Chapter Text
The arena shakes. Dean's blood roars.
This is what it's all for. What it all boils down to at the end of the day. Parties are forgotten. Women's names lost.
His blades hit the ice and nothing else matters.
It's easy to raise his hands above his head and listen to the prompted cheers. The boys circle behind him and the sound of their blades slicing across the rink, their sticks clattering against the boards and each other, drowns everything else out.
The drills are easy. Performative even. It's to show teamwork, ability, and get their minds narrowed in on the game.
Dean crosses with Logan, passing him the puck with a quick flick of his wrist. He barrels into Graham with more force than necessary and laughs brightly.
"Time to go, G," Dean shouts over the crowd. "You ready?"
Garrett tilts his head and gives Dean a grin of his own. "Always am, Deanie."
And Dean believes him. Because Garrett knows how messy life can get, how messy their lives can get, but just like Dean, he leaves it all behind the second it's game time. They lock the mess away and soar.
The minutes tick by. The process progresses. Soon, Dean is circling into his spot behind the forwards, squaring up and letting the noise fade to the background.
It all comes down to the faceoff. First one of the season. Garrett always wins.
Dean prepares for the puck, lowers his elbows to his knees, listens for the whistle. The ice is quiet for one moment. And then…it all snaps.
Garrett loses the faceoff. The puck is coming to their goal, fast and Dean can't linger on what that means when he has a job to do.
It's not the only sloppy mistake Garrett makes that night. Not even the team from fuck-knows where is easy. They should be easy. The first game is always easy.
Instead, the Hawks pull forward by one goal in the third period and Dean and Birdie fight for their lives to keep it that way. Choice words about Garrett's performance are already on Dean's tongue as they shake hands.
Sweat drips from his hair, down his back, into his eyes. He doesn't smile at any of the opposing players, especially not when they look all too proud of themselves. Half of them don't even come close to Dean's weight class. If he landed a real hit on them, they'd crumple and never play hockey again.
The locker room is rife with tension. Everyone's staring at Garrett, trying to piece together what's in his head. It's a lost cause; not even Logan can figure out what's inside that thick skull.
Later, before the party kicks off in full, the house will talk about it. Maybe Garrett will be honest, maybe he'll crack a joke, but they'll try. If they play that sloppy against the harder teams, the Frozen Four will become impossible.
Dean showers, changes into his post-game sweats and Briar U shirt, combs his hair until it doesn't look like an animal died on his head, and runs straight into their Coach.
"You're on media, Di Laurentis."
Someone nearby snorts, Birdie maybe, and Dean can't blame them. Dean plasters a faux sympathetic grin on his face and grabs Coach Jensen by his shoulders.
"We both know that's a terrible idea," Dean says while shaking his head. "Send G. He's actually trained for that shit."
Nearby, Logan throws a dirty compression shirt at his head. "We're all media trained, Dean."
Coach doesn't give in, he just crosses his arms and purses his lips.
Dean groans. "Come on, Coach. There's a whole locker room full of guys you should want before me."
"Get out there before I drag your ass, Di Laurentis," Coach Jensen says.
With the petulance of a toddler, Dean grabs his bag and follows the NCAA media liaison to the press conference room. He takes his place next to his coach, adjusting the table mic in front of him and trying not to squint from the glare of the lights and cameras.
Compared to what Garrett dealt with during the Frozen Four last year, the amount of reporters is pitiful. Unfortunately, less reporters means the few there get to ask all their horrible questions. They demand to know Dean's outlook on the upcoming season, inquire about Dean's future aspirations, ask about how adjusting to a new captain is going, and keep finding more creative ways to judge how they played tonight.
By the end, Dean's got a headache on one side from squinting into the lights and one on the other side forming from his annoyance. He shakes it off once he's outside, trying to appreciate that they did win and that a good party is waiting for him back at home. A quick glance at his watch tells him that the boys are probably starting to mix the jungle juice and grab the kegs.
The team parking lot is dead quiet. Dean was hoping to see the sun one last time after the game, but it's long since set. Street lights guide him to the end of the street where a familiar car is waiting for him.
Beau passes him a beer can the second he climbs into the passenger seat. "Garrett called in reinforcements. Told me you got called in for media."
Slumping into the seat, Dean cracks the can and groans appreciatively when the first drops of alcohol hit his tongue. He tosses his bag into the backseat as Beau starts to pull onto the street.
