.

“You look badass,” Dean told him that Friday before the game. “Like—actual comic book level cool. You think kids won’t go nuts seeing that ink? You’re about to make history, Novak. Come on. Be a legend.”

Cas rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Not really.

It was their biggest conference game of the year—twenty minutes down the road, against the school they hated most. Dean had grown up hearing stories about the rivalry, about last-minute wins and buzzer-beater heartbreaks. The gym was packed. Students. Teachers. Parents. Everybody.

Cas wore his warm-up top all through warmups, hood half on. Dean nudged him at the bench.

“You good?”

Cas nodded. “I’m terrified.”

Dean grinned. “Perfect. Go be terrifying.”

Starting lineups were called. Dean’s name got the usual cheer. Then—

“And at wing—Castiel Novak!”

Cas stood, hands shaking just a little, and tugged his top off.

The gym went quiet. Dead silent for a second.

Then the student section absolutely lost it.

Dean didn’t even try to hide his grin. He clapped Cas on the back hard, laughing. “Told you.”

Cas looked like he might melt into the floor, but he took his spot and didn’t flinch again.

The game was fast, intense, and brutal. Bodies slammed. Elbows flew. Dean’s jersey was soaked in sweat before the first quarter ended, but they stayed tight the whole time—every pass, every screen, every rebound. Cas played like a man possessed, draining shots from the corner like it was instinct.

And right before halftime—Dean grabbed the ball off a bad pass, took three long steps back past the three-point line, and launched one.

Buzzer.

Swish.

The whole place lost its mind. Dean turned in a circle, arms raised, and Benny tackled him from behind laughing.

In the locker room, they were three points ahead, hyped and shouting and shoving each other like idiots. Cas was pink-faced and smiling, sitting beside Dean and shaking his head.

“You’re an animal,” he muttered.

“You’re welcome,” Dean said.

Second half? Even closer. They traded leads a dozen times. Cas got double-teamed near the end, but that just gave Dean room to drive, and Benny cleaned up everything under the basket. With three seconds left and a two-point lead, the other team tried a desperation three—and missed.

The buzzer went off.

The crowd erupted.

Dean whooped and turned to grab Cas—and before he could say a word, Cas grabbed him .

Right there, midcourt, with the gym roaring around them, Castiel Novak pulled Dean in and kissed him.

It was short. Firm. Brave.

And Dean kissed him right back, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.

When they broke apart, the team was shouting and whooping, half from the win and half from what they’d just seen. The other team walked past, grumbling, but they slapped hands anyway.

Dean kept one hand on Cas’s lower back the whole time.

“Hell of a night,” Benny said, nudging them.

Dean nodded. “Hell yeah, it was.”

Cas looked dazed but peaceful. Like—for once—he didn’t care who saw him.

Dean leaned close and whispered, “Now they’ll really remember you.”

Cas blinked at him, slow and warm. “Only if you’re in the picture.”

Chapter Text

Castiel

Dinner at the Winchester house was always a strange mix of comfort and tension.

Mary was warm and welcoming, full of laughter and stories that made Dean roll his eyes but never stop smiling. Sam was surprisingly witty for someone so tall and quiet, shuffling cards between bites, already begging Dean and Castiel to play Uno before dessert had even started. But John…

John tried. That much Castiel could say.

He was polite. He passed the rolls. He asked how school was going and didn’t once mention basketball until halfway through the meal. But there was an undercurrent in every glance, a quiet weight to his questions. As if he was still figuring out how someone like Castiel fit into his family picture.

“So, Castiel,” John said, finally clearing his throat. “What are you thinking about doing after graduation?”

The table quieted slightly. Dean glanced sideways, his fork halfway to his mouth. Castiel shifted, suddenly very aware of the warmth of Dean’s knee pressed to his under the table.

“I don’t know exactly,” he admitted. “I’ve always wanted to write.”

John’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but not unkindly.

“I don’t know if I’ll go to college right away,” Castiel added. “But I do want to work. Maybe help kids. Kids like me.”

He took a breath, then sat straighter, his voice steadier as he met John’s gaze.

“I know what you’re worried about. That I’ll hold Dean back. But I won’t. I’ll follow him wherever he wants to go. I’m not going to keep him from anything. He has… incredible things ahead of him. I just want to support him. Be there. I can write anywhere. Get a job. Maybe even teach.”

John didn’t speak right away. Then he nodded slowly. “I’m impressed,” he said at last. “That’s… a lot of dedication.”

Mary, across the table, swatted John’s arm lightly. “And make sure you take care of your own dreams in all that, too, Castiel,” she added gently. “Dean’s not your whole future.”

