Fic: Try-Something Tuesday - [II » part 3]
Title: Try-Something Tuesday
Author: almaasi
Pairings: Dean/Castiel, background Sam/Jess
Rating: NC-17
Genre: AU. Fluff, romance, porn.
Word Count: 48,400 words
Warnings: Explicit sex. References to childhood abuse.
Summary: Human AU. Dean Winchester teaches a third-grade class. He's new to this whole ‘bisexual’ thing - but by pure happenstance, he meets Castiel: a particularly dapper male librarian who moonlights as a substitute teacher. Dean's curious and Castiel is willing, so why the hell not?
Except, fate never intended it to be one-time-only...
☆★☆
How long did people usually spend regretting things? Dean was pretty sure this wasn’t something he could spend his whole life moping about, but it sure didn’t pass into nothingness as soon as he woke up the next morning.
The rest of the week went by, and any time Dean wasn’t marking homework, dealing with kids’ bruised knees, or trying to pay his damn bills (fucking paperwork, man) - his mind faded into a kind of purgatory.
Usually when he was in a drowsy state, he’d end up with classic rock earworms playing on repeat until he hummed them away, or playfully thinking about all the many ways Doctor Sexy could infiltrate his life... or his pants.
But this week, he found himself watching Dr. Sexy reruns without the slightest interest in anything but the cowboy boots. Or seeing blue mugs in the supermarket and only realising he’d bought one when he got the bag home afterwards.
He felt regretful, yeah.
He should’ve at least gotten his number.
Because Dean knew what he’d done wrong. He should have stayed. Should have told him it was great. Told him he wanted to do it again sometime, if he wanted.
Dean tried not to think about his name.
After everything, Dean didn’t even know the librarian’s surname. He knew where he could find him, and knew he could just show up at the library at any time he wanted, and say all the things he didn’t say before.
Dean played out about twenty versions of how he could have done it in his head. Each time the fantasy made him smile into his pillow as he lay there in the dark, because it felt good to be able to see a version of reality where something went right, even if it was fictional. He liked a version where he said something he really wanted to say, no matter what idiotic thoughts stopped him saying it in the first place.
The weekend swept by with no chance to relax at all, and Monday morning kicked off another week which Dean vowed to get through, taking each day as it came, to enjoy what was good and silently rant about what was bad.
Try-Something Tuesday just felt like a mockery of the previous week. No library trip this time, just a set of art projects. Dean loved arts and crafts as much as the next guy (okay, maybe a little more), but it took until halfway through the afternoon before he even sank into it and started to forget.
He couldn’t forget the feel of another man’s cock in his hand, though, or the musky scent of it filling his head. No matter what, that wasn’t something he would ever regret. That night had been something of a newfound freedom for Dean.
The tension was gone, and he could sit back and just be glad that he was okay about liking men. He’d had the guts to go out there and get what he wanted, and even if it didn’t end how he’d thought it would, he felt good about it.
The second week was easier. He barely thought much of anything at all over Easter break. Stuff was normal.
By the third week, Wednesday rolled around, and Dean was all hyped up for the class trip they had going that morning. All the kids had their forms signed, their rain jackets packed up tightly in their backpacks, lunches in well-sealed containers.
Dean tried to calm them all down as they rushed around the space outside the classroom, swinging on the coat hooks. He barely bothered though; they were excited, and so was he. Finally, this was a chance to get free of the classroom and do something outside for once.
“Charlie― Ms. Bradbury,” Dean called, waving a hand over children’s heads to catch the attention of his fellow third-grader teacher. Her red hair was tied up, all ready for the day, and she waved back over the space of the cloakroom while wading through twenty-five small humans to reach him.
“Where the heck’s the sub?” Dean separated Anil from Lydia, trying to stop them squabbling. “Rachel called in sick, I told the office I needed a sub!”
Charlie sighed, her smile still lingering. “The agency's sending Meg. She’s on her way, just chill. The mini-bus rental place is gonna drop the cars off a bit later than expected, but we’ll get there on time.”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay.” Dean straightened up, tugging his navy-blue waterproof anorak down at the sides. It was the least-flattering coat he owned, but when it came to running around in muddy adventure areas in dribbly weather with a bunch of kids under his watch, it wasn’t the best time to be worried about getting his leather jacket dirty.
There was a whistle from the next hall along, and Dean and Charlie recognised it at once as Missouri Moseley's call to attention. Dean and Charlie held up their hands - rock, paper, scissors―
Dean lost. As always. Charlie winked, and Dean rolled his eyes as he headed down the hallway to see what Missouri wanted.
Missouri’s wide figure met Dean as he turned the corner, and he gave her a two-fingered salute. “What’s up, boss?”
“Change of plans,” she said, tapping him on the arm in greeting. “Well, change of sub.”
“Great. When’s the new one get here?”
“I’m here now,” came a voice.
That voice.
Dean looked up and past Missouri, eyes landing on the man who strode down the terracotta-tiled hall. His waistcoat had been swapped for a turtleneck sweater, his sleeves covered by a waterproof coat almost identical to Dean’s. His cowboy boots were now sensible hiking boots, again very much like Dean’s.
The expression on his face was unsurprised. He’d known Dean would be here.
Dean blinked a few times, slightly stunned by the pleasant way the morning sun lit Castiel’s face through the mucky windows. He walked right up to Dean, and offered his hand.
“My name is Castiel Godson. I’m your help for today.”
Dean took his hand without looking, and let Castiel shake it for him, since Dean was busy staring at his face.
Castiel seemed distant, his eyebrows raised, his eyes lacking the twinkle that Dean associated only with him.
Uncaring.
Angry.
“I’m Dean.” Dean gulped. “Dean Winchester.”
“Wonderful!” Missouri said, clapping her dark hands to each of the men’s shoulders, dragging the waterproof sleeves with a horrible plasticy scratchy noise. “I’ll leave you all to it. The shuttle buses are outside; Ms. Blake is going to be joining Ms. Bradbury; their shuttle’s a tad bigger.”
Dean nodded, clenching his empty hand by his side. The handshake had been nothing like the two he and Castiel had first shared.
“Call me if anything terrible happens. Mr. Winchester, you have me on speed dial.”
“Yes ma’am,” Dean nodded. He smiled at Missouri as she turned to leave, waving them off.
“Have a good, safe trip, now! I expect you back on time!”
Dean blinked at Castiel, taking in a quick breath. “All right,” he said. “You know the basics, right?”
“Safety briefings as always, I went over it with Mrs. Moseley. I’ve also been informed you’re the leader of this trip.”
“Yup. I guess you’re in my mini-bus.”
Dean turned to get back to the children, knowing Castiel would follow.
Dean would really give anything not to have Castiel in his bus. It was all a question of qualifications; Dean and Charlie were the only ones who sported a certificate that said they were allowed to drive a car of kids around, but given that Dean wasn’t licensed to drive a larger vehicle, that meant Charlie and Sarah would share the bigger bus. Dean had no idea what Castiel’s qualifications were, but if Missouri had stuck Cas with him, Dean wasn’t about to ask questions.
Goddammit, this was really fucking inconvenient.
Dean moved in near-silence as he helped the other teachers herd the kids to the buses, stepping in and around puddles on the way.
Dean wouldn’t bother cursing at the universe for setting the fates this way. Castiel was a substitute teacher, and this school used an agency for their subs; Castiel had been called up on short notice, and it was obvious he was in the area. There wasn’t any divine intervention going on here, it was just dumb luck.
Dean sighed and shepherded the last of his class onto his small rented bus. He had ten; Charlie and Sarah had fifteen. It was manageable. He was sure Castiel would lend him a hand if he needed it, despite him acting so aloof today.
