From the time he was young, Dean Winchester dreamed of becoming a principal dancer at the New York Ballet Company alongside his idol, Castiel Novak. With Novak coming out of early retirement to dance one final season, Dean’s year-long internship with them is timed perfectly. Now, he just needs to not blow his chance, no matter how attractive Novak turns out to be.
After an unexpected retirement and even less expected return to ballet, Castiel Novak is dancing one final season with the New York Ballet Company before joining the Board of Directors. He can’t afford distractions, especially ones with a future at the company he’s destined to run.
Novak stared at Dean. Dean fidgeted uncomfortably under the gaze, willing his heart rate to go back to normal. It would definitely leave the wrong impression on the board if he collapsed in rehearsal.
“You’re charismatic and undertrained,” Novak began bluntly, squinting at the camera on its tripod, “which happens to be what I’m looking for in this piece.”
Dean swallowed against an indignant reply, aiming for disarming instead. “So, what’s the game? Needed someone tall, dark, and handsome?”
“No. If I’d needed that, I would have asked Ezekiel.”
“Oh, so you think he’s prettier than me?”
Novak turned his squint on Dean, head tilting like a bird. “Are you always like this, or is it a defense mechanism when you are intimidated by a situation?”
Dean swallowed hard again. Shit. “The uh. The second one.”
Novak left his camera and moved closer to him, steps long and graceful, until he was close, far too close. The air in the room was suddenly too thick, and Dean licked his lips self-consciously. Then, Novak hovered; Dean could feel the heat radiating from his body. Dean’s eyes slid over Novak’s face, unable to meet his eyes.
“Then stop,” Novak finally murmured. Dean nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
A hot blush made its way up Dean’s neck and a panicked deflection was already forming in his mind, but Novak simply raised an eyebrow, then turned and walked away. Which, huh, that was actually . . . a pretty good angle . . .
*Do not stare at his ass . . . do NOT stare at his ass . . .*
After a few more moments of messing with the camera, during which Dean took the opportunity to step out of his street clothes and warm up, Novak moved into the middle of the floor with him.
“Like I said, undertrained charm is one of your assets. It makes you seem believable. I want to spend some time with the music, just getting a feel of it.”
He lifted a remote and pointed it at an iPod dock in the corner. A plucky pop song began to play, and Dean doubled over in laughter.
“Dude, really?”
The look Novak shot him froze his insides, so Dean straightened up and listened. After a moment, he thought he heard what Novak liked about it; there was a smooth through line, a lilting rhythm, and after he got over the initial shock of the artist, he could start to feel the pull in his body. Once the song was over, he almost didn’t notice the silence. He blinked his eyes open (when had he closed them?), and saw Novak staring again, gazing openly at Dean with a peculiar expression. It smoothed some of the care lines that gathered around his mouth and in the corners of his eyes. Dean’s stomach lurched and he looked away quickly.
Oh, god, what the hell had Dean gotten himself into?
