and i left in a cloud of smug

Castiel wasn’t so patient. He felt as if he’d been holding his breath all day, and for much of last night. He’d barely gotten any sleep thanks to Dean waking him up a few times to talk over the last minute preparations. The item on Dean’s “to do” list that he was currently tackling was hanging the framed photographs and magazine clippings on the gallery wall. Their championship belts hung behind glass higher up on the wall, collecting dust as they had been doing for many years now.

There was only one frame left to hang. Inside of it was a newspaper clipping from one of Castiel’s bouts two decades ago. There was a grainy picture of Castiel, sweat and blood-soaked, leaning over the ropes, staring down at Dean beneath the ring, whose face was tilted up toward him, a smile stretching his cheeks.

The headline read, Winchester v. Novak: Companions Turned Competitors

Castiel remembered when that article had first been published, how angry and despairing in equal measures he’d been when he’d thought he’d lost Dean for good.

A few weeks ago, Dean had laughed when he’d found it in a box in their basement and insisted they hang it in the gym.

The frame was propped up against the wall on the floor for the moment while Castiel touched the tip of a nail to the mortar between the bricks. He tried to hold it steady, and to tighten his fist around the hammer in his other hand. A slight tremor crept up his wrist and splayed out to each knuckle, to the tips of his fingers. The nail slipped away from him. He heard it clink to the floor.

“Damn it,” he growled, looking down in search of where the tiny piece of metal had gone. It seemed to have disappeared. Unfortunately, the shaking in his hand hadn’t yet followed suit. He held his palm up to his face, stretched out his fingers, and tried to will them to stop moving.

Behind him, the gym’s front door opened. Dean’s voice followed, “Hey.”

Castiel let his arm drop to his side and formed a fist. That seemed to do the trick. His hand stopped shaking. He looked around at Dean, whose brows were furrowed in skepticism as he eyed Castiel. He clutched a bottle of champagne by the neck.

“Hi,” Castiel greeted, hoping to prevent any questions. He should have known better.

“You okay?” Dean ambled further into the gym, his boots echoing toward the ceiling.

Castiel grunted and turned his eyes back to the floor, searching. “I dropped—” He spotted the nail wedged up against the wall. Stooping down, he picked it up with his fingernails and stood up again. Holding it up to show Dean. “I dropped a nail.”

He placed it against the wall and hammered it in before it could make another attempt at escape.

“Your hands again?” Dean asked knowingly.

“Yes,” Castiel sighed. He looked over his shoulder, hoping to show Dean he was being earnest when he said, “I’m fine.” Dean nodded, seeming to accept it. The doctor had said it was nothing to worry about, anyway, and to call him if it got worse.

Castiel picked up the frame, setting the hammer down in its place, and hung it from the nail.

Meanwhile, Dean said, “I got the champagne. It’s out in the car. We’re gonna have to carry it in and put it on ice. Sam and Eileen’ll be here in a little bit with the food. Oh, and Jack said he’s gonna finish painting the grand opening sign when he gets off work.”

“Good,” Castiel said, staring at the newspaper clipping. He tipped his head slightly, trying to decide if the frame was slightly crooked or if he was just imagining it. His transparent reflection frowned back at him in the frame’s glass. Though the bruises and blood were long gone, he had more lines on his face and many more gray hairs around his temples than the young man in the photograph did. His body was still broad, but that had less to do with musculature these days.

A moment later, Dean’s face appeared in the reflection just behind Castiel. He wrapped his arms around Castiel’s middle, the champagne bottle knocking against Castiel’s hip. He hooked his chin over Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel sighed contentedly, placed his hands over Dean’s arms, and leaned back slightly into him.

“Looks good,” Dean said softly, eyes on the frames. “‘Course, we’re gonna have to make room for more when we get a champion of our own in here.”

Castiel scoffed at Dean’s optimism. “We’ll need people to join the gym first.”

“What, for a gym owned by two heavyweight champs? We’ll have a line out the door,” Dean said, and Castiel hoped he was right.