“All right, everyone buckled in?”
“Yeeesss, Mr. Winchester.”
“I don’t believe you. Everyone turn to the person sitting next to you, and check their belt is on properly. Give it a little wiggle - Damien, sit down!”
Castiel was sitting with the kids, in the front row, closest to the door. He turned around in his seat to glare at Damien, who shrank back into his seat. Dean watched this from the driver’s seat and smiled.
He leaned back to check Castiel’s belt for him when he turned back around.
“Dean, what are you doing?” Castiel asked, flatly.
Dean tugged on the belt. “You too. Safety first, Mr. Godson. I’m not having my substitute fly through the windscreen, the rental company will make me eat my own legs.”
Castiel snorted a soft laugh. Then Dean sat still, and Castiel checked his belt for him too.
Dean tried not to smile at him, but it was difficult to hold back.
Castiel saw the smile, but said nothing. Nor did his lips twitch, but Dean saw a twinkle.
Oh, that felt good.
Dean revved up the engine, told everyone to hold on tight, then reversed out into the parking lot. He led the two-vehicle convoy, making sure to drive slow enough that Charlie’s bigger, heavier bus could keep up.
By the time they were five minutes onto the highway, and the chatter of happy kids started to blur into the background of Dean’s awareness, he reached for his bag, and held it up for Castiel behind him.
“Hey, Cas, grab me a cassette outta there. Back pocket, side velcro thing.”
Castiel took the bag, and Dean didn’t see him rummaging, but heard the velcro being unstuck.
“AC/DC, Best of Queen―”
“The first! Hell yeah, gimme some of that.” Dean waved his hand blindly behind him until he felt a warm hand and a cold cassette in his palm, and he barely glanced at the dashboard as he slipped the tape into the player. He could do that with his eyes closed, no matter what car he was in.
The first notes of Back in Black hit the walls of the car like thunder, and some of the kids screamed before laughing. Dean started nodding to the music, grinning at the road. The road always looked cooler with a good beat and some heavy guitar rocking out of a set of crappy speakers.
Dean croaked out his harmony as they drove, not knowing or caring if the children or Castiel could hear him. AC/DC was his jam.
They ran through the entire A-side of the tape - it seemed like every kid in the bus knew the chorus to Highway to Hell, and Dean put that entirely down to his own influence. He even caught Castiel smiling in the rear-view mirror.
But when they changed the tape, and Queen’s We Will Rock You was rattling the windows, Dean bellowed out the words for the chorus a little quieter, just so that he could hear the sounds of his class appreciating good music, and so he could hear Castiel.
The fact that Castiel knew the verses as well as the chorus? Well, that was just pure gold to Dean.
His heart was beating in time to the drums, to the slaps of small hands on the kids’ knees and on the backs of bus seats.
Dean hadn’t been this pumped for anything in months.
They arrived at the forest venue with their heads pounding, smiles wider than the road they’d driven on. Dean high-fived every kid as they leapt off the bus.
Castiel jumped out last, a grin on his face that Dean just wanted to kiss until the sun went down.
“Rock on, Cas,” Dean offered, raising his flat hand for a last high-five.
Castiel didn’t slap it. He put their hands together and wrapped his fingers around Dean’s, and Dean automatically did the same. They squeezed, beaming at each other.
Their hands swung back to their sides, and Dean turned around on the damp gravel to check on the other set of children.
The four adults grouped together and briefed the kids - they’d be split into four teams, and for all intents and purposes, the first half of the day was an extended scavenger-hunt-slash-capture-the-flag, but Dean didn’t really know what they were calling it.
Charlie suggested they call it a Potato, and given that this was a group of twenty-five eight-year-olds, it stuck.
Their guide was a short chubby dude who smiled a lot, and he had the kids jumping around in circles before they even started.
They took a long, disorganised toilet break, and soon after that, Dean was assigned his team, and all of a sudden he had seven mini-terrors all to himself all day.
Dean was only slightly disappointed that the teams weren’t bigger, so he and Castiel could share a group. But no, all the adults had a team each. Dean and Charlie had seven kids each, Sarah had six, and Castiel only had five. Castiel’s team complained about this a lot as they marched up to the starting line, since their team was the smallest, and therefore disadvantaged.
As Dean explained to them (particularly Marvin, who was put-out at not being on Mr. Winchester’s team), “Mr. Godson isn’t as experienced with trips as the rest of us responsible adults. You guys need to take care of him. There’s only five of you, so you gotta show him some extra love, all right?”
Marvin pouted, but nodded.
“Go give him a high-five from me, yeah?”
Marvin ran off, and presented Castiel with a sticky hand. Dean laughed out loud as he saw Castiel’s deliberation before slowly touching his hand to Marvin’s palm. Castiel looked up at the sound of Dean’s guffaw, and Dean winked across at him. Castiel shook his head with dramatic menace. Dean liked it, and he was kind of tingly by the time the whistle blew to start their adventures.
They all split up, and all four teams wandered into the woods and lost sight of each other. Dean was thankful for their walkie-talkies, but checked in no more than once every half-hour, in order to conserve battery.
The forest was deep and dense, but the paths were clear, and they never intended to leave the paths. Dean could see all sorts of horror stories happening here; no monsters, only people. Losing a child in this rain-thick wilderness was a terror that haunted Dean, far more than thoughts of any long-toothed creeping thing that might prowl between the ferns.
The capture-the-flag was about as basic as they could make it. It wasn’t about learning, for once, not about solving clues or puzzles. It was just about getting out there, to learn to enjoy the green of it all.
Dean loved the outdoors. He sang traditional campfire songs with his team as they went, walking slowly and pacing himself, since his kids seemed to have shorter legs than he expected. They swung their arms and they skipped in time, and Dean silently wished that Sammy could have been here. This was just like it was when they were younger, trekking from one campsite venue to the next, hoping one of them might have a disused room that nobody would ever pay for. It was a lonely, hungry time in Dean’s life, but as always, the music made it better, just like the company.
Thank god for toilet cabins beside the paths, too.
Dean was pretty sure his team had missed the point of the exercise by the time they reached their next stop, re-grouping with the other teams at lunchtime. All the other kids had numbered plastic cones, and were handing them in to their guide, who had somehow gotten there long before everyone else.
“I didn’t see any cones, did you?” Dean asked pink-jacketed Sandy, who had pinched one of Castiel’s kid’s cones to inspect it.
“No,” Dean’s team said as one.
Dean bumped his eyebrows, glancing across to the other teachers. Charlie and Sarah were looking at him and laughing, and Dean just scowled.
Castiel made his way over, smiling the same way the other teachers did. Dean was definitely the butt of this joke.
“What, what’s going on, what’d I miss?” Dean asked, frowning at Castiel as he crossed his arms. His dark hair was flopping across his forehead, dampened by the light rain.
“You were meant to take the cones and hide them as you went along, and let the children find them.”
Dean’s face pinched. “How’s that meant to work? I’d end up going ahead and telling them to turn around to go back and get something.”
Castiel shrugged, crinkling his ugly jacket. “Worked for us.”
“Huh.” Dean turned back to his kids, clicking an awkward and apologetic grin. “Sorry folks, Mr. Winchester screwed up. But hey, at least it’s lunchtime!”
Team Winchester cheered, and pattered off to the bench area, which was barely sheltered under dripping fir trees.
Dean shook his head to himself as he watched them grapple with their lunchboxes. “Idiot.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Castiel said, kindly. “You’re good with the children, in any case.”
Dean dipped his head, staring at the muddy ground. “Heh.”
