Chapter Text
A few days later, Cas is startled awake by a knock on the door. He rolls over onto his back with a moan when the knocking persists, wondering if he’s still dreaming. Sleepily, Cas opens one eye and glances blearily at his phone--6:37 am. On a fucking Saturday. The Saturday of their first fucking playoff game, no less.
Gabe’s bed across the room is empty, and Cas feels his irritability increase tenfold. It’s one thing for Gabe to forget his room key--for the tenth time this month--but another thing entirely for him to wake Cas up at six in the morning to let him in.
The knocking continues, and Cas groans before forcing himself out of bed and padding across the room in his socked feet. He flicks the lock open with a little more force than necessary and swings open the door, fully prepared to put his foot down and tell Gabe he’s had enough of this when he sees Dean standing sheepishly in the hall instead.
Oh, shit .
Cas’ cheeks go red as he realizes that he’s wearing nothing but boxers, socks, and a ratty T-shirt in front of Dean fucking Winchester. Dean’s got his batbag slung over one shoulder, and looks apologetic for a split second before narrowing his eyes and looking Cas up and down with that crooked smirk Cas has gotten to know so well.
“Morning, Bill Nye,” he says.
Cas takes a few steps forward so that he can peek out of the doorway and glances around, wondering if this is some kind of hazing thing and half-expecting the rest of the team to pop out of nowhere, but when the hallway remains empty, Cas steps back into his room.
“Am I missing something?” he finally asks. He turns around and starts digging through his laundry for a pair of shorts, motioning for Dean to enter.
“Pants, apparently.”
“Shut up,” Cas says as he sniffs a pair of shorts before pulling them on. Dean chuckles and makes himself comfortable on Cas’ bed. Cas is about to reprimand him for putting his dirty sneakers on his sheets and blankets when he notices that even though Dean’s sprawled out on his bed, he’s taken care to keep his feet off to the side. “Is there any particular reason you’re here at six in the morning on a Saturday?”
Dean looks away, suddenly sheepish, and for a second, Cas wonders if he said something wrong. “Y’know what, it’s nothin’,” he says, his relaxed posture quickly switching over to stiff and awkward as he gets to his feet. “Sorry for wakin’ you up, man.”
Dean is just about to head out the door when Cas grabs his elbow. “Dean,” he says, “what?”
He sighs, and Cas keeps his hand on his elbow until he heads back to Cas’ bed and sits down. “I’m just--this game is big , and I’m, I don’t know.” He trails off, but Cas doesn’t need many more context clues to figure out how Dean is feeling.
Chuck had told him and Dean shortly after their win against Northeastern that Dean would be starting their first playoff game, and even though he’s been trying to hide it, Cas knows Dean’s nerves have been through the roof.
Dean glances up at him, then rests his elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor. He looks like he’s about to say something, then laughs humorlessly to himself. “Guys in third rotation don’t start playoff games, everyone knows that. Benny should be starting, not me.”
Cas opens his mouth to respond, to assure Dean that his fears are unfounded and that he can do this, but he’s never seen Dean like this before, and he can’t shake the unsettled feeling in his gut.
“Dean, if Chuck wanted Benny to start, he would’ve had him start.”
Dean’s lips quirk up in a half-smile, but he shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the floor.
“Hey.” Cas leans down and snaps his fingers in front of Dean’s face. “Are you going to look at me?”
“Nope.”
Arms folded across his chest, Cas stares at Dean for a few seconds, hoping he’d feel Cas’ eyes on him and look up, but he doesn’t move. Cas sighs and thinks back to something his older brother did when they were young, when Cas would get upset and sulk.
Cas doesn’t do this. He doesn’t make a fool out of himself for anyone, but Dean looks so sad, so anxious, and Cas wants those feelings gone. “You’re really going to make me do this, aren’t you?”
Dean almost, almost looks like he’s going to glance up at that, because he obviously has no idea what Cas is talking about, but he keeps his head down. “Guess so,” he says to the floor.
Cas rolls his eyes. “The things I do for you, Dean Winchester.” With that, he turns around so that his back is facing Dean and drops to his knees, then lays down entirely. The floor is cold against his neck and arms, and Cas uses his feet to scooch himself closer to Dean. He nudges his head in between Dean’s feet and stares up at him, an unamused expression on his face.
