Chapter Text
Dean stretches, wincing as a kink in his back pops.
Practice hadn’t been going too well today. Sam was trying to help as much as he could, obviously, but he couldn’t do much with that brace on his leg. And Coach Singer was being fucking brutal, practically barking orders, putting them through their paces. He had gotten pissed and sent half the team through suicide runs just because he could, and now Dean was seriously wondering if he had pulled a muscle.
“Winchester! Front and center!”
Dean grimaces, tugging on his gloves.
He was crap today. He knows it, Bobby knows it. Sam knows it too—and that perhaps hurts the most. His little brother, regulated to the sidelines because of a torn ACL, and now he has to watch Dean be a failure.
Bobby blows his whistle, and everyone lines up in a solid line in front of the goal.
Penalty kicks. Of course. Just the icing on the cake of the fucking shitty day he’s had.
But that just makes Dean wants to try more.
He dives, because all he can do is dive, but most of them go in, and with each goal, his frustration increases. He feels like Bobby’s just punishing him at this point.
He breaks briefly in between shots and chugs some water, not caring when most of it spills all over his face. He tosses the bottle aside and turns to see who’s up next.
Roman. That fucker Dean hates more than anyone on the goddamn team.
The man gives him an oily-black smile, all teeth.
“Bring it, asshole,” Dean mutters under his breath.
Roman takes his time, but finally he winds up. The shot comes, and Dean dives, falling to the grass—
He’s only conscious of his hands roughly hitting away the ball before everything goes black.
He wakes up to a soft hand tapping his face.
“Hey. Hey. You okay?”
Dean blinks his eyes open to a wide set of blue eyes, peering at him intently. And a whole wall of pain, banging around the inside of his skull.
"Son of a bitch,” Dean mumbles.
He tries to sit up, but the voice belonging to the eyes gently pushes him back down.
“Whoa, whoa. Take it easy.”
Dean fights against the blurriness of his vision, blinking a couple times.
Such nice eyes. And all four of them too.
Wait. What?
“I think he has a concussion,” he hears the voice say.
“What’s his name?”
“Dean.”
“Dean? Can you hear me?”
There’s a light shining in his eyes, and Dean scowls, trying to squirm away from it. The voice speaks again.
“You hit your head against the goalpost on that last shot.”
Dean processes this. Then he frowns.
“Did I…did I save it?”
The man chuckles.
“Yes, you saved it.”
He tilts Dean’s head gently, checking him over.
“At the cost of some sleepless nights, I’m afraid,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Dean finally focuses long enough to see all the faces crowding around them. He can see his brother, hovering in the background as the team medic tends to him. Dean vaguely recognizes the dude.
“You’re…”
He coughs, tugging at his wrist.
“Cassiel. Right?”
“Castiel,” he corrects kindly. “But you can call me Cas.”
“Cas,” Dean repeats. “I like it.”
Castiel laughs again, and Dean feels ridiculously lightheaded. Or maybe that was his system going into shock. Who knows.
“Most people like it, too,” he says conversationally, helping him sit up. “A lot shorter than Castiel.”
“I like you, Castiel,” Dean mumbles, his brain sinking into blackness.
There’s a slap on his cheek, urging him back to reality.
“None of that now. You can’t go to sleep with a head injury like that,” Cas says, slinging an arm over his shoulder and heaving him up. “Not for at least 12 hours.”
“I have to stay up all night?” Dean smiles dopily at those eyes. “Whatever am I to do?” He slurs, grinning at him.
There’s another solid weight at his other side, and then his brother’s voice, equal parts worried and grumbly.
“Typical. Guy’s got a minor head wound, and tries to use it as an excuse to hit on you.”
Dean flushes. He may have been drooling over the guy ever since he got recruited to the team, but Cas didn’t need to know that.
“Shut up, Sam,” he growls. But Castiel just laughs.
“Tell you what.”
They sit him down on the bench, and Cas smiles as he finishes patching him up.
“You take care of yourself for the next two weeks, and when you come back to practice, we’ll talk.”
Dean smiles, unfocused. The pain was still there, but it had tapered off into a dull throbbing. Maybe Cas had healing hands.
“Sounds good, Cas.”
Cas gives him a wry smile. He places those fingers to Dean’s temple, probably just to check him again, but Dean could swear his hand lingers.
Cas packs up his stuff as Sam fusses over Dean, disappearing to grab some ice. Coach Singer beckons Cas over, and he straightens, signaling that he’s coming. He turns back to Dean, peering intently at him.
"You sure you’re going to be alright?"
Dean nods.
"Yeah. Sammy’ll take care of me. More like hover, but he’ll make sure I don’t die," he jokes. Cas smiles.
"Well, then."
Cas slings his bag over his shoulder.
“Guess I’ll have to keep you up all night some other time.”
Then in a heartbeat, he’s heading back off to the field, leaving Dean gaping after him.
He blinks a couple times.
God bless penalty kicks.