Chapter Text
The welcome packet had been sitting on Cas’ bed for hours before he finally gathers the courage to look at it.
It’s a typical college acceptance package, the sturdy folder plastered with photos of kids caught in forced laughter, faculty members pretending to teach, a soccer player in mid-kick, a look of intense determination and focus on her face. Cas opens the folder and pulls out the first piece of paper tucked inside.
Dear Castiel,
Congratulations! On behalf of the admissions team at Wildwood University, I am delighted to inform you of your acceptance into the Biochemistry program and welcome you to the Class of 2018.
The rest of the letter waxes poetic about how he’s about to become a part of Wildwood’s distinct undergraduate class, receive a top-notch education, and that they can’t wait to see how he’ll contribute to the community as a transfer student. Cas rolls his eyes at that and scans the rest of the letter until he gets to the bottom, where he sees a hastily scrawled note written next to the president’s stamped signature.
Looking forward to meeting you, Novak! -Coach Shurley
That brings a small half-smile to Cas’ lips; at least the baseball coach seemed approachable enough.
Cas spends a few more minutes looking through the items in the folder: a financial aid form, housing papers, a list of important dates and deadlines, when he hears a soft knock on his door.
“Come in,” he calls awkwardly, and looks up to see his mother poking her head hesitantly into his room.
“Hi, sweetie,” she says, taking a few steps forward before closing the door behind her. “How are--oh, is that from Wildwood?”
Cas nods and scoots over, making room for his mother on the bed. She picks up the folder and starts flipping through the papers and packets herself. “Why do I have to go to a place that sounds like an elegant boarding school in the Berkshires?” he asks, and his mother stiffens at that.
“Wildwood offered you a lot , Castiel,” she says, “more than any other school you applied to.” She reads the acceptance letter as if it’s the first time she’s seeing the words, even though they’d emailed him a copy a few weeks before the mailed version arrived. “This will be good for you,” she continues, leaning over and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “A fresh start.”
Cas wants to laugh at that, but knows that his mother wouldn’t appreciate it. Instead, he just nods and reaches for the acceptance letter again. “The baseball coach seems nice.”
His mother’s eyes brighten at that. “He does , doesn’t he? And I’m sure he’ll have better control over his players than Coach Sullivan did.” Her face darkens at the mention of Cas’ baseball coach at his old school, and Cas swallows around the lump that’s suddenly formed in his throat.
He knows it’s impossible, but if he never had to think of his freshman year of college--and all the subsequent breakdowns, medication, and therapy sessions to go with it--again, it’d be too soon.
His mother presses a kiss to the top of his head before getting to her feet. “We’ll go shopping this weekend, find some new things for your dorm,” she says.
Cas nods and gives her a quick, forced smile that looks just genuine enough to get her out of the room. Once he hears the door click shut behind her, Cas allows all the tension to flood out of his body and he flops down on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
“Second time’s the charm,” he mutters.
Despite her pestering, Cas had insisted that he didn’t need his mother to accompany him to move-in day, but as he pulls up in front of Miranda Hall, a tall, looming building in the middle of campus, Cas can’t help but wonder if he’d made a mistake by not letting her come.
It had taken him three different tries to find his way to Miranda, and now that he’s finally here, he just wants to go home. The campus is abuzz with overeager freshmen and their parents unloading their cars, and Cas tightens his grip on his steering wheel.
You can do this, he thinks to himself. You’ve done this. Now you just need to finish it.
He closes his eyes and pops the trunk before climbing out of his car, and is about to start unloading his bedding when he hears footsteps approach from behind. Before he can turn around, an over-enthusiastic voice greets him.
“ Hiiiiiiiii !” a girl in white shorts and a forest green T-shirt emblazoned with a white W says excitedly as she wraps him into a hug that takes Cas completely off-guard. He stiffens in her embrace, praying that she’ll let him go soon; when she finally does, he notices that three more girls and two guys are swarming his car, hoisting his laundry baskets over their shoulders and loading his snacks and books onto a cart.