“No, I really mean that. They adore you. Marvin spent almost an hour complaining that I don’t smell like Mr. Winchester, I don’t high-five like Mr. Winchester does, I don’t sing like you do.”
“That’s because you don’t sound like you got run over by a goat when you sing,” Dean admitted. He looked across at Castiel, tilting his head as he peered at his fair skin. Castiel seemed paler in the grey, overcast light. “You sing pretty well, man.”
Castiel’s eyes were lowered, but his smile made the corners of them crinkle, as well as accentuating the crow’s feet at the sides of his mouth.
He didn’t thank Dean for the compliment out loud, but Dean didn’t even think about that until five minutes later, when he was tucking into his salami, and watching Castiel hunker down with a pair of neatly-sliced watercress sandwiches.
Really, the smile said it all, and maybe Castiel knew that.
❖
The second half of the afternoon was more organised; they had two hours in which to follow the guided courses around the forest, but they stuck together for this. The courses would lead them back to where they started, and then they’d drive home.
It began with a rope climbing frame, which really wasn’t all that different to the one they had in the school playground, but this one had bark chips under it, and the air didn’t smell like cigarette smoke and car engines. Dean breathed in the rich aroma of pine oil, feeling a holiday-time type of ease creep into his muscles.
He held tight to the tiny metal cup filled with coffee, trying to savour it, since it was the only cup he’d get. Charlie had thoughtfully brought along a flask, and between the four teachers and their guide, they were truly learning the meaning of rationing.
“There’s something very pure about coffee without milk,” Castiel said, going to stand beside Dean as the kids romped around on the climbing frame before them. “Almost like it’s base-level, much like a forest.”
Dean cackled into his own cup, trying not to choke as the hot liquid sailed down his throat before he’d tasted it. “That’s some deep shit, Cas.”
Castiel stared at him, and Dean tried not to look directly at the other man.
“It’s coffee,” stated Castiel. “Coffee is what fuels the human race on that same basic level, and I think it’s very important.”
Dean smirked, thumbing the metal handle of his cup.
This was where Dean started to question the sanity of this day. It was one thing to be paired up with the only man Dean had ever screwed, but another thing to see him three weeks after an awkward radio silence, only to talk about coffee.
Then again. Coffee was how they first met. Maybe this was Castiel trying to rekindle whatever this was between them.
Because there was definitely something. Dean felt it, and he knew Castiel had felt it too, or he’d never have been upset when Dean left.
Dean’s eyes slunk across to look at the other man. The librarian. The man in a sweater with blue eyes, who smelled of pine and myrrh and damp plastic. He felt warm, even through Dean’s waterproof coat and the space between them.
All Dean had to say was sorry. He knew that. Castiel was a rational man, and he clearly didn’t want to destroy what was left. If Dean apologised for taking off, they’d be cool. Dean didn’t know where they’d go from there, maybe they’d try it again. Take it from the top.
All he had to do was say sorry.
The words were on the tip of his tongue, and there was no better moment to say them than right now, while the women were chatting to their guide, and all the children were occupied. It was just him and Castiel, standing here in silence, drinking the basic fuel of the human race.
Fact: Dean was a chicken when it came to men. And his feelings. And Castiel.
“I’ll be over with the others, call me if you need me,” Dean said.
He went to go and discuss the plans for the rest of the afternoon, and he regretted every single step he took to get there. Every boot to the bark chips, every breath in and out, pine, coffee, mud and rain.
He just couldn’t stop himself walking.
❖
The last activity of the day set each team against each other. Team Winchester (with the addition of Marvin), Team Bradbury-Potato, Team Blake, and Team Godson.
The forest canopy gave a full cover here, and they were only five minutes’ walk from the buses. The bark chips were nonexistent, and instead there was a dip in the ground, a clear woodland space all around it. The pit was about eight feet each way, and had a single log stuck across it. Not a fallen tree log, but a proper carved pole, as thick as Dean’s thigh, and attached a foot above the pit at each side.
The hole was filled with mud.
“As I understand it,” Castiel said, crossing his arms with a swish of anorak plastic, “the aim of the game is to stay balanced until you reach the other side.”
“Sounds easy enough.”
‘Sounds’ was the right word. Half the kids ended up with mud up to their knees, and Charlie reminded everyone that there was a good reason that they had a) brought a change of clothing, and b) left this activity until last.
Still, it was incredibly fun - even Dean found himself shouting out encouragement to his team, clapping his hands and bending his knees in an attempt to be louder than the other kids, who were cheering like a crowd of tiny football fans.
Even Castiel was pretty into it, which made Dean laugh. It brought joy to Dean when he saw him, a man who Dean had thought of as reserved, bleating fake threats at people almost thirty years younger than them both. Castiel was laughing and smiling, patting his team on the back.
There was a reason Castiel was a teacher, Dean thought. Dean saw him as a librarian, but Castiel connected with the children in a way that only a good teacher did. The kids seemed to have grown to like him over the day, and Dean even caught a glance of Marvin going in for a successful hug when he crawled out of the mud pit, smeared stickier than Dean had ever seen him.
The last set of children shook themselves down, no longer bothering to let Ms. Blake scrub the mud off with a ratty towel. They were all exhausted and exhilarated, and their grubby, bright little faces made Dean grin like a buffoon.
“Are you gonna go on, Mr. Winchester?” Travis asked, pulling at the corner of Dean’s coat.
Dean sniggered at him, shaking his head. “No way, kid. You really wanna see me get mucky? No sir.”
Well, apparently that was the wrong thing to say.
The thing with kids was that if one of them had a brilliant idea (particularly if Dean was the centre of this idea), then as soon as the idea was voiced, the others caught on pretty quick.
It was the work of a single minute before all twenty-five kids were screaming over each other that they all wanted to see Dean try and walk the pole, because hey, if they were muddy, he ought to be muddy too.
Dean stared at the other teachers pleadingly, eyes wide and desperate. He didn’t much care for this coat, but he definitely cared for these jeans, and perfect-consistency brown-red mud wasn’t the kind of thing he would enjoy washing out of them.
And not just that. He had a feeling he would fall in on purpose, just so the kids had a story to tell.
He listed all the swear words he knew over in his head, as all the other teachers only grinned and suggested he get on with it so they could all get home.
“Fine,” Dean spat, rolling his eyes to the swaying leaves above. “But I’m taking you down with me, all of you.”
“Oh no,” said Charlie. “Just the one.”
Dean squinted, and then a cruel, cruel grin rose on his face. Castiel had just been shoved forward by Sarah, and he blinked, confused, as the swarm of children rushed to his sides, pulling and tugging him until he stood beside Dean at the edge of the pit.
Charlie went by and took both their phones for safekeeping.
“Not letting my men go in without weapons,” the guide said, his lips pulled back to show his toothy grin. “Take this, it may just save your life.”
Dean felt somewhat dumbfounded as a huge plastic oar was thrust into his hand, and the same for Castiel. The oars were light, but bulky, and they wafted around with every gentle swipe Dean tested.
“I don’t get it,” Dean said.
“I do.” Castiel turned his focus from the oar to Dean’s face, and over the tumult of the excited spectators, he told Dean, “They intend us to push each other off.”
Dean gaped. Not cool.
“Now get up there!” the guide yelled, and the crowd went wild.
Dean was kind of trapped here. He did as the guide said - whatever his name was - and clambered up onto the pole first.
The oar helped him balance, as he walked straight across it; he had to get to the other side, and turn around, so he could face Castiel.
This was definitely the most uncool thing that had happened all day.
The view from here was very different; Dean could see Castiel’s unsure expression, battling his own oar as he tried to grip it correctly. Behind him stood the twenty-five children and three other adults. Charlie had a camera, and the red recording light was on.