“There,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Now you have to look at me.”
Dean stares down at him, his brow furrowed. Other than looking extremely confused, he doesn’t react, and just as Cas begins to wonder if he’d made a fool of himself for nothing, Dean throws back his head and laughs.
Snarky chuckles and crooked grins and narrow-eyed smirks, Cas had seen, but he’d never seen or heard Dean laugh like this. It’s a rich, deep sound that Cas almost immediately falls in love with, and his attempt to keep his face serious fails as he dissolves into laughter, as well.
Once he’s recovered, Dean gets to his feet and takes care to avoid stepping on Cas. He takes a few steps forward then turns around, offering a hand to help him up. “Okay, fine. You win. You happy?” he asks as Cas reaches up and clasps his fingers around Dean’s.
“Very.” Cas relishes the way Dean pulls him to his feet, and brushes his pants and shirt off once he’s upright again. “Do you feel better?”
Dean opens his mouth to respond, then pauses. “I...don’t feel like I’m gonna puke anymore.”
Cas raises his eyebrows, considering this. “I’ll take it,” he finally says, and Dean grins at him. “Would catch help?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, his lopsided grin getting just a little bit wider. “Catch would definitely help.”
Cas doesn’t understand where Dean’s nerves are coming from; his pitches have been on point all morning, and he tells him as such.
“Wheelock won’t know what hit them,” Cas says after Dean delivers his eighth strike in a row. He windmills his arm a few times to loosen up a bit more before lobbing the ball back to Dean.
“Yeah, well, can’t be too optimistic,” Dean says.
“That’s the spirit,” Cas mutters. He thought he’d made his voice soft enough that Dean wouldn’t hear, but when his bright green eyes widen in indignation, Cas knows he’d failed.
“These are the playoffs we’re talkin’ about, Cas!” Dean says. “Jesus, I’m not gettin’ ahead of myself on this.”
Cas chuckles as he crouches back down into his stance. “You can be confident, you know.”
Dean taps his temple then points to Cas. “I’ll be confident when I feel confident.”
Cas waits for him to pitch--this one’s a bit wide, but Cas won’t hold it against him--then shoots him an unamused look. “Do you think you could speed it up, then? Some of us would like to grab a nap sometime today.”
Dean stares back at him, then laughs. “Fuck off, Novak, and catch my pitches.”
There are night games, and then there are playoff night games.
Cas can practically reach out and touch the energy around Thompson Field. He’s been so used to quarter-full bleachers, people attending just to kill time before something better comes along, that seeing hordes of people choosing to spend their Friday night here feels like they’re in some kind of alternate reality.
“You ready?”
Cas turns around to see Dean looking at him expectantly. He needs something to do with his hands, so he’s focusing on breaking in his already-broken-in glove.
“I am,” Cas says. “But I wasn’t the one who wouldn’t be confident until he felt confident.” He smirks at Dean’s chuckle. “Are you?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Cas is about to reassure Dean one more time that everything will be fine, he’ll kick ass, when Chuck returns to the dugout after meeting with the umpires and opposing coaches at home plate. An electric silence full of energy falls over them all, and Chuck claps his hands.
“Let’s play ball, guys.”
Cas takes a few seconds to balance himself on his haunches, then stares at the mound and into Dean’s eyes, which are shaded over by the brim of his cap. Two outs, one ball, two strikes . They could end this inning right now, make Wheelock leave the bases loaded without scoring a single run, and Cas decides to have Dean throw the pitch that’ll almost certainly do just that. He tucks his free hand between his legs and flashes two fingers, then three, then twirls his index finger in a corkscrew motion--Dean’s eyes focus on the signals, then flick back up to Cas’ eyes before he gives him a quick nod and digs his cleat into the dirt in front of him.
Dean turns to the side and stares down at his glove, fingering the stitches on the ball before taking a deep breath and focusing on Cas’ mitt. Come on, Dean, Cas pleads, we’ve done this a million times in practice. Just one more…
Dean stares long and hard into Cas’ open mitt, and Cas works to stay as still as possible for him, watching the way Dean’s brow furrows in concentration, the way he bites on his lower lip as he prepares. Finally, he straightens, glances back at each individual runner, winds up, and throws.