He couldn’t help but worry. Neither of them had ever had to concern themselves about attendance before, despite both of them working at gyms. That had been left for Michael and Bobby and Rufus—but no longer. Winchester’s Gym had closed before the War when Bobby and Rufus retired. Garrison followed soon after, when Michael’s weapons manufacturing company took off again in the national efforts to arm the soldiers. It occupied too much of Michael’s time to continue the gym’s affairs.

Castiel didn’t know what had become of Garrison; if someone had bought it and turned it into something else, or if it sat empty. He hadn’t had the heart to find out.

He was determined to think of better things, of the future instead of the sordid past. He’d found a love in training young boxers, and he and Dean were both excited for more of that. They were also ready to focus on something more interesting than being judges or guest commentators for fights and radio interviews.

Still, the past lingered with a sharp melancholy before the next chapter of their lives began.

Trying to distract himself from such thoughts, he looked down at the champagne bottle and took it from Dean’s hand. “Why did you bring in just one?”

“For you and me,” Dean said. He pressed a kiss to Castiel’s neck before drawing away. He headed for one of the tables and plucked up two glasses. “Figured the owners get to toast the place before everybody else gets here.”

Castiel frowned. “Shouldn’t we wait for Sam to get here? He’s part owner.”

“Head coaches, then,” Dean aggressively retorted. “C’mon.” He went to the ring, walked up the steps, and fit himself between the ropes.

Meanwhile, Castiel looked down at the bottle cradled in his palm. There was still a lot to do, but he’d been working all day. He’s earned a break. Besides, he’d never been able to say no to Dean. It seemed useless to try now.

He followed Dean into the ring and sat down cross-legged beside him on the center of the cool, pliant mat. Dean took the bottle from him and uncorked it, let out a bright whoop when it popped loudly and a cloud of effervescence drifted out. Castiel couldn’t help but to chuckle softly at the reaction.

Dean poured the pale golden alcohol into the two delicate glass flutes and handed one to Castiel. When they were both situated, he said, “To this place’s success. And to my baby.” He clinked his glass against Castiel’s, who looked on at him with quiet, lovestuck fondness.

“And to you, my love,” Castiel said gently, earning a warmth in Dean’s gaze. He held Dean’s eyes as they both took a pull of their drinks. Dean’s golden ring glinted in the overhead light, and Castiel’s matching one might have done so, too, if he deigned to look.

Dean swiveled to the side to set the champagne bottle down, grunting and wincing slightly in the movement. A morbid souvenir from his time in the War.

Castiel had begged Dean not to enlist, had been furious when Dean hadn’t listened. But he had no right to be angry. After all, he knew Dean. And he was proud of who Dean was. Brave and selfless, and perhaps a little selfish, too, because there would always be a piece of him that would chase glory. A piece that refused to let go of the fight. Castiel was the same. More than that, he wanted to be with Dean, and he may have followed Dean all the way to Europe had he gotten the medical clearance.

His injury after the final bout of his career had kept him out of the army, and the seven months Dean had been in Italy had been hell. They’d been apart before, but not like that. Not in a way that felt so permanent despite Castiel’s best attempts at positive thinking and Dean’s assurances that he’d come home. Still, Castiel had thought every letter would be the last.

Dean returned after he’d been shot in the ribs while his unit had been liberating a concentration camp. Castiel supposed it could have been much worse. If you asked Dean, he’d say with a sly smile, “A little discomfort in my ribs ain’t anything I’m not used to by now.”

“When we were fighting in those underground contests in the ‘20s, you ever think we’d end up owning our own gym?” Dean mused as he peered around the room, pulling Castiel back to the present. Or maybe not, because now Castiel was thinking about those seedy, bloody battles of brute force and agility that had illegally taken place on the docks and in dirty basements. Perhaps they still were taking place and always would be.

“No, why would I think that?” Castiel intoned. “We didn’t even know each other.”

Dean stopped his pondering and looked at Castiel, brows popped in something like offense. “Yeah, but we saw each other.”

“Infrequently,” Castiel said, taking another sip. It was a silly argument, and it had little to do with Dean’s original point. Back then, Castiel hadn’t expected to own his own gym, much less with a boy that was little more than a face in the crowd. A captivating face, but that wasn’t the point, either.

Still, he couldn’t help but tease Dean. “I barely remember you there.”

Dean scoffed, rising to the bait. “Sure, pal. I bet it was love at first sight for you.”