"Thanks Beau."
Beau shrugs. "You were on my way. Besides," he says with a wide smile, "I wanted to make you walk. It was Garrett who insisted I come pick you up. Said it was his fault you were stuck doing the press anyway."
Dean presses the cool can against the side of his head. "Damn straight. He played like shit today."
"Aren't you supposed to support the team captain?" Beau teases. His fingers thrum against the wheel to the beat of some horrible pop song. "Brothers in arms and all that."
Dean shoves him. "Oh fuck off. You know you're my number one, baby."
The term of endearment makes Beau's nose scrunch, but their shared laughter quickly fills the car. "Don't you forget it," Beau tells him.
As the car rolls up to the Hawks' House, the street is already lined with cars and people flocking to the front porch. It's still early, but it's the first party of the season. Overeager freshman always show up as soon as possible, desperate to experience their first college party.
Dean groans. "Just pull up to the—"
"Yeah, yeah," Beau interrupts. "I know. The lawn."
With a few honks that get cheers before people realize what Beau's trying to do, Beau pulls the car up onto the lawn. Dean smashes his empty can against the door as he climbs out.
"Oh my god, there he is," someone whispers nearby.
A giggle. "He's even bigger in person."
Dean smirks and turns towards the voices to give them each a wink. His ego inflates as wide as their eyes.
With a proud smile, Dean reaches behind his seat to grab his bag before following Beau inside. The atmosphere is intoxicating already. Nothing like the sweaty parties between close friends over the summer, planned poorly between training sessions.
There's people lining the walls, someone making out on the couch, mildly familiar faces flicking around the living room, and the lovely scent of beer and human bodies mixing together. It smells like bad decisions.
"Be right back," Dean shouts into Beau's ear. He's already got his eyes trained on someone nearby. Dean leaves him with a pat on the ass and a cheer of support.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Dean shucks his shirt off as he tosses his bag on his bed. Something to deal with later, when the smell becomes unbearable and Tucker yells at them about the laundry. He pulls something on from his closet and grabs a bottle of…something from his personal stash.
As he makes his way back downstairs, hands follow him. He grins at a few people as he slithers through the crowd, just enough to keep them interested. It's never really an issue: Dean always finds someone to share his bed with.
"Deanie!" a familiar voice calls out.
Hosting the most famous parties on campus means that the few rules they set are always respected: no sex in their bedrooms(unless personally invited), no kids under 18, and stay out of the kitchen unless you play for Briar U.
That's where Dean finds the boys. They earn a genuine grin and he pushes his way towards them without second thought.
Tucker's cooking up something that smells good, but probably is far too fancy for a house party, Logan's searching through the fridge, and Garrett…he's moping in the corner, beer in hand.
As Dean approaches the island, Tucker holds out his hand with something on it. It's food, and Tuck's food, so Dean doesn't think before opening his mouth and letting Tucker drop whatever it is inside.
"It's good Tuck," he says around the food. Then he turns to Garrett, "Loosen up, G. It's a party."
"Aha!" John yells, pulling a bottle out from the fridge like it's a trophey and not just alcohol. "Found it."
Dean rolls his eyes, but the grin that tugs on his lips betrays him.
"Dean's right," Logan says while passing Garrett. "You're too uptight."
The words unlock an idea so good that Dean wonders if a light bulb is going to appear above his head.
"Oh shit," Tucker groans. He wipes his hands on his apron. "Dean's got that look again. Look what you did, John."
"Don't try and stop my genius, Tuck," Dean responds while grabbing another of the snacks Tucker made and washing it down with a swig from his bottle. "I just know what our dear captain needs."
Garrett raises an eyebrow. "Oh this'll be good," he says.
Around the neck of his own bottle, Logan snorts and smacks Garrett's shoulder like what he said was the funniest thing he's ever heard. How much did they pregame?
"Listen," Dean says. "When was the last time you got laid, Garrett? I mean, I know you had that thing with Kenzie for a while, but I havent seen her around in a while."
"Kendall," Garrett corrects.
John's grin falls into something serious. "No, wait. When was the last time?"
"My sex life is not the problem here," Garrett says with a meanicing gesture with his beer.
Dean slaps his hand against the counter and shrugs. "So be it. Just let me know if that changes. I've been told I'm a good wingman." He punctuates his sentence with a wink that earns a chorus of groans and cuss words. The cue to leave is clear, so Dean fucks off into the crowd and scans for someone to distract him from the night.
