Code Duello (Part 2 of 14)
Mar. 31st, 2013 09:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Code Duello (Part 2 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. This chapter contains violence which some may find upsetting.
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.
“I am not doping!”
“I know, Benny, I know,” said Dean as the big man huffed and puffed at his side. The gym smelled of sweat and ozone from ignited swords.
Benny's pain was operatic in its intensity. “Well tell mother-loving Henricksen! I’m danged awful tired of him chasing me around everywhere with a god darned pee cup!”
Dean tried hard not to chortle. “Don’t worry, I got it,” he told Benny. “And besides, there’s no way he’d kick off another teammate, not when we got a full roster!”
Benny looked skeptical. Gordon, who had just come up behind him, asked, “Wait, full roster? Since when?”
Dean somehow managed to look as smug as he felt, which was approximately punch-in-the-face smug. “Since just now, when I recruited our new secret weapon.”
“How did you manage that, Winchester?” said Gordon, Benny echoing his skeptical expression.
“All will be revealed. Just give me a minute.” Grinning mysteriously, he sauntered over to the office with “Victor Henricksen” scribbled out on a piece of paper in magic marker and stuck to the door with a scrap of electrical tape. “Hey, coach, you in there?” asked Dean, knocking and sticking his head inside.
“Whatever the hell it is, Winchester, no!” barked Coach Henricksen, who motioned for him to close the door. Victor took another puff from his contraband cigarette, and then flicked some ashes in the potted plant behind him.
Dean smirked. “You’re gonna kill that plant.”
Victor snorted in derision. “Who could tell? It’s a fucking rubber plant. Now, why the hell is your lazy ass in my office chair instead of out there on the piste where it belongs?”
“I just filled the roster.”
Victor stopped in mid-puff, studying Dean with every scrap of suspicion he could muster. “Why don’t I know anything about this?”
Dean studied the ceiling. “I used some … unorthodox recruiting methods. But it doesn’t matter, the guy’s great. I tried sparring with him, and I couldn’t get past him. He’s … amazing!” Dean's eyes went wide.
“Huh. You gonna fight him or date him, Winchester?”
Dean laughed, and might have colored slightly. He genuinely liked the coach, but the guy was USDA Prime hard ass. “Um. You'll see. He’s coming to practice today. And all the more reason why you can't gank Benny. We’ve got the people: we’re playing.”
Victor sneered. “I can and will gank that little doper. Guy is wider than he is tall! I just need to figure out what his game is.”
Dean looked at his tightly wound coach with affection. “Coach, I guarantee, Benny is not juicing.”
But Henricksen was having none of it. “How the hell do you know that? You follow him to the men’s room?”
Dean grinned, the cat who had just grabbed the canary. “Have you met Benny’s parents?”
Henricksen leaned forward, shaking his head, leaving a wreath of smoke about.
“Well, I have. His father? Spitting image.” Dean spread his hands a Benny-length apart. “And his mother-”
“What? Her too?” Victor flashed a skeptical look at Dean. He rubbed his cheeks and frowned. “Even the beard?”
“Even the beard.”
Henricksen coughed to (very badly) conceal a chuckle. “Okay, I'll take your word for now, Winchester. But I want a clean squad. Even if we can't field a team, no juicing. Get it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. Now let’s go meet your mystery man.”
“Freaking Boy Scout,” muttered Benny. He said so in reference to their coach, Henricksen, whose notorious intolerance of drugging had placed the team in their current status of dodgy eligibility, and who had, as a consequence, become a popular local dartboard effigy.
“Guy's got his head so far up his ass,” muttered Gordon.
“Who's got their head up your ass, Gordon?” hooted Ash. He thumped his gym bag down beside Gordon’s and Benny’s. “I wouldn't brag about it.”
“Fuck off, Mullet Man,” Gordon wittily retorted.
“You're just jealous of the radiance of my plumage,” said Ash, shaking his head like a Cover Girl. “Though I guess I'm nothin’ to that guy.” Benny and Gordon, who were standing in the middle of the court, followed Ash's pointing finger over to where some dickhead street fighter-wannabe with his hair in a topknot leaned casually against the low wall that divided the court from the bleachers. He was talking quietly to another man seated nearby.
“A freaking street fighter?” said Benny, unconsciously tapping the crucifix he always wore around his neck. “What the blessed mother Mary is he doin' in here in my gym?” He inclined his head, and he, Gordon and Ash sauntered over to confront the newcomer. Benny stopped a few feet in front of the asshole and made a big show of looking him up and down. “Nice hair, brother.”
The lips flicked into the barest trace of a smile. “Thank you.”
The man did not move, nor flinch, although his companion, up in the bleacher seats, put his hands through his hair and sighed, “I told you this was a dumb idea, Cassie.”
“So what exactly are you supposed to be, buddy?” asked Gordon the dude in the topknot.
“Castiel,” he intoned in a voice that rumbled with Old Testament fury.
“I'm Benny,” the same supplied. “Gordon. Ash,” he added with slight nods to either side. “And what exactly are you doin’ here, Castiel?”
You couldn't see his eyes very well under all the hair, but his gaze was piercing. “Waiting.” There was no further clarification.
“Waitin' for what, exactly?” asked Ash.
“He's waiting for the coach, moron,” grumbled the guy sitting in the stands.
“Hey, you need someone to show you manners, midget?” raged Gordon.
“I'll show you some manners,” said the short man. He shot to his feet, looking like he meant to leap the barrier and tackle Gordon right then and there.
