Chapter Text
The first day of university smelled like autumn—crisp leaves clinging to damp pavement, the air sharp with the promise of rain. Dean Winchester clutched the strap of his worn backpack tighter as he jogged across campus, breath puffing in uneven clouds.
He hated being late. It made his chest feel tight, like the world was watching and waiting for him to trip. His inhaler was a hard lump in the hoodie pocket he kept his hand in, ready if the running caught up to him.
The football audition poster had said 10 a.m. sharp. It was 9:59.
He skidded to a stop at the gymnasium doors, tugged down his hoodie sleeves, and pushed inside.
The gym smelled like fresh polish, sweat, and adrenaline. Voices echoed from the far side where hopefuls were already stretching, chatting, and laughing too loud. Dean hung back near the wall, adjusting his glasses, trying not to be seen.
He didn’t even know why he was here. Sports weren’t his thing. He was the quiet, hoodie-wearing omega who belonged in the library or curled up writing music lyrics in the margins of his physics notes. His idea of a workout was walking to class with an iced coffee. Football had never been in the plan.
But then—he saw him.
Castiel Novak.
He was standing in the center of the gym floor, dark hair sticking out in deliberate disarray, navy jersey hugging his broad shoulders like it had been made for him. An Alpha in every line of his stance—calm, commanding, scent sharp like cedar smoke and stormwind. Dean’s knees felt weak just breathing it in.
The older alpha’s blue eyes swept the room, and for the briefest second, they locked on Dean. Dean’s stomach flipped.
Then Cas looked away like Dean wasn’t even there.
Dean swallowed hard, tugging at his hoodie strings as if they could shield him. He almost turned to leave right then. But something in his chest whispered: Stay.
The whistle blew.
The tryouts began.
The drills were brutal. Sprints, catches, tackles that rattled Dean’s bones. His lungs burned and the edges of his vision darkened, but he kept running. Kept pushing. Every time he looked up, Cas was watching—not with encouragement, but with a cool, cutting stare that made Dean want to disappear.
By the end, Dean’s legs shook so bad he almost collapsed. But he’d made it. Every pass, every catch. He was trembling but proud.
“You’re in,” the coach said, clapping his shoulder.
Dean blinked. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, Winchester. Welcome to the team.”
Dean grinned weakly, heart soaring—until he overheard:
“You’ll be playing against Novak. Different teams this season.”
His heart sank so fast it hurt.
The first time Cas spoke to him was a week later, during their first practice game.
Dean had been sprinting with the ball, adrenaline singing, almost reaching the line—when Cas came out of nowhere. He blocked hard, shoving Dean to the ground. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs. He wheezed, chest spasming, fumbling for air. His inhaler was on the sideline.
Cas stood over him, sneering.
“You play like you’re made of glass,” he said coldly, voice pitched so only Dean could hear.
Dean blinked up at him, chest burning.
“Maybe try chess club, omega,” Cas added. “You don’t belong here.”
Then he walked away, leaving Dean crumpled in the dirt.
Dean bit back the tears that threatened to spill. Not here. Not in front of him.
It didn’t stop there.
Every time Dean tried to be friendly, Cas cut him down.
When Dean offered a shy “good game,” Cas rolled his eyes.
When Dean left a water bottle on Cas’s bench, Cas’s friends laughed—“Trying to impress him? Pathetic.”
Cas said nothing. Didn’t defend him. Just looked past him like he was nothing.
That night, Dean locked himself in the locker room bathroom and cried into his sleeves, silent and shaking.
But not everyone was cruel.
Benny, a senior on Dean’s team, clapped him on the shoulder after practice one day.
“Don’t let Novak get to you, kid. He’s got his own demons.”
Charlie and Jo sent him stupid memes at 2 a.m., trying to cheer him up when he couldn’t sleep.
And then there was Crowley.
Sharp-tongued, charming, another alpha on Dean’s team who noticed things.
The first time Cas’s friends shoved Dean “accidentally,” Crowley stepped in, growling low and dangerous.
“Touch him again,” he said, “and I’ll rearrange your teeth.”
Dean flushed. “You didn’t have to—”
Crowley smirked. “I wanted to. You’re worth protecting.”
Still, every time Cas looked at him—every cold glance, every shove—it broke something inside Dean.
He cried quietly, where no one could see.
And yet… he didn’t quit.
Because love was stupid like that.
Because even pain felt like something when it came from him.