The video that inspired Castiel’s routine.

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Dean sat down, trying to catch his breath. He had done his absolute best, he knew that. There was nothing he could have done on his part to execute his free skate any better. He’d nailed every toe loop, salchow, lutz and axel that his coach had choreographed for him.

The scores would reflect that, yet he knew he wouldn’t be taking home the gold medal this time.

That honour would go to Castiel Novak.

Dean gritted his teeth as he thought about his competition. Everyone hated Castiel Novak. Where the rest of the skaters were all social, Castiel kept to himself. What could be shyness came off as arrogance and it rubbed Dean the wrong way. He’d already nailed the short program, leagues ahead of everyone else. His old-fashioned routines drew attention.

Nobody expected a man in his twenties to be skating to classical music. Rachmaninoff, Vivaldi, Chopin. They were a rarity among the modern skaters, who preferred to skate to whatever had been in the charts at the start of the season. Even Dean, with his classic rock routines, was less unusual than Castiel.

But the judges ate him up.

Dean wasn’t even trying to hide his bitterness. He knew it was coming across as petty jealousy, like he was envious of the skill Castiel had and the points he scored. It wasn’t that. It was that he was pandering to the preferences of the judges. In Dean’s book, that was only a step away from cheating.

He glanced up to see his score, and smiled. That was enough to earn him the silver, he was sure of it.

Castiel was up next for his free skate, but Dean wasn’t paying attention. He settled down with the other competitors, gulping gratefully at the bottle of water that Benny handed to him.

“Thanks, man.”

“You did good,” Benny drawled. “Much as it pains me to admit it, I think you just knocked me down to bronze.”

Dean grinned, and knocked his elbow into Benny’s. “No hard feelings, right?”

“Sure, brother. ‘Til next time.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the screeching of one of the other entrants, Dick Roman, who was hooting with laughter.

“He fell! Perfect Castiel Novak slipped and hit the ice. Good luck hanging onto that gold now, Asstiel!” He whooped.

Dean’s head whipped around in time to see the replay of the slip. Roman was right, Castiel had slipped and put his hand on the ice, but his recovery had been swift and, from the looks of it, he’d made enough rotations. For the first time, Dean paid close attention to Castiel’s routine, watching his lithe body as he swept around the rink.

He was unbelievable.

Bitterness faded into awe as he watched how Castiel’s form moved like liquid, each movement flowed into the next, precise and fluid. He was breathtaking. Ne Me Quitte Pas echoed around the stadium and Dean could see that Castiel knew every note, every word, every beat. This music wasn’t chosen for the judges. It was chosen by Castiel, for himself. He loved it. He revered it. It was visible in the execution.

When Castiel entered the room, sweaty and weary, he was met with jeers and taunts. For the first time, Dean disagreed with his fellow competitors. How could they not have seen the merit, the worthiness in Castiel’s routine? That hadn’t vanished just because he’d slipped. Everyone did at some point or other, whether it was during the World Championships or a warm-up.

He rose, intercepting Castiel on his way to an empty seat at the opposite side of the room. “I just wanted to say that I thought you were amazing.”

Castiel lifted his eyes to meet Dean’s, wary and assessing. After a moment, he nodded. “Thank you.”

“I mean it,” Dean pressed. “I’ve never seen that before, the way you move, it’s… breathtaking. Beautiful.”

He flushed as the word slipped from his mouth, and a small smile tugged at the corner of Castiel’s lips. Despite his best efforts, Dean couldn’t help but smile right back.

Masterpost

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