Title: I Disregard This Kind of Problem All The Time
Summary: Dean is having a bit of a mid life crisis. Which, really, he's only sixteen and it's not an actual mid-life crisis, but he's sixteen and everything feels like the end of the world when you're a teenager. (AU)
Author notes: For the prompt: "High school AU with Cas as the jock and Dean as the nerd/social outcast."
Dean can't dance.
And not in that 'I'm too shy slash embarrassed to go out and dance in front of people' kind of way, or even that 'I have two left feet and step on girls' toes' kind of way, but more along the lines of 'I am a danger to myself and everyone involved.'
There were two single, solitary days that he spent in 6th grade trying to learn how to dance. It had been the worst, most humiliating, damaging thing he'd done that summer and if it hadn't been Jo trying to teach him it probably would've been enough to consider changing his name and moving to another country. It starts with him watching their feet, which makes him lead them into lamps and furniture and other people, which then ends in a tangle of bodies and electrical cords, and then there's the frantic chaos as he tries to untangle everything, and it all just goes way the fuck downhill.
So it's really just better for everyone if Dean doesn't go anywhere near a dance floor. Which, really, when your prom is at a ballroom and the theme is 'mystery masquerade' it's almost impossible to find somewhere dancing is not involved. He already feels like a huge pile of ass, in freaking black slacks, and quite possibly the only shirt he owns without some band on the front, all pulled together by the super classy mask Sam had gone to town on with the fucking black glitter.
The mask isn't actually as bad as some of the ones he's seen on his classmates. Sure, the ones who can afford to go to costume shops and rent masks look pretty awesome, but you can definitely tell who ran to the 99 Cent Only store an hour before the dance and Frankensteined together something halfway presentable.
Dean's is shit, and sparkly, and held onto his head by the most uncomfortable black elastic Sam could probably find, but at least it's got character.
Still though, this is a night that he's pretty sure he won't miss if it happens to get magically erased from his memory. This isn't the kind of night he's going to look back on, or see the pictures in the yearbook, and think 'Oh, fuck yeah, what a night.'
He doesn't know where Jo is. She's supposed to be his date, but she'd grabbed some punch and headed off to ask some guy out who should be, by their school's standards, way out of her league, but she's been gone for an hour so obviously something is working out.
The entrance is empty when he gets out to it, which is exactly how he wants it to be, and it's really refreshing to be out in the brisk air instead of in the crowded ballroom. He leans against one of the stair railings and inhales loudly.
Actually, he could probably leave and not be missed. He'd promised to come so that Jo wouldn't have to go alone, but Jo has obviously run off with her prince charming and doesn't really appear to need him much anymore at the moment. Which, whatever, good for her. Dean wishes it was that simple for him.
He'd seen Kelly poking at the punch bowl on his way out, although he's positive she hadn't seen him. They'd broken up two weeks prior and she'd accused him of being gay and he'd thrown all of the CDs she'd left in the Impala away as retaliation, but they'd started talking again in the halls and things were tentatively okay. She'd probably be into dancing, or making out, or just chilling or whatever, but Dean doesn't know that he actually feels like it.
Because, okay, he's having a bit of a mid life crisis. Which, really, he's only sixteen and it's not an actual mid-life crisis, but he's sixteen and everything feels like the end of the world when you're a teenager.
Because it's one thing to get indignant when the girl you've been seeing for six months asks you if you're gay, but it's entirely another when she might actually be right and you're so upset that someone might know or that someone might know before you that the only thing you can think to do is deny all of it. He's actually sure he's never denied anything as adamantly as he denied her accusations, which is pretty hilarious considering he'd kind of been thinking along the same lines the past few weeks.
Although being gay in West Hollywood isn't really the life altering experience it would be in, say, Tennessee or whatever. You're no longer the obligatory straight guy in the room, you suddenly have a lot more options, and you don't have to worry that the super hot girl you're flirting with has a girlfriend and is only talking to you because she likes your Led Zeppelin t-shirt.
Dean doesn't really know if he's gay, okay? He's thinking about it. He's considering his options. There's no need to rush into anything.
But he had definitely liked Kelly. She was hot and she had giant breasts and she really liked having sex in the girl's restroom during lunch, but he doesn't know what it says about him that he'd gotten bored. Because he'd had her up on one of the sinks, her skirt pushed up around her waist and a breast in each hand, when he'd started wondering about whether or not he'd turned in his geography homework yet or not and if he could get an extension on it and maybe he wasn't paying as much attention to his writhing girlfriend as he could've been.
So the night air is refreshing and it gives him some time to think, to mull things over, and also to continue his silent little freak-out. It just goes to show though that there is a greater power in charge of things, because he's so focused on his own internal monologue that he doesn't notice someone else sneaking out the door – and they don't notice him until they run smack into him and the two of them end up tumbling down the flight of stairs.
It's the story of Dean's life at this point, really, when he untangles himself and the offender in question is the guy who is pretty much the cause of his whole mid life crisis.
The guy is Castiel and he's definitely the reason for the season – or, rather, he's the reason Dean is trying to figure out if he bats for the same team as always or if he's batting for a different team or, fuck, if he's even batting at all. Because he doesn't have time, because he doesn't get those sort of feelings – especially not for soccer playing dudes – and because, as is typical, Castiel is very much Off Limits.
It's actually really difficult to dislike Castiel.
He says 'excuse me' when he bumps into you in the hallway, he does all his own homework instead of paying off a underclassmen to do it for him, he goes to every birthday party he's invited to – even Jo's, even though Dean is sure they've never talked. Castiel's family is stupidly rich and his whole way through life is paved for him, but he's so fucking humble that it seems like a jerk move to point out his wealth. He's single handedly saving the school's soccer team, pushing their school into championships and regional games, investing his own time and money into plastering all of those team recruitment signs all over the school.
