GOOMB: Chapter One
TITLE: Get Off Of My Back
PAIRINGS: Dean/Sam, Dean/Cas, Sam/Cas, Sam/Cas/Dean
CHARACTERS INVOLVED: Just the above, open to suggestions.
SUMMARY: AU!Dean is a boxer working his circuit, Sam is his lawyer roommate, and Castiel is an up and coming champion on the same boxing network.
RATING: PG
BETA: None yet. Be mine?
Dean lived for this, the blaring lights and the thrill of the fight. He wasn’t truly gratified unless he could feel his knuckles buckle against the line of another man’s jaw and it was all he could do to keep from shaking limbs and trembling knees when he entered the ring. The excitement of it all roused a part of him to wake. A piece of him so feral and so intoxicated by what he was doing that to calm down was a heavier mission than his goals and the trained movements of the partner he was fighting. Time stood at a stand still when he was engaged in the ring; it was for all intents and purposes what he felt he was meant to do. So, there was no shame in rising every morning to work his body into weary exhaustion. He’d fall asleep at noon the following day and begin the cycle all over again, it benefited him in a way that nothing else did and he wouldn’t be the man he was, or at all emotionally sated unless he gave all of his attention over to it.
That morning in July he stirred from another dream about his career path, one that involved a competitor who’d risen from nothing in a port town of some small Slovenian nation and had already won out a lot of the guys that Dean went for drinks with. He was spoken of often, not always in positive tones, mostly with an air of arrogance. It wasn’t so much that he was afraid of him, or fearful of their fight, as he wanted to know more. Being left in the dark was something Dean had never sat well with and not knowing was a bigger anxiety to him than having things thrown into his face. He wanted to prepare, he’d fixed his eyes on the television castings of his fights for weeks now, trying to get a feel for a pattern or a snare in what he did, he’d come up with nothing. Nothing at all. He was hard to decipher, harder to read, difficult to assume, and irritatingly flamboyant about it all. He knew. He knew how much of an irreverent conundrum he was and he did nothing to dissuade the fact. He only paid it more pittance.
Castiel Djorkaeff. His name brought a sense of apprehension to him. He tried to will it away and get dressed for his morning jog but his roommate Sam stopped him at the door with a less than entertained face.
“You need to do the dishes.”
“At 11 AM? Why the hell-”
“I asked you after dinner.”
“So, I’m a few hours la-”
“TWO WEEKS ago.”
Dean just threw a hand, he didn’t have time to deal with another one of Sam’s effeminate flare ups and he knew it’d be something else by the time he got back.
Sam, on the contrary, wasn’t having it. He was two heads taller than Dean and could’ve made an interesting fighter himself if his sheer girth wouldn’t get in the way of his speed. Mountains could be move, but roads were chased. Sam was a mountain. Dean was a road. It’s why they got into arguments like this.
“Dude, I so don’t have time for another one of your bitch trips.”
“Bitch trip-” A pause. A pleated sigh. “This is about respect.”
“WHO said I don’t respect you?”
“Do you? You don’t show it.”
“My paycheck PAYS for this place.”
“Mine pays for the utilities, Dean, stop being entitled and just get your hands wet.”
Dean tightened his jaw and rolled his eyes. After a short, “I’ll get your hands wet,” and a sink full of clean dishes later he went for his jog and came back for his morning shower. Sam, the lawyer, and the guy that handled most of his press had already left for work and not feeling like a day of jumping rope and pounding leather Dean just plopped onto the couch and turned the television on.
Bad idea.
The Russian’s face was all over it again on some E X-TRA news detail and it was all he could do to keep from rubbing his temple and trailing that hand down toward the bridge of his nose in mock offense to it. He knew the time was coming, and fast, when the two would have to meet face to face for a press benefit. The cocky overtones to him weren’t lost on Dean, and even though he was his own prodigious form of ego; he wasn’t looking forward to having to compete with the douche bag at eye level. The humble ones were easy pickings. The fact that he came from nothing and was still a damn chauvinist was what bothered him the most, it made him unable to dictate and Dean liked being ahead of the game; he enjoyed knowing what was coming next.
So, relaxation was out too. For half of a second he almost considered cleaning up the studio flat but threw the idea away just to spite his friend, he enjoyed the faces he’d make when he was angry and provoking that behemoth’s attitude problem was one of many day to day proceedings that he took pleasure in. He had to do what he liked, and this just happened to be something he was good at. They couldn’t go twenty four hours without grating at one another’s nerves. It built up sexual tension that was awesome to release and the openly bisexual boxer poked, prodded, and instigated to get a rise out of him only to end up with a rise of his own.
Samuel Holt wasn’t like other men. He was astute, poised, and although his frame contradicted it he was soft at heart and loyal. He knew how much Dean had been suffering in the face of the media propaganda. Suffering, an exaggeration, but the worry wart only pressed at things when he wanted his roommate to accept them. It was like working a knot out of your back, or a kink out of your shoulder. You had to keep at it or you’d get nowhere. For Dean ‘Diehard’ Soto persistence paid off.
