Chapter Text
As soon as Dean was old enough to hold a hockey stick, his dad took him down to their local rink and put him on the ice.
The skating came natural to him. Maybe because it was in his blood or maybe just because he got started early.
Hockey never did.
It’s not that he was bad as much as his eyes kept being drawn to the figure skaters they were sharing the ice with. The twirling, gliding, soaring through the air. Very different from clunky hockey gear and lost teeth (luckily that was before any staying ones came in).
He tried to keep focus. To not let his dad see. But his mom was always harder to hide things from, patiently waiting for Dean to say something, and when he didn’t, one day sitting him down at the kitchen island after school, pulling out the album filled with pictures from her days as a junior ice dancer.
When asked directly, Dean couldn’t lie. The glittering costumes, the music, the possibility that he could use his strength to create something beautiful. He wanted to try. Even if the things he truly wanted were reserved for girls.
At the trial practice he kept tripping over the unfamiliar toe pick of the figure skates, each time getting back up, wiping his bloody nose on the sleeve of his training jacket while warily watching his parents arguing off the ice.
It still felt like being able to breathe. Like the space available for him chafed a little less.
After the death of his mother it became an unspoken agreement in their house to honor her memory by fighting tooth and nail for Dean’s figure skating career. Some days it felt like a gift. On others it felt like a manifestation of their shared tragedy, like being buried alive over and over again with failure not being an option even if his father’s grim satisfaction at every trophy never begun to match his joy of watching Sammy’s youth hockey games.
Grief changes over time. Warps and fades some memories. Painting others in technicolor.
Sitting in Beijing after competing in the Winter Olympics, the grief feels sharp and fresh like it hasn’t been fifteen years since his mom passed. Or five since the death of his father, for that sake. It all mixes, churning together with his third – and probably final – break-up with Lisa. Off the ice. On the ice they’re still dancing together.
A glass lands in front of him hard enough that the beer sloshes over the rim. Gordon throws himself down in one of the seats at their group’s table in the dark bar. He nudges Dean with a shoulder, ”Hey, bronze isn’t bad you know.”
Dean grimaces, ”Yeah, no. The bronze is amazing. It’s just the whole Lisa bullshit,” he waves a hand as if it doesn’t matter. It’s been weeks, he should be further along than this.
”She didn’t want to join us?” Alfie asks, fiddling with the zipper of his Team USA fleece. He’s just barely fifteen, making this his first Olympics by the skin of his nose. He definitely shouldn’t have come with them out tonight, but saying no to him is like kicking a puppy and Dean is too young to be playing dad to another athlete – no matter how baby-faced.
”Nah, she’s too busy chatting with her new doctor boyfriend,” Dean drinks deeply from his beer to cover the sting.
”That feels… fast,” Castiel hedges. The men’s singles gold medal that Alfie insisted he wears is tucked under his button-up.
”No, no. I’m just wallowing. They’ve been friends for years while I’ve been messing up. It’s fair enough. I’m happy she’s happy,” Dean claps his hands together, ”Anyone wanna talk about something less depressing than my personal life?”
”What do you guys think about the Canadians talking about allowing people of any gender to partner for pair skating and ice dance. Isn’t it cool?” Charlie’s grin is infectious.
Dean fistbumps her, smiling back before Gordon ruins the moment, ”It isn’t very realistic, is it?”
”That they’re going to pass it?”
”No, that as well. But I mean... you need a man and a woman to do all of the poncy shit,” Gordon says.
”Poncy shit?” Castiel’s eyes narrow to two slits.
”Yeah, you know. The throwing and lifting and whatnot,” Gordon gestures vaguely.
”Are you sure all that hockey is good for you?” Charlie asks with a sweet smile, shooting Dean a ’what the hell is he even doing here’ look.
Dean shrugs as if Gordon isn’t specifically here in anticipation of one of Dean’s post-breakup periods lowering his bar enough that hooking up with a closeted hockey player starts to look like a great idea.
Gordon continues undeterred, ”The equality crap is nice and all, but you can’t tell me that two dudes are going to lift each other.”
”You saying I can’t lift Alfie?” Dean raises his eyebrows.
”No, I meant two actual men.”
”Whoa, okay, time-out gender expression police,” Charlie says across the uproar steadily rising over the table.
”Grown men, then. Just saying. You can’t lift Novak,” Gordon nods at Castiel, settling back in his chair as if his shit point has somehow won the argument.
”Well, I’ve been drinking,” Dean says, ”So I’m not gonna be lifting anyone.”