He's 5'8” if he stands completely straight, but he's also still growing, and he has this crazy brown hair that looks like its never seen a brush in his life, and these fucking freakish blue eyes that Dean doesn't notice or think about at all. Soccer leaves him slender and agile and tan and, okay, the soccer uniforms aren't exactly the most fashionable thing ever, but still.
Still though, that doesn't mean he's Dean's type. Dean doesn't even know if he has a type. For one, Castiel is a guy and Dean is still trying to work out that portion of his life, thank you very much. For two, he's an athlete. He's popular, he's rich, he's talented, he's attractive-
Dean is not popular. He's not rich, not athletic, not exceptionally talented. Well, actually, he does have talents, but they're not something you typically broadcast. He can hot wire a car, or beat Alistair's nose in with one hand behind his back, or play Stairway to Heaven on his acoustic without missing a chord, but, again, nothing really marketable.
“I'm sorry,” Castiel begins, bright blue and white mask only half on his head, and it's nice to see him out of those awful soccer shorts and knee high socks. Although he's wearing a tie and shoes that probably cost more than the Impala and his shirt is a little too loose and he definitely forgot his jacket before he stumbled out into forty degree weather.
He also sort of looks like the hounds of hell are on his heels.
“You okay?” Dean asks, and it's a little disconcerting when they stand back up, still sore from careening down a flight of stairs, and Castiel grabs hold of his arm with this you're my only hope, Obi-Wan look on his face.
“I need your help,” he says then, in the same voice Dean is positive dark omens are typically delivered in, his eyes flickering back to the still-closed door. “I will give you anything in exchange, but my life is on the line and I need you to pretend we're together.”
And, okay, not the first thing he had been expecting.
“What the fuck?” he manages, because he's pretty sure he's seen this movie, or read this book, or whatever. “Dude, 'together'? I'm not like that, okay?”
Which he actually might be, especially if Castiel is asking, but there's also this really strange desire to keep denying all of it, so maybe he's not. He doesn't even know.
“It's five seconds of your life,” Castiel reasons, pointedly not looking away from Dean, and he does seem very, very desperate.
“Is your ex boyfriend hiding around the corner or something?” Dean hazards and, okay, Castiel smells really good. He's also really cold, leeching all of Dean's body heat from how close they're standing, and Dean wonders if he realizes it's December and he might want to, you know, start wearing a jacket.
Castiel shakes his head. “There's this girl. She's obsessed with me – and possibly keeps strands of my hair in a locket around her neck. Nothing else has discouraged her so far.”
“You do realize she's going to tell the whole school she saw you with a guy, right?” Dean asks, skeptical. “I mean, you are kind of asking me to throw myself to the wolves here.”
“No one is going to believe her, she's insane,” Castiel promises. “You can shove me down a flight of stairs if it helps your image. I am begging you, Dean.”
The door leading into the ballroom opens and Dean doesn't look over, wonders if maybe crazy people are like dinosaurs and maybe they can't see you if you stand very still. Then there's a high pitched voice asking, “Castiel? Is that you?”
It's sort of a split second decision. Because he can either help out the guy he might possibly have a major crush on or he cannot and, in the end, Castiel is a fairly decent guy and Dean doesn't want him to become part of a human sacrifice or whatever.
“Since when do you know my name?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“That sounds like a 'yes',” Castiel replies with a nod and, without further preamble, moves to the tips of his toes and kisses him.
Which, okay, Dean wasn't exactly sure that was in the fine print. It's also not some chaste little 'tee-hee we're pretending to be dating' kiss that he kind of expects, but more of this 'oh god, where have you been all of my life, I'm making up for lost time' sort of kiss. It is all Castiel's fucking cold fingers on the back of his neck, tongue sliding past his lips and into his mouth, and Dean gripping onto the back of the railing – and then awkwardly moving his hands to Castiel's waist, because he's pretty sure you don't grab hold of the decor instead of your pretend-boyfriend or whatever.
There might be this high pitched gasp from behind them, likely female, but Dean is pretty sure elephants could trample through the parking lot right now and he probably wouldn't notice. He's got an armful of extremely hot guy, who is trying his best to suffocate him with his tongue, and also he's pretty much absolutely sure at this point that he definitely, definitely likes men. Or at least that he definitely, definitely likes Castiel.
It seals the deal, so to speak.
Castiel pulls back, out of breath and stares at Dean's lips like he's just discovered they exist. “Holy fuck.”
And, actually, Castiel swearing is kind of intensely hot too. Dean can think of other circumstances where that sort of language would be appropriate. He wonders, briefly, how Castiel feels about restroom sinks.
There's also this huge issue about them going to the same school and how, even if no one but his crazy velociraptor stalker saw them swapping spit, it's probably still going to get around like wildfire. Which, maybe it's not a big deal, but Dean isn't exactly on the 'A' list and it'd be really shit to get to class and have it be one more thing being held over his head. Although Castiel had been pretty generous in his offer to let Dean beat him up to make things seem as platonic as possible. Really, what a guy.
Seriously, Dean thinks to himself, first world problems.
“That was hardly a 'yes',” he manages to say finally. It's actually hard to focus with Castiel still leaning against him like he can't stand on his own.
“Why wouldn't I know your name?” Castiel asks, though still makes no move to put any distance between them. “You come to every one of my games.”
Which, actually, kind of embarrassing.
But, seriously. Very hard to dislike Castiel.