Work Text:
January 2014
*click*
*whir*
“Oh, hey, man. Trench coat plus a tape recorder? That’s pretty old-school.”
“Cas Novak, Sports Illustrated. Do you have a second?”
“Yeah, sure. Sorry, uh, let me throw a shirt on.”
*shuffling sound*
“Locker room’s pretty empty.”
“Yep, just us two. You can’t really blame them for not sticking around. It’s not like there’s much to celebrate.”
**
February 2015
It’s become something of a tradition for Dean. Sideline interviews and press junkets done still in his grass-stained jersey, his hair spiked with sweat. Afterwards, returning to the locker room—sometimes a teammate or two still finishing up, willing to shoot the breeze for a few minutes, and then a blissfully long, hot shower. By the time he’s done, no one’s there—no more fans, no more teammates, no more stadium employees cleaning up spilled drinks and nachos. No one, save for one.
Cas Novak. Normally looks like he stepped out of a bad pulp book. Black-rimmed glasses, like Clark Kent, and hair like he just walked through a Boeing’s jet wash. And that goddamn tape recorder that was probably past its prime in the 1980s. Needless to say, Dean’s already a little in love.
Dean can’t stop thinking about him, even while confetti’s raining down on him, while the fans scream themselves hoarse and We Are The Champions comes blaring over the stadium loudspeakers as he lifts the trophy high, even when one of the defensive linemen picked him up in a hug so tight, he swears he felt a rib make a creaking noise. There’s one person he still needs to see, and a particular conversational topic that’s been a year in the making.
**
“What does it feel like, Mr. Winchester, to make it to the playoffs in your rookie year, only to be knocked out by a missed field goal?”
“What do you think, man? Shitty. It feels shitty. Can I say that?”
“No.”
“What happened to the old SI reporter? Jo, I think? I liked her.”
“She got promoted. Mr. Winchester, do you realize that you broke a Kansas City Chiefs record for passing yards today? 405 yards through the air, not to mention your rushing stats.”
“It’s Dean. And no, I didn’t know that. You know, Jo was cool. She always brought me one of those stadium pretzels after the game. It was our own little routine.”
“That’s nice. What do you have to say about the penalty late in the fourth quarter that put you at 3rd and 23?”
“Probably wasn’t too happy at the time—hey, you know, you don’t have to stand on ceremony or anything. You can come sit over here.”
*footsteps* “Oh, uh, thank you. I was asking—”
“Jesus, your eyes are blue up close. I couldn’t tell at first, with the glasses, but wow.”
*throat clearing* “Would you say it was, um, a momentum changer?”
“No changing the subject with you…I don’t know, sure. Jesus, now I really want a pretzel. A warm one, with melted cheese—”
“Mr. Winchester, are you even going to answer any of my questions? It seems like you—you just want me to buy you food.”
“It’s Dean.” *silence* “Are you offering?”
**
It’s not like he hasn’t seen Cas Novak since. Winter and spring had been pretty brutal, because the season was over and there wasn’t much reason for a Sports Illustrated reporter to be lurking around the locker room. Finally, finally, training camp. All the hype that came with pre-season. Dean was used to being interviewed—quarterback of the Kansas City Chiefs, he expected it—but there was always one particular reporter that he looked forward to.
A lot of the articles about Dean before the season were about the pressure to perform. Last season they’d come so close to the Super Bowl, then lost by two in the playoffs. It was brutal. That was fodder enough, to come so close and walk away with nothing, but Dean had extra incentive. The coaches had a field day at their pre-season press conference, saying that Dean Winchester was playing with even more of a chip on his shoulder. Dean didn’t bother to share the real reason.
Dean had had his own press conference, and seen a man in a tan trench coat at the back, watching him with a slight smirk. First time they’d seen each other in months. God, Dean had it bad.
Now, Dean readjusts his new baseball cap on his head, looking around at the milling crowd on the field. He’s sore from the game, and he still has to hang around for at least an hour or so, signing autographs, giving interviews, before he can make it to the locker room. It’ll be worth the wait.
**
*spluttering cough* “No, Mr. Winchester. Not a chance.”
“Why not? I hear I’m cute.”
“I hardly think that’s appropriate.”
“Do you? Hardly? That’s too bad. What are you doing after this?”
“Excuse me? Mr. Winchester—”
“Dean.”
“Dean, then. I just need a sound bite from you. Don’t make this difficult.”