Castiel smiled softly. “Yes, ma’am. But he’s the reason I have a future at all.”

Dean choked on his drink, coughing into his napkin and swearing under his breath. Sam just laughed and handed him his water.

Later, they played a few rounds of Uno—Sam won most of them, smug about it—and then, once the dishes were done and the night had fully settled in, Dean led Castiel outside into the cold.

They climbed onto the hood of the Impala, their backs pressed against the cool metal, arms tucked under themselves for warmth. Above them, the stars glittered in a clean, dark sky.

“That one’s Orion,” Castiel murmured, pointing. “And the bright one there is Betelgeuse. One of the largest stars we can see from Earth.”

Dean hummed beside him. “You ever think about going to space?”

“All the time.”

They fell into silence for a while. The wind rustled the bare trees around them, the sounds of the house behind them faint now.

Then Dean said, “I got an offer. KU.”

Castiel turned his head, eyes searching his.

“That’s wonderful, Dean.”

Dean shrugged. “It’s not full ride or anything. And I don’t wanna saddle you with student loans if you follow me.”

Castiel sat up, turning to face him more fully. “Dean. You know I’m smart, right?”

Dean blinked. “Yeah. I mean, obviously.”

“I have a 30 on my ACT.”

Dean’s jaw dropped slightly. “Wait—what?”

Castiel smirked. “I won’t have to take on much debt. I’ll qualify for academic scholarships.”

Dean groaned and dropped his head in his hands. “God, I feel like an idiot. I’ve been thinking about ball and only ball.”

He looked up again, sheepish. “I didn’t even think—of course you’ve got the grades.”

Castiel leaned in and kissed him softly, a quiet apology accepted. Dean kissed him back and rested his forehead against Cas’s.

“So,” Cas said, “I guess we can start making plans.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. I like the sound of that.”

“We’ll figure it out. Whatever we can manage.”

“Together,” Dean said.

“Always.”

They leaned back again, side by side, looking up at the sky. For a long time, they didn’t say anything at all. Just breathed. Just existed.

Then Castiel asked, “What do you really want, Dean? After basketball. If you could pick anything.”

Dean was quiet a beat longer. Then:

“I think I want to coach,” he said slowly. “Helping you find your potential—whatever clicked there—I think that was the best thing I’ve ever done. I love the game, yeah. But I love watching someone I care about win. Learn. Grow.”

Castiel felt warmth bloom in his chest.

“You’d be a good coach.”

Dean smiled. “Thanks.”

They stayed that way until their skin was cold and the stars were blinking out one by one behind slow clouds. When they finally slipped back inside, the house was quiet, the light in Mary’s window still on.

And Castiel knew: whatever was ahead of them—college, work, the unknown—he wasn’t afraid of it anymore.

They’d get there.

Together.

Chapter Text

Dean

The district tournament felt different this year.

Not because of the crowd—though the gym was full, even more packed than usual—or the pressure—because that was always there—but because of what had come before. What they’d built.

Dean sat on the locker room bench tying his shoes slowly, focusing on the rhythm of the laces. Across from him, Cas sat in his jersey, calm but alert, like he always got right before a game. His arms were bare, his tattoos gleaming under the flickering fluorescent lights. The dragon on his right arm wrapped upward like it was climbing, and the panther on the other looked ready to leap off his bicep.

Dean still hadn’t gotten over how good it looked. How good he looked. The first time Cas walked out without sleeves had made the whole

gyms head turn. There were photos. Posts. One kid even showed up at the next game with drawn-on sleeve tattoos and a sign that said #NovakNation .

Dean grinned to himself at the memory. Yeah. Things had changed.

“You’re staring,” Cas said without looking up.

Dean smirked. “You love it.”

Cas finally glanced up, a slow smile spreading across his face. “A little.”

They’d made it through January. Now it was the end of February, and everything felt like it was moving fast. After weeks of waiting, KU had sent their acceptance letters. Dean’s scholarship was confirmed, and even though Cas didn’t go for athletics, his grades—and that 30 ACT—landed him a solid academic package. Enough to cover most of it.

They were rooming together. Officially. First-year dorms. Same room. Same space.

Dean had never felt more excited—and more terrified.

Coach Singer clapped once from the door. “Line up, boys. Let’s get out there.”

The roar of the crowd hit them like a wave as they stepped into the gym. Signs waved. Students screamed. Banners hung from every wall. Benny bumped Dean’s shoulder and pointed to the KU scout sitting at the end of the bleachers, notebook in hand.

“You nervous?”

Dean shook his head. “Nah. I’m good.”

