Code Duello (Part 1 of 14)
Mar. 28th, 2013 05:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Code Duello (Part 1 of 14)
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jess, Bobby, Gabriel, Victor, Charlie, Pamela, Benny, Ash, Jo/Gordon, Ellen, Uriel, Zachariah, Joshua, Balthazar, Chuck/Becky
Warnings: Cursing, mild sexual situations, no beta. I've tried to flag all the major romantic pairings, but this is a college AU, so there are a lot more flirtations and suchlike going on among the characters. But if you can't tolerate this, you probably wouldn't be reading one of my fics anyway.
Word Count: 75,000 total
Summary: The duel of honor is still the law of the land: grievances large and small are settled by means of electrified swords that can be honed to incredible sharpness. When Dean Winchester, captain of the University of Kansas fencing team, finds himself one player short at the beginning of the season, he recruits Castiel, a mysterious boy trained from birth to compete in high stakes illegal sword fighting competitions.
Notes: The formal dueling in this one is a mish-mosh of modern fencing and kendo. Street fighting is an unholy blend of mixed martial arts and samurai movies I watched as a kid.
O hai. If you're here from Tumblr, I'd really recommend either reading this fic on LJ or over on AO3 instead. Nothing against Dreamwidth, I'm just not great about keeping up this blog.
Castiel was flat on his back, waiting to die.
The guy leapt at him, sword flashing. But his cry of triumph turned to a moan as he felt Castiel’s boots bashing his midsection.
Castiel danced up to his feet, twirled around and grabbed his own sword from the ground just in time to clobber the guy with the hilt, sending him staggering back. He sensed the hum of an electric blade and hot breath at his neck and jabbed an elbow around in back of him, feeling a snap. He whirled around to face the second guy, who now had blood gushing from his broken nose. As the crowd roared, Castiel forced him back by another blow with his sword hilt.
“Where the blazes are you, Uriel?” Castiel muttered. He landed a good, clean blow with the humming blade on the second guy and heard his shielding snap and pop in response (he would have racked up the points, if it had been that kind of match). That sent him staggering down to the mat, and Cas turned on a dime to confront the first guy again. A parry, and the blades both crackled with electricity. The crowd hooted and howled as they always did at the show of sparks. He was near enough to hitch some wall, so he leapt up the clear side of the octagonal plexi cage and kicked off the corner, slamming the guy but good from overhead. He spotted the motionless lump in the corner: Uriel was still down. Damn! It was him against two angry, juiced-up opponents. He needed to get at least one down, but fast. He decided to drop the guy he was currently dueling, hoping that his partner would stay stunned for a while. These matches weren’t supposed to end in death, but Castiel had been around long enough to see how quickly they turned. And two versus one was a good way to end up injured. Or dead.
This guy wasn’t taller than Castiel, so he didn’t have reach to his advantage, just raw strength. Castiel decided to go for disarming. He feinted, and then turned and ran at full speed towards the opposite wall, counting on the dude to be stupid enough to follow. Castiel ran up the wall and then kicked off the ceiling, flipping over backwards, and coming down with everything he had on the guy’s sword shoulder, feeling the crunch of blade to bone. His opponent screamed and fell, clutching his broken collarbone as his sword slipped from his useless arm.
Something smashed into Castiel as soon as he touched down, slamming him into the wall. He reeled from the blow to his ribs, wiping blood from his mouth. The other opponent was up and charging him. Dazed, Castiel got up his own sword in time to parry the next blow, but this dude was taller as well as stronger, and Castiel was at a crap angle underneath him. The blows rained down, as fast as his shielding could catch them, as he backed away, smashed back against the cage wall, until … shit! The guy was gonna corner him, and then it would be all over.
Cas took a chance and body checked the guy, throwing himself against him, and then he tucked and rolled away. He landed badly on his ribs though, and didn’t get up as quickly as he’d planned. The guy was looming over him, sword poised, and Castiel was once again readying himself for a knockout blow.
Suddenly, his opponent froze. Castiel took a step back. The guy's mouth dropped open, spilling blood. It was then Castiel spotted the end of a blade sticking out of his neck, crackling bloody red sparks.
The blade slipped away, as did the guy's life, and he fell to the mat with a thump, revealing Uriel, standing behind him, raising a bloody sword in triumph.
Castiel gawped, his heart turned to lead in his chest.
“No.”
He was no longer there, and this was no longer happening. Somewhere, a crowd was on its feet, roaring. Uriel grabbed Castiel’s hand and wrenched it upwards over his head, signaling their victory.
But that was somewhere else.
“I tell ya, Sammy, I dunno how I’m even gonna be able to field a team this year.”
“Um-hm.”
“Are you even listening?”
“Umm.”
Dean reached across the picnic table and yanked away Sam’s laptop, prompting a “Hey!” from the younger Winchester. The two sat in the shade of a tree in the middle of the university's park-like quad area, eating what passed for food from the commons (though Sam seemed less than interested in his) and discussing Dean's increasingly shaky future as captain of the fencing team.
Dean grabbed the computer with his special sauce-drenched paws. “What, are you checking your porn?” he asked, louder than he absolutely had to, causing a couple of passing coeds to turn their heads and giggle, and Sammy to flush like a sunburned lobster.
It was a sunny fall day, so there were a lot of students outside strolling by, many of them carrying shiny, obviously new sidearms strapped at their belts, or over their backs, like the street fighters did. Even the unarmed students showed a distinct duelist influence this season, with many wearing thick boots with creases, like you get from the constant tapping of a sword edge, molded into the sides. Wellman Wellies. A pox on both our houses, is what Bobby Singer said of them.
Dean’s boots were scarred, but he had come by it the honest way, from tapping it with the flat of his dueling blade to make sure his electrical shielding was functioning properly. His sword was currently resting on the ground by his feet. Even away at school he didn’t want to risk getting yelled at by Uncle Bobby for having the manners of a wild hog.
“I’m doing homework, Dean,” Sam whispered, pulling the computer back. “Homework? You remember that concept?” He grabbed a paper napkin and tried to dab off the big brother-prints. “I don't wanna get kicked out freshman year.”
Dean picked up his burger again and chawed off a generous bite. He wiped his mouth on a sleeve. “What am I gonna do about the team, Sam?” he asked, bit of lettuce trailing from the corner of his mouth. “We don’t field a minimum number of players, we can’t stay eligible. We don’t stay eligible, they yank my scholarship.”
Sam’s expression darkened. “And you might have to actually pay for your college? Like all the us non-duelist bigshot people?”
“Hey, you could go out for the team! If you weren't obsessed with all that studying and crap.”
“Studying is crap?” asked Sam, exasperated.
Both brothers turned as a huge black car rumbled up nearby. “Speaking of bigshots,” Sam muttered darkly as the passengers emerged from the back of the town car, There were two of them, a shorter man, and a tall, slim man, his dark hair arranged in a topknot. The shorter of the two stood, leaning heavily on a cane, apparently urging on the taller of the pair, who reached inside and pulled out a scabbard.