RAs.
“Welcome to Wildwood!” she says, beaming as she takes a step back. “We’re so excited you’re here!”
“Clearly,” Cas murmurs, not loud enough for her to hear him. He stumbles forward as someone else slaps him between the shoulderblades, and looks over his shoulder to see one of the guys hoisting his bag with his catcher’s gear over one shoulder.
“What’s your room number, dude?”
Cas sucks in a deep breath through his nose. “318.”
The guy takes a few seconds to mentally locate Cas’ room in his head, then leads the group--Cas right in the middle of them--into Miranda Hall. Cas casts one last glance to his car, which now, with almost all its doors thrown open, as well as the trunk, looks like it’s been picked apart by vultures, before letting himself be guided inside.
Even though Cas usually hates when other people touch his belongings without permission, he has to admit that there’s no way he could’ve gotten everything up to his room as quickly and smoothly as the five RAs did. They drop everything off on the vacant side of room 318, make sure he’s got his ID card and room key, wish him luck, then are gone almost as fast as they appeared.
Once Cas moves his car, avoids the attempts of a different group of RAs to get him to attend a freshman orientation activity, and collapses onto his unmade bed, he finally takes a look around. Room 318 is unremarkable as far as dorm rooms go--bed, desk, chair, and dresser, but what really catches Cas’ attention is his roommate’s side.
There are economy-sized bags of candy lining the desk, each one torn open ungracefully, and posters for every single one of Wildwood’s sketch comedy groups taped on the wall above it. The book that’s been left tented on the bed-- Live from New York --is worn and full of colorful placeholders.
Each one of the posters taped on his roommate’s walls are tour posters for comedians, and Cas’ stomach clenches uncomfortably as he begins to wonder if he and his roommate will have anything in common.
A few names are familiar--Ali Wong, John Mulaney, Tig Notaro--but Cas finds himself doing a double-take at Hannibal Buress. Hannibal. Like the cannibal. Please, please let him not have some weird cannibal/comedian obsession . He shakes his head and covers his face with a pillow, groaning softly into the fabric. He would be stuck with someone with a serial killer fascination.
Cas stays that way for a few moments before he feels his phone start buzzing in his pocket. He digs into his pocket and pulls it out, only removing the pillow to glance at the screen.
Good luck, sweetie! Have a wonderful first day xoxoxoxo
Cas closes his eyes and lets his hand holding the phone drop onto his mattress. He should send her a reply, let her know that he’d arrived safely and found his dorm without incident, but he suddenly feels heavy, like he can’t bring himself to do much of anything right now.
He stays that way for a few moments, trying to muster up the strength to force himself out of bed. He’s got practice in half an hour-- cutting it close, Novak --and he can’t afford to fuck up his first impression by missing it, no matter how understanding his new coach might have seemed over the phone.
Cas rolls over onto his back with a groan, then gets to his feet and starts digging around through a suitcase for some shorts and a T-shirt. By the time he’s changed and ready to go, there’s still no sign of his roommate. Cas hefts his bag over his shoulder; he’ll have to meet him later.
Wildwood’s campus is, well, beautiful . As Cas tries to figure out the best way to get to the field, he finds himself getting distracted by the perfectly manicured lawn on the Quad, the well-trimmed hedges and flower beds, the impeccable buildings dotting the property.
Although it’s currently milling with people, Cas is able to zero in on several different places where he could picture himself relaxing later, small nooks in the campus where he can hide away for a bit and do nothing but read, listen to music, or just people-watch. No matter how much he tries to tamp it down, no matter how many as-needed anti-anxiety meds he popped beforehand, Cas can still feel his anxiety creeping up his throat at the idea of meeting a horde of new people. He loves this game, though, and if continuing to play means he has to risk being ridiculed by fifteen new teammates, then so be it. Samwell had just been a fluke--a really fucking awful fluke, sure--but he got through it.
As he approaches the edge of the Quad and catches his first glimpse of the baseball diamond in the distance, he nods to himself. You can do this, Cas. It’ll be fine.