“Gabriel!” Castiel threw an arm out to hold Gabriel back. Benny, Gordon and Ash all instinctively hopped back. There was something unsettling about the lightning fast way Castiel moved, and the boys all now glanced nervously at one another.
“Cas, you made it!” called Dean from the other side of the court. He was strolling out, along with Coach Henricksen, big old shit-eating grin on his face.
“Gosh darnit, here comes Coach Pee Cup,” grumbled Benny, causing Castiel to turn and tilt his head quizzically at him.
“I take it this is the new recruit?” asked Henricksen. Castiel stood up straight to greet the coach, taking his extended hand to shake. “I’m Coach Henricksen.”
“This here is a Cas-ti-el,” Benny supplied, infusing each syllable with its requisite southern syrup.
“And you are?” Henricksen asked Gabriel.
“Here to talk my idiot little brother out of being an idiot.” He leapt gracefully over the barrier, although, if you looked closely, he landed favoring one leg, and flourished his silver-tipped cane. He emitted a sigh, and then held out his hand. “Gabriel. My brother is-”
“Whoa, dudes!” said Ash, who had been madly pushing buttons on his cell phone ever since Castiel had spoken his name. “136 W, 84 KO. Castiel, man, you're epic awesome.” He held up the phone screen, his eyes shining. The other boys gathered around, astonished expressions on their faces.
Cas shrugged with what appeared to be genuine modesty. “I've done all right.”
“But my question is, can you handle classic fencing?” asked Henricksen, pointing to Castiel's boots. “We don't do any of that fancy footwork crap. You'll have to stay on the ground and fight the old fashioned way.”
“Old fashioned? Street fighting is thought to have its roots in antiquity,” Castiel told him. “But my sensei was insistent on training me in every aspect of sword play. I believe I can adapt.”
“Well, you can talk, can't you?” grinned Henricksen.
“He'll end up on his ass,” said Gordon.
Castiel stepped in front of Gordon and then, placing on hand behind his back, made an elaborate bow.
“Hey, did he just-” asked Ash.
Gordon hopped back a step. “Uh, are you … challenging me?”
“I believe that's the correct etiquette?” said Castiel, side-eyeing Dean.
“Cas just challenged you, Gordo,” Dean told Gordon, who glowered. “You gonna accept?” There was really no honorable way to refuse at this point, which Gordon knew all too well.
The entire party wandered over to a mat, where a visibly agitated Gordon tapped Benny as his second. As was called for by the tradition, Castiel handed over his blade to Benny. “Nice!” said Benny, giving the sword a bit more elaborate once-over than was really called for.
“You just get this dueling blade, Cas?” asked Dean, looking over Benny's shoulder as much as was possible with such a brawny guy.
Cas nodded. “Our smith constructed it specially for me. He is familiar with my … requirments.”
“Hand it over,” Gabriel demanded of Gordon.
“Oh, you don't really need to do that,” Gordon grumbled. Gabriel arched an eyebrow to emphasize, yes, you do.
“Hand it over, Walker,” said Henricksen, patting Gordon on the shoulder. “This is my court, so this is gonna be a clean goddamn duel. We’re just gonna go one round, no two of three bullshit. You two, set blades to three Tesla, and that's it.”
Cas and Gordon nodded, even though it was tradition that duelists determine the setting, and it was the absolute wimpiest setting to boot. The weapons were returned, and both boys activated their shielding, bouncing the flat sides of their blades on their boots to test it. “Good luck,” Dean whispered to Cas, who turned and, to Dean's utter surprise, edged a small smile at him.
“Let's get to en garde positions,” hollered Henricksen. “No, Cas, that's too close!”
“Oh, I'm so sorry,” said Castiel, talking a long step back from a now obviously rattled Gordon.
“Don't he know-” Benny whispered.
“He knows,” grinned Gabriel, pointing to his own head. Dean realized with a start Castiel was deliberately fucking with Gordon. “Good boy,” he whispered.
Castiel was now back to his ready position, looking even smoother and more graceful than he had the other day. Gordon, by contrast, now appeared flustered and angry. The two boys saluted each other, and then the small gathering of spectators.
“En garde. Pret. Allez!” yelled Henricksen. Like a lot of duels, it ended quickly. In a way, Gordon did better than Dean at this first confrontation: at least he managed to move before Castiel had his blade in the kill position.
“I- I wasn't ready,” Gordon gulped as Castiel drew the slim blade back from his neck.
“Oh, bull puckey, Gordo,” said Benny. “You just got your ass reamed by KO Cas here.”
That earned Benny a full flavored head-tilt, something Dean was rapidly learning as part of Castiel's repertoire.
Henricksen clapped his hands. “Okay, what if we quit fucking around and actually get to some practice. Oh, and nice of you to make it here, ladies!” the coach hollered as a group of girls, including Jess, entered the court. “This is the rest of my team,” he told Castiel. “This is-”
“So you're the street fighter?” gushed a tiny blonde, who was already standing too close to Castiel, jutting out her hand.
“That's Miss Joanna Beth Harvelle,” sighed Henricksen.
“Jo!” she corrected as Cas shook. “And this is Pam-”
“Pamela,” corrected a pretty brunette woman who was oddly enough, wearing sunglasses indoors.
“And Charlene.”
“And what are you really called, Charlene?” Castiel asked the bubbly redhead.
“I'm Charlie!” she grinned. “I cosplayed as a street fighter for Halloween!”
“Did you?”
“And nearly cut her own thumb off with the blade,” cracked Pamela, pushing her sunglasses up her nose.