Okay, uncool didn’t even cover this.
“On your mark!” the guide called.
Crap.
“Get set!”
Castiel locked eyes with Dean, his stubbled jaw looking a trace muddy already. He seemed determined, and that was when Dean realised that he wasn’t coming out of this as the winner. Sure, he was probably faster than Castiel, but Dean wasn’t a runner. He wasn’t lithe like Castiel was, and Castiel was probably a tiny bit heavier.
And also, Dean didn’t really feel like it would be right to win. He had a loser complex, now that he thought about it.
“Go!”
Castiel hit Dean around the shoulders, and Dean could barely duck before the next hit came. Bastard librarian had swung the oar around like a propeller, and both paddle ends hit Dean squarely on his shoulder blades.
While Dean ducked, he took advantage, trying his best to ignore the third hit on his shoulders to go for Castiel’s legs, trying to whack his knees out. The children were cheering like wild animals, tiny shrieks going up like sirens.
“OW!” Dean shouted, as a hit fell upon the back of his head. His ears throbbed, but he heard Castiel’s voice mutter an apology.
Another whack to Castiel’s legs, which Castiel stood on one leg to kick away.
Dean stood up straight and slid one boot back through the mud on the pole, trying to get a solid stance. Castiel’s eyes shifted across Dean’s torso, and Dean honestly couldn’t tell if he was being checked out or if he was being sized up so Castiel could hit him again.
Turned out it was the latter. Dean grunted as a paddle thumped across his chest, winding him momentarily. It didn’t hurt, it was just distracting, and friggin’ difficult to navigate in order to enforce his own attack.
“You got no chance of getting outta this alive,” Dean growled, grinning. “You’re going down, boy.”
“I’d like to see you take me,” Castiel snapped back, eyes flashing with the spark of the game. “You’re no match.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean whipped the paddle over Castiel’s shoulder, hitting him on the back as he ducked. “Gotcha!”
Dean had made the same mistake Castiel had made earlier, in letting his legs be exposed to the paddle. Castiel got the back of his knee, and pulled Dean down like he’d used a hook.
Dean dropped the paddle in order to grab the pole - god, it was slippery - one knee slipped free and his toe kicked the surface of the mud, feeling cold even through his boot. He panted there for a moment, hoping Castiel would let him back up, but he was given no such chance.
Another hit landed on Dean’s back, and he grunted, shoving the paddle off - but then came another, another, a pause and then another.
Dean was beaten down against the wooden log, hands holding on for dear life so he didn’t fall. One leg still dangled, one knee remained in a crouching position. He could push himself up if he wanted, shove away the oar that descended onto him again, tapping on his ribs, but he stayed down, barely fighting it at all.
Castiel wasn’t trying to throw him off the pole. He was taking out his frustrations, and Dean just let him.
“Come on Cas, I can take it,” he said, just loud enough for Castiel to hear. “C’mon, hit me, hit me―”
“You―” Castiel spat, angrily thumping one side of the oar against Dean’s thigh. “You just... god―”
“You got me, c’mon, Cas. Just do it, take me down, take me d―”
Castiel took a step closer to him, and Dean kept his head low as he saw the muddy boot by his face, the shadow of the paddle moving, and heard the swoop of it through the air amongst the catcalls of the children.
“C’mon,” Dean whispered. He closed his eyes.
A leg nudged his head, and he opened his eyes again and looked up. He looked up into the face of Castiel, who was breathing heavily, nostrils flaring. His hair was messed up, his hands tight around the grip of the oar.
Dean crawled back so he was kneeling, gaze not breaking from Castiel’s. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left. I’ve done nothing but regret it since.” He drew down a shaky gulp, not wincing as Castiel swept the oar up, ready to hit him again.
“I can take it, Cas. Do it.”
Castiel’s set jaw tensed further, the muscle there twitching.
But then the fire in his eyes seemed to simmer down, and before Dean knew it, all he was looking at was a twinkle. The twinkle. For all he knew, that was what he’d been looking at all along.
Castiel kneed him off the pole, and Dean flailed desperately as he felt himself falling. He heard his own startled cry, then a soggy, heavy splosh, and then a chill was seeping into his bones through every item of clothing he wore. He raised his head, hearing the whoops of laughter of an extremely satisfied audience.
Dean blinked at the man standing seven feet above him, still wielding his oar.
As if Dean would let him live.
Dean kicked the log, making it judder on its axis. Castiel startled, an instant reaction of arms spread wide - but then Dean kicked again, and Castiel was tumbling, curling up as he fell.
Dean laughed like it was the funniest thing on Earth when Castiel popped up out of the mud, perplexed as to the change of scenery.
Dean crawled through the half-foot of mud and under the log, laughing along with the kids, until he was close enough to touch Castiel. Castiel just blinked at him, a quirk of a smile on his lips.
He couldn’t help it. Dean slapped a hand through the top of the mud, shoving it in Castiel’s direction.
Castiel did the same thing at the same time.
Oh, it was on.
Castiel actually pounced. Like, leapt up from his place in the mud, landed with his body over Dean’s. His damp, dripping anorak slapped Dean in the face, and Dean grunted, arms reaching around Castiel’s middle to grapple him off again.
Castiel barked a laugh as Dean rucked up the bottom of his turtleneck, slapping a handful of cold and squishy mud under his t-shirt.
“I never liked turtlenecks,” Dean declared, hauling Castiel down into the slop by his shoulders.
Castiel snorted and shoved a very gross hand against Dean’s throat, and it slid up his face, and he heard the rasp of stubble as mud caught on his jaw. He could only stare at the sky in shock as he discovered that there was a muddy finger in his nose.
“Yeugh―” Dean hit Castiel’s arm away, taking him by the wrists and pinning them down under the surface of the thick brown sludge, turning his face this way and that to avoid Castiel’s forehead as he tried to headbutt him.
“Get off me,” Castiel growled, grinning like a maniac as Dean very subtly let him take control.
They rolled through the depths of the gloop, hearing the squelch of it under their clothes, feeling its disgusting oozy wetness creep against their skin. Dean practically giggled when Castiel flopped down on top of him, their chests pressed together, one of Castiel’s thighs landing between Dean’s.
“Hey, hey, keep it PG,” Dean chortled, kicking Castiel’s thigh away before it nudged him a little too hard. “There’s kids watchin’.”
There was an evil glint in Castiel’s eye as he―
...Oh, crap.
Castiel had an entire handful of mud in each of his hands, and he was aiming straight for Dean’s head.
“Oh no - no, no, NO―” Dean shrieked as he tried to scramble backwards, ending up doing nothing but laughing as a chilling splat found his hair, Castiel’s hands dragging all the way down until mud started to drip under Dean’s collar. “EUUGH, FU― Cas, you bastard,” he hissed under his breath so nobody else heard.
Castiel cackled.
“I’ve had enough of you,” chuckled Dean, trying to ease backwards to get out of the mud pit, back to where Sarah was waving a towel like a peace offering.
“I hope you don’t mean that for real this time.” Castiel gasped for breath as they helped each other to their feet.
Dean looked him properly in the eye, and saw something more authentic than any of the craziness that they’d just taken part in.
“No, I don’t mean it for real,” Dean answered, smiling. “I meant what I said on the dumb log. I’m―” Dean coughed, pulling a fist in front of his face as the aroma of mud started to get at him. “I’m sorry.”
Castiel smirked. “I know.”
Dean watched the other man wade his way back to the bank, watched him get bundled up in a towel and celebrated as Team Godson’s hero. Dean smiled.
Hey. So what if it was cheesy? Cas was his hero, too.