Or at least, that’s what he hopes.
Most of the other players have already arrived and are in the outfield warming up, and Cas has the dugout to himself. He manages to find a dusty little corner that hasn’t been claimed by bags or buckets of balls, and lets his bag slide off his shoulder and onto the cement floor with a thud.
A quick peek through the chainlink fence tells him that the other catcher, a gangly-looking kid with big ears, is half-dressed in his gear, and Cas sighs. He’d been hoping to make a good first impression without his bulky catcher’s gear, but the last thing he wants is to be unprepared, so he digs through his dusty, cluttered bag before pulling out his shin guards and mitt and taking a few steps backward toward the bench. His cleats clack on the cement as he does so; he’s always liked that noise.
He plops down on the metal bench and extends one leg, then the other, hooking the straps into place. He pulls on his mitt and is about to get to his feet when a voice interrupts his thoughts.
“You the new catcher?”
Cas looks up and his jaw nearly drops at the goddamn adonis leaning against the fence in front of him. He’s got his arms folded across his chest, legs crossed at the ankles, looking at Cas curiously. There’s so much of him to take in, but the first thing Cas is drawn to are his eyes. Cas can’t tell what color they are from the shade provided by the brim of his cap--maybe green--but they look friendly and warm. He smiles at Cas, and the skin around his eyes crinkles with the motion.
“I, uh, yes,” Cas stammers. “I’m...yes.”
The guy flashes him another lopsided grin that makes Cas blush all the way from his toes to the tips of his ears. “Dean Winchester,” he says. “Third rotation.” He steps forward and sticks out his hand for Cas to shake, and Cas goes to reach for it with his catcher’s mitt.
“ Shit .” He quickly pulls it back and shakes the mitt off, letting it land on the dirt outside the dugout with a thunk before re-extending his free hand to Dean. Dean laughs and shakes it, his fingers warm and firm around Cas’ hand.
“One of those days, huh?” he says.
“I suppose,” Cas answers, pulling his cap as far down over his face as it’ll go.
“Yeah, I know that feeling.” He bends down and picks up Cas’ mitt, studying it in his hand. He glances at Cas and gives him one more grin before tossing it back to him. “Let’s catch.”
Oh, Christ.
Dean heads toward a free space and Cas follows him, trying to jog as smoothly as he can with the shin guards strapped to his legs. There’s no way not to move awkwardly in those things, though; he’s never been bothered by it before, but he’s also never been in the presence of Dean fucking Winchester before.
The pitcher takes pity on him and stops a few feet away, then walks backwards so they can start throwing. Cas watches Dean as he laughs at something one of their teammates says, and grits his teeth.
They’re not laughing at you, they’re not laughing at you, they’re not laughing at you.
Dean waves and flashes Cas a quick smile before holding the ball up in the air. “You ready?” he calls. Cas holds up his mitt in response, and Dean leans back and tosses the ball Cas’ way.
Cas had been expecting himself to be a complete awkward trainwreck around Dean Winchester, but it’s actually the opposite. He’s surprised at how easily conversation comes, and the genuine interest that Dean seems to take in what he thought was a relatively unremarkable life.
“So you’re a scientist?” Dean asks, lobbing the ball lazily toward Cas.
“Sort of. My major is in biochemistry, so I’ll hopefully be doing something in the medical field after I graduate.”
Dean lets out a low whistle. “Let me be the first to say that I, as an illustration and animation major, feel particularly useless hearing that.”
Cas laughs. “Illustration is important, too.”
Dean scoffs. “Whatever you say, Bill Nye.” They toss the ball back and forth in silence a few more times before Dean poses another question. “And you’re a transfer?”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
“Samwell,” Cas says.
Dean raises his eyebrows. “Heard they’ve got a pretty great hockey team.”
Cas nods. “They do.”
“So why’d you leave?”
The taunting and regularly scheduled hazing sessions devoted just to him seems like too much to get into upon first meeting, so Cas just shrugs and says, “Financial aid.”
