Summary: When journalist Castiel Krushnic goes to a Dodgers game with his actor boyfriend, his man bun, and his bros, the last thing he expects is a scoreboard proposal. Saying no isn’t the hard part—they’ve only been dating for five months, and the fool can’t even spell his name correctly! The hard part is the silence after shocking a stadium full of disappointed fans…
At the game with his family, Dean Winchester comes to Cas’ rescue and rushes him away from a camera crew. He’s even there for him when the video goes viral, when Cas’ social media blows up—in a bad way—doing his best assisting with damage control.
Cas knows the wilds of LA (he‘s part of it) so there’s no way a handsome, up-and-coming doctor like Dean is looking for anything serious. That doesn’t mean they can’t embarks on an epic rebound as Cas gets his life back on track—right?
As time goes on, their glorified hookups start breaking the rules—it wasn’t supposed to happen! One of them needs to be smart enough to speak up, to slow them down, if not end it completely before they’re too far gone…if that line hasn’t been crossed already.
Major Warnings and Tags: no ao3 warnings apply; Rom-Com, Journalist Cas, Doctor Dean, Comedy of Errors, Awkward Situations, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn Romance, Smut, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean, Fluff, Humor and Light Angst
Where to find more work by this creator: ao3 and tumblr
Castiel knew there might be paparazzi at the game, but seeing them pursue interviews during downtime was tacky—his boyfriend a celebrity or not. Still, it unbelievable they had the balls to rush in and additionally distract the other VIPs!
“This is ridiculous. I’ll handle it,” Cas assured and stalked off, scanning for trademarked logos. There was nothing delicate about how he pushed the group back and crowded them towards the sidelines. “Who the hell do you work for? Star? In Touch? Fuckin’ Fox News?”
He seized the boom pole, knocking it down as subtly as possible. “From one journalist to another, this is an inappropriate time to fish for a story. If you insist on invading people’s personal lives, keep your distance, or—"
His boyfriend insisting from behind, “It’s okay, babe, I’ve got a good story for him,” was both as frustrating as it was confusing when he took Cas’ hand.
What the hell? He was advocating for him! Cas didn’t get involved with movie deals, why should he interfere when Cas dealt with the press? One thing was certain: he was finished being well-behaved today.
Cemented in staring down the camera crew, he ordered, “You better pray I don’t find out what network you’re with!”
He was weighing the options of dismissal or threats of bodily harm when suddenly, something else very, very perplexing happened.
The, “Hey, Cas,” flanking him grated more than usual. The quality was off—wrong—within the words themselves.
They were….well, everywhere. Booming, echoing, surrounding him completely—projecting from the stadium’s loudspeakers.
An explosion of applause, cheering, and other odd noises erupted from the crowd. What the hell—?
—Why wasn’t the camera crew leaving? Why his wrist being tugged? Why was the sound guy gesturing backwards, making Cas want to punch him in the fucking face—?!
One yank—the brute-force type—forced Cas to spin back. His boyfriend was grinning like a loon.
“I’m protecting you, your privacy,” Castiel hissed, but he wasn’t being heard, nothing was sinking in!
“I gotta say something—” This continual attempt silencing him wouldn’t end well… “Check it out, gorgeous!”
“What, is your team up?” he scoffed sarcastically, tearing his grip away.
As the field fell quiet, Cas realized his own voice was amplified. Desperate for answers, Cas’ attention darted where he’d been pointed—the scoreboard.
On the massive jumbo screen, it read: “Casstile - Will You Marry Me?”
The camera crew’s persistence. His boyfriend’s finicky behavior. The volume—they must have mic’d him during the break—now in proximity to pick up Cas’ words—!
Cas turned to see him bow down to knee, “Castiel Krushnic, marry me?” audience ‘ooo’ing and ‘aww’ing.
The sad thing was…maybe he loved Cas. But this was fake—that smile was for the cameras. Not Castiel.
He should’ve acted like an adult: agreeing publicly and handling their affairs privately. But he was riled up and war-torn for today’s shitfest, hitting his breaking point.
Castiel unleashed the bitter snarl of, “Learn how to spell my fucking name!“ ignoring the crowd’s shocked gasp.
Only after he’d furiously sent the box flying out onto the field with a well-aimed slapped, did he realized—
The game was live. The cameras made sure the world was watching. And real life didn’t cut to commercials.
POSTING IN AUGUST TO AO3 & TUMBLR