“Nice wheels,” commented Dean. “Not as nice as mine, but....”
“Street fighters,” Sam grumbled, going back to whatever not-porn he was studying on his laptop. “I'm gonna put skeezy bastards like that away when I'm a prosecutor.”
Dean leaned back and guzzled enough soda to plant cavities in half his molars. “I thought you were gonna be a defense attorney and magically heal the innocent.”
“Jerk.”
“Bitch.” Dean ignored his idiot brother for a moment and studied the two dudes who had emerged from the town car. The taller one had slung his scabbard on his back and stood up, long and lean and appearing every goddam inch the badass. Dean, who was openly staring now, emitted a low whistle, causing his brother to cringe. And then the guy stalked off while the shorter one limped along behind.
Sam, in his agitation, had seized his wilted caesar salad and began to munch, plastic fork spearing dead lettuce. “Why we have to attend class alongside guys who are no better than felons-”
“Sammy!” You could almost see the light bulb click on atop Dean’s head.
“What?” The white fork made a small thunk as it got tossed down into the clear plastic container. Sam's arms were crossed against his chest, a look of disbelief on his handsome features. His words came out measured. “Dean, don't tell me you have an idea.”
“I have an idea!”
“No. No no no. Dean. That's the deal, you are not supposed to have ideas while we're in college.”
“The street fighter dude? That guy's a student, so he's eligible. And he knows how to handle a sword....”
“Dean.” Sam was over the table, grabbing his seriously mentally deficient brother by the collar. “Look at me. You cannot recruit a street fighter for the fencing team.”
“Yeah? Why not?”
“Who's gonna let their kid play alongside.... Alongside a killer!”
“If depends.”
“On what?”
Dean's eyes shown bright as blades. “On whether we win!”
“Gabriel, don't lie to me. What happened?”
“Look, Cassie, I don't know what happened last night. That guy was an idiot, probably forgot to check his shielding.”
Castiel stopped on a dime and turned, causing Gabriel to nearly collide with him. “Shielding? His shielding was to blame? Not the blade setting?” Castiel loomed over him, his eyes blazing.
“Uriel was set up to at least nine Teslas.” Electrical blades modulated sharpness by adjustment of a setting on the hilt. The dullest settings were one and two Tesla units, the levels often used for practicing by non-professionals. Settings as high as eight and nine could be lethal, and a blade set to ten, depending on the skill of the sword smith, could split human hairs.
Gabriel threw up his hands. “I got no clue what happened, Cassie.”
“As my manager, aren't you supposed to know these things, Gabriel?”
“Maybe.... Look. Maybe Uriel fucked with his settings. I dunno.”
“Gabriel.” Castiel drew close, his voice a ragged whisper. “I am not a killer.”
“I know brother. I know.”
A group of female students passed them by, edging away, as people tended to do, when they saw what Castiel was. He directed his gaze downwards, as he always did, so he could tune out glances.
Gabriel, however, had no such qualms. He picked up on the disgusted stare from one of the girls, a surly redhead. “You want some help?” he snapped.
“What?” she fired back as her friends flinched away.
“Getting the stick out of your ass,” he growled, waving his cane at her.
“Fuck off, street trash.”
“Yeah? I can’t figure out what’s uglier, your expression or those boots.” Gabriel pointed his cane at the boots she and all her friends were wearing: they had a fake seam traced down the side, as if someone had been hitting the boot with a sword, as was the habit of duelists.
She glared, as her friends tugged her away, muttering no doubt about how the likes of Castiel and Gabriel shouldn’t mix in with the nice people. “Wellman Wellies. People who wear those crappy boots oughta be shot. With a gun! In the interest of bad taste.”
“I can’t do this anymore, Gabriel.”
Gabriel was still glowering after the girls, as if he could make them melt through sheer force of will. He turned back to face Castiel. “Don’t let those chicks get under your skin. People like that can fuck themselves.”
“That’s not what I meant. And you know it.”
“Hey! Can we talk to you?” Castiel turned to see tall, athletic-looking guy run up, out of breath. Another even taller man hurried after him, uncertain expression on his face.
The first guy stuck out a hand. “I'm Dean-”
“You’re Dean Winchester, captain of this university's fencing team,” Castiel crisply informed him, regarding Dean's outstretched arm with some curiosity. He sent out a tentative hand, and Dean gripped it firmly in a shake.
“Great, you already know me! And this is my little brother, Sam.” Dean turned to indicate the gangly scarecrow who had pattered after him like a Doberman puppy.
“Little brother,” Castiel repeated, savoring the first word as his gaze drifted upwards to behold the younger Winchester. “Is he on the fencing team as well?”
“Uh, no, I don’t fence. Not any more. But I, uh, root for the team,” Sam put in lamely. Dean shifted on his feet, and Sam awkwardly extended a hand to Castiel as well.
“It's a pity. You would have an excellent reach,” Castiel commented, giving Sam a good once-over. After another odd pause he shook Sam's hand. “I'm Castiel. This is my brother, Gabriel.” Gabriel glared up at everyone, obviously more than a little annoyed to suddenly find himself stranded in Land of the Giants.
“Well, look, Dean Whatever,” said Gabriel, “we're kinda busy right now, so if you’ll excuse-”
“I'm recruiting,” Dean blurted. He stared at Castiel, whose features suddenly traced a smile.
“What? No way!” said Gabriel as Sam resolutely stood just in back of Dean and stared at the ground.
“Recruiting? For the fencing team?” asked Castiel, whose eyes bored into Dean as if he was the only person present.
“Yeah!” Dean took in a breath. “See, we just had a couple members lose eligibility. I won't lie to you, they were doping, and I think that's bullshit. But we’ve had some injuries too, so now I don't have enough members to fill the roster-“
“Isn't this university’s team consistently ranked the lowest in the division?” It was sad but true. On most college campuses, especially in the sword-obsessed Midwest, membership in the fencing team was all but guaranteed cock-of-the-walk status, and the team captain was revered as a local saint. But the Lawrence squad’s hapless history and string of major losses had turned recruitment into a trial, which only served to weaken the team further. They were on their third coach in three years, Victor “Victory” Henricksen. It was Victor who had uncovered the team members who had been doping and kicked them off, leading to a lot more colorful nicknames for him among the students and alumni.
“That's the thing! It doesn't have to be that way. We're really on the brink this year. I can feel it. Yeah, we had to toss aside a couple of losers, but the people who stayed? This is a winning team, Cas. These guys have the skill, they have the heart. If I can't fill up the roster, they don't get the chance. And they deserve it.”
Without dropping Dean's gaze, Castiel let his head drop slightly to the left. “That's very … inspiring, Dean.”
“Hey, doofus. His name is Castiel,” hissed Gabriel.
But Dean only had eyes for Castiel. “Look, don't take my word for it. Come and meet the team. I'll give you my number. Hey, Sammy, you got paper?”
Sam, looking dubious, pulled a much wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket. Dean grabbed it away and ripped off a section, and then gestured for a pen, which, heaving a sigh, Sam also supplied.