“Hey, hey, fine. No need to get touchy. Just don’t pretend you weren’t checking me out when I was shirtless earlier.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“I’m just saying.”
*audible swallow* “D-Dean, even though your journey, um, ends here tonight, you’ve become a role model for many young boys who dream of playing professionally. What would you like to say to them?”
“Hmm. Okay. I would say, don’t give up on it too early. You know, in high school, we were just some rural cow town. When funds were cut, so was the football program. You know what my practice was? Throwing long balls to my little brother, Sammy, out in our corn fields. There’s only so much space between each row of corn, you see, and each one straight as a line. It’s how I learned to be so accurate, because if not we’d lose the ball in the stalks and we wouldn’t see it again until after harvest. Anyways, I only played two games in high school before the program got trashed. My options were limited, and sometimes seemed impossible, but I didn’t give up on it. And look where it brought m—what? Why are you smiling at me like that?”
“Because you’re actually giving me a real answer.”
“Jesus. Go out with me.”
**
Dean, still on the field, sees the crowd part before him to reveal two familiar faces—his brother and his mom, decked out in red and gold.
“Dean,” Mary breathes, as he pulls her in for a tight hug. “My nails are gone. I chewed them to bits, I was so nervous.”
Sam’s whole face is one big smile. “Nice Hail Mary,” he says. “Straight as a line.”
Dean pulls his mom in closer. “Nice catch, too,” he says. “My wide receiver’s almost as good as you.”
Mary steps away so she can look up at him. Rubs at a grass stain on his jersey. “I knew you could do it, Dean. I always did. I’m so proud of you.”
Dean doesn’t want the three of them to start bawling there on the fifty yard line together. One of his teammates goes by, giving him a bruising slap on the back along with congratulations, which helps Dean get his shit together.
“Hey,” he says. “We should do something to celebrate. Go out for drinks, or something.”
Sam gets a look of little-brother uncertainty. “If you want to go party with your teammates, seriously, we can go back to the hotel—”
“No way,” Dean says. “Come on, the four of us.”
“Four?” Mary says, and Dean feels the blush already creeping up his neck.
“Yeah, there’s, uh. Someone I’d like you to meet. Oh, shut up.”
“Someone he’d like us to meet,” Mary says, turning to give Sam a raised eyebrow. “Didn’t see that one coming, did you?”
“No,” Sam says, smiling off across the crowd. “It hasn’t seemed at all like he’s been mooning over someone for the last ten months—”
Dean opens his mouth, but Mary squeezes his hand and says, “We’ll make reservations for four at Mitchell’s, okay? Take your time,” she says, gesturing to the crowd of waiting reporters who are hovering around them.
“Great,” Dean says, breathless, and then Sam’s wrapping him in a hug, the three of them together, while the cameras pop off around them. Mary, squashed into Dean’s bicep, is suspiciously sniffing. “See you guys soon.”
And then the crowd closes around him again, and every reporter but the one he really wants is asking him what it’s like, being a Super Bowl champion.
**
“No.”
“No? Man, that’s cold. Just—straight-up, ‘no?’”
“That’s what I said.”
“You could do a lot worse, you know. Come on, just one date.”
“Do you think bullying me into it is somehow romantic?”
“Whoa, whoa. I’m not trying to bully anyone. I just thought there was, you know, a mutual attraction here.”
“Thought you liked the old reporter, Jo.”
“Aw, come on, it was more like a little-sister thing. I’ve decided I’m more into nerdy, hot reporters.”
“Male ones?”
“Yeah, what of it?”
“It’s not exactly common knowledge.”
“Well, the more you know. Come on, one date. Throw me a bone; I just lost the biggest game of my career.”
“So I should do what you want out of pity.”
“Yikes. Okay, you know what, never mind. In what world, in what way, would I have even a shot of a chance with you?”
*pause* “Win the Super Bowl.”
“Win…the Super Bowl.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, yeah, sure, Cas. You know, I’ll put that on my to-do list. Fix the leaky faucet. Make a house payment. Win the friggin’ Super Bowl.”
“What’s the matter? Don’t have any faith in yourself?”
“Dude, I poured out my fucking soul this year, and I just got axed in the playoffs after all that. There’s no guarantee I’ll even get this far next year, or any year, for that matter.”
“Well, those are my terms.”