« part 2 | masterpost | part 4 »
☆★☆
Author: almaasi
Pairings: Dean/Castiel, background Sam/Jess
Rating: NC-17
Genre: AU. Fluff, romance, porn.
Word Count: 48,400 words
Warnings: Explicit sex. References to childhood abuse.
Summary: Human AU. Dean Winchester teaches a third-grade class. He's new to this whole ‘bisexual’ thing - but by pure happenstance, he meets Castiel: a particularly dapper male librarian who moonlights as a substitute teacher. Dean's curious and Castiel is willing, so why the hell not?
Except, fate never intended it to be one-time-only...
☆★☆
How long did people usually spend regretting things? Dean was pretty sure this wasn’t something he could spend his whole life moping about, but it sure didn’t pass into nothingness as soon as he woke up the next morning.
The rest of the week went by, and any time Dean wasn’t marking homework, dealing with kids’ bruised knees, or trying to pay his damn bills (fucking paperwork, man) - his mind faded into a kind of purgatory.
Usually when he was in a drowsy state, he’d end up with classic rock earworms playing on repeat until he hummed them away, or playfully thinking about all the many ways Doctor Sexy could infiltrate his life... or his pants.
But this week, he found himself watching Dr. Sexy reruns without the slightest interest in anything but the cowboy boots. Or seeing blue mugs in the supermarket and only realising he’d bought one when he got the bag home afterwards.
He felt regretful, yeah.
He should’ve at least gotten his number.
Because Dean knew what he’d done wrong. He should have stayed. Should have told him it was great. Told him he wanted to do it again sometime, if he wanted.
Dean tried not to think about his name.
After everything, Dean didn’t even know the librarian’s surname. He knew where he could find him, and knew he could just show up at the library at any time he wanted, and say all the things he didn’t say before.
Dean played out about twenty versions of how he could have done it in his head. Each time the fantasy made him smile into his pillow as he lay there in the dark, because it felt good to be able to see a version of reality where something went right, even if it was fictional. He liked a version where he said something he really wanted to say, no matter what idiotic thoughts stopped him saying it in the first place.
The weekend swept by with no chance to relax at all, and Monday morning kicked off another week which Dean vowed to get through, taking each day as it came, to enjoy what was good and silently rant about what was bad.
Try-Something Tuesday just felt like a mockery of the previous week. No library trip this time, just a set of art projects. Dean loved arts and crafts as much as the next guy (okay, maybe a little more), but it took until halfway through the afternoon before he even sank into it and started to forget.
He couldn’t forget the feel of another man’s cock in his hand, though, or the musky scent of it filling his head. No matter what, that wasn’t something he would ever regret. That night had been something of a newfound freedom for Dean.
The tension was gone, and he could sit back and just be glad that he was okay about liking men. He’d had the guts to go out there and get what he wanted, and even if it didn’t end how he’d thought it would, he felt good about it.
The second week was easier. He barely thought much of anything at all over Easter break. Stuff was normal.
By the third week, Wednesday rolled around, and Dean was all hyped up for the class trip they had going that morning. All the kids had their forms signed, their rain jackets packed up tightly in their backpacks, lunches in well-sealed containers.
Dean tried to calm them all down as they rushed around the space outside the classroom, swinging on the coat hooks. He barely bothered though; they were excited, and so was he. Finally, this was a chance to get free of the classroom and do something outside for once.
“Charlie― Ms. Bradbury,” Dean called, waving a hand over children’s heads to catch the attention of his fellow third-grader teacher. Her red hair was tied up, all ready for the day, and she waved back over the space of the cloakroom while wading through twenty-five small humans to reach him.
“Where the heck’s the sub?” Dean separated Anil from Lydia, trying to stop them squabbling. “Rachel called in sick, I told the office I needed a sub!”
Charlie sighed, her smile still lingering. “The agency's sending Meg. She’s on her way, just chill. The mini-bus rental place is gonna drop the cars off a bit later than expected, but we’ll get there on time.”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay.” Dean straightened up, tugging his navy-blue waterproof anorak down at the sides. It was the least-flattering coat he owned, but when it came to running around in muddy adventure areas in dribbly weather with a bunch of kids under his watch, it wasn’t the best time to be worried about getting his leather jacket dirty.
There was a whistle from the next hall along, and Dean and Charlie recognised it at once as Missouri Moseley's call to attention. Dean and Charlie held up their hands - rock, paper, scissors―
Dean lost. As always. Charlie winked, and Dean rolled his eyes as he headed down the hallway to see what Missouri wanted.
Missouri’s wide figure met Dean as he turned the corner, and he gave her a two-fingered salute. “What’s up, boss?”
“Change of plans,” she said, tapping him on the arm in greeting. “Well, change of sub.”
“Great. When’s the new one get here?”
“I’m here now,” came a voice.
That voice.
Dean looked up and past Missouri, eyes landing on the man who strode down the terracotta-tiled hall. His waistcoat had been swapped for a turtleneck sweater, his sleeves covered by a waterproof coat almost identical to Dean’s. His cowboy boots were now sensible hiking boots, again very much like Dean’s.
The expression on his face was unsurprised. He’d known Dean would be here.
Dean blinked a few times, slightly stunned by the pleasant way the morning sun lit Castiel’s face through the mucky windows. He walked right up to Dean, and offered his hand.
“My name is Castiel Godson. I’m your help for today.”
Dean took his hand without looking, and let Castiel shake it for him, since Dean was busy staring at his face.
Castiel seemed distant, his eyebrows raised, his eyes lacking the twinkle that Dean associated only with him.
Uncaring.
Angry.
“I’m Dean.” Dean gulped. “Dean Winchester.”
“Wonderful!” Missouri said, clapping her dark hands to each of the men’s shoulders, dragging the waterproof sleeves with a horrible plasticy scratchy noise. “I’ll leave you all to it. The shuttle buses are outside; Ms. Blake is going to be joining Ms. Bradbury; their shuttle’s a tad bigger.”
Dean nodded, clenching his empty hand by his side. The handshake had been nothing like the two he and Castiel had first shared.
“Call me if anything terrible happens. Mr. Winchester, you have me on speed dial.”
“Yes ma’am,” Dean nodded. He smiled at Missouri as she turned to leave, waving them off.
“Have a good, safe trip, now! I expect you back on time!”
Dean blinked at Castiel, taking in a quick breath. “All right,” he said. “You know the basics, right?”
“Safety briefings as always, I went over it with Mrs. Moseley. I’ve also been informed you’re the leader of this trip.”
“Yup. I guess you’re in my mini-bus.”
Dean turned to get back to the children, knowing Castiel would follow.
Dean would really give anything not to have Castiel in his bus. It was all a question of qualifications; Dean and Charlie were the only ones who sported a certificate that said they were allowed to drive a car of kids around, but given that Dean wasn’t licensed to drive a larger vehicle, that meant Charlie and Sarah would share the bigger bus. Dean had no idea what Castiel’s qualifications were, but if Missouri had stuck Cas with him, Dean wasn’t about to ask questions.
Goddammit, this was really fucking inconvenient.
Dean moved in near-silence as he helped the other teachers herd the kids to the buses, stepping in and around puddles on the way.
Dean wouldn’t bother cursing at the universe for setting the fates this way. Castiel was a substitute teacher, and this school used an agency for their subs; Castiel had been called up on short notice, and it was obvious he was in the area. There wasn’t any divine intervention going on here, it was just dumb luck.
Dean sighed and shepherded the last of his class onto his small rented bus. He had ten; Charlie and Sarah had fifteen. It was manageable. He was sure Castiel would lend him a hand if he needed it, despite him acting so aloof today.