“You’re not on academic probation or anything?” Dean asked. “Though, it wouldn’t be a problem. Just checking.”
“My bro is on the Dean's List!” Gabriel bragged.
“Oh? You a student too, Gabriel?” asked Dean.
Gabriel literally snorted. “Hell no, Deano. I’m his agent.”
“Why would a college student need an agent?” Sam piped up.
“Because he’s a champion, Gigantor. Something you Lame-Hawks wouldn’t know anything about.”
“I let him serve in the role keep him out of trouble,” Castiel said quietly. “It doesn’t always work,” he added as Gabriel gave him a dirty look.
Dean handed over the scrap of paper with his number. “Call me. Promise. You won’t regret it.” And then he and Sam moved off.
“He’s already regretting it,” Gabriel shouted after them. He turned to Castiel and snatched for the paper, but Castiel was quicker, holding it up. “Oh, tell me you’re not gonna listen to that loser! You have a career! Zachariah even bent the rules so you could go to college. Why would you join a losing team?”
Cas held the paper up out of Gabriel’s reach and studied his older brother. “So, you would advise me differently if it were a winning team?”
“Well. Yeah. I mean, maybe.”
Cas crumpled the paper and stuck it into his pocket. “If I’m on the team, then we’ll win. So we’re set.” And then he marched off in the opposite direction from the one Dean and Sam had taken, Gabriel hot on his heels.
“I gotta go meet Jess. And by the way, if I haven’t told you lately, you’re an idiot.”
Dean was beaming. “Come on, Sammy. I’m gonna be the hero. You know it. I just saved the team.”
“And where are you going in such a hurry? Let me guess: is it female?”
“Female and redhead, Sam. A sure thing.”
“Sure thing, huh?”
“She’s the love of my life. For the next eight hours, at least.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Well, you get bored with Miss Eight Hour Love, Jess and I are doing pizza and videos with Uncle Bobby.”
“You old folks, don’t wait up for me, Sammy,” said Dean, who charged off towards the dining hall, leaving his brother fussing and fretting. He didn’t begrudge Sammy being Mr. Monogamous. Jess was a doll, and way too cute and smart for a loser like his little brother. But he just couldn’t see getting attached to someone when he was currently living surrounded by so many fetching someones. He soon found her – was it Rhonda or Rhoda? – surrounded by her flock of friends a table near the windows. “Hey, you!” said Dean, sliding in next to her and pulling the chair up as close as it could get. The whole group seemed to be aflutter about some damn thing. He grabbed a French fry from her plate.
“Did you see those street fighters?” she asked.
“They’re so gross,” said one of her friends.
“Why do they let them on campus with us? Everybody knows those guys are illiterate.”
“The guy back there?” asked Dean. He wavered for a long moment between a sure thing with a redhead and stirring up a little trouble. As it always did, trouble won out. “He’s on the Dean’s List. Which I bet you’re not.” He grabbed another fry.
“Wait, how do you know?” asked Rhonda or Rhoda.
“I’m recruiting him,” Dean told her, grabbing her and pulling her into his lap.
The love of his life for the next eight hours pushed back and stared at him. And then she gave a hoot of laughter. “Oh, you’re such an asshole, Dean. I almost believed you.” Several of her friends started giggling as well, although some of the others just looked uncomfortable.
“My team is a member short,” said Dean. “He’s filling out the roster.” He reached for another fry, but the redhead yanked back the plate.
“Dean. You don’t mix with that sort of people.”
Dean sat back and smiled. “What sort of people. Exactly?”
“They've been training since birth.”
“Before! I hear they breed them with one another,” said another girl, a dirty blonde.
“Ewww.”
Dean pulled the plate nearer and grabbed some more fries. “Is that so? 'Cause I've heard a lot of them are orphans.”
“The ones that are too ugly or deformed for the brothels,” Rhonda or Rhoda told him firmly.
“Does that even make sense? I mean, if they're deformed, how do they fight?”
“Why are you being impossible, Dean?”
Dean held up his hands. “I'm just curious. I've heard a bunch of trash talk about those guys, but....” Dean shrugged. “I believe what I see, you know?”
The love of his life wiggled out of his lap. “You get that guy on your team, you’ll regret it,” she warned.
Dean smiled and grabbed a handful of French fries.
“Is biology destiny?”
The microphone squealed with feedback, an the class cringed.
Castiel stared at his laptop. He was sitting in his usual seat near the back of the lecture hall. He wished this room had windows. Psychology was usually his favorite topic, but he didn't like this class. He simply didn't care for the professor, Dr. Jaunoeil. Cas couldn't put his finger on it, but if Jaunoeil had been a street fighting opponent, he would have insisted on double-checking the settings on the guy's blade.
He just plain didn't trust the man.
Castiel sometimes got inklings like this about people. Feelings, good or bad. He wasn't sure why. Maybe his biology was destiny. Or maybe it was all the years in the cage, where sussing an opponent could be a matter of life or death.
Castiel stared, unseeing, at his lecture notes. Dean Winchester seemed like a good person.
He wasn't quite certain why his mind was drifting towards the fencing team captain. Gabriel was probably right: joining a losing team was a stupid idea.
Unbidden, his hand went to his pants pocket. He extracted a crumpled piece of paper. He spread it out on his laptop keyboard, carefully pressing out the wrinkles.
He frowned.
Quietly, he shut his laptop, shoving it into his bag. And then he rose and silently slipped out of the classroom.
“Uh-oh, guess he had an urgent fight to get to!” came the amplified voice from the podium.
The class's nervous laughter echoed in Castiel's ears.
“It’s probably pretty lame compared to what you’re used to, but it does the job. Anyway, you can stow your gear here while we warm up.”
Castiel looked around. They gym smelled about like every gym ever in history, but it was clean and tidy, if spare. “You might be surprised what I’m used to,” he muttered, causing Dean to flash a puzzled glance. He dropped his gym bag where Dean had indicated, and, after a moment’s hesitation, his scabbard as well, and then walked over to where Dean was unlocking a large glass-fronted cabinet.
“You’ll have to use shared equipment for now,” Dean was saying apologetically. “Not as nice as your fancy blade, but yours isn’t regulation. Have you used-“
“I’m familiar with standard dueling blades, thanks,” Cas told him, smiling slightly. The display, with its racks of well used swords, some with taped up handles, reminded him of training, back when he had still been very young. As Dean stepped back and watched, Castiel traced skilled hands over the selection. He picked one, hefted it, checking the weight and balance, sighted along the blade, and then replaced it, and then chose another, repeating the process.
“Looking for something in particular?” Dean asked.
He didn’t appear to be rushing Castiel along, he seemed truly interested, so Castiel told him, “Something an old sensei, Joshua, taught me. When you find the right one, you’ll know it.” He picked up a third blade, an especially battered and taped up old sword. He hefted it. The weight was perfect. He carefully sighted along the blade. Despite the obvious wear, it was still straight and true, the mark of a good smith.