From the second the ball leaves Dean’s hand, Cas can tell that it’s a good one. A perfect slider; it’ll fool the batter without a problem, he’ll strike out, and they’ll get out of the inning unscathed. Cas prepares for the batter to swing and miss, and for the ball to land in his mitt with a satisfying smack.
But he doesn’t catch the ball. Instead, the batter connects with it and sends it rocketing back toward where it came. Cas realizes what’s going to happen before Dean does and springs to his feet, tearing off his mask and yelling Dean’s name.
Dean just barely has enough time to glance at Cas before the line drive smashes into the side of his head, and he collapses into the dirt.
Things are a bit blurry after that. Cas curses his bulky catcher’s gear as he makes a beeline for Dean, and he’s vaguely aware of the batter standing frozen a few steps away from home plate, holding the bat helplessly in his hand, insisting that oh fuck he didn’t mean to do it and oh god is he okay .
“ Dean ,” Cas breathes, skidding to a stop on the mound and dropping to his knees. “Dean, can you hear me?” He shakes Dean’s shoulder and pulls off his cap, which somehow managed to stay in place on his head despite the blow. He doesn’t see any blood, but he stays frozen in place as Dean’s head lolls to the side and the rest of his body remains motionless.
He can feel a hand on his shoulder and looks up to see Chuck standing above him. “Let’s give him some space, Cas,” he says softly, shifting his grip so that he’s gently pulling on the strap of Cas’ chest protector. “He’ll be okay, just let the trainers get in, all right? He’ll be okay.”
Everyone around him is moving so slowly, it’s like they’re trudging through wet tar; nobody can get to Dean fast enough. When he drags himself to his feet and takes a few shaky steps toward his coach, his vacant spot at Dean’s side is filled immediately by trainers from both teams, one of whom is already on the phone with 911.
An eerie silence blankets the field, and Cas feels someone approach him from behind and drape an arm across his shoulders. Cas glances over and makes eye contact with Benny, who’s got no quips or sarcastic comments this time.
Cas doesn’t like it.
An ambulance siren wails in the distance, and Cas wants to throw up when he sees the paramedics hurry out onto the field. Garth squeezes his shoulder in an attempt at reassurance, but nothing is going to make Cas feel better until Dean opens his eyes again.
There’s a small ripple of chatter that grabs Cas’ attention, and his heart jumps up to his throat when he hears Chuck’s voice, full of relief.
“Dean, hey,” he says, and Cas stands on his toes to try and see above the cluster of people gathered around his friend. “No, no, it’s okay, you’re okay. We’re taking you to get checked out. You’re okay.”
Cas feels a hand clasp around his wrist, and he looks over to see Ash staring at him, pulling him forward. “C’mon, dude,” he says sharply. “He’s awake.” He pulls Cas back toward the circle of players and paramedics and forces him close, something Cas is grateful for, because he wouldn’t have been able to do it himself.
Over shoulders and between elbows, Cas manages to catch a few passing glimpses of Dean. He looks around, dazed, and his confused expression reminds Cas of one he’s seen babies do when they’re dumbstruck by the world around them. They’re seeing everything for the first time, and apparently Dean is, too. Dean blinks slowly, owlishly, and Cas doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he starts to feel lightheaded. Dean doesn’t do much else, just looks around curiously as the crowd gets to their feet, clapping. Cas laces his fingers together, tucking his hands behind his head, watching as the paramedics carefully load Dean up onto a stretcher.
Once Dean is off the field, Chuck trailing behind, Cas’ teammates try to shake off their nerves as they head back to their positions. There’s still a game to finish, after all, and Benny trots out to the mound, hesitantly taking Dean’s place. Cas should get back behind the plate and finish the game, but he doesn’t, opting instead to let Garth take over. He’s better when it comes to handling Benny’s screwball, anyway.
As far as Cas is concerned, this game’s over.
Cas hates hospitals.
He hates them, but he hates not knowing what’s going on with Dean even more.
After spending the past hour and a half staring at the floor tiles in the waiting room, Cas decides that St. Vincent Hospital couldn’t have picked an uglier pattern for them.
He and Chuck are the only ones from the team in the waiting room, and while they wait, Cas finds himself mentally sketching out the life stories of everyone in the room with them to try and calm himself down.