”I haven’t.”
”What?” Dean blinks confused at Castiel getting out of his seat.
Castiel extends a hand to Dean, ”Will you help me demonstrate?”
”You’ve never partnered with anyone,” Dean grimaces, but uses the offered hand to pull himself up.
Castiel grunts in acknowledgment while they move to a clearing between the tables. His perpetually messy dark hair is damp from a recent shower. He stops and turns to study Dean with blue eyes that have felt like a constant at nearly every competition for the last decade.
The red neck ribbon of Castiel’s second Olympic gold peeks out from under the crisp white collar of his shirt, sitting there as effortlessly as he’s making jumps look on the ice. Watching him compete it’s easy to forget that he’s not levitating, but instead performing a feat of coiled muscle and years and years of unrelenting work.
And yeah, they’re doing this.
”My shins on your thighs?” Dean suggests.
Castiel doesn’t answer, just grabs him. It’s a terrible entry into the lift with Castiel brute forcing it and Dean scrambling for purchase.
He’s gripping Castiel’s shoulders tightly enough that he might be able to stay there even if his lower legs weren’t folded under him, digging into Castiel’s thighs and creating a V around their torsos pressed tightly together.
It’s like a warped, mirrored version of a lift that Dean has executed thousands of times. From this side of it, it feels different. It’s likely because they’re both doing it wrong. Mixed with the fact that Dean’s partner usually feels more like water and less like a brick wall against him.
”Yeah, okay, I meant with grace or whatever,” Gordon’s voice cuts through their bubble from across the bar. In his skeptical laugh it’s like Dean can hear his dad rotating in his grave.
Bending down to press his forehead against Castiel’s, Dean grinds out, ”I’m gonna lean back. Don’t fucking drop me.”
Castiel’s already firm hands tighten on him as he arches back, letting his arms follow the movement. Castiel slowly spins them around to the backdrop of several people hooting and clapping.
Everything fades away until it’s just the feeling of weightless euphoria bubbling in his chest, fluttering through his limbs. His core is burning from effort and he’s hyper-aware of any minute change on Castiel’s end that might indicate that he’s about to get closely acquainted with the floor, but even without the glimmering trust of a true partnership it still feels like soaring.
Curling back up, Dean goes for classic choreo and ends with one arm draped over Castiel’s shoulder and a hand on Castiel’s cheek. They stay like that, breathing each other’s air and Dean’s increasingly sweaty palm on Castiel’s face with Castiel just staring and not making any motion to exit the lift.
Dean kicks the corner of his mouth up, ”You know there’s a pretty tight time limit for how long a lift can last, right?”
”Sorry,” Castiel replies. The exit is just as graceless as the entry, but Castiel’s hold stays firm until Dean coughs and pulls away.
”You want a whiskey?” Dean offers Castiel with a nod towards Charlie and Jo dressing Gordon down with the full details of reverse lifts and figure skaters being every bit as much athletes as hockey players.
They’re at the bar, shoulders pressed tightly together in the crowded space while Dean talks to the bartender. Managing to grab two bar stools doesn’t produce a whole lot of extra air between them, so Castiel’s pensive rumble reaches Dean’s ears with no problem, ”Walker isn’t wrong about the realism. If this rule change even goes through it’s going to be just national. It’s more symbolism than practical. No one is going to want to tank their career by cutting themselves off from international competitions.”
”When has our sport ever been about practicality?” Dean asks with a lifted brow, ”It’s about self-expression. You know it is. It defeats the entire point that men get stuck being a foundation for their partner and women get stuck in the archaic ice princess crap.”
Castiel tilts his head, the whiskey in his glass slowly swirling as he absently moves the glass on the varnished wood of the bar, ”You never considered skating single?”
”Nah, couldn’t do that to the ladies,” Dean’s wink is only returned by a piercing stare from Castiel who has specifically chosen to take himself out of the very limited pool of guys up for grab for partnering with. And who isn’t into women at all, which doesn’t matter in the least when it comes to professional partnerships, but does make him less likely to take the bait of the double meaning.
Dean lifts a shoulder, smiling into his drink to avoid meeting Castiel’s gaze when adding, ”I like partnering. It’s a special kind of trust to have someone on the ice with you in that way. And that high when you come together and everything else fades away. I’m telling you, there’s nothing like it.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Gordon gesturing at him. It’s good timing – cutting him off before he gets the chance to take a full tumble into stupid admissions. He gestures back as subtly as possible and knocks back the remainder of the whiskey.