And he was. Because Cas was here. Because they’d worked so damn hard for this. The whole team had. And tonight? Tonight was just another chance to prove they weren’t done yet. He had already signed his acceptance, he wasn’t sure why the scout had come tonight honestly.

The whistle blew. Tip-off. The game began.

It was clean, aggressive, fast-paced. Their opponents were sharp shooters, but Dean and Cas had found a rhythm that was practically unbreakable. Every time Dean got double-teamed, Cas slipped through. Every time Cas needed space, Dean cleared it for him. Benny handled the rebounds like a pro, and Victoria knocked down threes like his life depended on it.

At halftime, they were up by seven.

“You’re killing it,” Dean told Cas as they gulped water.

“You, too.”

Dean reached for his hand, gave it a squeeze. “Let’s finish this.”

And they did.

The second half flew by. The crowd never stopped cheering. There were moments Dean barely registered the plays they were running—it was muscle memory now. Second nature. He just knew Cas was there, and Cas knew he’d be there too.

When the final buzzer went off, they were ahead by fifteen.

They won.

The gym exploded.

Cas reached for him, wide-eyed and breathless, and Dean didn’t hesitate—he pulled him in tight, their foreheads pressed together in the middle of the court.

“You were incredible,” Cas whispered.

Dean laughed. “You always are.”

Then came the part Dean hadn’t expected.

Coach Singer jogged up, waving them both over. “Dean. Cas. Scout wants to talk.”

Dean wiped sweat off his brow and turned, catching sight of the KU rep who’d come out a few times last year. He remembered his name—Balthazar something.

He and Cas walked over, still catching their breath, heart rates finally slowing.

“Dean,” Balthazar greeted, shaking his hand. “Hell of a game.”

“Thanks, sir.”

Then he turned to Cas. “And you must be Castiel. I’ve been waiting to meet you.”

Cas blinked, stunned, but shook his hand anyway. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ve been following your games,” Balthazar continued. “You weren’t on my radar before this season, but you are now. Your chemistry with Dean—it’s rare. Natural. You two read each other like a book.”

Dean swallowed, confused. “Yeah, well, we’ve been working hard—”

“Which is why I want to extend something unusual,” Marcus said, smiling now. “We want you both on the KU lineup.”

Dean froze.

Cas did too.

“What?” they said in near unison.

Balthazar chuckled. “I know it’s unexpected. But I showed your games to the coaching staff. The way you two play together—it’s electric. Dean, you were already a lock. But Castiel—your range, your decision making, your presence on the court—it’s something we’d be stupid to ignore. So I’m asking: you in?”

Castiel stared at him. At Dean. Back at the scout. His mouth opened. Then closed.

“I—yes,” Cas finally managed, voice cracking.

Dean let out a half-laugh, half-sob and grabbed him, hugging him in the middle of the court while the scout laughed and walked off, leaving them stunned.

“You’re gonna play,” Dean said, breathless. “At KU. With me.”

“I can’t believe this,” Cas whispered.

“Believe it.”

They made it to the locker room. The team was celebrating. Everyone congratulated Cas like he’d just been named MVP, and maybe he had. Benny lifted him off the ground. Ash tossed his sweaty jersey at him and yelled, “Full ride, baby!”

Dean just kept looking at him.

He couldn’t stop.

⸻

That night, when they got back to Dean’s house, Mary was out late with Sam for one of his debate meets, and John had gone to bed early.

Dean closed the door behind them quietly, locking it.

Cas turned, slowly. Still dazed. Still smiling.

“Are you okay?” Dean asked softly.

Cas stepped forward, hands finding Dean’s waist. “I’m amazing.”

Dean kissed him. Soft and slow. The kind of kiss that carried awe with it. That said you deserve this.

They moved up the stairs like they were floating. Dean’s room was quiet, moonlight casting stripes through the blinds. Cas sat on the edge of the bed and looked at Dean like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming.

“I didn’t think this kind of life was for people like me,” Cas murmured.

Dean knelt in front of him, resting his head against Cas’s chest. “It is. It’s yours now.”

They undressed each other slowly, like they had all the time in the world. Dean was gentle, reverent. Dean kissed every scar he had access to—Cas’ shoulder, his ribs, the pale mark on his thigh from a bike wreck in sixth grade. Dean kissed the W on Cas’s arm like it was sacred.

They didn’t rush. They didn’t need to.

It was celebration and confession and joy. It was soft laughs and whispered “I love you”s. It was Dean tracing the mountain tattoos while Cas arched into him, quiet gasps filling the space between kisses.

Later, tangled in blankets and each other, Cas whispered, “We’re really doing this.”