“And I'm Meg,” said a dark-haired girl who seemed to have crept up behind everybody. “But you can call me ... Meg,” she added, holding Castiel's hand just a bit too long.
“Meg, begone demon,” said Benny, stepping between her and Castiel and holding his crucifix up in her face, getting a laugh from Gordon and spiteful glances from some of the other girls.
“Can we quit the horse shit and get cracking?” said Henricksen. He was answered by a chorus of grumbles, some of it good-natured, some of it not so much. “Someone show the new man some drills?”
“I got it!” piped up Jo, who was already hauling Castiel off to a practice mat. Charlie trailed along after them.
“C’mon, Pammy,” said Jess, who nodded towards the bleachers.
“Mind if I join you, ladies?” asked Gabriel, who had suddenly appeared between the two of them, leaning on his cane. “I mean no harm, just a poor old cripple.”
“Yeah, right,” said Pamela, who nonetheless raised no objection to Gabriel inserting himself in their group.
Dean thought for a second about extricating Castiel from Jo’s clutches, but quickly decided his new friend would be better off learning to fend for himself. Instead, Dean paired up with Gordon for a few spars, but noticed his partner began to appear increasingly distracted.
“Come on, Gordo. Eye on the pointy end,” Dean urged at one point after Gordon had failed, once again, to parry a rather half-hearted attack. Dean peered over to where Castiel and Jo were working, and immediately spotted the problem. “Let’s take five. I’m gonna go talk to Cas,” he told Gordon, hoping he would catch Dean’s meaning and stay out of it. He strolled over to where Castiel appeared to be groping Jo while Charlie watched in apparent awe.
“Remember,” Castiel was telling Jo as he yanked an arm back. “You want to reduce your profile for defense, but increase it during ready position. You want to appear as large as possible, in order to intimidate your opponent.” He pointed to his own head. “Fearing larger creatures is instinctual.”
Jo nodded, her teeth gritted as Castiel gripped her hips in attempt to reposition her pelvis. “It would help if you could find it in yourself to relax.”
“You guys doing okay?” Dean asked, trying not to laugh.
“Yes. Duh! Cas is helping me with my stance,” Jo told him.
“Correct posture is everything,” Castiel lectured. “Now, how does that feel?”
“I feel bigger!” said Jo confidently.
“Try an attack,” said Castiel.
Jo swung wildly with her blade. Dean cringed as he listened to the hum. “Good,” said Cas, though he batted her away like a fly. “You!” he ordered Charlie, who was sitting on the floor, hugging her knees. “You’re a better match for Jo.” Charlie frowned, and pointed to herself, and looked pleadingly at Dean.
“You’re on the team. Last I checked,” Dean told her.
Charlie stumbled to her feet, and then shakily took out her sword, which she then held up in some semblance of an en garde position. Castiel scowled at Dean, who mouthed, “Later.”
“All right, again, Jo,” Castiel told her. “En gard. Pret. Allez.” Jo grunted as she swung, and Charlie shrieked, dropping her sword and falling on her ass, to the general delight of everyone else in the room. Castiel shot a glance at Dean, but then stepped back as he was tackled by Jo.
“Thank you thank you thank you! You’re awesome!” Jo gushed.
Castiel flushed bright red as he gently pried her off. “Um,” he muttered.
Henricksen’s whistle sounded. “Okay you clowns, quit joking around! Back to work.”
“Jo, why don’t you spar with Gordon for a while?” Dean suggested, as Gordon was now nearby, looking none too pleased at Castiel, who was helping Charlie to her feet.
“Sorry, I’m not very good,” Charlie confessed.
“Charlie, what about you practice with Meg?” said Dean, to a violent shaking of red hair. Dean sighed. “Well, how about this: what about you go keep the girls company?” he asked, gesturing towards the stands, where Gabriel was now engrossed in conversation with Pamela and Jess. She nodded happily and scampered off. Dean inclined his head towards the exit, and, though looking a little puzzled, Castiel followed him out.
“Aren’t we supposed to use this hour for practice?” Castiel asked as soon as they were out of the door.
“The session’s almost over. And you frankly don’t need a whole lot of practice. I thought maybe we’d run down to the cafeteria for a burger or something?”
“I’ve- I’ve never eaten at the cafeteria.”
Dean was taken aback. “What? Really?”
Castiel shrugged, a little sheepishly. “I get dropped off to go to class. And then I get picked up again right afterwards. They all thought it would be best to minimize my exposure on campus.”
“Oh, so you don’t hang around? Well, you’re not missing much. But the burgers are okay. Come on.”
It might be supposed that two boys walking across campus carrying dueling swords would attract attention, but as it happened it was fashionable in those days even for non-duelists to carry at least a decorative sidearm. However Castiel’s distinctive hairstyle, as always, caused people to give him a wide berth.
“So, a couple things you should know,” Dean told him, “not that you’re doing anything wrong, but just to keep the peace. First, Charlie’s on the team as a temporary replacement for Pamela. My brother actually met her, playing an RPG. She doesn’t much like it, but we’ve had a hard time filling our roster lately, especially with female players.”
“All right,” said Cas. “I, uh, haven’t actually played with … female duelists before.”
“Yeah, that’s the other complication. See, Gordon and Jo are … a thing.”
Castiel squinted, completely baffled. “A … thing?”
Dean searched his mind to try to sum up a full metal Melrose Place situation in fifty words or less. “Yeah. They tend to break up and make up. A lot. Most of us have stopped keeping track.”