As the hours slip by and the freshman pass out on the front lawn or get dragged back to their dorms by responsible friends, the party really takes off. Dean's bottle emptied quicker than he wanted, getting lost amongst the crowd before he could drink enough of it.
He could've gotten more, but nothing feels quite right. His eyes track Garrett the entire night, watching his behaviors and trying to determine how worried Dean needs to be. Without Garrett, their team is fucked. Hockey is only fun if they're winning.
When Garrett heads upstairs—alone and early—Dean curses under his breath. He frees himself from the women grinding on him with an easy grin and kisses that make false promises.
The upstairs is quieter than Dean was expecting. Nobody is passed out outside the bathroom, or trying to sneak into the linen closet. It's just a hallway of their bedroom doors and the short line to the bathroom.
Dean marches past the guests without a glance in their direction. Garrett's door is already closed, music that clashes with the beats from downstairs shaking the door. Even if Dean knocked, there's no chance that Garrett would hear him.
Thankfully, Garrett didn't lock the door. Dean steps inside and puts on his best dissapointed expression. On the bed, Garrett is sprawled out in nothing but sweats. His laptop is propped open and even though Dean can't see the screen, he knows that Garrett's reading the analytics on the game.
"Dean?" Garrett asks while reaching for his phone. The rock music quiets until only the thrum from the bass downstairs fills their ears. "What are you doing here?"
Dean gulps. He's not a nervous guy. This isn't a stupid proposition. He just knows what his Captain needs and is willing to take one for the team.
"I'll do it," Dean says. He shifts between his feet, subtly, and crosses his arms over his chest to make it seem bigger.
Garrett's brows furrow and he slowly closes his laptop. "Do what, Dean? How much have you been drinking?"
"Not a lot. A beer. A drink or two a while ago." He reaches behind him and presses the lock down. "I meant what I said earlier, G, you need to get laid."
If possible, the confusion on Garrett's face gets worse. "Did you take something?"
"No! Fuck, Garrett, I'm sober." Frustraded, Dean runs his hands through his hair. "I'm trying to help here."
Garrett props him into a sitting position against his headboard and laughs softly. "And I'm going to need you to start making sense, Deanie. I don't see how you can help with getting me laid."
Are his hands sweating? Why couldn't Garrett crack a window or something, it's stifling in his room.
"I said I'll do it."
Another laugh falls out of Garrett's lips. "Do what, Dean? You saying that you want to suck my dick?"
Dean shrugs. "Sure."
The room falls silent. Bass shakes the floor and someone squeals down the hall, but Dean is hyperfocused on Garrett's chest rising and falling and the way his lips have parted slightly. Confusion is replaced with shock.
"Are you sure you're not on something?" Garrett finally says.
Mustering up all the cocky confidence that always gets Dean into women's pants, he takes a few more steps closer to the bed. "Is that a no?"
"It's not a yes."
And fuck, Garrett's all about honesty when it comes to shit like this. "Listen, G," Dean starts. "It's not a big deal. You need help but don't want all the fuss that comes with it. I come with no fussing. You can close your eyes and pretend I'm a girl for all I care."
Garrett's eyes feel like Dean put one too many plates on his bench press: heavy. He nearly squirms under the weight of his gaze, but Dean is not a squirmer. He doesn't squirm.
"Okay," Garrett says, short and simple. "Just this once."
Dean's back straightens. "Yup," he agrees with a pop of the 'p'. "Just this once."
The shift isn't instantanous. It's starts with a few minute changes; Garrett's eyes narrow into something darker, lidded, his legs slowly relax, spread slightly at the knees, and his lower lip gets sucked between his teeth.
Dean resists the urge to groan. No wonder Garrett has girls crawling back to him night after night when he looks like that.
Slowly, Garrett's head tilts back to expose more of his neck. The smooth, rigid line of his jaw gets even sharper under the sliver of moonlight coming from the window. Does all of that skin taste like the women Dean's been with? He licks his lips.
"Well, Deanie," Garrett says. His voice has dropped into a soft, husky tone that Dean wasn't expecting. "This was your brilliant idea. What happens next?"
Dean would rather be caught dead than show any sign of the nerves he's currently drowning in. Being cocky is his shield and he's not going to drop it now, when he's on a battlefield and one wrong step could kill him.