Dean pressed his face into Cas’s neck and said, “Yeah, we are.”

They laid there in the silence afterward, hearts pounding, skin buzzing with everything they couldn’t say out loud.

Cas looked up at the ceiling and smiled.

For the first time, the future didn’t feel like a cliff.

It felt like a beginning.

Together.

Chapter Text

Castiel

The gym was buzzing—full to the rafters, alive with electric, pounding noise. The championship game. Final showdown of the season. The whole town had shown up to see it.

Signs waved. Students chanted. The court gleamed under the lights. The air smelled like sweat, floor polish, and cheap nachos.

Castiel stood at center court, stretching his arms. His tattoos caught the light—wings of ink and memory, stories written into his skin. The panther looked ready to pounce.

Dean was beside him, spinning the ball on his fingertip, grinning like he had the whole world in his hands. Which, maybe he did.

Benny clapped Cole on the back while Victor jogged in place, face focused, expression sharp.

“Let’s make it count,” Coach Singer called, hands on his hips, voice rough with pride. “This is the one.”

Castiel turned to the stands. Gabriel and Anna stood together, cheering and waving—Anna in a ridiculous Blackridge shirt with “#NovakNation” scrawled in glitter paint. Gabriel blew an air horn when he caught Castiel’s eye and mimed wiping away a tear.

Dean’s family sat near them. Mary had her hands folded tightly in her lap, but she was smiling. Sam leaned forward like he was watching a Marvel movie. John, arms crossed, nodded once at Castiel. Just once. It was enough.

The buzzer sounded.

Game time.

⸻

From the start, the game was a war. Their rivals were fast—scrappy. The kind of team that relied on grit and chaos, trying to pull you into the mud with them.

But Blackridge had something different.

They had connection .

They had them .

Dean controlled the pace, dribbling hard, shifting the defense like a chessboard, reading the court with eyes that never missed a thing. When the trap came, he passed to Castiel without looking. Cas caught it, drove hard left, hesitated—then pulled up for a clean three.

Swish.

The crowd exploded.

Dean raised a fist and pointed at him across the court, grinning. Castiel nodded once, heart thudding.

Next possession, it was Benny’s turn. He boxed out like a beast, snagged a rebound off the rim, and went back up for a clean layup. Victor shut down their fastest shooter with a sneaky steal and dished to Dean, who danced past two defenders like they were ghosts.

By the end of the first quarter, it was tied.

The second was where they pulled ahead. Cole snagged a deep pass mid-air—barely saving it from going out—and spun into a jump shot that banked in. The bench erupted. Ash nearly tackled Garth from excitement.

They went into halftime up by seven.

In the locker room, it was buzzing.

“We keep this up, we bring it home,” Coach said. “You boys know what to do.”

Dean reached for Castiel, bumping shoulders. “You okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

Dean looked at him— really looked—and smiled. “Better than ever.”

⸻

Second half: fire.

Everything clicked.

Castiel found rhythm. Dean set picks like a machine. Benny had a fast break that made the crowd shake the walls.

But their rivals didn’t let up.

With three minutes left in the fourth, the score was tied again.

Dean called for an iso, looked Cas dead in the eye, and mouthed: Ready?

Cas nodded.

Dean dribbled left, pulled two defenders with him—and lobbed a perfect pass over their heads.

Castiel caught it and jumped, twisted mid-air, and released.

The ball floated—

—and dropped through the net.

The gym exploded .

Final thirty seconds. Dean stole a desperation inbound pass, dribbled the clock down, and passed it to Victor, who hit a fadeaway just as the buzzer went off.

Blackridge: 65. Rivals: 62.

They won.

Chaos. The gym erupted .

The court flooded with students, parents, teammates. Castiel was grabbed, hugged, pulled into the noise. Dean was swarmed, backslapped, lifted off the floor for a second by Benny and Cole.

Anna reached them through the crowd and grabbed Castiel in a hug so tight he nearly lost balance. “YOU DID IT!”

Gabriel was sobbing dramatically behind her. “My baby is a champion!”

Then Coach appeared, pushing through the madness, holding the gold championship trophy over his head. He brought it straight to them—Dean and Cas—and said, “You two started this. You finish it. Keep it. Together.”

Dean and Castiel gripped it together, hands brushing. The moment burned itself into Castiel’s memory.

A movie ending .

Until he saw him .

Lucifer.

In the middle of the court. Among the crowd.

He hadn’t seen him in nearly a decade, but that face—sharp angles, cold eyes, that smile —was carved into his bones.

And in his hand—

A blade .

Castiel’s breath caught. The noise faded. A shout rang out from somewhere.