“You know what? Fine. You have a deal. On the record: Next year, I’m going to be a Pro Bowl quarterback, Super Bowl MVP, and I’m going to date the fuck out of Sports Illustrated’s Cas Novak. Did your fancy tape recorder get all that? ‘Cause I want that in print for everyone to see.”
*long silence* “Um, yes. Yeah. It did.”
**
Dean resettles his new baseball cap—SUPER BOWL CHAMPS emblazoned across the front—at a jaunty angle on his head as he walks down the tunnel into the locker rooms.
Honestly, Dean always had a chip on his shoulder. There have been a lot of reasons motivating Dean to succeed. He wanted to prove all the kids in his hometown wrong. He wanted to make his mom and Sammy proud. He wanted to show he was the real deal, even if he was some small-town boy from Kansas with a GED and a strong arm. He wanted, more than anything, to be able to pay off Mary’s mortgage, so she could keep the house and the land that he’d grown up with.
He still remembers snagging the first issue of Sports Illustrated that had come out after his first interview with Cas—the one after he lost in the 2014 playoffs. He’d felt like a bit of a dick, buying a magazine that had him on the cover (the lady at the cash register had just looked confused), but next to his picture were the words—Dean Winchester: On the Record.”
He had flipped so fast through those pages, looking for the cover story written by one Cas Novak. That asshole. “Dean Winchester, rookie quarterback, had this promise for me,” Dean read aloud. “Winchester said, ‘Next year, I’m going to be a Pro Bowl quarterback, Super Bowl MVP, and I’m going to …want that in print for everyone to see.’” He’d tossed the magazine aside, fuming. “The fucking dot dot dot, that sneaky son of a bitch!”
A lot had changed leading up to this year, but one thing always stayed the same. And that was this—different cities, different stadiums, not always the home locker room. But every game of the season, Dean would hang back in the locker room and every time, he’d be rewarded. Cas Novak, Sports Illustrated reporter, always found him there.
Just like now. It’s all sinking in now—Dean Winchester, Super Bowl Champion, don’t that got a ring to it—has a bargain to collect on. He did it. He won. And, as he rounds the corner into the locker room, he sees that a certain someone hasn’t forgotten their deal, either. Cas, smiling broadly, is sitting on one of the benches, waiting for him.
“Took you long enough,” Cas says, and he’s reaching for Dean’s jersey already.
**
“Good. Glad that’s settled. You should just know this is a complete waste of time.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Missed opportunity, man. You’re gonna regret waiting a whole year, dragging out this whole charade, before you finally have the Dean Winchester experien—why are you taking off your shirt?”
“The talking part of this interview is now over.”
“Oh? Oh!—”
*click*
**
“Congratulations,” Cas says against Dean’s lips. His hands are warm, his fingers nimble, as he pulls the jersey up over Dean’s head. Dean’s already got his hands on Cas’s waist, grinding them together, but he has to break apart for a second to shrug out of the jersey. When he does, Cas’s eyes go soft, brushing over his stuck-up, sweaty hair. “You’re a mess.”
“Let’s get back to the congratulating me part,” Dean says. He feels giddy, goofy, as he pushes off pads and his undershirt, kicking off his cleats. Cas tries to cop a feel through the polyester of his uniform before Dean swats his hand away.
So there’s always been this. Ever since the start of the season, win or loss—and there’s been few of those—Cas has been there, after everyone else has gone home. It’s always been under the pretense of getting a sound bite for his Chiefs coverage, and Dean’s a hot name in the sports world. But there’s also been the other stuff—every Sunday, him and Dean. Having sex, most of the time, sure. But they’ve also talked for hours, about stuff that doesn’t go in the articles. Sat in a comfortable silence after the losses, sharing a protein bar. Hot showers, Cas washing Dean’s sweaty hair, clucking his tongue if he finds any bruises from the game.
But not dates, right? Never dates. Cas has always been clear on that, that it’s never left the locker room. Unless Dean kept his side of the bargain, no dates.
“Sorry, I took so long,” Dean mumbles between kisses. “Every-friggin-person wanted an autograph.”
“And they should,” Cas says, pushing Dean down on one of the aluminum benches. “Don’t worry, I found ways to occupy myself.”
And then he’s straddling Dean’s hips, sinking down on him in an easy motion, finding ways to occupy himself indeed.
