Chapter Text
“Cas.”
Planting himself in front of the treadmill, Dean tries to catch Cas’ eyes.
“Cas. You can’t ignore me forever, man.”
...except apparently he can, because Castiel is one stubborn son of a bitch when he wants to be. He’s staring straight ahead at the wall with his mouth pressed in a thin line, doing his absolute best impression of pretending Dean doesn't exist, feet pounding steadily on the treadmill belt.
Ugh, just looking at him makes Dean feel exhausted. Jogging is the worst. Even if Cas does look stupidly good in jogging shorts.
“Cas.”
Not a glance.
“Castiel.”
Zero, zilch, goose egg.
“Caaaaas.”
Dean leans directly into Cas’ field of view so Cas has no choice but to look at him, but Cas, the big friggin’ baby, actually turns his head and pointedly stares at a new spot on the wall about one foot to Dean’s left.
Dean snorts. “Real mature, Cas.”
A muscle twitches minutely in Cas’ jaw, but other than that, there’s no indication that he even heard Dean.
“Fine,” Dean says, leaning against the treadmill and baring his teeth in a wide grin. “You’re right, you need to save your breath for running. I'll talk, you jog. Oh, what’s that? You’re sorry? Apology accepted, that was easy. Hmm? You're being an ass? You wanna change your name to Asstiel? Don't be so hard on yourself, buddy -“
Cas breaks.
“How did you find me, Dean?” he snaps, finally looking at Dean and squinting his eyes in a glare.
“Are you serious? Dude, you’ve had the same schedule since freshman year. Six p.m. to seven p.m. is gym time, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, except for the third Friday of every month because you do that tutoring thing that’s supposed to look good on your resume or some shit. You’re not exactly hard to find.”
Cas huffs. “I managed to avoid you for two days.”
“Uh, yeah, because I let you. I was hoping you’d cool off and everything would blow over, but obviously that hasn’t happened yet.” He leaves the ‘because you hold a grudge worse than the freaky Japanese kid in that horror movie’ part unsaid. He has a feeling it might not help his cause.
“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
“Okay, one - that’s ridiculous, because I’m a delight. And b - you’ve had a stick up your ass for two friggin’ days now. You missed ‘Dr. Sexy’ night, for chrissake,” Dean points out, trying not to sound like he’s actually pretty bummed about that. Thursday nights are always their Dr. Sexy nights. It’s a tradition: meet at Dean’s apartment, make crappy microwave popcorn, and mercilessly mock the latest episode. And Dean won’t admit it – any more than he'll admit he actually enjoys ‘Dr. Sexy’, and not in an ironic way - but watching the latest episode without Cas’ familiar presence on the end of the couch, and his snarky commentary filling in all the dramatic pauses and cheesy close-ups, had left Dean’s chest feeling…kind of gaping and empty . “So yeah, I’m done, we’re getting this shit straightened out.”
“I have a stick up my - ?” Cas’ raised voice carries across the gym, stirring a couple of people to glance their way. Cas ducks his head, mouth snapping shut with an embarrassed click, but he turns up the heat in his glare to the smite intensity and pins Dean in his sights.
It’s a glare that makes most people take a hasty step back, and to be honest, Dean’s a little alarmed – he hasn’t seen that particular glare leveled at him in years, not since the first few months of freshman year when they’d been total strangers crammed together in a tiny dorm room the size of a matchbox.
Yeah, they’d definitely hated each other for the first few weeks. Dean hadn’t helped matters by blasting 80's rock when Cas was trying to study, or bringing noisy one-night stands back to their cramped dorm, but in his defense, Cas had been a major dick too, doing things like cranking up the thermostat until Dean was sweating his balls off or eating the last piece of pizza in the mini-fridge. And don't even get Dean started on that Dateline: NBC trenchcoat.
But they’ve come a long way in the last four years, and they’ve been through some shit together. Cas was there when Dean’s dad died, recycling beer bottles and bringing Dean’s homework back from his classes and watching Dean's favorite trashy movies with him. And Dean, well, he likes to think he’s responsible for introducing Cas to some semblance of a life. He took Cas to his first concert, taught him how to play pool during long evenings at The Roadhouse, and drags him home to the batshit-crazy Winchester household for every family holiday. Hell, he even pushed Cas into getting his first kiss, tucked into a cozy corner of a house party with a sophomore named Meg.
That last one is ironic, considering Dean came to the very jarring realization a few months ago - courtesy of his friend Charlie, a bottle of Jack Daniels, and a Mario-Cart tournament gone wrong - that he’s totally, ridiculously, stupidly gone on his best friend.
Yeah, he’s fucked.