“All right, everyone buckled in?”
“Yeeesss, Mr. Winchester.”
“I don’t believe you. Everyone turn to the person sitting next to you, and check their belt is on properly. Give it a little wiggle - Damien, sit down!”
Castiel was sitting with the kids, in the front row, closest to the door. He turned around in his seat to glare at Damien, who shrank back into his seat. Dean watched this from the driver’s seat and smiled.
He leaned back to check Castiel’s belt for him when he turned back around.
“Dean, what are you doing?” Castiel asked, flatly.
Dean tugged on the belt. “You too. Safety first, Mr. Godson. I’m not having my substitute fly through the windscreen, the rental company will make me eat my own legs.”
Castiel snorted a soft laugh. Then Dean sat still, and Castiel checked his belt for him too.
Dean tried not to smile at him, but it was difficult to hold back.
Castiel saw the smile, but said nothing. Nor did his lips twitch, but Dean saw a twinkle.
Oh, that felt good.
Dean revved up the engine, told everyone to hold on tight, then reversed out into the parking lot. He led the two-vehicle convoy, making sure to drive slow enough that Charlie’s bigger, heavier bus could keep up.
By the time they were five minutes onto the highway, and the chatter of happy kids started to blur into the background of Dean’s awareness, he reached for his bag, and held it up for Castiel behind him.
“Hey, Cas, grab me a cassette outta there. Back pocket, side velcro thing.”
Castiel took the bag, and Dean didn’t see him rummaging, but heard the velcro being unstuck.
“AC/DC, Best of Queen―”
“The first! Hell yeah, gimme some of that.” Dean waved his hand blindly behind him until he felt a warm hand and a cold cassette in his palm, and he barely glanced at the dashboard as he slipped the tape into the player. He could do that with his eyes closed, no matter what car he was in.
The first notes of Back in Black hit the walls of the car like thunder, and some of the kids screamed before laughing. Dean started nodding to the music, grinning at the road. The road always looked cooler with a good beat and some heavy guitar rocking out of a set of crappy speakers.
Dean croaked out his harmony as they drove, not knowing or caring if the children or Castiel could hear him. AC/DC was his jam.
They ran through the entire A-side of the tape - it seemed like every kid in the bus knew the chorus to Highway to Hell, and Dean put that entirely down to his own influence. He even caught Castiel smiling in the rear-view mirror.
But when they changed the tape, and Queen’s We Will Rock You was rattling the windows, Dean bellowed out the words for the chorus a little quieter, just so that he could hear the sounds of his class appreciating good music, and so he could hear Castiel.
The fact that Castiel knew the verses as well as the chorus? Well, that was just pure gold to Dean.
His heart was beating in time to the drums, to the slaps of small hands on the kids’ knees and on the backs of bus seats.
Dean hadn’t been this pumped for anything in months.
They arrived at the forest venue with their heads pounding, smiles wider than the road they’d driven on. Dean high-fived every kid as they leapt off the bus.
Castiel jumped out last, a grin on his face that Dean just wanted to kiss until the sun went down.
“Rock on, Cas,” Dean offered, raising his flat hand for a last high-five.
Castiel didn’t slap it. He put their hands together and wrapped his fingers around Dean’s, and Dean automatically did the same. They squeezed, beaming at each other.
Their hands swung back to their sides, and Dean turned around on the damp gravel to check on the other set of children.
The four adults grouped together and briefed the kids - they’d be split into four teams, and for all intents and purposes, the first half of the day was an extended scavenger-hunt-slash-capture-the-flag, but Dean didn’t really know what they were calling it.
Charlie suggested they call it a Potato, and given that this was a group of twenty-five eight-year-olds, it stuck.
Their guide was a short chubby dude who smiled a lot, and he had the kids jumping around in circles before they even started.
They took a long, disorganised toilet break, and soon after that, Dean was assigned his team, and all of a sudden he had seven mini-terrors all to himself all day.
Dean was only slightly disappointed that the teams weren’t bigger, so he and Castiel could share a group. But no, all the adults had a team each. Dean and Charlie had seven kids each, Sarah had six, and Castiel only had five. Castiel’s team complained about this a lot as they marched up to the starting line, since their team was the smallest, and therefore disadvantaged.
As Dean explained to them (particularly Marvin, who was put-out at not being on Mr. Winchester’s team), “Mr. Godson isn’t as experienced with trips as the rest of us responsible adults. You guys need to take care of him. There’s only five of you, so you gotta show him some extra love, all right?”
Marvin pouted, but nodded.
“Go give him a high-five from me, yeah?”
Marvin ran off, and presented Castiel with a sticky hand. Dean laughed out loud as he saw Castiel’s deliberation before slowly touching his hand to Marvin’s palm. Castiel looked up at the sound of Dean’s guffaw, and Dean winked across at him. Castiel shook his head with dramatic menace. Dean liked it, and he was kind of tingly by the time the whistle blew to start their adventures.
They all split up, and all four teams wandered into the woods and lost sight of each other. Dean was thankful for their walkie-talkies, but checked in no more than once every half-hour, in order to conserve battery.
The forest was deep and dense, but the paths were clear, and they never intended to leave the paths. Dean could see all sorts of horror stories happening here; no monsters, only people. Losing a child in this rain-thick wilderness was a terror that haunted Dean, far more than thoughts of any long-toothed creeping thing that might prowl between the ferns.
The capture-the-flag was about as basic as they could make it. It wasn’t about learning, for once, not about solving clues or puzzles. It was just about getting out there, to learn to enjoy the green of it all.
Dean loved the outdoors. He sang traditional campfire songs with his team as they went, walking slowly and pacing himself, since his kids seemed to have shorter legs than he expected. They swung their arms and they skipped in time, and Dean silently wished that Sammy could have been here. This was just like it was when they were younger, trekking from one campsite venue to the next, hoping one of them might have a disused room that nobody would ever pay for. It was a lonely, hungry time in Dean’s life, but as always, the music made it better, just like the company.
Thank god for toilet cabins beside the paths, too.
Dean was pretty sure his team had missed the point of the exercise by the time they reached their next stop, re-grouping with the other teams at lunchtime. All the other kids had numbered plastic cones, and were handing them in to their guide, who had somehow gotten there long before everyone else.
“I didn’t see any cones, did you?” Dean asked pink-jacketed Sandy, who had pinched one of Castiel’s kid’s cones to inspect it.
“No,” Dean’s team said as one.
Dean bumped his eyebrows, glancing across to the other teachers. Charlie and Sarah were looking at him and laughing, and Dean just scowled.
Castiel made his way over, smiling the same way the other teachers did. Dean was definitely the butt of this joke.
“What, what’s going on, what’d I miss?” Dean asked, frowning at Castiel as he crossed his arms. His dark hair was flopping across his forehead, dampened by the light rain.
“You were meant to take the cones and hide them as you went along, and let the children find them.”
Dean’s face pinched. “How’s that meant to work? I’d end up going ahead and telling them to turn around to go back and get something.”
Castiel shrugged, crinkling his ugly jacket. “Worked for us.”
“Huh.” Dean turned back to his kids, clicking an awkward and apologetic grin. “Sorry folks, Mr. Winchester screwed up. But hey, at least it’s lunchtime!”
Team Winchester cheered, and pattered off to the bench area, which was barely sheltered under dripping fir trees.
Dean shook his head to himself as he watched them grapple with their lunchboxes. “Idiot.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Castiel said, kindly. “You’re good with the children, in any case.”
Dean dipped his head, staring at the muddy ground. “Heh.”