“Break up…. Oh, they’re a romantic couple?” asked Castiel.
Dean chuckled. “Yeah, Cas, you know, boys and girls and that stuff?”
Castiel looked more puzzled than anything. “You call me Cas?”
“Yeah, sure. Oh, hey, it’s not insulting or anything?” asked Dean. He knew from Uncle Bobby that sword fighters as a class had a long list of various bizarre things they found dishonorable. Castiel seemed easygoing enough, but Dean didn't want to chance it.
“I don’t find it so, no,” said Castiel, a small smile playing on his lips. “My brothers call me Cassie, which I do find annoying.”
“Yeah, Sammy doesn’t like it when I use his nickname, but I guess he’ll always be my little brother, despite being big as a goddamn bull moose.”
They had reached the entrance of the dining hall. They encountered a knot of students just filing out. Their shouting and laughter stopped as they all spotted Castiel, and then made to edge nervously around him.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Castiel told Dean.
“What, you afraid you’ll be left alone at the lunch table? You’re with me. And the rest of them: fuck them. It’s dumb. They’re all dressing up like fake street fighters this year, but none of them can handle the real thing? I mean, seriously.” And with that, Dean yanked Castiel into the dining hall, where they soon had plastic trays stacked with cheeseburgers and greasy French fries and sugary sodas. They set their heavily laden trays on an empty table and, stowing their weapons on the floor beneath them as was customary, sat down to eat.
“See, all the four food groups. You got grease, you got salt, you got bacon-“ Dean explained, grabbing a slice of bacon off of his burger.
“We don’t generally eat such fare,” said Castiel, squinting at a French fry. His reluctance to enter the building had quickly been quelled by his burning curiosity about the spread offered at the cafeteria. It had taken five minutes for Dean to pry him away from the espresso machine.
“What, do they keep you guys on protein shakes or something?”
“I usually make soups or stews. Joshua believes – believed – in fresh ingredients.”
“Good thing he didn’t work here.” Dean eyed Cas, who seemed to regard his lunch as if it were an art exhibit. “You gonna quit picking and eat something?”
Castiel gave his hamburger a dubious glance. He watched closely as Dean took a large bite of his own dinner, and then carefully placed the bun atop his burger and bit off a small chunk. “That isn’t so bad,” he remarked, wiping his chin with a paper napkin.
“Are you kidding? Nothing better than a burger. Except maybe apple pie.”
“Gabriel likes sweets. It’s sometimes difficult for him to make his weight.”
“Oh, that’s right, you guys fight by weight classes, right?” Castiel just nodded, as his mouth was now full. He noticed Dean was dipping his fries in a dab of ketchup on his plate, so imitated the gesture, experimentally dragging a French fry through the condiment. “They keep you on a diet?” Dean asked.
“They actually want me to go up a class. Uh, put on weight?”
Dean frowned. What that usually meant was more than pigging out, it meant doping. “And … you gonna do it?”
“No. When you bulk up, it slows you down. Joshua always says – said – there was an essential elegance to this sport.”
“Joshua was your coach?”
Castiel’s mood seemed to droop. “He was our sensei. He- He’s not around any more.”
“Hey, Dean!” Dean turned around, surprised to see Chuck and his weird girlfriend, Becky, had ventured near the table.
“Hey Chuck. Becky.”
“Is Sam around?” Becky gushed.
“No.” Becky slumped. Jess always seemed amused by Becky’s too-obvious crush, though it seemed to freak Sam the hell out. Chuck, on the other hand, remained stubbornly oblivious to it all.
“What’s the word?” Chuck asked.
“On the team?” breezed Dean, gesturing for them to sit. Becky shot an oblivious Castiel the kind of look you’d give a squashed stink bug, and then slid in on the opposite side of Castiel next to Dean. Chuck shrugged and sat down next to Castiel, who was trying out French fries variously dipped in mustard and dragged across salt and/or pepper.
“Try the ranch dressing,” Dean suggested, passing over a squeeze bottle. Chuck wrote for the crap-ass student newspaper, but he took his job seriously, including his sports “column.” Dean had always thought it slightly stupid that someone who wasn’t legally allowed to drink a beer could call a piece of writing a “column.” Like Bobby said, never trust a sports writer who didn’t smoke cigars.
On the other hand, a sympathetic story could generate some interest, and it wasn’t as if Dean and Victor had had great luck recruiting or pulling in a crowd of fans of late. “On the record, I’m optimistic, Chuck. Off the record, we’re gonna slice some ass and take some names.”
“You mean you’ll actually win a game?” groused Becky, wrinkling her nose at Cas and his dressing-soaked fries.
“You wanna talk to our secret weapon?” asked Dean. Chuck frowned. “Our new star player is sitting right here.” Castiel blinked up at Dean, cheeks stuffed full of ranch-drenched French fries.
“Ewwww. He’s a street fighter!” said Becky.
Castiel nodded. “Yes. I take it you don’t approve of me?” Becky didn’t answer, but didn’t bother to contradict him. “But I noticed you’re wearing those boots. The Wellington Wellies, correct?”
“Wellman Wellies. Everyone is wearing them.”
“Yes. They are a poorly made replica of the footwear used in classic street fighting, down to the scoring marks on the side. My question is, why would you appropriate this sort of thing if you find street fighting … unsavory?”
Becky’s sour face soured further and there was an uncomfortable silence.
“You think you can manage classic?” Chuck butted in.
“I feel comfortable with the techniques. Dean is of course assisting my transition.”