Dean purses his lips and considers this. “Understandable.” He tosses the ball up in the air, his eyes following it back down into his glove, then looks over at Cas. “Speaking from experience, this place ain’t bad with financial aid, so you should be all set.”
And then he fucking winks , and Cas can feel his knees buckle underneath his shin guards. “I, uh, that’s good to know.”
A whistle pierces through the air from the dugout, saving Cas from any additional opportunities to embarrass himself. Dean jogs over to him and tosses the ball up in the air once more; Cas likes the way the sun highlights the green in his eyes, and the freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose.
“Ready for day one?” he asks.
Cas grins and nods, all while hoping that Dean thinks the reason he’s flushed is because of the sun. He holds his arm out in invitation, and says, “After you, Bob Ross.”
Dean takes a step back, his head tilted and lips quirking up in a bemused smile. He looks almost as confused as Cas feels at the quip, and wonders for a second if he overstepped his teasing bounds when Dean laughs, a rich, hearty sound that Cas immediately wants to hear more of.
“I like you, Cas,” he says, tossing the ball Cas’ way. Cas scoops it out of the air in his glove and when he looks up, Dean is jogging toward the dugout. As he trails behind, his heart swells when he hears Dean mutter, “Bob Ross” affectionately under his breath.
They head over to the dugout and gather with the rest of the team around Coach Shurley, a skinny guy with a scraggly beard and hopeful smile. He doesn't look like an athlete, but he had seemed friendly over the phone, which is all Cas can really ask for.
“Calm down, guys, c’mon,” he says, waiting for the players to make themselves comfortable in the dugout. Some lean against the fence, others lounge on the bench, chewing sunflower seeds and spitting them at each other. “We've got a new recruit, don't want him thinking that all we do is fuck around, right?”
“Why lie to him?” one guy in a dark blue T-shirt asks, his deep southern drawl dripping slowly like maple syrup. He pops his bubble gum and taps the heels of his cleats against the cement dugout floor before looking lazily at Cas with a smirk. “He’ll figure it out soon enough.”
“Don’t scare ‘im away, Lafitte, c’mon,” Dean says, reaching over and shoving playfully at his teammate.
“‘M not scarin’ him, brother, I’m warnin’ him,” Lafitte says. “There’s a difference.”
“We’re not that bad,” Coach Shurley interjects before Dean or Lafitte can say anything else. He glances at Cas and spreads one arm wide, gesturing to Cas’ new teammates. “Gentlemen, meet our new catcher, Cas Novak. Cas Novak, meet the gentlemen.”
Cas lets his eyes wander over each member of the team, and for the first time in a while, he doesn’t feel scared. Sure, he’s met with some blank or bored-looking faces, but nobody avoids eye contact or glares. He’d gotten so used to that at Samwell that it’s almost unsettling without it, but he shakes his head quickly to clear the thoughts from his head before addressing his new teammates.
“Uh, hello,” he says awkwardly, waving. “I’m very excited to join your team.”
“You planning on takin’ Fitzy’s spot?” one of his new teammates asks, clapping another catcher on the back, who suddenly looks panic-stricken, as if this had never even occurred to him as a possibility before.
Cas’ eyes widen. “No,” he says quickly. “No, no, of course not. I--”
His teammate’s eyes sparkle with amusement, and he laughs. “I’m just fucking with you, dude.” He takes a step forward and smacks Cas on the side of his arm. “Victor Henriksen. Second base.”
Cas flashes him a small, relieved smile and tries to calm his rapidly increasing heart rate again.
“Jesus, Henriksen, you’re gonna give him a heart attack.” An arm slings itself across Cas’ shoulders, and he glances out of the corner of his eye to see Dean pressed right up against him.
“Novak or Fitzy?” Victor asks, leaning back against the chainlink fence.
“Both.” Dean catches Cas looking at him at that, and winks. Cas is quick to look away, taking a sudden interest in his cleats.