Dean grabs at Cas’s sides, his moan bouncing around the locker room. Cas slowly rotates his head, stretching like he’s settling himself in, and then his feet hit the floor with a slap as he lifts himself up before grinding down again. Jesus, Dean could get used to this. His muscles are mush, his brain a contented hum, and he has the man of his dreams working himself into a red, flushed mess on Dean’s lap, one warm palm centered on Dean’s chest, the other stripping his cock in lazy motions.
“Fuck, Cas,” Dean says, hissing through his teeth as Cas takes him fully again. “I’m gonna—oh, Jesus—I—Cas, babe, can’t fucking wait for our date.”
Cas comes to a very sudden halt. “Our…date?” He says, in an uncertain voice.
Dean stares down the length of his body at Cas, who’s wearing nothing but a squint and the black-rimmed glasses, which are sliding down the bridge of his sweaty nose. Cas pokes them back up with a finger.
“Uh, yeah, the date,” Dean says. He tries to push himself up, but Cas has him pinned down, so he lays very still with a hand over his eyes and says, “Our date, Cas. The date. The one that we agreed on, if I won the Super Bowl, the one I’ve waited a fucking year for, forcryingoutloud—”
“Right,” Cas says. “The date. Got it. You, uh, still want to go on the date. With me.”
Dean wishes they were fully clothed, maybe with at least a few inches between them, because this is just sad. “Did you think I was fucking kidding? I won the Super Bowl, just like we agreed, are you seriously gonna wait until now to tell me—”
“I didn’t think you were serious,” Cas says. “I mean—hear me out—that was before we really knew each other, I thought you were this just cocky rookie, throwing your weight around.”
“What do you think all of this was?” Dean demands, gesturing blindly in the direction of his lap. “Was it not clear enough?”
“I’ve been enjoying myself,” Cas says seriously. “This has been perfect for me, really, I just really didn’t think you wanted to—you know. Make it public.”
“What.” Dean is glaring, murderous, from between his fingers.
“Dean, you won,” Cas says patiently. “You’re under a spotlight now. No NFL player on your level has ever come out, facts are facts. I didn’t think you’d be the one to buck the tradition.”
“So you made the decision for me.”
“No! No, I just thought I could take what I could get, in the meantime, and—Christ, Dean—”
Cas, gasping, flails for a hold on Dean’s shoulders as Dean fucks up into him. “I—waited—a whole. Fucking. Year—because—you—thought I wouldn’t follow through—”
“Dean,” Cas says, breath hitching with each thrust. “I—oh, oh God—” With a hand on his cock, he finishes himself off, coming over Dean’s stomach. Dean’s thighs are burning by then, and Cas helps him along— sweet, slow rolls of his hips, until Dean follows.
Dean waits until he can breathe normally before he sits up a little, jostling Cas.
“I’ve been serious, birdbrain. Since day one. And you’ve been missing out on some fine-ass gourmet meals from yours truly, and a—a fucking bed, for starters, because you assumed I was just angling for a booty call.”
Cas could stand to look a little more apologetic. “And then I fell for you,” he says, running a hand downs Dean’s chest. “And I didn’t care how I got you, just as long as I did.”
Dean’s heart, under Cas’s warm palm, makes a funny kind of leap. “Yeah, well,” he says articulately. “We’re past that, now. We’re going on a date tonight. You’re meeting my mom.”
And Cas’s head tilts back a little bit, taking in their sweaty, slick bodies, the mess on Dean’s stomach, and says in a dangerously calm voice, “I’m what?”
**
July 2015
*click*
*whir*
*muffled snuffling* “Dean, what? It’s 3 AM, what are you doing?”
“Why don’t you tell the nice tape recorder what you told America earlier today, huh?”
“Dean, for the love of God, put that back where you found it, so help me—”
“You told me you loved me.”
*long pause* “I did.”
“You told me at the fucking ESPYs, while I was getting up to accept an award, that’s when you finally decide to tell me. They have six different angles of you planting one on me and saying you love me.”
*sleepily* “Are you getting somewhere with this?”
“You just always have to one-up me, huh?”
“Well, you’re the one who went up there and officially came out during your awards speech. Your mom almost cracked a tooth from smiling so hard.”
*long silence*
“Are you gonna say it again?”
“Say what?”
“Come on, Cas, don’t make me—”
“I love you.” *whispering* “I love you. You know I do. I love you.”
*muffled kissing*
*whispering* “I love you too.”
“I know. Now go the fuck to slee—”
*click*