Dean said, “We’ve met… Kinda.”

So Dean recognized him. The fact of it made Castiel tense up. Admitting to the same would feel almost intimate, as if the two of them shared a past, a secret. Besides, people had been fawning over Dean all night, and he barely seemed to notice any of them. Castiel thought Dean would respond better to a challenge.

He raised one eyebrow, keeping himself steady and his voice measured. “We have?”

It seemed to confuse Dean. He shook his head shallowly as if to right himself. “Yeah. We ran in the same circles for a while.”

Castiel stared at him unblinkingly. “I don’t remember meeting you.”

Dean puckered his lips in something like annoyance. He seemed somewhat insulted. It made a sick kind of satisfaction thump in tandem with Castiel’s pulse.

“Hmm,” Dean hummed, his large eyes scanning Castiel’s body up and down, sizing him up. “Maybe I’m thinking of somebody else. Novak, right?” He held out his hand for a shake.

Castiel stared down at it, not lifting his arm yet. “Yes. What was your name again?”

Winchester. His name was Dean Winchester.

Castiel had heard that name being thrown around in the amateurs a couple of years ago. If he remembered correctly, Dean had been a state champion. But he hadn’t paid much attention to him since he was in another division.

“Dean Winchester,” Dean answered curtly.

Castiel raised his hand and slipped it into Dean’s, holding tightly. Dean squeezed back as if it was a competition. His hand was warm and dry, and Castiel’s were likely too hot, too slick with the perspiration that had started up the moment Dean had walked up to him. But Dean didn’t pull away. He kept squeezing, his gaze flickering around Castiel’s face.

“What weight class are you in, Dean?” Castiel asked when the handshake broke.

“Light heavyweight,” Dean answered.

“Apologies. I’ve never heard of you. Where was your last bout?”

Dean stilled a little, but only for a fraction of a moment before he feigned an easy demeanor. “Had one at the Knickerbocker Club a month ago.” He said it like it was supposed to be impressive.

“A social club?” Castiel asked, frowning in pretend perplexity. “You don’t fight in arenas?”

“Well,” Dean amended, expression dwindling no matter how he tried to not let it show. The pitch of his voice was a little more boyish now. “I mean, not officially. Yet.”

Castiel’s head cocked slightly to the side. Innocently, he asked, “So you’re an amateur boxer?”

Dean’s lips pressed together again, with all the ostentatious ego of a fighter fresh out of the amateurs. When Castiel’s eyes flickered downward, he saw Dean’s hands in tight balls at his sides, looking like he wanted to punch Castiel. And perhaps Castiel would even welcome it. He brought his gaze back up to latch onto Dean’s.

“Professionals. Fights are real, and I get paid just fine,” he shot back, his voice having gone back to its previous gruffness, and Castiel thought he was faking it. “What are you, anyway?”

“A heavyweight,” Castiel said. “Officially.”

“Bully for you,” Dean said. And then he made the strangest claim: “Fair warning, I’m gonna be heavyweight champion of the world one day.”

That was likely supposed to be impressive, too. It wasn’t the first time Castiel had met this kind of personality, the kind of man who thought he was the king of the world. Usually, it was tedious. But Dean wore it differently, about as well as his slim suit.

It was no use arguing with him. If Dean had his eyes on the title of a division he wasn’t in, in a sport he wasn’t even a true professional in, then Castiel would leave him to his dreams. Even if they were unlikely.

He glanced up and down Dean’s body assessingly. Dean had a strong chest, but a distractingly small waist and slender legs. A heavyweight like Castiel could drop him to the mat without breaking a sweat. When he reached his eyes again, Dean’s expression had rearranged into a brick wall, but only to hide the fact that all his smugness was gone.

“Good luck,” Castiel told him, and he wasn’t certain if he’d been trying to end the conversation or trying to provoke Dean. He might have been disappointed if Dean hadn’t risen to the challenge.

Dean’s smile was sharp and phony. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Dean,” the woman beside him said, her brown eyes appearing concerned. “Maybe we should get another drink.”

Dean didn’t even glance at her. He kept staring Castiel down. He sucked on his teeth, and his lips curved into a kind of snarl, but there was an amused gleam in his eyes. “You know what? Come to think of it, I do know who you are.”

“Do you?”

“Oh, yeah! Seen your name in the papers. You’ve been in a bunch of undercard bouts.” The pompous, irritating smile was back on his face. “Ah, don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll get on a main card one of these days.” He clapped Castiel on the shoulder in a feigned display of camaraderie.

Castiel’s fists tightened. He wanted to mottle Dean’s freckled face with bruises. The dark color of them would likely bring out the green of his eyes.

“And I’m certain you’ll be on any card some day,” he jabbed.

Daphne’s delicate hand came to Castiel’s arm, but he barely felt it. “Cas.” Castiel ignored her. In fact, he’d forgotten she was even there—or that Dean’s woman and Noah were there. Or that they were at a party. He’d been too focused on Dean.

As if he hadn’t registered the interruption either, Dean countered, “Who knows? Maybe I’ll even kick your ass one day.”