PAIRINGS: Dean/Sam, Dean/Cas, Sam/Cas, Sam/Cas/Dean
CHARACTERS INVOLVED: Just the above, open to suggestions.
SUMMARY: AU!Dean is a boxer working his circuit, Sam is his lawyer roommate, and Castiel is an up and coming champion on the same boxing network.
RATING: PG
BETA: None yet. Be mine?
Dean lived for this, the blaring lights and the thrill of the fight. He wasn’t truly gratified unless he could feel his knuckles buckle against the line of another man’s jaw and it was all he could do to keep from shaking limbs and trembling knees when he entered the ring. The excitement of it all roused a part of him to wake. A piece of him so feral and so intoxicated by what he was doing that to calm down was a heavier mission than his goals and the trained movements of the partner he was fighting. Time stood at a stand still when he was engaged in the ring; it was for all intents and purposes what he felt he was meant to do. So, there was no shame in rising every morning to work his body into weary exhaustion. He’d fall asleep at noon the following day and begin the cycle all over again, it benefited him in a way that nothing else did and he wouldn’t be the man he was, or at all emotionally sated unless he gave all of his attention over to it.
That morning in July he stirred from another dream about his career path, one that involved a competitor who’d risen from nothing in a port town of some small Slovenian nation and had already won out a lot of the guys that Dean went for drinks with. He was spoken of often, not always in positive tones, mostly with an air of arrogance. It wasn’t so much that he was afraid of him, or fearful of their fight, as he wanted to know more. Being left in the dark was something Dean had never sat well with and not knowing was a bigger anxiety to him than having things thrown into his face. He wanted to prepare, he’d fixed his eyes on the television castings of his fights for weeks now, trying to get a feel for a pattern or a snare in what he did, he’d come up with nothing. Nothing at all. He was hard to decipher, harder to read, difficult to assume, and irritatingly flamboyant about it all. He knew. He knew how much of an irreverent conundrum he was and he did nothing to dissuade the fact. He only paid it more pittance.
Castiel Djorkaeff. His name brought a sense of apprehension to him. He tried to will it away and get dressed for his morning jog but his roommate Sam stopped him at the door with a less than entertained face.
“You need to do the dishes.”
“At 11 AM? Why the hell-”
“I asked you after dinner.”
“So, I’m a few hours la-”
“TWO WEEKS ago.”
Dean just threw a hand, he didn’t have time to deal with another one of Sam’s effeminate flare ups and he knew it’d be something else by the time he got back.
Sam, on the contrary, wasn’t having it. He was two heads taller than Dean and could’ve made an interesting fighter himself if his sheer girth wouldn’t get in the way of his speed. Mountains could be move, but roads were chased. Sam was a mountain. Dean was a road. It’s why they got into arguments like this.
“Dude, I so don’t have time for another one of your bitch trips.”
“Bitch trip-” A pause. A pleated sigh. “This is about respect.”
“WHO said I don’t respect you?”
“Do you? You don’t show it.”
“My paycheck PAYS for this place.”
“Mine pays for the utilities, Dean, stop being entitled and just get your hands wet.”
Dean tightened his jaw and rolled his eyes. After a short, “I’ll get your hands wet,” and a sink full of clean dishes later he went for his jog and came back for his morning shower. Sam, the lawyer, and the guy that handled most of his press had already left for work and not feeling like a day of jumping rope and pounding leather Dean just plopped onto the couch and turned the television on.
Bad idea.
The Russian’s face was all over it again on some E X-TRA news detail and it was all he could do to keep from rubbing his temple and trailing that hand down toward the bridge of his nose in mock offense to it. He knew the time was coming, and fast, when the two would have to meet face to face for a press benefit. The cocky overtones to him weren’t lost on Dean, and even though he was his own prodigious form of ego; he wasn’t looking forward to having to compete with the douche bag at eye level. The humble ones were easy pickings. The fact that he came from nothing and was still a damn chauvinist was what bothered him the most, it made him unable to dictate and Dean liked being ahead of the game; he enjoyed knowing what was coming next.
So, relaxation was out too. For half of a second he almost considered cleaning up the studio flat but threw the idea away just to spite his friend, he enjoyed the faces he’d make when he was angry and provoking that behemoth’s attitude problem was one of many day to day proceedings that he took pleasure in. He had to do what he liked, and this just happened to be something he was good at. They couldn’t go twenty four hours without grating at one another’s nerves. It built up sexual tension that was awesome to release and the openly bisexual boxer poked, prodded, and instigated to get a rise out of him only to end up with a rise of his own.
Samuel Holt wasn’t like other men. He was astute, poised, and although his frame contradicted it he was soft at heart and loyal. He knew how much Dean had been suffering in the face of the media propaganda. Suffering, an exaggeration, but the worry wart only pressed at things when he wanted his roommate to accept them. It was like working a knot out of your back, or a kink out of your shoulder. You had to keep at it or you’d get nowhere. For Dean ‘Diehard’ Soto persistence paid off.