A/N I didn't write this and none of the characters belong to me. It was so good I thought I'd share it with you. Here's the link:
https://m.fanfiction.net/s/6868533/1/
Castiel sits, grading twelfth grade papers on the bleachers by the football field, despairing over the failure of his latest class to grasp the apostrophe. At least, he was, now he's sitting, pen in hand and bundle of papers fluttering on his knees, because the reason he's chosen to mark outside has just strolled onto the pitch.
Dean Winchester, football coach and latest member of staff to join their ranks.
Greek God incarnate.
Castiel huddles against the wind, trench coat fanning in the gust of cold air sent down by the grey, repellent sky. Down below Dean is bellowing at the players as they assemble on the field in full gear, he blows his whistle and they run off to get into formation for a drill. Castiel watches the couch sprint after them, yelling at those who can't match his pace to 'Pick it up or go back to the locker room!'
Dean follows the boys as they go in and out of the line up, running the ball up and down the pitch in a training exercise. He's expending twice as much effort as any player, running to and from the goal line and shouting advice and criticism between whistle blasts. He's in black fleece track pants and a hooded sweater, and despite the cold air he must be sweltering, at one point he even drops to the ground beside a player being punished for lateness with a set of push up's, jack-knifing up and down faster than the younger boy.
Dean jumps to his feet and happens to look up into the stands, straight at Castiel. He ducks his head back to his marking hastily trying to look like he's doing something, anything, but stare at Dean Winchester. He licks his dry lips unconsciously and gives Polly Brown a B+ she really doesn't deserve, just to move his hand, and flips to the next paper, reading intently.
The next story is actually kind of good, which makes it all the worse, because though it starts off with a fairly benign school setting, he can only describe it as pure, adolescent filth.
I left my gym bag behind on purpose so that I could go back into the locker room, and there he was, still standing under the flow of the showers, too shy to wash beside the rest of us. He had no idea how much I wanted to see him without his gym uniform, without the baggy black pants and loose shirts he always wore. I didn't know if that would make him more or less reluctant to strip off beside me.
Castiel drummed his pen against his thigh, watching Dean pelt along beside one of the new recruits to the team, throwing the ball back and forth to practice precision and aim. He'd taken off his hooded sweater, revealing the plain V-necked T-shirt underneath, white cotton probably already damp with sweat. Castiel nips at the rough skin of his lip nervously, and returns to the puerile nonsense in his lap, really hoping that it isn't about to go where it appears to be headed.
He always smelt like the same cheap white soap, and that smell filled up the showers and got to me as I watched him. He had no idea I was there, watching from the lockers, as he soaped himself up and sighed though the steam, easing the aches of a hard hour's training. His hands touched his body innocently, far more so than I would if I were beneath those searing jets. I saw him trail a hand over the soft dark hair on his flat stomach, and I felt my cock...
Castiel flushes and flips over the page, determined to just fail the student and start on a different paper. And maybe throw out his K-mart soap, knowing that the cheap product would now remind him of this.
His eyes flick back to Dean just as the coach lifts his arms and wriggles out of his shirt, chest flushed and sweaty from his work, fleece workout pants hanging so low on his hips that Castiel can see the jut of the bone in contrast to the musculature of the rest of him. Heavy and thick with muscle and tanned from a summer of running outside beside his players.