Castiel tightened his lips, trying to stay his smile. Maybe it had been love, even if he hadn’t been able to put a name to it at the time.

“If you remember it so well, maybe it was love at first sight for you,” Castiel said, refusing to lose the verbal sparring.

But Dean always knew how to change tactics in the most unexpected ways to knock Castiel back on his heels. Instead of denying it, he hummed and lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug. “It was somethin’ at first sight, alright,” he allowed.

“But you don’t remember what?” Castiel asked, suddenly eager to know.

A lopsided, flirtatious smirk quirked one side of Dean’s mouth. “Oh, I remember it like it was yesterday.”

Castiel’s pulse hammered. He needed to know what Dean had thought of him back then, before they’d officially met. “Tell me.”

Dean’s eyes twinkled.

///

1921

“Admission, two bucks a person. Two bucks admission,” the short, hairy man at the warehouse’s door repeated time and time again to the crush of people pushing their way inside. His thick gold rings and chain glinted in the caged light over the door as he collected the money.

Dean shuffled forward, his pulse slamming with anxiety from so many people being in his personal space. At least his dad, seeming as steady and unphased as ever, was right behind him. John’s presence reminded Dean to straighten out his shoulders and pretend he was unaffected, too.

The warehouse was a dark, boxy shadow rising above him, where it sat on a pier in Red Hook. Water surrounded it on three sides. The current lapped restlessly against the wooden beams. There was a barge ship looming alongside the next pier over, gangplanks sloping down from the entrances. The longshoreman had left massive crates on dollies along that pier. If they’d suspected that the area would be used for an illegal boxing match that night, they might have done differently.

Further out in the harbor, Lady Liberty held her torch toward the sky in her eternal vigil over the city. This close, Dean could make out her face. It was probably the nearest he’d ever been to the statue.

“Two dollars,” the bouncer repeated again. “Hurry it up. Fight’s already started.”

From inside, Dean could hear the bloodthirsty cheering of the crowd.

“What are we even doing here, Dad? Thought the point of opening our own gym was so we didn’t have to go to these things anymore,” Dean asked, risking a look over his shoulder at his father.

John didn’t look at him. He kept his chin high and eyes volleying all around them with alertness, like he was scanning the area for any threats. That was typical though, so Dean didn’t think too much of it.

“It’s good to stay sharp,” John told him. “This is where the real fighters are made. No one here has to follow the Queensbury Laws.”

“Right,” Dean answered dryly, turning his eyes back to the entrance door. They were at the front now, and Dean could see the throng of people and cigarette smoke within the warehouse. He pulled out his money clip and took out four singles. They were a little tough to part with, but the bouncer took them from Dean like they were nothing.

Once they were through the door, John continued the conversation. “Besides, we’re looking for recruits tonight, son. Or else our gym won’t be open for very long.”

Dean guessed that was a pretty good idea. Winchester’s Boxing Gym had been open for three months already, and Dean had to admit, training by himself was pretty lonely. If they didn’t get people to pay memberships, they’d have to close. Dean didn’t want that. It’d be good to have more people in the gym for a lot of reasons. Maybe he’d even find a new sparring partner tonight.

Plus, once they had more cash, they could finally apply for a license to start fighting in professional competitions. Dean was itching to get out of the amateurs.

“Keep your eyes peeled. We’re looking for the best of the best.” John clapped his hand to Dean’s shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze before releasing him.

Dean nodded distractedly to show he’d understood. Meanwhile, he looked around the packed warehouse. Discarded equipment and chains had been pushed into the corners. People had taken to standing on crates so they could get a better view of the fighting over the tops of the crowd’s heads. Big windows sat up toward the ceilings, their smudged glass letting in the silver moonlight. Two large shipping bays were rolled open on either side of the building. On their platforms, people loitered and tossed their spent cigars into the water below.

There came the thump of a fist to flesh, and the spectators hollered and undulated.

“Let’s see if we can get a better look,” John instructed. Dean took that as his cue to start jostling through the crowd.