“No, I really mean that. They adore you. Marvin spent almost an hour complaining that I don’t smell like Mr. Winchester, I don’t high-five like Mr. Winchester does, I don’t sing like you do.”
“That’s because you don’t sound like you got run over by a goat when you sing,” Dean admitted. He looked across at Castiel, tilting his head as he peered at his fair skin. Castiel seemed paler in the grey, overcast light. “You sing pretty well, man.”
Castiel’s eyes were lowered, but his smile made the corners of them crinkle, as well as accentuating the crow’s feet at the sides of his mouth.
He didn’t thank Dean for the compliment out loud, but Dean didn’t even think about that until five minutes later, when he was tucking into his salami, and watching Castiel hunker down with a pair of neatly-sliced watercress sandwiches.
Really, the smile said it all, and maybe Castiel knew that.
❖
The second half of the afternoon was more organised; they had two hours in which to follow the guided courses around the forest, but they stuck together for this. The courses would lead them back to where they started, and then they’d drive home.
It began with a rope climbing frame, which really wasn’t all that different to the one they had in the school playground, but this one had bark chips under it, and the air didn’t smell like cigarette smoke and car engines. Dean breathed in the rich aroma of pine oil, feeling a holiday-time type of ease creep into his muscles.
He held tight to the tiny metal cup filled with coffee, trying to savour it, since it was the only cup he’d get. Charlie had thoughtfully brought along a flask, and between the four teachers and their guide, they were truly learning the meaning of rationing.
“There’s something very pure about coffee without milk,” Castiel said, going to stand beside Dean as the kids romped around on the climbing frame before them. “Almost like it’s base-level, much like a forest.”
Dean cackled into his own cup, trying not to choke as the hot liquid sailed down his throat before he’d tasted it. “That’s some deep shit, Cas.”
Castiel stared at him, and Dean tried not to look directly at the other man.
“It’s coffee,” stated Castiel. “Coffee is what fuels the human race on that same basic level, and I think it’s very important.”
Dean smirked, thumbing the metal handle of his cup.
This was where Dean started to question the sanity of this day. It was one thing to be paired up with the only man Dean had ever screwed, but another thing to see him three weeks after an awkward radio silence, only to talk about coffee.
Then again. Coffee was how they first met. Maybe this was Castiel trying to rekindle whatever this was between them.
Because there was definitely something. Dean felt it, and he knew Castiel had felt it too, or he’d never have been upset when Dean left.
Dean’s eyes slunk across to look at the other man. The librarian. The man in a sweater with blue eyes, who smelled of pine and myrrh and damp plastic. He felt warm, even through Dean’s waterproof coat and the space between them.
All Dean had to say was sorry. He knew that. Castiel was a rational man, and he clearly didn’t want to destroy what was left. If Dean apologised for taking off, they’d be cool. Dean didn’t know where they’d go from there, maybe they’d try it again. Take it from the top.
All he had to do was say sorry.
The words were on the tip of his tongue, and there was no better moment to say them than right now, while the women were chatting to their guide, and all the children were occupied. It was just him and Castiel, standing here in silence, drinking the basic fuel of the human race.
Fact: Dean was a chicken when it came to men. And his feelings. And Castiel.
“I’ll be over with the others, call me if you need me,” Dean said.
He went to go and discuss the plans for the rest of the afternoon, and he regretted every single step he took to get there. Every boot to the bark chips, every breath in and out, pine, coffee, mud and rain.
He just couldn’t stop himself walking.
❖
The last activity of the day set each team against each other. Team Winchester (with the addition of Marvin), Team Bradbury-Potato, Team Blake, and Team Godson.
The forest canopy gave a full cover here, and they were only five minutes’ walk from the buses. The bark chips were nonexistent, and instead there was a dip in the ground, a clear woodland space all around it. The pit was about eight feet each way, and had a single log stuck across it. Not a fallen tree log, but a proper carved pole, as thick as Dean’s thigh, and attached a foot above the pit at each side.
The hole was filled with mud.
“As I understand it,” Castiel said, crossing his arms with a swish of anorak plastic, “the aim of the game is to stay balanced until you reach the other side.”
“Sounds easy enough.”
‘Sounds’ was the right word. Half the kids ended up with mud up to their knees, and Charlie reminded everyone that there was a good reason that they had a) brought a change of clothing, and b) left this activity until last.
Still, it was incredibly fun - even Dean found himself shouting out encouragement to his team, clapping his hands and bending his knees in an attempt to be louder than the other kids, who were cheering like a crowd of tiny football fans.
Even Castiel was pretty into it, which made Dean laugh. It brought joy to Dean when he saw him, a man who Dean had thought of as reserved, bleating fake threats at people almost thirty years younger than them both. Castiel was laughing and smiling, patting his team on the back.
There was a reason Castiel was a teacher, Dean thought. Dean saw him as a librarian, but Castiel connected with the children in a way that only a good teacher did. The kids seemed to have grown to like him over the day, and Dean even caught a glance of Marvin going in for a successful hug when he crawled out of the mud pit, smeared stickier than Dean had ever seen him.
The last set of children shook themselves down, no longer bothering to let Ms. Blake scrub the mud off with a ratty towel. They were all exhausted and exhilarated, and their grubby, bright little faces made Dean grin like a buffoon.
“Are you gonna go on, Mr. Winchester?” Travis asked, pulling at the corner of Dean’s coat.
Dean sniggered at him, shaking his head. “No way, kid. You really wanna see me get mucky? No sir.”
Well, apparently that was the wrong thing to say.
The thing with kids was that if one of them had a brilliant idea (particularly if Dean was the centre of this idea), then as soon as the idea was voiced, the others caught on pretty quick.
It was the work of a single minute before all twenty-five kids were screaming over each other that they all wanted to see Dean try and walk the pole, because hey, if they were muddy, he ought to be muddy too.
Dean stared at the other teachers pleadingly, eyes wide and desperate. He didn’t much care for this coat, but he definitely cared for these jeans, and perfect-consistency brown-red mud wasn’t the kind of thing he would enjoy washing out of them.
And not just that. He had a feeling he would fall in on purpose, just so the kids had a story to tell.
He listed all the swear words he knew over in his head, as all the other teachers only grinned and suggested he get on with it so they could all get home.
“Fine,” Dean spat, rolling his eyes to the swaying leaves above. “But I’m taking you down with me, all of you.”
“Oh no,” said Charlie. “Just the one.”
Dean squinted, and then a cruel, cruel grin rose on his face. Castiel had just been shoved forward by Sarah, and he blinked, confused, as the swarm of children rushed to his sides, pulling and tugging him until he stood beside Dean at the edge of the pit.
Charlie went by and took both their phones for safekeeping.
“Not letting my men go in without weapons,” the guide said, his lips pulled back to show his toothy grin. “Take this, it may just save your life.”
Dean felt somewhat dumbfounded as a huge plastic oar was thrust into his hand, and the same for Castiel. The oars were light, but bulky, and they wafted around with every gentle swipe Dean tested.
“I don’t get it,” Dean said.
“I do.” Castiel turned his focus from the oar to Dean’s face, and over the tumult of the excited spectators, he told Dean, “They intend us to push each other off.”
Dean gaped. Not cool.
“Now get up there!” the guide yelled, and the crowd went wild.
Dean was kind of trapped here. He did as the guide said - whatever his name was - and clambered up onto the pole first.
The oar helped him balance, as he walked straight across it; he had to get to the other side, and turn around, so he could face Castiel.
This was definitely the most uncool thing that had happened all day.
The view from here was very different; Dean could see Castiel’s unsure expression, battling his own oar as he tried to grip it correctly. Behind him stood the twenty-five children and three other adults. Charlie had a camera, and the red recording light was on.