He clicked on the blade using the switch on the hilt and heard the soft hum. The small hairs on his wrist stood up. Out of old habit, he let it swing down and tapped his boot with the flat side a couple times to make sure his shielding was working.
“You turn it on to check it?” asked Dean.
“Never strike with a dead blade,” Castiel told him, repeating another of Joshua’s oft-heard aphorisms. He cleared his mind, and ran through a few forms, standing erect, letting the blade drop for prime, then seconde, tierce, quarte, quinte, sixte….
“I could watch you do this all day.” Castiel shook his head and glanced over at Dean, who was leaning against the cabinet, just smiling and staring.
Feeling oddly self-conscious, he shrugged. “You must be bored of seeing this.” But Dean didn’t look anything like bored. They locked eyes, staring for a moment too long, and then Dean cleared his throat and went to close the cabinet. “So, you find the one you like?” he asked.
“I think so,” whispered Castiel. “Uh, I mean, yes, I’ll use this sword.”
“All right. I’ll take you through a spar, just to show you what we do. I think this will all be pretty familiar.” Dean busied himself with drawing his own sword, switching it on, and engaging his shielding. As all sword fighters did out of habit, he bounced the flat end of his blade against the side of his boot, the buzz reassuring that his shielding was engaged. “I’m setting ‘er to three,” he commented, fiddling with the hilt.
Cas adjusted his own sword down to training levels, and instinctively batted it on a his boot again. Since duelists’s shoes inevitably ended up worn on the side, it had become fashionable to manufacture certain expensive designer footwear with pre-worn creases. The trend was a stupid one, in Cas’s opinion, as he could spot a genuine fellow duelist from a wannabe a mile away.
Dean had finished his preparation and was strolling over towards the mat, indicating Castiel should follow. “This is the practice piste here, you can see the lines running up and down. Now, if you wanna get into en garde stance, I’ll show you- Whoa!”
Cas was just inches from Dean, staring him down, blade poised and humming. “What?” he asked, lowering his sword a fraction from the en garde position.
Dean’s face broke into a grin. “Formal dueling, buddy.” He gestured with a hand. “Blade length away.”
“Oh. My apologies.” Slightly embarrassed, Cas stepped back a full pace. His body was so used to the street fighting moves he hadn’t given it a second’s thought. Without Dean having to tell him he adjusted his stance to compensate, lengthening his line.
Dean was smiling and nodding, which Castiel supposed must be positive. “Yeah, that’s good. That’s fucking perfect, actually. But I gotta remember that in-your-face move.” He gave a low, impressed whistle. “That’s pretty intimidating.”
Castiel relaxed his wrist and let his blade sag aside from vertical yet again. “You think so?” Dean hadn’t really appeared the least bit intimidated. Quite the contrary.
“Some time, you gotta promise to teach me some of your street fighting moves. Because, damn, that’s nice.” Castiel puffed up ever so slightly: maybe it was the slight roll Dean had given to the word, “nice.” “Now, you done this before?” Dean asked.
In truth, at one time or another Castiel had been put the paces through most every sword fighting technique the world had to offer. As a sensei, Joshua had been pretty exhaustive. “Yes,” he answered, “though I’m probably a little rusty.” It was strange and slightly disorienting to be facing an opponent out in the open like this, not pressed up close inside the sweat and the heat of the cage.
“Works for me,” said Dean. “Let’s keep it simple, just go through the basic attacks, okay? You attack and I’ll parry.”
Dean leaned over and kicked the automatic timer on the floor nearby with his foot, and then got himself back to his starting position. The listened to it clicking off the time. At the signal, they executed a salute to each other and then to imaginary judges, went to en garde, and then….
“Whoa!” Dean’s eyes crossed down at the blade across his neck. “Think that’s a hit.”
Castiel was already stepping back, peering at Dean, checking his reaction. “Was that .. all right?”
Dean now regarding him, wide-eyed. “Holy fuck. I didn’t even see you move, Cas!”
Castiel found his lips tugging upward at the sound of the nickname. A small sense of hope tugged at his chest. “Then it was okay?”
“Okay?” laughed Dean. “If this is you when you’re ‘rusty,’” he said, making air quotes around the last word, “I can’t wait to see you warmed up.”
“Should we go again?” They went for several more rounds, Dean managing to parry a few of Castiel’s attacks this time. Castiel found the exercise oddly calming, and was soon lost in his customary training bubble.
Dean, he noticed, had a sprinkling of freckles across his nose. He wasn’t quite certain why he noticed, but he found it pleasing, especially when Dean’s nose crinkled as he smiled. And Dean smiled often.
The pleasant mood was broken unfortunately when they heard the door opening and two figures entered the deserted gym. It was the boy Castiel remembered from the other day: Sam, Dean’s lanky brother. He was holding hands with a pretty blonde girl.
“Hey, Sammy! Hey, Jess!” Dean bellowed. He grabbed a towel and blotted the worst of his sweat, and then leaned over and took a good chug from a water bottle.
Castiel stood back, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. He was well used to people frowning at him, and edging back. Sam had seemed disapproving the other day, and he was certain he was soon to be on the wrong end of a hostile glance – fearful or resentful or just plain disgusted - from the girlfriend. He cursed his luck. It had been one of the rare instances since he’d started college that he had actually been good mood.
“How’s it going?” asked Sam evenly.
“Great so far! Hey, Cas, this is Jess, my brother’s better half.”
To Castiel’s shock, instead of shrinking back, Jess strode forward, confidently extending a slim hand. “It’s good to meet you, Cas,” she said, using Dean’s nickname for him. Castiel gently took her hand, shaking it tentatively, as if it were blown glass. “Dean was really excited about you joining the team.”
“Really?” Castiel looked between Jess and Dean. He struggled to regain some composure. “Uh. Thank you, Jess. It’s nice to meet you too.”
“So, you think Henricksen is gonna be okay with this?” asked Sam, who carried a worried expression.
“The Coach is gonna shit!” Dean told him. “This is gonna work like sick. Trust me.”
“Dean’s ‘trust me’ means don’t trust him,” Jess stage-whispered to Castiel, who found himself blushing.
Sam threw his head back and laughed, and walked over to throw an arm around Jess’s shoulders. “She knows your tricks, jerk,” he told Dean.
“Bitch,” Dean shot back at Sam.
“So, you sure you wanna do this, Cas?” Sam asked him. “I know it must be kind of a comedown.”
“Sammy, don’t be a downer,” Dean sighed.
Castiel looked around in some wonder. Sam looked concerned, but oddly enough, seemed concerned for Castiel, and not about his presumably toxic influence on his brother and girlfriend. They barely knew him, and yet they already had a nickname for him. He thought back on Joshua’s training. See every challenge as an opportunity, he had said.
“Will your coach approve of this?”
“Henricksen?” Dean scoffed. “No problem. He’s a pussycat.”
“Then … I believe I will join.