He didn’t stop until he was about four rows deep and able to see the makeshift ring in the center of it all. Fraying hemp ropes had been strung along four steel structural beams. The crowd pressed up against it on three sides. On the fourth side, chairs had been set up for the mafia men to watch the fight. One man in a fine pinstripe suit leaned in toward another and whispered something in his ear. The listener nodded before breathing out a puff of thick cigar smoke. Dean figured he was probably the guy in charge.

He looked away, because the underworld was none of his business. He wasn’t there to deal with them, and neither was John. They were there to watch the fights.

Two fighters were in the ring. One was a big guy—way bigger than any human being had any right to be. He looked more like a giant from a fairytale. He wasn’t wearing boxing gloves, instead opting for a pair of leather driving gloves that probably weren’t doing his knuckles any favors.

Dean’s attention was drawn to the other man. Dark-haired and blue-eyed, he must have had a year or two on Dean’s twenty. He was lean with a wide chest and chiseled curvature on his shoulders and biceps. He shuffled away from his opponent so that he was briefly facing away from Dean, and the muscles of his back rolled under tan skin with every punch thrown. A layer of sweat glistened under the bleak yellow glow of the lights.

When he shuffled around again, Dean saw the red blood dripping down from the corner of his eye and under his nose. It painted his cracked lips, which only opened to pull in a deep and steadying breath that puffed up his torso. Dean didn’t even know how the guy was bleeding, because it didn’t look like his opponent could even land a punch.

Every time the giant tried, the prizefighter would get out of the way on swift feet, sometimes feinting one way before breaking in the other direction. He almost made it look like some kind of dance.

He stared down his opponent, jaw locked and eyes zeroed in with mean determination. The tattered gloves on his fists rolled and swayed as he kept his arms moving, sometimes snapping one outward to feint a jab that the giant fell for every time. His feet never stopped moving. Any other opponent, and Dean would have thought the giant would win easily. This guy seemed to be giving him a run for his money.

The giant bellowed and jumped forward into a jab. The prizefighter stepped and dragged to the side with agility and precision, then flew back when the giant pivoted for him and threw another punch. That second one looked like it would land, but the prizefighter got out of the way just in time.

In the half second that the giant’s arm was still extended, the prizefighter moved back in and sent a hook to the giant’s ribs, and then another with the opposite fist to the man’s chin. His elbows were at a perfect 90-degree angle as his arms tightened and his firm torso rotated into the punches. The crowd went nuts, hoping for more blood.

The giant threw a hook of his own and the prizefighter got out of the way, but he wasn’t fast enough to stop the strong right hand that was sent to his eye. His head snapped back, and for a second Dean thought he’d broken his neck. Dean felt the same anxiety he’d been experiencing outside—or maybe it wasn’t the same. It felt different.

He was rooting for the guy.

Thankfully, the prizefighter seemed to recover. He spat blood onto the cement floor and shuffled around the giant. Dean’s exhale rattled through his lips. He pasted on a grin and looked at his dad, trying to play his concern off with humor. However, John’s eyes were narrowed sternly on the ring.

The giant advanced again, throwing a cross, but he was too slow and at too great a distance. The prizefighter parried his fist out of the way with his front glove and used the same hand to land a jab to the giant’s cheek.

“Get him!” someone in the crowd shouted, causing a bunch of other people to chime in with agreement. Whoever this prizefighter was, the masses seemed to be on his side.

The prizefighter shuffled in with a cross to his opponent’s torso, sacrificing himself by taking a punch to the gut that elicited a grunt. He turned into a front hook that hit its mark—another body shot, using his opponent’s height to his advantage. Quickly, he sent another cross, this time to the face. The giant raised his forearm to block it, so the prizefighter shoveled his front fist into the giant’s sternum. He tried another uppercut with his back fist, but the giant squeezed down to block it with his elbows.

That seemed to be what the prizefighter had wanted him to do. As if he had the wind at his back to aid his speed, he braced his sturdy legs and rotated into a powerful hook to the side of the giant’s temple.

The giant stumbled down to the ground, catching himself by the palms on the cracked concrete.

Dean’s eyes widened, shocked that such a big man would go down. Around him, excitement swept through the room as the rest of the audience boomed with applause. He risked a quick look at his dad, who was clapping, too.