It’s more of a coping mechanism than anything, something to do when he’s bored to keep his mind from wandering into negative, self-destructive thoughts, and he’s gotten pretty good at it over the years.
The woman sitting across from them with a sleeping child in her lap is waiting for news on her husband. He’s a firefighter, and is being treated for second- and third-degree burns and severe smoke inhalation from a job earlier in the day. They just got married a few weeks ago.
The old man sitting as close to the check-in desk as possible is waiting for his wife to get out of a routine surgery.
The group of girls on the other side of the waiting room, sitting in a huddle under the TV, is waiting for news on their sorority sister, who tripped down some stairs while moving out of their house.
He decides that everyone in the room gets a happy ending, and Cas hopes that he can eventually be included in that group, too.
Another doctor steps out into the waiting room, and Cas glances up for a second before looking back down. He’s spent hours getting his hopes up that each doctor who had come out was Dean’s, only to find out that he’s still being evaluated, still in surgery, still not okay.
“Chuck Shurley?” she asks, and both Cas and Chuck scramble to their feet immediately as she walks toward them. Cas looks her up and down quickly--she doesn’t look disheveled or upset, but she could just have years of practice of looking calm.
“Hannah Carroll, Dean’s doctor,” she says, extending her hand for them to shake. She has kind eyes; Cas likes her immediately.
“How is he?” Chuck asks, his voice hoarse. Cas closes his eyes, unsure if he’s prepared for Dean’s prognosis, and waits. When he opens his eyes again, the doctor is smiling, and his heart lurches in his chest.
“He’ll be fine,” she says, and Cas has to work hard to stop his knees from enveloping the doctor in a hug, bursting into tears, or both.
“Can we see him?” Cas asks faintly, relishing the relief that’s washing over him. Dean’s okay, Dean’s okay, Dean’s okay.
Dr. Carroll shakes her head. “Not yet. He suffered a concussion and a minor skull fracture, so we had to get him into surgery quickly. But he’s tough,” she says with a smile, “and he made it out just fine. I’ll have someone let you know when he’s been assigned to a room, but I didn’t want to keep you waiting on news any longer than you had to.”
“Thank you,” Chuck and Cas say in unison. Dr. Carroll turns away from them, and the second she does, Cas feels himself being pulled into a hug, his body pressed up against his coach’s wiry frame. Cas returns the hug and grins when he feels Chuck pat him on the back. When he pulls away, his coach’s eyes are glassy, a relieved smile spread across his face.
“Wanna let the team know?” he asks softly, and Cas nods, pulling out his phone.
He’s never been more thrilled to send a text message in his life.
Dean is asleep when Cas and Chuck are finally able to go in and see him, and as much as Cas wishes he could hear his voice, the fact that Dean looks so peaceful and serene makes him feel better. A white bandage is wrapped around his head, and his blankets are pulled up to his chest, his arms resting at his sides with an IV in the back of his hand.
Cas can’t help but notice that it’s his pitching hand, and he winces in spite of himself.
“Hey, Dean,” Chuck says, taking one of the seats at Dean’s bedside as Cas grabs the other. “Gave us quite the scare there,” he says. He tries to follow it up with a chuckle, but it sounds awkward and hollow, and Cas decides to pretend that it didn’t happen.
“The team is happy to hear you’re okay,” Cas says quickly, and Chuck’s face brightens at that--something to talk about.
“Yeah?” he asks. “What’ve they said?”
Cas pulls his phone out of his pocket. It’s been vibrating nonstop against his leg with unread text messages, and he thumbs over to the team’s group chat.
Can’t wait to have you back, Dean-o
Glad ur alright, kid
You’re alive! \o/
Don’t ever fucking scare us like that again, Winchester
Chuck barks out a laugh at that last one before scrubbing a hand down his face. “That was from Lafitte, wasn’t it,” he says, and it’s more of a statement than a question.
“It was,” Cas says with a grin, scrolling through the rest of his texts. All the well wishes and positive thoughts make his eyes go glassy and a ball of warmth settle deep in his chest. Even though the well-wishes aren’t for him, these guys are still his teammates, his friends, and he knows that they’d be sending the same texts for anyone else on the team, too.