“Hey, great!” said Dean, clapping Cas on the shoulder. “You'll see Cas. This is gonna be awesome!”
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jess, Bobby, Gabriel, Victor, Charlie, Pamela, Benny, Ash, Jo/Gordon, Ellen, Uriel, Zachariah, Joshua, Balthazar, Chuck/Becky
Warnings: Cursing, mild sexual situations, no beta. I've tried to flag all the major romantic pairings, but this is a college AU, so there are a lot more flirtations and suchlike going on among the characters. But if you can't tolerate this, you probably wouldn't be reading one of my fics anyway.
Word Count: 75,000 total
Summary: The duel of honor is still the law of the land: grievances large and small are settled by means of electrified swords that can be honed to incredible sharpness. When Dean Winchester, captain of the University of Kansas fencing team, finds himself one player short at the beginning of the season, he recruits Castiel, a mysterious boy trained from birth to compete in high stakes illegal sword fighting competitions.
Notes: The formal dueling in this one is a mish-mosh of modern fencing and kendo. Street fighting is an unholy blend of mixed martial arts and samurai movies I watched as a kid.
O hai. If you're here from Tumblr, I'd really recommend either reading this fic on LJ or over on AO3 instead. Nothing against Dreamwidth, I'm just not great about keeping up this blog.
Castiel was flat on his back, waiting to die.
The guy leapt at him, sword flashing. But his cry of triumph turned to a moan as he felt Castiel’s boots bashing his midsection.
Castiel danced up to his feet, twirled around and grabbed his own sword from the ground just in time to clobber the guy with the hilt, sending him staggering back. He sensed the hum of an electric blade and hot breath at his neck and jabbed an elbow around in back of him, feeling a snap. He whirled around to face the second guy, who now had blood gushing from his broken nose. As the crowd roared, Castiel forced him back by another blow with his sword hilt.
“Where the blazes are you, Uriel?” Castiel muttered. He landed a good, clean blow with the humming blade on the second guy and heard his shielding snap and pop in response (he would have racked up the points, if it had been that kind of match). That sent him staggering down to the mat, and Cas turned on a dime to confront the first guy again. A parry, and the blades both crackled with electricity. The crowd hooted and howled as they always did at the show of sparks. He was near enough to hitch some wall, so he leapt up the clear side of the octagonal plexi cage and kicked off the corner, slamming the guy but good from overhead. He spotted the motionless lump in the corner: Uriel was still down. Damn! It was him against two angry, juiced-up opponents. He needed to get at least one down, but fast. He decided to drop the guy he was currently dueling, hoping that his partner would stay stunned for a while. These matches weren’t supposed to end in death, but Castiel had been around long enough to see how quickly they turned. And two versus one was a good way to end up injured. Or dead.
This guy wasn’t taller than Castiel, so he didn’t have reach to his advantage, just raw strength. Castiel decided to go for disarming. He feinted, and then turned and ran at full speed towards the opposite wall, counting on the dude to be stupid enough to follow. Castiel ran up the wall and then kicked off the ceiling, flipping over backwards, and coming down with everything he had on the guy’s sword shoulder, feeling the crunch of blade to bone. His opponent screamed and fell, clutching his broken collarbone as his sword slipped from his useless arm.
Something smashed into Castiel as soon as he touched down, slamming him into the wall. He reeled from the blow to his ribs, wiping blood from his mouth. The other opponent was up and charging him. Dazed, Castiel got up his own sword in time to parry the next blow, but this dude was taller as well as stronger, and Castiel was at a crap angle underneath him. The blows rained down, as fast as his shielding could catch them, as he backed away, smashed back against the cage wall, until … shit! The guy was gonna corner him, and then it would be all over.
Cas took a chance and body checked the guy, throwing himself against him, and then he tucked and rolled away. He landed badly on his ribs though, and didn’t get up as quickly as he’d planned. The guy was looming over him, sword poised, and Castiel was once again readying himself for a knockout blow.
Suddenly, his opponent froze. Castiel took a step back. The guy's mouth dropped open, spilling blood. It was then Castiel spotted the end of a blade sticking out of his neck, crackling bloody red sparks.
The blade slipped away, as did the guy's life, and he fell to the mat with a thump, revealing Uriel, standing behind him, raising a bloody sword in triumph.
Castiel gawped, his heart turned to lead in his chest.
“No.”
He was no longer there, and this was no longer happening. Somewhere, a crowd was on its feet, roaring. Uriel grabbed Castiel’s hand and wrenched it upwards over his head, signaling their victory.
But that was somewhere else.
“I tell ya, Sammy, I dunno how I’m even gonna be able to field a team this year.”
“Um-hm.”
“Are you even listening?”
“Umm.”
Dean reached across the picnic table and yanked away Sam’s laptop, prompting a “Hey!” from the younger Winchester. The two sat in the shade of a tree in the middle of the university's park-like quad area, eating what passed for food from the commons (though Sam seemed less than interested in his) and discussing Dean's increasingly shaky future as captain of the fencing team.
Dean grabbed the computer with his special sauce-drenched paws. “What, are you checking your porn?” he asked, louder than he absolutely had to, causing a couple of passing coeds to turn their heads and giggle, and Sammy to flush like a sunburned lobster.
It was a sunny fall day, so there were a lot of students outside strolling by, many of them carrying shiny, obviously new sidearms strapped at their belts, or over their backs, like the street fighters did. Even the unarmed students showed a distinct duelist influence this season, with many wearing thick boots with creases, like you get from the constant tapping of a sword edge, molded into the sides. Wellman Wellies. A pox on both our houses, is what Bobby Singer said of them.
Dean’s boots were scarred, but he had come by it the honest way, from tapping it with the flat of his dueling blade to make sure his electrical shielding was functioning properly. His sword was currently resting on the ground by his feet. Even away at school he didn’t want to risk getting yelled at by Uncle Bobby for having the manners of a wild hog.
“I’m doing homework, Dean,” Sam whispered, pulling the computer back. “Homework? You remember that concept?” He grabbed a paper napkin and tried to dab off the big brother-prints. “I don't wanna get kicked out freshman year.”
Dean picked up his burger again and chawed off a generous bite. He wiped his mouth on a sleeve. “What am I gonna do about the team, Sam?” he asked, bit of lettuce trailing from the corner of his mouth. “We don’t field a minimum number of players, we can’t stay eligible. We don’t stay eligible, they yank my scholarship.”
Sam’s expression darkened. “And you might have to actually pay for your college? Like all the us non-duelist bigshot people?”
“Hey, you could go out for the team! If you weren't obsessed with all that studying and crap.”
“Studying is crap?” asked Sam, exasperated.
Both brothers turned as a huge black car rumbled up nearby. “Speaking of bigshots,” Sam muttered darkly as the passengers emerged from the back of the town car, There were two of them, a shorter man, and a tall, slim man, his dark hair arranged in a topknot. The shorter of the two stood, leaning heavily on a cane, apparently urging on the taller of the pair, who reached inside and pulled out a scabbard.