Dean licked his lips and swallowed hard, his chest burning slightly at the fact that John was impressed with the prizefighter so quickly. Maybe he should be. The guy was a decent boxer. Dean was probably just jealous. He’d never been that fast.

In the ring, the prizefighter kept his guard up and kept shuffling around the giant, his eyes downcast as if daring his opponent to get up. Dean didn’t know why the guy didn’t just kick the giant down and end it. After all, there were no rules here. But something told him the prizefighter wanted to win the right way. He guessed there was something honorable to that, even if it was stupid. He was bound to wake up with a lot fewer bruises tomorrow if he fought dirty.

The giant lumbered back up to his feet, seeming exhausted and dizzy. He was barely able to raise his guard before the prizefighter swooped back in and grunted to fuel a strong cross to the giant’s face. The giant went down again, that time falling flat on his back.

The cowbell rang, signalling the end of the fight. The crowd whooped and jumped and waved their hats. The winners collected their prize money from their bets while more people steamed in frustration at what they thought was a sure thing.

In the ring, the prizefighter’s chest swelled and collapsed rapidly as he pulled in deep breaths. Dean couldn’t take his eyes off of him, watching the way the man dragged the back of his glove across his forehead to mop up the sweat and blood. There was still a steely set to his shoulders and a rigidness to his jaw, like the fight hadn’t left his body yet.

The earth could quake and send the entire city into the harbor, and Dean had a feeling this guy would still be standing, unshakable.

“What do you think?” John asked.

Dean snapped back to himself, tearing his eyes away from the prizefighter. His throat constricted when he realized he’d gone deaf to the shouts of the crowd around him and numb to the press of bodies nearby.

Controlling himself, he shrugged with forced ambivalence. “He’s pretty good.” His voice sounded rough even to him, so he cleared his throat and started again. “What about you? Gonna ask him to sign up?”

John seemed to consider it for a moment, but then he shook his head. “Nah.”

That was a little surprising. “Why not? Thought we were looking for the best.” From John’s reaction, he’d definitely thought the guy qualified.

“Put a little more muscle on him and he’s easily a heavyweight,” John said, even though Dean was pretty sure the guy had enough muscles as it was. “When a heavyweight champion comes out of our gym, it’s gonna be you, Dean.”

That probably should have boosted Dean’s confidence. Instead, it made his stomach sour. John thought the prizefighter could become a champion one day, if he ever managed to get into a legitimate ring. And maybe he was right. But that also meant he was concerned that, if it ever came to it, Dean would lose a title fight to him.

“We should keep an eye on him,” John said coolly, as if to confirm Dean’s thoughts. “Men like that will be your competition.”

“Right,” Dean said, unable to stop the downtrodden pitch of his voice. He told himself that his dad had a point. Dean needed to stay ahead of guys like that if he wanted to be on top. And Dean had promised John that he’d win every fight until he got there. Sometimes, he was pretty sure John didn’t believe him.

Suddenly, the sound of sirens filled the night. Someone shouted, “It’s the cops!”

Instantly, Dean forgot about everything else except getting the hell out of there. The rest of the crowd seemed to have the same idea. They started scattering in a mass of panic and confusion.

“Shit,” John hissed. He grabbed Dean’s shoulder and dragged him through the jostling crowd for a few steps before giving him a push. “Go, Dean! I’ll meet you at home.”

Dean rushed away, elbowing hard through the people around him to get through. He and John had a contingency plan for if a fight ever got raided: to split up. That way, there was less of a chance of both of them getting arrested. One of them would be able to get home so that Sam wasn’t alone for the night.

Somewhere, a path was cleared through the throng so that the mafia men could slip out of the backdoor and get away. A few of the people from the crowd rushed after them, bottlenecking that exit. The sirens were getting closer. No way Dean would be able to get out of the backdoor in time.

He scanned the area, searching for another way out. People were flocking toward the open shipping bay doors at the sides of the warehouse. They jumped off the platforms and splashed into the water to swim to freedom. Dean figured that was probably his best bet.

He broke away from the congestion around the backdoor and ran.

By that time, uniformed police officers with batons rushed through the main entrance like an oil spill, the leak becoming a deluge as the cops spread out in all directions. They started rounding people up.