And he also really, really doesn’t like being on the receiving end of that particular glare again.
“You’re the one who got involved and made things worse, Dean,” Cas continues, voice quieter but still bristling. He's barely even short of breath, the unfairly fit bastard, but his forehead and arms are starting to shine with a damp sheen of sweat.
“Cas, I was trying to help -”
“I didn’t ask for your help. I don’t need your help, Dean.”
Ouch, that stings. Cas really is mad.
But Dean’s been on a low simmer for the past two days, and now he’s getting worked up too. “Yeah, well, maybe you should sometimes, instead of being such a fucking pushover -”
“Bite me, Dean.”
Cas’ hand shoots out and slams down on the controls, making Dean jump, and the treadmill starts whining to a stop. In one smooth move that makes Dean a little envious, Cas steps off the side of the treadmill while the belt is still moving, snatches up his water bottle from the floor, and strides off before Dean can say another damn word.
Fuck, he’s terrible at this. That’s why Sammy’s the sensitive one. If you wanna cry about your feelings, you go to Sammy. If you wanna get drunk and bury your feelings under layers of denial and self-recrimination… well, Dean’s got the market cornered in that area.
He resists the urge to tear his fucking hair out and lopes after Cas instead. Those jogging shorts are a sin. Dean hates that Cas is mad at him, but fuck, he loves to watch him walk away.
“Cas, hold up, you stubborn sonuva –“
He’s expecting Cas to head out to the parking lot, but he’s surprised when Cas takes a left past the vending machines and turns down the long hallway to the fitness classrooms instead. He makes a beeline into a room at the end. For the first few steps, Dean’s right on his heels, reaching out to grab Cas’ shoulder - then he takes a curious glance around the room, notices the checkerboard of yoga mats spread out on the floor, and backpedals like hellhounds themselves are after him.
He stops in the doorway and glares at Cas, who flashes him a smirk and grabs a yoga mat from a plastic tub by the wall.
Fuming, deliberating, Dean hesitates in the doorway. Everyone is starting to settle into seated positions on their mats and the instructor is fiddling with a stereo in the corner, turning up the sounds of a twangy acoustic guitar that Dean assumes is mood music, so the class is obviously about to start. Cas is unfurling his mat towards the back in one of the only open spots left, about as far across the room as he can possibly get from Dean.
The smug bastard obviously think he’s won this argument, because there’s no way Dean is following him into a yoga class. The day Dean starts saluting the sun and humming ‘om’ under his breath like he’s part of some creepy hive mind like the Borg Collective, well, he might as well just start making his own potpourri and frequenting vegan bakeries, too. Not gonna happen.
So yeah, Cas is right, damn him. There’s no way in hell Dean is following him into a yoga class. There’s no way. There’s no way –
- ahhh, fuck. Fuck it all.
Ducking back through the doorway, he hotfoots it to the extra mats before he can change his mind, snatching up a blue one and winding his way to the back of the room towards Cas. He’s trying really hard not to think about how many strangers have dripped sweat all over this mat and it’s kind of grossing him out, so he distracts himself by taking a very visceral satisfaction in the stunned look on Cas’ face instead.
“You’re joking,” Cas murmurs.
Dean stakes out the empty space next to him and shakes out his mat as obnoxiously as possible, snapping it in the air.
“What?” He raises his eyebrows. “I can’t expand my horizons?”
“Unless ‘expanding your horizons’-" For fuck's sake, Cas actually does those stupid air-quotes with his fingers that make Dean feel torn between exasperation and affection, “- means trying new flavors of pie, not usually, no.”
Dean flips him off half-heartedly, toeing off his shoes and kicking them towards the wall. He leaves his socks on, because he is not standing barefoot on that mat, and plops down. At least he’s wearing sweatpants instead of the jeans he’d almost thrown on before coming to find Cas, because he doesn’t relish the thought of stretching while wearing denim. He glances around the room and crosses his legs, copying how everyone else is sitting. Then he uncrosses them. Crosses them again. Tries to tug his feet up onto his thighs and stops immediately when his hip actually pops loud enough to hear, making Cas glance over at him in alarm. Uncrosses them.
He’s still trying to find a position that doesn’t feel mildly-awkward-to-supremely-uncomfortable when Cas huffs, trying to muffle a laugh. Dean shoots him a dirty look.
“You should at least grab a block,” Castiel suggests, gesturing to another tub at the edge of the room. It looks like it's piled high with square foam blocks.
Dean has no idea what the blocks are for, but he feels a little insulted by whatever Castiel is implying.
“I don’t need a friggin’ block.” He crosses his legs once more, decisively, and doesn’t unfold them. “Let’s do this.”