“Nice wheels,” commented Dean. “Not as nice as mine, but....”
“Street fighters,” Sam grumbled, going back to whatever not-porn he was studying on his laptop. “I'm gonna put skeezy bastards like that away when I'm a prosecutor.”
Dean leaned back and guzzled enough soda to plant cavities in half his molars. “I thought you were gonna be a defense attorney and magically heal the innocent.”
“Jerk.”
“Bitch.” Dean ignored his idiot brother for a moment and studied the two dudes who had emerged from the town car. The taller one had slung his scabbard on his back and stood up, long and lean and appearing every goddam inch the badass. Dean, who was openly staring now, emitted a low whistle, causing his brother to cringe. And then the guy stalked off while the shorter one limped along behind.
Sam, in his agitation, had seized his wilted caesar salad and began to munch, plastic fork spearing dead lettuce. “Why we have to attend class alongside guys who are no better than felons-”
“Sammy!” You could almost see the light bulb click on atop Dean’s head.
“What?” The white fork made a small thunk as it got tossed down into the clear plastic container. Sam's arms were crossed against his chest, a look of disbelief on his handsome features. His words came out measured. “Dean, don't tell me you have an idea.”
“I have an idea!”
“No. No no no. Dean. That's the deal, you are not supposed to have ideas while we're in college.”
“The street fighter dude? That guy's a student, so he's eligible. And he knows how to handle a sword....”
“Dean.” Sam was over the table, grabbing his seriously mentally deficient brother by the collar. “Look at me. You cannot recruit a street fighter for the fencing team.”
“Yeah? Why not?”
“Who's gonna let their kid play alongside.... Alongside a killer!”
“If depends.”
“On what?”
Dean's eyes shown bright as blades. “On whether we win!”
“Gabriel, don't lie to me. What happened?”
“Look, Cassie, I don't know what happened last night. That guy was an idiot, probably forgot to check his shielding.”
Castiel stopped on a dime and turned, causing Gabriel to nearly collide with him. “Shielding? His shielding was to blame? Not the blade setting?” Castiel loomed over him, his eyes blazing.
“Uriel was set up to at least nine Teslas.” Electrical blades modulated sharpness by adjustment of a setting on the hilt. The dullest settings were one and two Tesla units, the levels often used for practicing by non-professionals. Settings as high as eight and nine could be lethal, and a blade set to ten, depending on the skill of the sword smith, could split human hairs.
Gabriel threw up his hands. “I got no clue what happened, Cassie.”
“As my manager, aren't you supposed to know these things, Gabriel?”
“Maybe.... Look. Maybe Uriel fucked with his settings. I dunno.”
“Gabriel.” Castiel drew close, his voice a ragged whisper. “I am not a killer.”
“I know brother. I know.”
A group of female students passed them by, edging away, as people tended to do, when they saw what Castiel was. He directed his gaze downwards, as he always did, so he could tune out glances.
Gabriel, however, had no such qualms. He picked up on the disgusted stare from one of the girls, a surly redhead. “You want some help?” he snapped.
“What?” she fired back as her friends flinched away.
“Getting the stick out of your ass,” he growled, waving his cane at her.
“Fuck off, street trash.”
“Yeah? I can’t figure out what’s uglier, your expression or those boots.” Gabriel pointed his cane at the boots she and all her friends were wearing: they had a fake seam traced down the side, as if someone had been hitting the boot with a sword, as was the habit of duelists.
She glared, as her friends tugged her away, muttering no doubt about how the likes of Castiel and Gabriel shouldn’t mix in with the nice people. “Wellman Wellies. People who wear those crappy boots oughta be shot. With a gun! In the interest of bad taste.”
“I can’t do this anymore, Gabriel.”
Gabriel was still glowering after the girls, as if he could make them melt through sheer force of will. He turned back to face Castiel. “Don’t let those chicks get under your skin. People like that can fuck themselves.”
“That’s not what I meant. And you know it.”
“Hey! Can we talk to you?” Castiel turned to see tall, athletic-looking guy run up, out of breath. Another even taller man hurried after him, uncertain expression on his face.
The first guy stuck out a hand. “I'm Dean-”
“You’re Dean Winchester, captain of this university's fencing team,” Castiel crisply informed him, regarding Dean's outstretched arm with some curiosity. He sent out a tentative hand, and Dean gripped it firmly in a shake.
“Great, you already know me! And this is my little brother, Sam.” Dean turned to indicate the gangly scarecrow who had pattered after him like a Doberman puppy.
“Little brother,” Castiel repeated, savoring the first word as his gaze drifted upwards to behold the younger Winchester. “Is he on the fencing team as well?”
“Uh, no, I don’t fence. Not any more. But I, uh, root for the team,” Sam put in lamely. Dean shifted on his feet, and Sam awkwardly extended a hand to Castiel as well.
“It's a pity. You would have an excellent reach,” Castiel commented, giving Sam a good once-over. After another odd pause he shook Sam's hand. “I'm Castiel. This is my brother, Gabriel.” Gabriel glared up at everyone, obviously more than a little annoyed to suddenly find himself stranded in Land of the Giants.
“Well, look, Dean Whatever,” said Gabriel, “we're kinda busy right now, so if you’ll excuse-”
“I'm recruiting,” Dean blurted. He stared at Castiel, whose features suddenly traced a smile.
“What? No way!” said Gabriel as Sam resolutely stood just in back of Dean and stared at the ground.
“Recruiting? For the fencing team?” asked Castiel, whose eyes bored into Dean as if he was the only person present.
“Yeah!” Dean took in a breath. “See, we just had a couple members lose eligibility. I won't lie to you, they were doping, and I think that's bullshit. But we’ve had some injuries too, so now I don't have enough members to fill the roster-“
“Isn't this university’s team consistently ranked the lowest in the division?” It was sad but true. On most college campuses, especially in the sword-obsessed Midwest, membership in the fencing team was all but guaranteed cock-of-the-walk status, and the team captain was revered as a local saint. But the Lawrence squad’s hapless history and string of major losses had turned recruitment into a trial, which only served to weaken the team further. They were on their third coach in three years, Victor “Victory” Henricksen. It was Victor who had uncovered the team members who had been doping and kicked them off, leading to a lot more colorful nicknames for him among the students and alumni.
“That's the thing! It doesn't have to be that way. We're really on the brink this year. I can feel it. Yeah, we had to toss aside a couple of losers, but the people who stayed? This is a winning team, Cas. These guys have the skill, they have the heart. If I can't fill up the roster, they don't get the chance. And they deserve it.”
Without dropping Dean's gaze, Castiel let his head drop slightly to the left. “That's very … inspiring, Dean.”
“Hey, doofus. His name is Castiel,” hissed Gabriel.
But Dean only had eyes for Castiel. “Look, don't take my word for it. Come and meet the team. I'll give you my number. Hey, Sammy, you got paper?”
Sam, looking dubious, pulled a much wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket. Dean grabbed it away and ripped off a section, and then gestured for a pen, which, heaving a sigh, Sam also supplied.