Shortly after Cas finishes reading the rest of the texts from his teammates, Chuck gets to his feet and stretches his arms high above his head. “Want anything down at the cafeteria?” he asks Cas.
“No, thank you.” Cas gives his coach a small smile, then turns back to Dean. He doesn’t want to miss anything, even if “anything” is just an extra second or two of Dean’s chest rising and falling. Chuck must notice, because he squeezes Cas’ shoulder before leaving the room.
“He’s okay, Cas,” he says softly. “He’ll be okay.”
The door closes behind him with a click, and Cas’ eyes dart around the room. Dean doesn’t have a roommate, and the closed door affords for more privacy, but he can still feel the all-too-familiar acidic taste of anxiety creeping up his throat. He swallows it down and, before he can second-guess himself, reaches forward to grab Dean’s hand, entwining their fingers together.
Dean’s hands are rough and calloused, but Cas has never felt anything so comfortable. He rolls his lips into his mouth as he studies their hands linked together, and wonders how Dean would be reacting if he were awake. He gives Dean’s hand a gentle squeeze before retracting his own, burrowing it back into the pocket of his hoodie.
“I’m glad you’re all right, Dean.”
Dean’s hospital room is quiet after the initial celebration. Despite Cas saying he wasn’t hungry, Chuck had returned with a meal for him, which tasted surprisingly less like cardboard than Cas had been anticipating, and set up a temporary spot for himself in the waiting room, making calls and updating everyone on Dean’s status.
Instead of sleeping like he knows he should be, Cas passes the time by staring out the window, chin resting on his arms, which are folded over each other on the windowsill. Three pigeons have been sitting on the electrical wires far below them for the past fifteen minutes, and Cas hasn’t noticed them move even the slightest bit. It’s also starting to get dark; cars are exiting the parking garage as the work day comes to an end, and for the first time, Cas’ exhaustion is catching up with him.
He’s been on red alert for hours upon hours, and now that he knows Dean will be okay, his body is starting to crash. He imagines his bed, his dorm, how much he misses his pillow, his blankets. Maybe sleep would be a good idea. Maybe he should--
Cas’ thoughts are interrupted by a soft groan and a long, drawn-out, “ Fuuuuuuck .”
His spine straightens immediately and he can’t turn around fast enough. Dean’s eyes are half-shut, and it’s clear from his posture that he’s still a bit dazed and unsure of what to do next. He doesn’t notice Cas at first, his eyes instead latching onto the IV in his hand. They follow the tube up to the drip he’s hooked up to, and he finally starts looking around the room.
His eyes go bright when they lock with Cas’, and Cas can feel fireworks go off deep in his chest at the relief he sees in Dean’s face.
“Dean,” he says softly, getting to his feet and making a beeline for Dean’s bedside. “I...how are you feeling?”
Dean flashes him a weak grin. “What hit me?” he asks, and Cas wants to smack him.
“That’s not funny,” he says sternly, nudging Dean’s upper arm with his elbow.
“You’re telling me,” Dean says with a wince. He adjusts himself gingerly, then gently presses two fingers to the bandage wrapped around his head. “Fuck.”
“What do you remember?”
“Enough.” Dean sighs, long and slow, before settling back against his pillow. He closes his eyes, but a second later they fly back open and he stares at Cas, panicked. “I, I’m--does Sam--”
“Chuck called him,” Cas says, putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “He knows what happened, and he knows you’re okay. He wanted us to call him when you woke up.”
“Have you?”
“I’ve been a bit preoccupied,” Cas says, “getting you reacquainted to the world again, you know.”
Dean purses those lips that Cas has been infatuated with for the past few months into a pout, and he flips Cas off with a smirk, then holds out his hand.
Cas’ brows furrow together as his eyes flick from Dean’s hand, to his face, and back. “What?”
“Sammy doesn’t know I’m awake yet,” he says simply.
Dean’s phone is back at Wildwood along with the rest of his belongings, and Cas pulls his own phone out of his pocket, unlocks it, and passes it over to Dean. Dean punches in a number and holds the phone in front of his face as it starts to ring. After a few seconds, Sam’s voice comes through the speaker.
“Casti-- Dean !”