“I would’ve been fine!” the other catcher, Garth, insists. He’s a skinny dude, and Cas can’t help but wonder how he doesn’t get bowled over by pitches.
Another guy, sitting on the bench and chewing way too much gum, laughs. “Yeah, because you’ve got nerves of steel, Garth. Need I remind you about spring training last year?”
Garth’s posture changes immediately into that of a pouting teenager. “Oh, come on ,” he says, “that was after my sixth drink!”
“Okay, okay!” Chuck snaps his fingers and waves his free arm to get the team’s attention. “The coach doesn’t need to know what you miscreants get up to in your free time.” He points out to the field and looks at them all expectantly. “Four laps, let’s go!”
The door to Cas’ room is propped open when he finally manages to lug all his gear back to his dorm, and he sighs. Introducing himself to so many people, having to keep track of sixteen new names and faces--not to mention focusing on one in particular--had exhausted him enough; he’d forgotten about having a new roommate to meet on top of it all.
Maybe if he sneaks in quietly, he won’t have to make any uncomfortable smalltalk.
“Hey, you Novak?” a voice calls out before Cas has even taken his first step inside.
“Yes?” he answers, his voice making the response sound like a question. He pokes his head into the room first like he’s a visitor. Be assertive, Castiel , he tells himself, his inner voice sounding an awful lot like his old therapist. You belong in this room just as much as he does.
His roommate is lying on his stomach on his bed, his laptop resting in front of him. He’s watching something (and judging by the yelling and gasps and shrieks coming from the speakers, Cas isn’t even sure he wants to know what it is), and pauses it before getting to his feet.
“Sorry I missed you earlier, dude,” he says, walking over and grabbing Cas’ hand in a firm shake. “I’m Gabe.” He flashes Cas a mischievous little grin and shoves his hair back out of his eyes.
“Nice to meet you.”
“So, I’ve got a jock for a roommate, huh?” he asks, jumping backwards back onto his bed and nodding toward Cas’ gear.
Cas hesitates. “I wouldn’t say I’m a jock --”
Gabe waves him off. “Dude, I can’t even throw a Frisbee; anyone is a jock compared to me.” He grins widely again before resuming his show.
Cas spends a few moments unpacking his gear, tossing his dirty clothes into his hamper, before his curiosity over whatever Gabe’s watching finally gets the better of him. He tries to crane his neck to see better without looking too obvious.
It looks like some kind of talk show, but one that’s got zero budget, because its set is a haphazard mess. There’s a woman hula-hooping in the corner, and Cas’ eyes widen at the man perched above the stage in nothing but swimming trunks and a pair of goggles. The audience is crammed in close to the center of the stage, where three people, maybe the hosts, are sitting. Each of them is wearing an oversized silver blindfold, and people in costumes are waving things in their faces, apparently trying to scare them, if the guy who walks out with a fake snake and a sign that says, “React like this is a real snake” is any indication, and it’s working. Bunches of kale, teddy bears, plants, feather boas: each one elicits stronger, more panicked responses from the blindfolded people, and Gabe is cackling.
“What--” Cas clears his throat, “what is this?”
“ The Chris Gethard Show ,” Gabe says, and at Cas’ blank look, he adds, “It’s a comedy show. With sketches and characters and weird shit like this.” He waves absently toward his laptop screen. “This episode’s about facing your fears.”
Cas nods uncertainly. “Oh.”
Gabe considers him for a second, then says, “You’re a weirdo. I bet you’d like this.”
It should be an insult. It should be something that would make Cas wants to head for the bathroom and talk himself down from throwing up, insisting on a new rooming assignment, or both. But something about the way Gabe says it, Cas can tell that being a “weirdo” is a good thing.
“Maybe I would.”
“C’mon,” Gabe says, repositioning himself so that he’s sitting with his back up against the wall, resting his laptop on his thighs. “I’ll restart the episode for you.”
“You don’t have to--”
Gabe holds a hand in front of Cas’ face. “You think I haven’t seen it three times before already? Trust me, dude. This shit’ll change your life.”