He doesn't have to be weird about this. Its a simple transaction. Dean's helping Garrett get something done so that he can go back to winning them games and being the captain they all need.
"Take your pants off," Dean orders while he scans the room, taking inventory.
Garrett laughs, hot and airy. "Damn, you're really not joking."
Moving to the side of the bed, Dean drops to his knees and stares at Garrett's crotch as if it's a troubling homework assignment and not his friends dick. "Can't suck you off through your clothes, Graham."
As Garrett shuffles his body so he can pull his pants—and then his boxers—off, his face scrunches again. "Doesn't it feel weird for you to call me that right now?"
Dean's hands fist into his own sweats. It's there, right in front of him. Soon, it's going to be in Dean's mouth.
"I think," Dean says slowly, unable to tear his gaze away, "that's exactly why I should call you that. Keep the distance."
"Sure," Garrett chuckles. "Just…hold on."
Finally, Dean tears his gaze back up to Garrett's face. "What?"
Garrett shakes his phone like that explains everything. A few seconds later, another one of Garrett's classic rock songs comes through the speakers near his bed. The phone is quickly tossed off to the side and Garrett comes to sit on the edge of the bed with Dean kneeling between his legs.
"Alright," Dean says to muster up his confidence. He cracks his knuckles and rests his hands on Garrett's thighs. His very large thighs.
Another low, airy laugh comes from above him. Dean tilts his head back and gives Garrett a look of annoyance.
"Do you want this or not?" he asks exasperateldy.
Garrett waves him off, trying to get his grin under control. "Sure, I mean, it's just you look like you're about to spar with it."
"I'll have you know I have it on multiple accounts that I'm very good with my mouth," Dean retorts quickly. He looks back to Garrett's cock. "This can't be that different."
"Alright," Garrett says while leaning back onto his hands. "Prove it."
Something about the way Garrett says it, like there's nothing else Dean should be doing with his time, helps the rest of the world fade away. It doesn't seem so daunting anymore. Just the steady thrum of some rock song, the solid form of Garrett underneath his hands, and a simple favor between friends.
Dean leans down and places a kiss just above Garrett's thigh. He expects another chuckle, maybe a rib, but Garrett just exhales sharp enough that the air hits Dean's scalp. Emboldened, Dean continues up.
Teeth join his lips when he reaches high enough that Garrett shivers underneath his hands. When Dean finally reaches the prize, he's pleased to see that Garrett's cock is no longer soft. He deliberately breathes down on the head of it for a few agonizing seconds before closing his lips around it.
Before he can recognize the signs, Garrett's hips lift off the bed and drives his cock further into Dean's mouth. If he's this sensitive it really has been too long since he's gotten off.
"Shit," Garrett hisses above him. "Sorry. You good?"
Dean pulls off his cock with a pop and licks his lips to disconnect the spit connecting them. "All good here." He doesn't dare look up.
"Yeah," Garrett agrees. "Yeah, me too."
As Dean begins to lean down again, a warm hand threads through his hair and guides him down. Something funny happens: arousal pours into Dean's gut faster than a woman grinding down in his lap would.
He ignores that and focuses on Garrett instead.
There's a sort of familiarty that Dean finds while sucking on Garrett's cock. It's easy to try the things that he likes and see how Garrett reacts.
He hollows his cheeks, takes Garrett deeper and relishes in the gutteral groan that slips through Garrett's careful composure. Fuck. If it weren't for the guitar riffing in the background, the entire hallway would've heard that.
The hand in Dean's hair tightens. In Dean's pants, his own dick throbs. It takes him a second to realize that Garrett's taken over the pace. He's lifting Dean's head up and pushing it back down, much slower than what Dean was doing moments ago.
Dean's eyes roll back into his head. Adrenaline spikes in his bloodstream, rivaling that of a game, and he's so desperate to make Garrett come that he wraps a hand around the base of his cock, where his mouth can't quite reach.
"F-fuck," Garrett groans.
It isn't the first time Dean's given head, he lost count a long time ago. Women rarely find a man who's willing to go down on them for a one-night stand and everyone knew he was all too eager. But the heavy weight of something in his mouth, the strong fist in his hair, the musky scent Dean inhales everytime he goes down is intoxicating in a way that he's never felt.
"Mm," Garrett moans. "That's good, Deanie."