Dean paused at the mouth of the bay door, his hand wrapped around the wall to stand steady while frantic people slammed into him and wove around him to jump like rats from a sinking ship. He scanned the warehouse to make sure John wasn’t one of the people getting arrested. He didn’t find his dad. Instead, his eyes locked on the prizefighter from the ring.

Two police officers were flanking him. He held his palms up overhead in surrender, but he looked really pissed about it. His lips were pressed together as if he was trying to restrain himself from punching the officers.

One of the cops lowered his baton, approached the prizefighter, and grabbed his wrists to cuff them behind his back.

Dean didn’t know he’d been staring, not until the prizefighter realized he was being watched by some sixth sense. He turned his face slightly, his electric blue eyes latching onto Dean. Dean’s lips parted, but all his breath was trapped in his chest.

The cop pushed the man forward, causing the prizefighter to break eye contact with Dean and shoot the officer a mean glower over his shoulder. However, he complied with being led away.

Dean shook his head, internally kicking himself for getting so distracted. The crowd was thinning. He needed to get out of there unless he wanted to spend the night in a jail cell right next to the prizefighter.

Pushing off the wall, Dean rushed to the end of the platform, braced himself to get wet, and jumped into the river.

///

1946

“I remember it differently,” Castiel said before draining his drink. He grabbed the champagne bottle from Dean’s lap and poured some more into his glass.

Dean held out his own glass, silently telling Castiel to top it off. “Oh, yeah? How?” His voice was not the rounded and smooth tones that Castiel remembered from their youth; it hadn’t been for close to twenty years. Through stubborn bluster and imitation of his father, Dean had long ago trained the higher pitch from his voice.

Setting the bottle down on the mat, Castiel answered, “For starters, I don’t remember my opponent being that large. And I don’t recall winning the fight so easily.”

“Yeah, well, you made it look easy,” Dean told the inside of his glass, the words slightly muffled by the bubbles. He tipped his chin back slightly, his bottom lip folded over the glass rim as he took a sip. His Adam’s apple, covered in short stubble, bobbed in a swallow.

With a smirk, he added, “My very own Errol Flynn.”

He’d developed more lines around his eyes and mouth since the day the two of them had first seen each other. He’d gone from lean to muscular to lean again in the years between. New freckles and dark spots smattered his face now, and Castiel considered himself the luckiest man alive to have been there to watch each one of them form.

Although, at the moment, he couldn’t help but to picture that brusque, brash boy with an arrogant yet glowing grin that sat like a mask over his perfect face. That charming rake that Dean had once been. Castiel could still see him when the light hit Dean in a certain way, each time reminding him of the first time that confident smile had been directed his way. How it had winded him like a punch to the sternum; how it still did.

Perhaps it was another new beginning that he and Dean were about to embark on together, but he couldn’t keep his mind from circling their true beginning. To the days when they were young and wild, tough-fronting and cavalier; to the loud, long nights that seemed like they would last forever.

“I also remember you being more impressed than you let on,” Castiel told him.

Dean played off a blush to his cheeks and ears with a scoff. He lowered his champagne flute to his lap. “No, I wasn’t.”

Castiel arched a brow at him.

“And here I thought you barely remembered me,” Dean taunted.

“I remember you being impressed,” Castiel insisted, not wanting to show how caught he was.

Defensively, Dean puffed out his chest. “What, you think I was swooning over you?”

Castiel, eyes narrowed and jaw shifting, regarded him for a long moment. Dean was trying to save face, even if they both knew the truth, but Castiel supposed he would show Dean a small mercy. But only in this particular interest.

“No,” he said. Dean seemed satisfied by that, but his expression dropped again when Castiel added, “You swooned on the night we actually met.”

Dean chuckled wryly, challengingly. “That’s not how I remember it.”

“You did.”

“Maybe you just remember it wrong,” Dean goaded smartly.

Castiel decided to throw Dean’s own words back at him: “I remember it like it was yesterday.”

That old, beguiling grin pulled on Dean’s cheeks. He fixed it, as he always did, on Castiel. “That right?”

Castiel nodded, marveling in the way Dean was looking at him.

Dean leaned back on one elbow, facing Castiel, settling in. He said, “Tell me.”