“HE’S GOT A KNIFE!”

Screams.

Lucifer lunged.

Castiel stumbled backward, too stunned to move.

But Dean moved.

Dean stepped in front of him.

“No!”

The word tore out of Castiel’s throat like lightning.

The blade flashed.

It cut a deep red line across the front of Dean’s jersey.

Dean collapsed.

Castiel screamed.

Everything went red.

He dove—tackled Lucifer to the floor, held his wrist tight. The blade still in his hand. Lucifer fought like a wild animal, but Castiel gripped his wrist, held it back. He wasn’t a child anymore. He wasn’t weak. He wouldn’t be weak ever again.

“For Dean,” he snarled. “You don’t get to take him too.”

Lucifer spit curses, called him a demon, said he needed to finish what he started. But Castiel didn’t care .

Screams. Chaos.

Then—

A boot slammed down on the blade.

The SRO. Gun drawn.

Bobby and John tackled Lucifer from the side, pinning him. Lucifer shrieked like an animal, eyes crazed.

“Let me finish it! He’s possessed ! You don’t know what he is!”

They ignored him.

Castiel scrambled away—toward Dean.

Mary was already beside him, her hands bloody, eyes wild.

“He’s okay,” she kept saying. “He’s gonna be okay. It’s not deep. It looks bad—but he’s gonna be okay.”

Dean groaned. His jersey was torn, blood streaking his ribs, but he blinked at Castiel and gave a crooked, pained smile.

“Guess… I’ll have a scar like you now,” he said.

Castiel choked on a laugh and dropped to the floor, pulling him into his arms.

“You idiot,” he whispered. “You beautiful idiot.”

Dean’s fingers gripped his sleeve weakly. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We won, right?”

Castiel nodded. “Yeah. We won.”

⸻

The hospital was all fluorescent lights and beeping machines.

Dean lay on the bed, half-conscious, his torso wrapped in gauze. He looked pale, tired, but alive.

Castiel sat beside him, holding his hand tightly.

“They glued it and gave him a few stitches,” Mary explained. “He lost some blood, but it wasn’t deep enough to hit anything vital.”

Dean stirred and blinked up at them. “Hey.”

Mary smiled. “Hey, sweetheart.”

Dean looked at Castiel and smirked. “What kind of tattoo do I get now?”

Cas chuckled. “You could get a dragon.”

“Too on the nose.”

“Angel wings, maybe. That’s my next idea.”

Dean nodded, eyes fluttering shut again. “Yeah… that’s cool.”

Gabriel and Anna arrived, furious and frantic, hugging Cas tightly and demanding answers. Later, they learned Lucifer had been released on good behavior . The parole board claimed they’d attempted to contact Gabriel and Anna, but the calls never went through.

After the attack, there was no more debate. Lucifer was returned to federal custody. This time with no chance of parole. The officials apologized profusely. But it didn’t change the fact that it had happened.

Dean survived.

Castiel had fought back.

The season ended in victory.

⸻

Spring Break came fast. Dean’s family invited Castiel to the beach.

They spent a week in sun and sand. Dean’s stitches healed. They walked barefoot on the shore, Cas pointing out constellations at night. They kissed in the surf and pretended there was no world waiting outside the waves.

Then came graduation.

They walked across the stage, tassels swinging. Dean hooted when Cas’s name was called, and Cas laughed when Dean did a mini bow for the crowd.

Gabriel cried.

Mary brought flowers.

John clapped hard—three times. It meant more than Cas could say.

⸻

KU was everything they hoped.

They moved into their dorm together that August. They had early practices; Cas found the campus library within a day and claimed it as home. They played ball— together —all four years, their chemistry never fading.

Dean studied education and coaching. Cas majored in English, minored in education. They made it through injuries, finals, game losses, stress, and snowstorms.

And they never left each other’s side.

Four years later, they graduated again.

Hand in hand.

⸻

They came back.

To Blackridge.

Dean stepped into Coach Singer’s shoes, whistle and all. Cas became the new English teacher, taking over Mrs. Jody’s classroom—with her blessing and a box of coffee mugs she said she couldn’t part with.

They got married on a late spring afternoon under the oak tree in Cas’s backyard. The whole town came. Bobby officiated. Mary cried. Sam was best man.

Then, one summer later, they adopted a little boy.

Jack.

He had Dean’s stubbornness and Cas’s quiet wonder.

He made the world brighter.

And in the stands, on Friday nights, Castiel sat with Jack on his lap, watching Dean coach the next generation.

Their story didn’t end with a trophy.

It started there.

And every day after—

They wrote the rest of it.

Together.