“You’re not on academic probation or anything?” Dean asked. “Though, it wouldn’t be a problem. Just checking.”
“My bro is on the Dean's List!” Gabriel bragged.
“Oh? You a student too, Gabriel?” asked Dean.
Gabriel literally snorted. “Hell no, Deano. I’m his agent.”
“Why would a college student need an agent?” Sam piped up.
“Because he’s a champion, Gigantor. Something you Lame-Hawks wouldn’t know anything about.”
“I let him serve in the role keep him out of trouble,” Castiel said quietly. “It doesn’t always work,” he added as Gabriel gave him a dirty look.
Dean handed over the scrap of paper with his number. “Call me. Promise. You won’t regret it.” And then he and Sam moved off.
“He’s already regretting it,” Gabriel shouted after them. He turned to Castiel and snatched for the paper, but Castiel was quicker, holding it up. “Oh, tell me you’re not gonna listen to that loser! You have a career! Zachariah even bent the rules so you could go to college. Why would you join a losing team?”
Cas held the paper up out of Gabriel’s reach and studied his older brother. “So, you would advise me differently if it were a winning team?”
“Well. Yeah. I mean, maybe.”
Cas crumpled the paper and stuck it into his pocket. “If I’m on the team, then we’ll win. So we’re set.” And then he marched off in the opposite direction from the one Dean and Sam had taken, Gabriel hot on his heels.
“I gotta go meet Jess. And by the way, if I haven’t told you lately, you’re an idiot.”
Dean was beaming. “Come on, Sammy. I’m gonna be the hero. You know it. I just saved the team.”
“And where are you going in such a hurry? Let me guess: is it female?”
“Female and redhead, Sam. A sure thing.”
“Sure thing, huh?”
“She’s the love of my life. For the next eight hours, at least.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Well, you get bored with Miss Eight Hour Love, Jess and I are doing pizza and videos with Uncle Bobby.”
“You old folks, don’t wait up for me, Sammy,” said Dean, who charged off towards the dining hall, leaving his brother fussing and fretting. He didn’t begrudge Sammy being Mr. Monogamous. Jess was a doll, and way too cute and smart for a loser like his little brother. But he just couldn’t see getting attached to someone when he was currently living surrounded by so many fetching someones. He soon found her – was it Rhonda or Rhoda? – surrounded by her flock of friends a table near the windows. “Hey, you!” said Dean, sliding in next to her and pulling the chair up as close as it could get. The whole group seemed to be aflutter about some damn thing. He grabbed a French fry from her plate.
“Did you see those street fighters?” she asked.
“They’re so gross,” said one of her friends.
“Why do they let them on campus with us? Everybody knows those guys are illiterate.”
“The guy back there?” asked Dean. He wavered for a long moment between a sure thing with a redhead and stirring up a little trouble. As it always did, trouble won out. “He’s on the Dean’s List. Which I bet you’re not.” He grabbed another fry.
“Wait, how do you know?” asked Rhonda or Rhoda.
“I’m recruiting him,” Dean told her, grabbing her and pulling her into his lap.
The love of his life for the next eight hours pushed back and stared at him. And then she gave a hoot of laughter. “Oh, you’re such an asshole, Dean. I almost believed you.” Several of her friends started giggling as well, although some of the others just looked uncomfortable.
“My team is a member short,” said Dean. “He’s filling out the roster.” He reached for another fry, but the redhead yanked back the plate.
“Dean. You don’t mix with that sort of people.”
Dean sat back and smiled. “What sort of people. Exactly?”
“They've been training since birth.”
“Before! I hear they breed them with one another,” said another girl, a dirty blonde.
“Ewww.”
Dean pulled the plate nearer and grabbed some more fries. “Is that so? 'Cause I've heard a lot of them are orphans.”
“The ones that are too ugly or deformed for the brothels,” Rhonda or Rhoda told him firmly.
“Does that even make sense? I mean, if they're deformed, how do they fight?”
“Why are you being impossible, Dean?”
Dean held up his hands. “I'm just curious. I've heard a bunch of trash talk about those guys, but....” Dean shrugged. “I believe what I see, you know?”
The love of his life wiggled out of his lap. “You get that guy on your team, you’ll regret it,” she warned.
Dean smiled and grabbed a handful of French fries.
“Is biology destiny?”
The microphone squealed with feedback, an the class cringed.
Castiel stared at his laptop. He was sitting in his usual seat near the back of the lecture hall. He wished this room had windows. Psychology was usually his favorite topic, but he didn't like this class. He simply didn't care for the professor, Dr. Jaunoeil. Cas couldn't put his finger on it, but if Jaunoeil had been a street fighting opponent, he would have insisted on double-checking the settings on the guy's blade.
He just plain didn't trust the man.
Castiel sometimes got inklings like this about people. Feelings, good or bad. He wasn't sure why. Maybe his biology was destiny. Or maybe it was all the years in the cage, where sussing an opponent could be a matter of life or death.
Castiel stared, unseeing, at his lecture notes. Dean Winchester seemed like a good person.
He wasn't quite certain why his mind was drifting towards the fencing team captain. Gabriel was probably right: joining a losing team was a stupid idea.
Unbidden, his hand went to his pants pocket. He extracted a crumpled piece of paper. He spread it out on his laptop keyboard, carefully pressing out the wrinkles.
He frowned.
Quietly, he shut his laptop, shoving it into his bag. And then he rose and silently slipped out of the classroom.
“Uh-oh, guess he had an urgent fight to get to!” came the amplified voice from the podium.
The class's nervous laughter echoed in Castiel's ears.
“It’s probably pretty lame compared to what you’re used to, but it does the job. Anyway, you can stow your gear here while we warm up.”
Castiel looked around. They gym smelled about like every gym ever in history, but it was clean and tidy, if spare. “You might be surprised what I’m used to,” he muttered, causing Dean to flash a puzzled glance. He dropped his gym bag where Dean had indicated, and, after a moment’s hesitation, his scabbard as well, and then walked over to where Dean was unlocking a large glass-fronted cabinet.
“You’ll have to use shared equipment for now,” Dean was saying apologetically. “Not as nice as your fancy blade, but yours isn’t regulation. Have you used-“
“I’m familiar with standard dueling blades, thanks,” Cas told him, smiling slightly. The display, with its racks of well used swords, some with taped up handles, reminded him of training, back when he had still been very young. As Dean stepped back and watched, Castiel traced skilled hands over the selection. He picked one, hefted it, checking the weight and balance, sighted along the blade, and then replaced it, and then chose another, repeating the process.
“Looking for something in particular?” Dean asked.
He didn’t appear to be rushing Castiel along, he seemed truly interested, so Castiel told him, “Something an old sensei, Joshua, taught me. When you find the right one, you’ll know it.” He picked up a third blade, an especially battered and taped up old sword. He hefted it. The weight was perfect. He carefully sighted along the blade. Despite the obvious wear, it was still straight and true, the mark of a good smith.