Dean grins at the phone and waves, which is when Cas realizes Dean chose FaceTime over a regular call. “Hey, Sammy.”
“Are you okay? How are you feeling?”
“What, this isn’t enough of an answer?” Dean asks, tapping gingerly again at the white bandage wrapped around his head.
“Fuck you,” Sam says, but Cas can hear the affection in his voice, and he smiles down at his hands resting in his lap. “You’re not allowed to scare me like that, you asshole.”
Dean brings his fingers to his chin in a contemplative gesture. “Funny, I remember you scaring the fuck out of me when you broke your arm in gym class.”
“That was my arm; this is your head , Dean!”
Dean throws his head back to laugh--granted, not as quickly or as far as he normally would--and warmth floods Cas’ chest at another sign that Dean is slowly regaining his bearings. “Seriously, Sam,” he says, his voice and face sobering, “I’m okay. I’ll be fine.”
“His doctor said he would be able to leave tomorrow night, if all goes well,” Cas contributes, and Dean looks at him in surprise.
“Yeah?” he asks. Cas nods, and Dean grins. “See? Good as new. Now what do you say you let me rest, huh? You must have some homework to finish or something with all those goddamn AP classes.”
Sam smiles, and Cas watches as the younger Winchester runs a hand through his hair. “Call me when you’re out, okay?”
“Sure.”
“And tell Castiel thanks.”
Dean glances at Cas and raises his eyebrows-- you hear that ? “You’re welcome, Sam,” Cas says, mirroring Sam’s smile.
Sam pauses, almost hesitating, but quickly says, “Love you, Dean.”
“You, too, Sammy.”
And with one last wave, Dean disconnects the call. He leans back against his pillows again, suddenly looking more drained than he had before. He closes his eyes for a few seconds, then gives Cas a weak half-smile. “No more sliders,” he mumbles, and for the first time in what seems like ages, Cas laughs.
“No,” he says, shaking his head definitively. “No more sliders.”
“I don't understand how Turner expects us to do all of this,” Cas says, twirling his pen in one hand and resting his chin in the other as he stares down at his textbook.
“What, you mean you biochem majors aren’t miracle workers?” Dean asks slyly, smirking at Cas.
“As much as he might think so, no, we’re not.”
It’s been three weeks since Dean got back from the hospital, and Cas has barely left his side. They’re both on campus for the summer--Dean to volunteer for Wildwood’s several baseball camps and clinics for younger kids, Cas to catch up on classes so he’ll be able to graduate on time--and Cas can’t say he minds the fact that he and Dean have been more or less attached at the hip ever since classes ended.
Dean’s recovery had gone smoothly in the physical sense, but despite trying to hide his feelings or push through them, he’s still skittish and anxious on the field, especially around the mound. It had been Cas’ idea for him to ease back into things by helping younger kids learn the basics of the game he loves so much; at first, Dean hadn’t taken kindly to what he considered to be a watered-down solution to his anxieties, but soon enough, Cas would find him planning batting and pitching drills for the kids in his spare time, would watch him gently adjust the kids’ grips on their bats, teach them how to drop into fielding position for grounders, all while offering encouragement and cheers for every single camper.
He draws little caricatures of the kids as gifts for whenever they accomplish a new skill or perfect something they’d been having trouble with. Slowly but surely, and even though he’d taken an offbeat path to get there, Cas could see Dean’s comfort on the diamond returning.
Today, he’s working on sketches for Ben, who’d just learned how to bunt, and Krissy, a feisty little girl who’d perfected the art of using two hands to catch a grounder at third base. They’re still in the early stages--Dean sketches, inks, and colors each drawing--but Cas can already tell that they’ll be just as loved as the ones Dean has already completed and given to their owners.
To put it mildly, despite his complete lack of artistic ability, Cas still wishes he could be sketching with Dean instead of muddling through the stacks of homework Professor Turner had given his class.
“On top of all the readings he assigned last cl--”
Cas cuts himself off and freezes when he feels something brush up against his cheek. It's so quick, he almost doesn't register it right away, but when he looks up and sees Dean staring down at his sketchbook, his cheeks a deep red, he knows exactly what happened.
Dean just fucking kissed him.