Dean sucked in a breath and squared his shoulders. He leaned forward and gestured for Chuck to do the same. “Between you and me, his teammates are already calling him KO Cas.” He watched in satisfaction as Chuck’s eyes glazed over. For most everyone on campus the fencing team was a constant source of frustration and anguish, capped by last season’s utterly dismal record of eight straight losses. News of Coach Henricksen booting a couple of promising seniors had been the straw that broke just about everyone’s heart. Dean’s favorite campus bar now featured a Coach Henricksen dartboard. Henricksen had actually played darts there, and nearly beat Sam on it, causing Dean to decide the new coach was one awesome dude.
“Tell you what, Chuck, see me after our first victory, and we’ll give you an exclusive interview,” Dean promised.
“That would be great!” said Chuck.
“We’re actually on our way … somewhere,” said Becky, who stood up. “To do stuff.”
“Yeah, we’re going.” Chuck patted Castiel on the shoulder, extending a hand to shake. “Hey, hope to see you again soon, KO Cas.”
Castiel shook, though he looked a little mystified by the nickname. “They seem … nice,” he tried as Becky hurried Chuck away.
“We should probably get going too. If you’re all done?”
“I think I like French fries, Dean,” Castiel told him, scooping up the last two and jamming them in his mouth. Dean smiled. Castiel had looked every inch the badass street fighter when he Dean spotted him a few days ago, but here he was, acting like a giddy eight-year-old over something as dumb as French fries.
It was pretty damned cute.
“Cool. We’ll take you to the Roadhouse. Jo's mom runs the place. They’ve got killer fries,” Dean told him, idly wondering if Castiel had ever drunk a beer before. If not, this would all be worth it. They collected their weapons and made their way back to the court. Dean had underestimated the time, as he usually did, and nearly everyone was already cleared out. Gabriel was still sitting up in the stands with Jess, and now Sam was there, looking out of breath.
“Where the hell did you run off to?” Gabriel demanded, glaring at Castiel
“Dean, have you heard?” Sam asked at the same time.
Dean looked back and forth, and decided to answer Sam first. “Heard what?”
“Academic duel.”
“WHAT?” both Dean and Gabriel chorused.
“What department?” Dean asked Sam.
“Psych.” Sam was a double major in psychology and political science. “Swift versus Jaunoeil.”
Cas frowned. Dean rolled his eyes. “Those psych guys are always going at it.”
“Can you get us in?” Gabriel demanded. “I've heard of these academic fights and I've always wanted to see one.”
“Wait, a street fighter wants to see a couple of old professors whack on each other?” Dean asked him skeptically.
“I’ve heard there’s nothing quite as vicious!”
“They get tickets,” Sam told Gabriel, waving at Dean.
“They're crap seats,” Dean admitted, “but yeah, that's one of the perks.”
“We're in,” said Gabriel. “Get tickets for me and Cassie.”
“I'm not sure I'd like to attend, Gabriel,” said Castiel.
Dean studied his friend with concern. Castiel looked downcast. “You don't have to go if you don't want to. We just get tickets as a courtesy.”
“Oh, c'mon baby bro,” said Gabriel, slinging an arm around Castiel's shoulders. “Anyway, the car's a-waiting, we gotta get outta here. We'll be back for blood and academics though!”
The demand for tickets to the duel, as it happened, outstripped the seating available in the usual fencing venue, so tonight they all headed towards the hockey stadium. Never underestimate the public's thirst for blood, Dean thought soberly. Most of the team had made it, along with some boyfriends and girlfriends, and Jo's mom, Ellen. The boys had offered a ticket to Uncle Bobby, who told them those dumb sons of bitches could go slice themselves up into McNuggets without him.
Castiel was there with Gabriel as well, Gabriel swinging his cane and whistling softly as he walked towards the stadium with them, Cas looking slightly miserable. Once they'd gotten themselves all seated up in the nosebleed section, Dean had grabbed Cas to go buy snacks with him.
“Dude, you're not looking happy. Are you sure you wanna be here?”
Cas calmly grabbed another sack of popcorn from Dean and set it in the cardboard tray he was carrying. “I don't. But, in our culture, if your older brother requests you do something, well...” He trailed off while watching Dean run over the popcorn with a salt shaker.
“But, you're not happy to be here?”
“The professor who was challenged, Dr. Jaunoeil?”
Dean grabbed another tray full of sodas and they began to walk back up towards the seats. “What about him. You a psych major?”
Cas smiled shyly. “Religious studies, actually.” Dean chuckled. “But I'm taking a class in sports psychology as an elective.”
“That's what you do for fun?”
Cas's eyes drifted towards the floor and a smile etched his features. “I find it … enlightening. Professor Jaunoeil teaches the class.” He looked up, his eyes searching. “Dean. You are aware that my sport involves a lot of mental preparation, what you might call, mind games. You get an instinct for sizing up an opponent. And Jaunoeil....” Castiel shuddered.
“Bad vibes?” asked Dean, juggling his box of sodas as he stole a handful of popcorn and tossed it in his mouth.
“I think he is capable of doing most anything to win.”
“You know the other professor dude challenged him.”
“And you know one may be goaded into a duel.”
They had reached the stands again. Dean nodded and, after distributing the sodas, helped Castiel pass out bags of popcorn, and then they took their seats. Those seated down below, faculty and honored guests, for the most part, were quiet. Dean grabbed some field glasses and noticed one or two of the older professors had fallen asleep. The balcony, by contrast, was rumbling with excited students. The night was cold, so when the flask came by, Dean took a good swig, and then poured a generous amount in his cola. He leaned over and, unbidden, spiked Cas's drink as well. Castiel didn't object.