In a moment of weakness, Dean's hips cant up into the air the moment Garrett says his name. To try and save his dignity, Dean pulls off and glares up at Garrett.
"Someone's going to fucking hear you," Dean hisses. He doesn't recognize his own voice. A little cock and he sounds absolutely wrecked.
Garrett's eyes flutter open and he turns them on Dean. It's hard to find any color in his eyes with how wide the pupils are blown. There's a blush that covers his cheeks and his neck and even stains his chest. Under the silver light, it's easy to see the sheen on Garrett's skin.
Sweat collects between each hard line of Garrett's hard-earned muscles and even if Dean wanted to pretend he wasn't having sex with a man, that sight would quickly remind him.
"We can stop if you're so worried," Garrett says, loosening the grip on Dean's hair.
And it's the sincerity that zings through Dean's heart. The knowledge that if Dean really was uncomfortable, Garrett would stop and nothing would be weird between them.
"No!" Dean says a little too quickly. "I said I would do this for you. Just…cover your mouth or something."
He doesn't wait for either of them to say anything stupid before sinking back down on Garrett's cock. There's a sort of mindless haze that settles over him as he works up a solid rhythm. His hand and mouth work in tandem, noticing every flinch of Garrett's body that teaches him what Garrett likes.
Soon, he has Garrett writhing above him, hand gripping Dean's hair like it's his only lifeline. Watching someone fall apart from just his mouth always gets Dean off more than anything else. He hasn't even touched himself, hasn't moved his free hand from where it's on Garrett's thigh since this started, yet he's as hard as a rock.
"Dean," Garrett groans and it's sharper than the rest.
Dean pulls off, licks along the underside of Garrett's cock just to watch it twitch, and easily says, "Just come in my mouth, Graham."
"Fuck, Dean," Garrett curses. "You can't say shit like that."
"You don't have to," Dean aqquises. He fists up and down Garrett's cock loosely, to keep him on the edge. "But it's easier to clean up."
"Yeah," Garrett agrees. "Yeah, okay."
It doesn't take much more after that before Garrett follows through. Above him, Garrett's entire body tenses and then something warm is filling Dean's mouth.
Bitter, is the first thing he notices, but he's surprised that he doesn't absolutely hate it. He swallows as he strokes Garrett through his orgasm, daring a look up at Garrett's face. There's bliss there that transcends anything a friend should ever see, but Dean can't bring himself to look away.
Then, Garrett's eyes flicker open, his hand falls out of Dean's hair and Dean snaps his own hand away, back to safety.
He picks up his shield, smirking and wiping his hand on his sweats, but it's cracked and he knows Garrett can see it. There's a furrow between Garretts brows and he's leaning forward with words on his tongue.
"Hey," Dean says, beating him to the punch. "You're already undoing my hard work. Don't stress, G, we're good."
Garrett's shoulders sag. "Okay," he exhales. "Do you—did you want me to…"
Dean follows Garrett's pointed gaze to his own problem that's straining against his pants and laughs. It covers up his shame for being so aroused after sucking dick. Sucking his friend's dick.
"Nah, man," Dean says. He stands up, adjusts himself as best as he can to ease the discomfort, and adds, "I've got a few people downstairs that would love to solve this for me."
"Right," Garrett says with that easy smile that always wins hearts and ends up breaking them. "Alright, then. Thanks, I guess."
Dean shakes his head with mock seriousness. "Just tell me you feel better, cause these skills don't come for free, Graham."
"Yeah," Garrett says while settling back into the sprawl that Dean found him in. "Much better thanks."
"What are friends for?" Dean says too cheerfully before slipping through the door.
There's a brief moment of horror where he expects to run straight into Tuck, or Logan, dick straining as he leaves Garrett's room, but the hallway is emptier than he left it. He exhales gratefully and slinks back to his room without a single glance down the stairs.
The door locks behind him with a click and Dean can't shuck his pants fast enough. As soon as his hand closes around his cock, images of Garrett's body flash behind his eyes, but it's the memory of Garrett's hand controlling him that sends him crashing over the edge. His legs nearly give out from the exertion.
To save himself from whatever unnamed feeling wasn't chased off with his orgasm, Dean grabs a bottle from his stash and pours a large amount of liquor straight into his mouth.
Nobody ever accused him of making good decisions, but he might have just made his worst one yet.