Cas gingerly touches the spot Dean’s lips were just on, his cheeks going hot as he realizes that he's basically put himself in the middle of a trailer for a goddamn romantic comedy.
“Dean…” he says hesitantly.
Dean glances at him for a split second before craning his neck back and staring up at the sky. “That was stupid,” he says. “I'm sorry, Cas. I don't know what I was thinkin’, I just, it felt--” He chuckles awkwardly before rapping his knuckles against the side of his head. “Still a little fucked up in here, I guess.” He waves his hand, still not looking at Cas. “It was outta line. We can just--”
Cas kisses his cheek
Dean looks at him, his eyes wide, face a mixture of shock and excitement. “Yeah?” he asks, flashing Cas a lopsided grin.
Cas nods. “Yes.”
When Dean leans over and rests a hand on Cas’ cheek, his thumb resting along his jawline, Cas can feel his stomach start to tense up. He wants to close his eyes, but he also just wants to stare into Dean’s, which are closer, clearer, brighter, greener than he's ever seen them before. And what if he closes his eyes and they're gone? And he never sees them this close up, this happy again?
When Dean leans in and presses his lips against Cas’, Cas is convinced that he won’t have to worry about anything like that.
Dean’s lips are soft and warm and make Cas self-conscious about how chapped his own must be, but if Dean’s gently prodding tongue is any indication, he doesn’t seem to mind. Dean’s teeth latch onto Cas’ bottom lip and Cas’ breath catches in his throat. That makes Dean smile; Cas can tell by the way he can feel Dean’s lips curve up against his own, and he smiles back, resting his hand on Dean’s knee and reveling in the warmth of Dean’s hand on his cheek. His shoulders slump and the muscles in his neck relax, and Cas realizes that, for the first time in what seems like forever, he’s comfortable . He’s not second-guessing himself like he had during his first kiss, constantly comparing himself to Ezekiel’s exes and wondering if his breath smelled and what he should do with his hands. He’s still wondering those things, but with Dean, he finds himself not caring about the answers, because it’s clear that Dean doesn’t care, so he shouldn’t, either.
Cas just fits with Dean, and for once, he doesn’t want to dig any deeper than that.
They kiss for a few more moments, their bodies coming closer and closer together until Dean drops his head suddenly, smiling down at the grass. Cas takes the opportunity to press one more kiss to Dean’s forehead.
“This,” he says, reaching out his hand and gently lifting Dean’s chin up to look at him, “is okay.”
Dean’s leg is bouncing up and down restlessly, his cleats clacking against the cement floor of the dugout. Cas still considers it one of his favorite sounds, but the fact that he’s hearing it now because Dean is nervous makes him want to reconsider. Cas knows Dean wouldn’t want anyone to catch onto his nerves, so he tries to be as discreet as possible when he intertwines his fingers with Dean’s. Dean doesn’t look at him, but he squeezes his hand quickly, letting Cas know that he got the message.
“Welcome to the first day of fall ball, gents.” Chuck claps his hands together before spreading them wide, grinning at everyone in the dugout. “Good summers? Yes?”
There’s a murmuring of assent that quickly dissolves into everyone catching up with each other all over again, and Chuck starts clapping again to get his players’ attention back on him. “Okay, okay, discuss it after the game.
“Now, as I’m sure you all know, these scrimmages are just that--they’re a way for you to practice, stretch out any muscles that might’ve had too much of a break over the summer, get back into your grooves before the spring. But it’d still be appreciated if you, oh, I don’t know, tried, okay?”
“Yeah, Winchester,” Benny says, nudging Dean with his elbow, “try a little harder to get back on your feet, huh, brother?”
Their teammates laugh as Dean flips Benny off, and Cas can feel all eyes on him and Dean. This will be his first start since the playoffs last spring, and Dean isn’t the only one who’s tense. Cas runs his thumb gently across Dean’s knuckles.
“Like I said,” Chuck continues, as if he hadn’t noticed the few seconds of silence after Benny’s comment, “use this to warm up for the season, not as a place to play out your World Series fantasies, got it?”
Ash gets to his feet and salutes Chuck. “Sir, yes, sir.”
Laughter echoes throughout the dugout, and the starters grab their gloves and jog out onto the field. Dean hangs back for a few extra seconds, and Cas brings Dean’s hand discreetly to his lips, pressing a quick kiss against his knuckles.