Down below they could see a section mostly dressed in yellow and waving yellow banners over by the goal line – presumably, for Jaunoeil. It may have been his graduate students. His opponent, Swift, appeared to have his own cheering section more or less opposite of where the fencing team group was seated. Their colors were red and orange.
“Hey, check it out,” said Dean, pointing down to some empty seats right up front. Some big, armed bodyguards were now lumbering through the crowd downstairs, scattering assistant professors as they made their way down the aisle. They stood aside to allow a snappily dressed contingent file into the empty row. Dean squinted through his field glasses. “Isn't that Dick Roman?”
“That guy from TV?” asked Benny. “How the hell does he rate a ringside seat?”
“He is on the school's board of regents,” said Cas flatly.
“That bitch is everywhere,” grumbled Ash through a mouth full of popcorn.
Sam related the backstory he'd heard from a classmate, who’d heard it from his roommate, who worked in the Department of Psychology. Scuttlebutt said that Swift was up for tenure, but Jaunoeil had been blackballing him for the past few years. Swift finally called out Jaunoeil at a department meeting. Nobody was sure exactly what was said, but Swift demanded satisfaction, with blades.
A roar went up and the fencing team turned their attention to the arena below. The opponents, dressed in their academic gowns, their seconds, and the officials had entered the field of play.
Everyone cringed as the microphone squealed with feedback. “Faculty, students, and distinguished guests. We have assembled here for a duel of honor between professors Jaunoeil and Swift, both of the University of Kanas Department of Psychology. Dr. Swift has asked for satisfaction, by blades. We would like request that, due to the grave seriousness of this matter, those assembled in the audience maintain a respectful silence while this matter is concluded.” In response, there was some yelling and general beer-tossing from the nosebleeds, all solemnly ignored by those below.
“The participants have agreed to draw to three. Point total to win.”
There followed a general hubbub in the audience, much louder up in the balconies. Sam turned around looked up to where Dean and Cas were sitting, mouthing, “What the fuck?”
“It’s fucking weird is what it is,” Dean told them. “Normally, these guys will do one, to first blood. Usually, that’s not literal blood – “
“I want my money back!” hollered Benny, to much laughter.
“But to whoever gets the first point. Draw to three is real old school dueling. Means they do three separate matches, and whoever adds up the most points, wins.”
“Sounds kinda boring,” Jo remarked, as she and Gordon tossed popcorn.
“Well, it’s a weird choice for Jaunoeil, he’s so fucking old, I thought he’d be worn out after just one, what with carting around all those fancy academic gowns and shit.”
Castiel leaned closer to Dean. His lips were just a breath away from Dean's ear. Dean found it a little distracting. “I have an idea. Why,” Cas whispered.
After the seconds checked the swords, and weapons were returned to the duelists, they began the first match. It was Jaunoeil’s call. As was the tradition, he called out the blade setting, “Four!” Four Teslas out of a possible ten: it was a fairly low setting, just above the practice levels. And then, after the salutes, the official shouted, “En gard, pret, allez!”
There ensued some rather boring parrying. Two old men dueling looked remarkably like two old men dueling. “One point, Swift,” yelled the official.
“Jaunoeil is gonna get his ass kicked,” said Ash. The audience rumbled again while they got set up.
The men returned to their starting positions. It was going to be Swift’s call for the blade settings this time. Unofficially, he could call any setting, but he really needed to ramp it up at least one or, basically, look like a pussy.
“Six!” This round may have lasted another stroke, and then, “One point, Swift.”
Dean dug out a pair of field glasses, and scoped the audience down below. He noticed a couple of the old professors were still snoozing.
They lined up one last time.
Jaunoeil’s call.
“TEN!”
The audience gasped. Castiel and Dean were already on their feet.
An obviously rattled Swift swung and missed. Badly. Jaunoeil moved quick as a viper, and his electrical-charged blade connected. The sword swung true. It sliced cleanly through Swift’s shielding, and then Swift's neck. There was a torrent of blood spewing out of the neck as his body fell. The rest of the crowd was on their feet. There was a roar. Dean grabbed his glasses once again. There was general panic in the box with Swift’s family. A man was hurrying to get one of the women away, off the field. Dean looked at Swift’s body, still twitching, pumping blood, uselessly, out onto the mat.
He turned the field glasses to Dick Roman, who was sitting stock still, a slight smirk on his face.
And then he cringed back. Roman had turned to look up: straight up at the balcony.
Straight at Dean. Or so it seemed.
The official needlessly called, “KO, Jaunoeil,” but no one was listening.
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. This chapter contains violence which some may find upsetting.
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.
“I am not doping!”
“I know, Benny, I know,” said Dean as the big man huffed and puffed at his side. The gym smelled of sweat and ozone from ignited swords.
Benny's pain was operatic in its intensity. “Well tell mother-loving Henricksen! I’m danged awful tired of him chasing me around everywhere with a god darned pee cup!”
Dean tried hard not to chortle. “Don’t worry, I got it,” he told Benny. “And besides, there’s no way he’d kick off another teammate, not when we got a full roster!”
Benny looked skeptical. Gordon, who had just come up behind him, asked, “Wait, full roster? Since when?”
Dean somehow managed to look as smug as he felt, which was approximately punch-in-the-face smug. “Since just now, when I recruited our new secret weapon.”
“How did you manage that, Winchester?” said Gordon, Benny echoing his skeptical expression.