He clicked on the blade using the switch on the hilt and heard the soft hum. The small hairs on his wrist stood up. Out of old habit, he let it swing down and tapped his boot with the flat side a couple times to make sure his shielding was working.
“You turn it on to check it?” asked Dean.
“Never strike with a dead blade,” Castiel told him, repeating another of Joshua’s oft-heard aphorisms. He cleared his mind, and ran through a few forms, standing erect, letting the blade drop for prime, then seconde, tierce, quarte, quinte, sixte….
“I could watch you do this all day.” Castiel shook his head and glanced over at Dean, who was leaning against the cabinet, just smiling and staring.
Feeling oddly self-conscious, he shrugged. “You must be bored of seeing this.” But Dean didn’t look anything like bored. They locked eyes, staring for a moment too long, and then Dean cleared his throat and went to close the cabinet. “So, you find the one you like?” he asked.
“I think so,” whispered Castiel. “Uh, I mean, yes, I’ll use this sword.”
“All right. I’ll take you through a spar, just to show you what we do. I think this will all be pretty familiar.” Dean busied himself with drawing his own sword, switching it on, and engaging his shielding. As all sword fighters did out of habit, he bounced the flat end of his blade against the side of his boot, the buzz reassuring that his shielding was engaged. “I’m setting ‘er to three,” he commented, fiddling with the hilt.
Cas adjusted his own sword down to training levels, and instinctively batted it on a his boot again. Since duelists’s shoes inevitably ended up worn on the side, it had become fashionable to manufacture certain expensive designer footwear with pre-worn creases. The trend was a stupid one, in Cas’s opinion, as he could spot a genuine fellow duelist from a wannabe a mile away.
Dean had finished his preparation and was strolling over towards the mat, indicating Castiel should follow. “This is the practice piste here, you can see the lines running up and down. Now, if you wanna get into en garde stance, I’ll show you- Whoa!”
Cas was just inches from Dean, staring him down, blade poised and humming. “What?” he asked, lowering his sword a fraction from the en garde position.
Dean’s face broke into a grin. “Formal dueling, buddy.” He gestured with a hand. “Blade length away.”
“Oh. My apologies.” Slightly embarrassed, Cas stepped back a full pace. His body was so used to the street fighting moves he hadn’t given it a second’s thought. Without Dean having to tell him he adjusted his stance to compensate, lengthening his line.
Dean was smiling and nodding, which Castiel supposed must be positive. “Yeah, that’s good. That’s fucking perfect, actually. But I gotta remember that in-your-face move.” He gave a low, impressed whistle. “That’s pretty intimidating.”
Castiel relaxed his wrist and let his blade sag aside from vertical yet again. “You think so?” Dean hadn’t really appeared the least bit intimidated. Quite the contrary.
“Some time, you gotta promise to teach me some of your street fighting moves. Because, damn, that’s nice.” Castiel puffed up ever so slightly: maybe it was the slight roll Dean had given to the word, “nice.” “Now, you done this before?” Dean asked.
In truth, at one time or another Castiel had been put the paces through most every sword fighting technique the world had to offer. As a sensei, Joshua had been pretty exhaustive. “Yes,” he answered, “though I’m probably a little rusty.” It was strange and slightly disorienting to be facing an opponent out in the open like this, not pressed up close inside the sweat and the heat of the cage.
“Works for me,” said Dean. “Let’s keep it simple, just go through the basic attacks, okay? You attack and I’ll parry.”
Dean leaned over and kicked the automatic timer on the floor nearby with his foot, and then got himself back to his starting position. The listened to it clicking off the time. At the signal, they executed a salute to each other and then to imaginary judges, went to en garde, and then….
“Whoa!” Dean’s eyes crossed down at the blade across his neck. “Think that’s a hit.”
Castiel was already stepping back, peering at Dean, checking his reaction. “Was that .. all right?”
Dean now regarding him, wide-eyed. “Holy fuck. I didn’t even see you move, Cas!”
Castiel found his lips tugging upward at the sound of the nickname. A small sense of hope tugged at his chest. “Then it was okay?”
“Okay?” laughed Dean. “If this is you when you’re ‘rusty,’” he said, making air quotes around the last word, “I can’t wait to see you warmed up.”
“Should we go again?” They went for several more rounds, Dean managing to parry a few of Castiel’s attacks this time. Castiel found the exercise oddly calming, and was soon lost in his customary training bubble.
Dean, he noticed, had a sprinkling of freckles across his nose. He wasn’t quite certain why he noticed, but he found it pleasing, especially when Dean’s nose crinkled as he smiled. And Dean smiled often.
The pleasant mood was broken unfortunately when they heard the door opening and two figures entered the deserted gym. It was the boy Castiel remembered from the other day: Sam, Dean’s lanky brother. He was holding hands with a pretty blonde girl.
“Hey, Sammy! Hey, Jess!” Dean bellowed. He grabbed a towel and blotted the worst of his sweat, and then leaned over and took a good chug from a water bottle.
Castiel stood back, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. He was well used to people frowning at him, and edging back. Sam had seemed disapproving the other day, and he was certain he was soon to be on the wrong end of a hostile glance – fearful or resentful or just plain disgusted - from the girlfriend. He cursed his luck. It had been one of the rare instances since he’d started college that he had actually been good mood.
“How’s it going?” asked Sam evenly.
“Great so far! Hey, Cas, this is Jess, my brother’s better half.”
To Castiel’s shock, instead of shrinking back, Jess strode forward, confidently extending a slim hand. “It’s good to meet you, Cas,” she said, using Dean’s nickname for him. Castiel gently took her hand, shaking it tentatively, as if it were blown glass. “Dean was really excited about you joining the team.”
“Really?” Castiel looked between Jess and Dean. He struggled to regain some composure. “Uh. Thank you, Jess. It’s nice to meet you too.”
“So, you think Henricksen is gonna be okay with this?” asked Sam, who carried a worried expression.
“The Coach is gonna shit!” Dean told him. “This is gonna work like sick. Trust me.”
“Dean’s ‘trust me’ means don’t trust him,” Jess stage-whispered to Castiel, who found himself blushing.
Sam threw his head back and laughed, and walked over to throw an arm around Jess’s shoulders. “She knows your tricks, jerk,” he told Dean.
“Bitch,” Dean shot back at Sam.
“So, you sure you wanna do this, Cas?” Sam asked him. “I know it must be kind of a comedown.”
“Sammy, don’t be a downer,” Dean sighed.
Castiel looked around in some wonder. Sam looked concerned, but oddly enough, seemed concerned for Castiel, and not about his presumably toxic influence on his brother and girlfriend. They barely knew him, and yet they already had a nickname for him. He thought back on Joshua’s training. See every challenge as an opportunity, he had said.
“Will your coach approve of this?”
“Henricksen?” Dean scoffed. “No problem. He’s a pussycat.”
“Then … I believe I will join.
“Hey, great!” said Dean, clapping Cas on the shoulder. “You'll see Cas. This is gonna be awesome!”