Dean gives him a small, grateful grin. “Ready?” he asks.
Cas nods. “When you are.”
Dean nods and gets to his feet, tucking his glove under his arm so he can adjust his cap. “Well, we’ll see how it goes.”
Once the batter has taken his stance in the box, Cas sizes him up, trying to decide on the appropriate pitch while simultaneously trying not to get distracted by the intensity in Dean’s eyes 60 feet away.
Dean’s staring down the plate at Cas, one hand behind his back fingering the strings of the ball. The brim of his cap is shading his eyes, and for a split second Cas is taken aback by how serious Dean looks, and is reminded once more of how much he wants to prove to everyone--himself included--that he can do this.
Cas gives the sign for a changeup, and for a few seconds, Dean does nothing; he just keeps staring. Maybe he’s rusty, is having trouble remembering which signs coincide with which pitches. Cas gives the sign again, and Dean still doesn’t react. He stays frozen in place until he abruptly straightens up and turns his back to Cas, his glove over his mouth and nose.
“Time, please,” Cas says to the ump, and gets out of his crouch and heads to the mound without waiting for a response. His gut is churning as he approaches Dean, wondering what the hell he’ll say to comfort him and calm him down, if anything he can say can even do that.
Dean must hear him approaching, because just as Cas reaches out a hand toward his shoulder, he whirls around, glove still over his mouth, eyes downcast. “I can’t do this, Cas,” he mutters quickly, and when he finally does look up, Cas’ heart drops at the fear in his eyes.
“Dean--”
“I can’t, call Chuck, get someone--” Dean cuts himself off, glancing frantically up and over toward the dugout, eyes searching for their coach. “I can’t, this is, no…” He’s talking faster and faster, his words stumbling over each other as they leave his mouth, and takes a deep breath, grabbing Dean’s shoulder.
“Dean, look at me.”
When he’s got Dean’s eyes on him, Cas starts breathing slowly, exaggeratedly, hoping Dean will start mirroring him. “It’s okay to be scared,” he says. “You have every right to be. Ask anyone.” Dean closes his eyes, and Cas can tell he’s about to start protesting again, so he continues. “But you can do this. I know you can, everyone knows you can, and I think that includes you, too.”
Cas reaches out and wraps his fingers around the wrist of Dean’s gloved hand, gently pulling it away from Dean’s face. “One pitch at a time,” he says, and Dean stares at him. After a few seconds of silence, Dean nods stiffly and starts toeing at the dirt on the mound.
“Okay.”
“You can do this.”
Dean looks like he’s still trying to convince himself of that, and Cas wishes he could take as much time as his boyfriend needs to calm down, but the ump is approaching them with a sharp, “Any time, now, catch.”
The batter taps his bat against his cleats, shooting Cas an impatient look before stepping back into the box. Cas crouches back down and flexes the fingers of his free hand before positioning his glove in front of his chest and giving Dean the same sign as before.
Dean works quickly this time, effectively ripping off the Band-Aid. He brings the ball into his glove, glances around once more, winds up, and throws.
It’s good; Cas can tell the second it leaves Dean’s hand. The batter knows this, too, and Cas senses him rearing back, preparing to swing. Cas wills the ball to land in his mitt, for the batter to swing and miss, but neither of those things happen, and Cas springs to his feet the second the ball cracks against the bat.
Dean’s eyes widen as the ball shoots back toward him, and Cas’ breath catches in his throat. He watches as Dean holds out his glove in an attempt to grab it--or at least look like he’s trying--misses, and lets it bounce behind him toward Victor at second base, who scoops it up and throws it over to Andy at first.
And just like that, there’s one out, and everybody’s still conscious. Easy.
Dean smacks his hand against his glove in approval as Andy tosses the ball back to him. The relief on Dean’s face is palpable as heads back to the mound and flashes Cas a quick smirk before mouthing a quick phrase to him.
Cas can’t tell if Dean’s words are thank you or love you , and although he’d really, really prefer the latter, he figures he can take Dean out after the game and get clarification on it--as well as maybe a kiss or seven--after the game.
He smiles back at Dean before holding up one finger, yelling, “One down!” and crouching back into position.
On to the next one.