Getting up, Dean taps the bar in front of Castiel, ”Mark my words, Cas, if they pass this, someone is gonna make goddamn history.”
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The Skate Canada Board of Directors unanimously passes the motion to change the definition of a team so that people of any gender can compete together at domestic Canadian events. Dean dispassionately watches the news. It’s unfair that it mainly sits sour in his stomach, providing a bitter backdrop even while he’s smiling at the scattered clips of female skaters developing choreo together in their off time.
His main focus is on making his on-ice partnership with Lisa work. Judging by cold, hard metal, the season is a success. Other than that, it’s a disaster. From Dean’s fraying emotions to the massive media speculations about whether their split-up is real. It probably doesn’t help that they’re sticking to their original MO with the overarching theme to all of their dances being romantic.
----
When Lisa announces that she’s pregnant, Dean’s gut reaction is relief, but after congratulating her and a half-hearted attempt at talking her out of retiring completely, the reality of the situation starts to sink in.
Because the reality is that this leaves Dean royally screwed. He’s too old to start over with a new partner – at least at his current level. He’d been hoping to go out with a bang by retiring after winning gold at the next Olympics. Instead, it’s now looking like a choice between ending his competitive career suddenly and harshly or with a slow fizzle.
It’s a couple of days after that when Castiel calls him.
Dean is in the middle of opening his kitchen window to the bitingly cold Montreal spring and the sound of the busy street below. He fastens the hook and grabs for the phone that’s vibrating on the counter top. Checking the screen is mostly habit, he’s already mentally preparing for it to be one of his coaches with yet another tirade about keeping up with practice even while he’s between partners.
So when that’s not what the display is showing, he stops mid-movement. The name lighting up the phone makes him blink confused at the screen for another few seconds before finally picking up, ”Hi Cas. Everything alright? You didn’t tear your ACL again, did you?”
Castiel’s pause is long enough that Dean starts to think it might be a butt dial. They occasionally text, but the ACL incident a couple of years back marks the singular time Castiel – likely hopped up on pain killers – has called him.
Castiel clears his throat, ”No, I’m not injured. Is this a bad time?”
”No, no, it’s fine,” Dean looks down at the sweats he’s been wearing for three days straight and pries his spatula under one of the random frozen things that had been hiding in the back of his freezer. It flips with a frozen clunk on the pan, revealing the other side to somehow be bordering on burnt already, ”What’s up?”
”I… Did you see that they just passed the updated definition of teams here as well?”
”Shit, was that today?” Dean pulls the phone from his ear to check the date. Yup. He’s gonna have to call Charlie right after this. She’s been obsessively working towards this for months.
”Oh, you haven’t been following that?”
”No, I have. I’m just… I kinda have a lot on my mind. Lisa is retiring.”
”I’m so sorry. Is she okay?”
”Yeah, she’s fine. Better than fine, actually. She’s pregnant,” Dean aimlessly pushes the blob of food across the pan, tracing a pattern in the hot oil.
”What about you?”
”I’m not pregnant.”
It doesn’t even get him a pity laugh before Castiel pursues the question, ”No, I meant are you okay?”
”I’m fine. Just considering whether to partner with Bela Talbot again.”
”You said those months were the worst ones of your life.”
”When did I say that?”
”The year you two won gold at nationals. When we bumped into each other at the hotel after.”
”Wow, a memory like that is almost wasted on skating,” Dean distantly remembers the conversation. It can’t have lasted more than a few minutes, ”You’re not wrong. I didn’t enjoy partnering with her. But I’m 26 and I have skated with her before, so, y’know…” It also doesn’t hurt that she’s offering him a fortune for the privilege. If he can’t have professional fulfillment he might as well pad his pockets while he still can.
Castiel makes a sound of disagreement, ”You could have at least five good years more. That’s more than enough time to get familiar with a new partner.”
”Five years? I didn’t know you were such an optimist,” Dean jokes. It doesn’t get him an audible response, but he doesn’t need one to imagine the unamused look on Castiel’s face, slicing past the bullshit right down to the pit of his soul. He chews the inside of his cheek, ”I don’t know. It’s just… it doesn’t really matter who I partner with, does it? These last years it’s like no matter what I do, everything keeps feeling like the same thing over and over again.”
”I know what you mean,” Castiel replies, ”Are you considering retiring?”
”Maybe. I dunno. It’s not like I have a lot else going on if I quit skating, but yeah, it’s something I’m considering.”
”What if I have an alternative proposal for you?” Castiel asks.
Dean turns the stove off and settles back against a counter, ”I’m listening.”