Okay, uncool didn’t even cover this.
“On your mark!” the guide called.
Crap.
“Get set!”
Castiel locked eyes with Dean, his stubbled jaw looking a trace muddy already. He seemed determined, and that was when Dean realised that he wasn’t coming out of this as the winner. Sure, he was probably faster than Castiel, but Dean wasn’t a runner. He wasn’t lithe like Castiel was, and Castiel was probably a tiny bit heavier.
And also, Dean didn’t really feel like it would be right to win. He had a loser complex, now that he thought about it.
“Go!”
Castiel hit Dean around the shoulders, and Dean could barely duck before the next hit came. Bastard librarian had swung the oar around like a propeller, and both paddle ends hit Dean squarely on his shoulder blades.
While Dean ducked, he took advantage, trying his best to ignore the third hit on his shoulders to go for Castiel’s legs, trying to whack his knees out. The children were cheering like wild animals, tiny shrieks going up like sirens.
“OW!” Dean shouted, as a hit fell upon the back of his head. His ears throbbed, but he heard Castiel’s voice mutter an apology.
Another whack to Castiel’s legs, which Castiel stood on one leg to kick away.
Dean stood up straight and slid one boot back through the mud on the pole, trying to get a solid stance. Castiel’s eyes shifted across Dean’s torso, and Dean honestly couldn’t tell if he was being checked out or if he was being sized up so Castiel could hit him again.
Turned out it was the latter. Dean grunted as a paddle thumped across his chest, winding him momentarily. It didn’t hurt, it was just distracting, and friggin’ difficult to navigate in order to enforce his own attack.
“You got no chance of getting outta this alive,” Dean growled, grinning. “You’re going down, boy.”
“I’d like to see you take me,” Castiel snapped back, eyes flashing with the spark of the game. “You’re no match.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean whipped the paddle over Castiel’s shoulder, hitting him on the back as he ducked. “Gotcha!”
Dean had made the same mistake Castiel had made earlier, in letting his legs be exposed to the paddle. Castiel got the back of his knee, and pulled Dean down like he’d used a hook.
Dean dropped the paddle in order to grab the pole - god, it was slippery - one knee slipped free and his toe kicked the surface of the mud, feeling cold even through his boot. He panted there for a moment, hoping Castiel would let him back up, but he was given no such chance.
Another hit landed on Dean’s back, and he grunted, shoving the paddle off - but then came another, another, a pause and then another.
Dean was beaten down against the wooden log, hands holding on for dear life so he didn’t fall. One leg still dangled, one knee remained in a crouching position. He could push himself up if he wanted, shove away the oar that descended onto him again, tapping on his ribs, but he stayed down, barely fighting it at all.
Castiel wasn’t trying to throw him off the pole. He was taking out his frustrations, and Dean just let him.
“Come on Cas, I can take it,” he said, just loud enough for Castiel to hear. “C’mon, hit me, hit me―”
“You―” Castiel spat, angrily thumping one side of the oar against Dean’s thigh. “You just... god―”
“You got me, c’mon, Cas. Just do it, take me down, take me d―”
Castiel took a step closer to him, and Dean kept his head low as he saw the muddy boot by his face, the shadow of the paddle moving, and heard the swoop of it through the air amongst the catcalls of the children.
“C’mon,” Dean whispered. He closed his eyes.
A leg nudged his head, and he opened his eyes again and looked up. He looked up into the face of Castiel, who was breathing heavily, nostrils flaring. His hair was messed up, his hands tight around the grip of the oar.
Dean crawled back so he was kneeling, gaze not breaking from Castiel’s. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left. I’ve done nothing but regret it since.” He drew down a shaky gulp, not wincing as Castiel swept the oar up, ready to hit him again.
“I can take it, Cas. Do it.”
Castiel’s set jaw tensed further, the muscle there twitching.
But then the fire in his eyes seemed to simmer down, and before Dean knew it, all he was looking at was a twinkle. The twinkle. For all he knew, that was what he’d been looking at all along.
Castiel kneed him off the pole, and Dean flailed desperately as he felt himself falling. He heard his own startled cry, then a soggy, heavy splosh, and then a chill was seeping into his bones through every item of clothing he wore. He raised his head, hearing the whoops of laughter of an extremely satisfied audience.
Dean blinked at the man standing seven feet above him, still wielding his oar.
As if Dean would let him live.
Dean kicked the log, making it judder on its axis. Castiel startled, an instant reaction of arms spread wide - but then Dean kicked again, and Castiel was tumbling, curling up as he fell.
Dean laughed like it was the funniest thing on Earth when Castiel popped up out of the mud, perplexed as to the change of scenery.
Dean crawled through the half-foot of mud and under the log, laughing along with the kids, until he was close enough to touch Castiel. Castiel just blinked at him, a quirk of a smile on his lips.
He couldn’t help it. Dean slapped a hand through the top of the mud, shoving it in Castiel’s direction.
Castiel did the same thing at the same time.
Oh, it was on.
Castiel actually pounced. Like, leapt up from his place in the mud, landed with his body over Dean’s. His damp, dripping anorak slapped Dean in the face, and Dean grunted, arms reaching around Castiel’s middle to grapple him off again.
Castiel barked a laugh as Dean rucked up the bottom of his turtleneck, slapping a handful of cold and squishy mud under his t-shirt.
“I never liked turtlenecks,” Dean declared, hauling Castiel down into the slop by his shoulders.
Castiel snorted and shoved a very gross hand against Dean’s throat, and it slid up his face, and he heard the rasp of stubble as mud caught on his jaw. He could only stare at the sky in shock as he discovered that there was a muddy finger in his nose.
“Yeugh―” Dean hit Castiel’s arm away, taking him by the wrists and pinning them down under the surface of the thick brown sludge, turning his face this way and that to avoid Castiel’s forehead as he tried to headbutt him.
“Get off me,” Castiel growled, grinning like a maniac as Dean very subtly let him take control.
They rolled through the depths of the gloop, hearing the squelch of it under their clothes, feeling its disgusting oozy wetness creep against their skin. Dean practically giggled when Castiel flopped down on top of him, their chests pressed together, one of Castiel’s thighs landing between Dean’s.
“Hey, hey, keep it PG,” Dean chortled, kicking Castiel’s thigh away before it nudged him a little too hard. “There’s kids watchin’.”
There was an evil glint in Castiel’s eye as he―
...Oh, crap.
Castiel had an entire handful of mud in each of his hands, and he was aiming straight for Dean’s head.
“Oh no - no, no, NO―” Dean shrieked as he tried to scramble backwards, ending up doing nothing but laughing as a chilling splat found his hair, Castiel’s hands dragging all the way down until mud started to drip under Dean’s collar. “EUUGH, FU― Cas, you bastard,” he hissed under his breath so nobody else heard.
Castiel cackled.
“I’ve had enough of you,” chuckled Dean, trying to ease backwards to get out of the mud pit, back to where Sarah was waving a towel like a peace offering.
“I hope you don’t mean that for real this time.” Castiel gasped for breath as they helped each other to their feet.
Dean looked him properly in the eye, and saw something more authentic than any of the craziness that they’d just taken part in.
“No, I don’t mean it for real,” Dean answered, smiling. “I meant what I said on the dumb log. I’m―” Dean coughed, pulling a fist in front of his face as the aroma of mud started to get at him. “I’m sorry.”
Castiel smirked. “I know.”
Dean watched the other man wade his way back to the bank, watched him get bundled up in a towel and celebrated as Team Godson’s hero. Dean smiled.
Hey. So what if it was cheesy? Cas was his hero, too.
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