“All will be revealed. Just give me a minute.” Grinning mysteriously, he sauntered over to the office with “Victor Henricksen” scribbled out on a piece of paper in magic marker and stuck to the door with a scrap of electrical tape. “Hey, coach, you in there?” asked Dean, knocking and sticking his head inside.
“Whatever the hell it is, Winchester, no!” barked Coach Henricksen, who motioned for him to close the door. Victor took another puff from his contraband cigarette, and then flicked some ashes in the potted plant behind him.
Dean smirked. “You’re gonna kill that plant.”
Victor snorted in derision. “Who could tell? It’s a fucking rubber plant. Now, why the hell is your lazy ass in my office chair instead of out there on the piste where it belongs?”
“I just filled the roster.”
Victor stopped in mid-puff, studying Dean with every scrap of suspicion he could muster. “Why don’t I know anything about this?”
Dean studied the ceiling. “I used some … unorthodox recruiting methods. But it doesn’t matter, the guy’s great. I tried sparring with him, and I couldn’t get past him. He’s … amazing!” Dean's eyes went wide.
“Huh. You gonna fight him or date him, Winchester?”
Dean laughed, and might have colored slightly. He genuinely liked the coach, but the guy was USDA Prime hard ass. “Um. You'll see. He’s coming to practice today. And all the more reason why you can't gank Benny. We’ve got the people: we’re playing.”
Victor sneered. “I can and will gank that little doper. Guy is wider than he is tall! I just need to figure out what his game is.”
Dean looked at his tightly wound coach with affection. “Coach, I guarantee, Benny is not juicing.”
But Henricksen was having none of it. “How the hell do you know that? You follow him to the men’s room?”
Dean grinned, the cat who had just grabbed the canary. “Have you met Benny’s parents?”
Henricksen leaned forward, shaking his head, leaving a wreath of smoke about.
“Well, I have. His father? Spitting image.” Dean spread his hands a Benny-length apart. “And his mother-”
“What? Her too?” Victor flashed a skeptical look at Dean. He rubbed his cheeks and frowned. “Even the beard?”
“Even the beard.”
Henricksen coughed to (very badly) conceal a chuckle. “Okay, I'll take your word for now, Winchester. But I want a clean squad. Even if we can't field a team, no juicing. Get it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. Now let’s go meet your mystery man.”
“Freaking Boy Scout,” muttered Benny. He said so in reference to their coach, Henricksen, whose notorious intolerance of drugging had placed the team in their current status of dodgy eligibility, and who had, as a consequence, become a popular local dartboard effigy.
“Guy's got his head so far up his ass,” muttered Gordon.
“Who's got their head up your ass, Gordon?” hooted Ash. He thumped his gym bag down beside Gordon’s and Benny’s. “I wouldn't brag about it.”
“Fuck off, Mullet Man,” Gordon wittily retorted.
“You're just jealous of the radiance of my plumage,” said Ash, shaking his head like a Cover Girl. “Though I guess I'm nothin’ to that guy.” Benny and Gordon, who were standing in the middle of the court, followed Ash's pointing finger over to where some dickhead street fighter-wannabe with his hair in a topknot leaned casually against the low wall that divided the court from the bleachers. He was talking quietly to another man seated nearby.
“A freaking street fighter?” said Benny, unconsciously tapping the crucifix he always wore around his neck. “What the blessed mother Mary is he doin' in here in my gym?” He inclined his head, and he, Gordon and Ash sauntered over to confront the newcomer. Benny stopped a few feet in front of the asshole and made a big show of looking him up and down. “Nice hair, brother.”
The lips flicked into the barest trace of a smile. “Thank you.”
The man did not move, nor flinch, although his companion, up in the bleacher seats, put his hands through his hair and sighed, “I told you this was a dumb idea, Cassie.”
“So what exactly are you supposed to be, buddy?” asked Gordon the dude in the topknot.
“Castiel,” he intoned in a voice that rumbled with Old Testament fury.
“I'm Benny,” the same supplied. “Gordon. Ash,” he added with slight nods to either side. “And what exactly are you doin’ here, Castiel?”
You couldn't see his eyes very well under all the hair, but his gaze was piercing. “Waiting.” There was no further clarification.
“Waitin' for what, exactly?” asked Ash.
“He's waiting for the coach, moron,” grumbled the guy sitting in the stands.
“Hey, you need someone to show you manners, midget?” raged Gordon.
“I'll show you some manners,” said the short man. He shot to his feet, looking like he meant to leap the barrier and tackle Gordon right then and there.
“Gabriel!” Castiel threw an arm out to hold Gabriel back. Benny, Gordon and Ash all instinctively hopped back. There was something unsettling about the lightning fast way Castiel moved, and the boys all now glanced nervously at one another.
“Cas, you made it!” called Dean from the other side of the court. He was strolling out, along with Coach Henricksen, big old shit-eating grin on his face.
“Gosh darnit, here comes Coach Pee Cup,” grumbled Benny, causing Castiel to turn and tilt his head quizzically at him.
“I take it this is the new recruit?” asked Henricksen. Castiel stood up straight to greet the coach, taking his extended hand to shake. “I’m Coach Henricksen.”
“This here is a Cas-ti-el,” Benny supplied, infusing each syllable with its requisite southern syrup.
“And you are?” Henricksen asked Gabriel.
“Here to talk my idiot little brother out of being an idiot.” He leapt gracefully over the barrier, although, if you looked closely, he landed favoring one leg, and flourished his silver-tipped cane. He emitted a sigh, and then held out his hand. “Gabriel. My brother is-”
“Whoa, dudes!” said Ash, who had been madly pushing buttons on his cell phone ever since Castiel had spoken his name. “136 W, 84 KO. Castiel, man, you're epic awesome.” He held up the phone screen, his eyes shining. The other boys gathered around, astonished expressions on their faces.
Cas shrugged with what appeared to be genuine modesty. “I've done all right.”
“But my question is, can you handle classic fencing?” asked Henricksen, pointing to Castiel's boots. “We don't do any of that fancy footwork crap. You'll have to stay on the ground and fight the old fashioned way.”
“Old fashioned? Street fighting is thought to have its roots in antiquity,” Castiel told him. “But my sensei was insistent on training me in every aspect of sword play. I believe I can adapt.”
“Well, you can talk, can't you?” grinned Henricksen.
“He'll end up on his ass,” said Gordon.
Castiel stepped in front of Gordon and then, placing on hand behind his back, made an elaborate bow.
“Hey, did he just-” asked Ash.
Gordon hopped back a step. “Uh, are you … challenging me?”
“I believe that's the correct etiquette?” said Castiel, side-eyeing Dean.
“Cas just challenged you, Gordo,” Dean told Gordon, who glowered. “You gonna accept?” There was really no honorable way to refuse at this point, which Gordon knew all too well.
The entire party wandered over to a mat, where a visibly agitated Gordon tapped Benny as his second. As was called for by the tradition, Castiel handed over his blade to Benny. “Nice!” said Benny, giving the sword a bit more elaborate once-over than was really called for.
“You just get this dueling blade, Cas?” asked Dean, looking over Benny's shoulder as much as was possible with such a brawny guy.
Cas nodded. “Our smith constructed it specially for me. He is familiar with my … requirments.”
“Hand it over,” Gabriel demanded of Gordon.
“Oh, you don't really need to do that,” Gordon grumbled. Gabriel arched an eyebrow to emphasize, yes, you do.
“Hand it over, Walker,” said Henricksen, patting Gordon on the shoulder. “This is my court, so this is gonna be a clean goddamn duel. We’re just gonna go one round, no two of three bullshit. You two, set blades to three Tesla, and that's it.”
Cas and Gordon nodded, even though it was tradition that duelists determine the setting, and it was the absolute wimpiest setting to boot. The weapons were returned, and both boys activated their shielding, bouncing the flat sides of their blades on their boots to test it. “Good luck,” Dean whispered to Cas, who turned and, to Dean's utter surprise, edged a small smile at him.
“Let's get to en garde positions,” hollered Henricksen. “No, Cas, that's too close!”
“Oh, I'm so sorry,” said Castiel, talking a long step back from a now obviously rattled Gordon.
“Don't he know-” Benny whispered.
“He knows,” grinned Gabriel, pointing to his own head. Dean realized with a start Castiel was deliberately fucking with Gordon. “Good boy,” he whispered.
Castiel was now back to his ready position, looking even smoother and more graceful than he had the other day. Gordon, by contrast, now appeared flustered and angry. The two boys saluted each other, and then the small gathering of spectators.
“En garde. Pret. Allez!” yelled Henricksen. Like a lot of duels, it ended quickly. In a way, Gordon did better than Dean at this first confrontation: at least he managed to move before Castiel had his blade in the kill position.
“I- I wasn't ready,” Gordon gulped as Castiel drew the slim blade back from his neck.
“Oh, bull puckey, Gordo,” said Benny. “You just got your ass reamed by KO Cas here.”
That earned Benny a full flavored head-tilt, something Dean was rapidly learning as part of Castiel's repertoire.
Henricksen clapped his hands. “Okay, what if we quit fucking around and actually get to some practice. Oh, and nice of you to make it here, ladies!” the coach hollered as a group of girls, including Jess, entered the court. “This is the rest of my team,” he told Castiel. “This is-”
“So you're the street fighter?” gushed a tiny blonde, who was already standing too close to Castiel, jutting out her hand.
“That's Miss Joanna Beth Harvelle,” sighed Henricksen.
“Jo!” she corrected as Cas shook. “And this is Pam-”
“Pamela,” corrected a pretty brunette woman who was oddly enough, wearing sunglasses indoors.
“And Charlene.”
“And what are you really called, Charlene?” Castiel asked the bubbly redhead.
“I'm Charlie!” she grinned. “I cosplayed as a street fighter for Halloween!”
“Did you?”
“And nearly cut her own thumb off with the blade,” cracked Pamela, pushing her sunglasses up her nose.
“And I'm Meg,” said a dark-haired girl who seemed to have crept up behind everybody. “But you can call me ... Meg,” she added, holding Castiel's hand just a bit too long.
“Meg, begone demon,” said Benny, stepping between her and Castiel and holding his crucifix up in her face, getting a laugh from Gordon and spiteful glances from some of the other girls.
“Can we quit the horse shit and get cracking?” said Henricksen. He was answered by a chorus of grumbles, some of it good-natured, some of it not so much. “Someone show the new man some drills?”
“I got it!” piped up Jo, who was already hauling Castiel off to a practice mat. Charlie trailed along after them.
“C’mon, Pammy,” said Jess, who nodded towards the bleachers.
“Mind if I join you, ladies?” asked Gabriel, who had suddenly appeared between the two of them, leaning on his cane. “I mean no harm, just a poor old cripple.”
“Yeah, right,” said Pamela, who nonetheless raised no objection to Gabriel inserting himself in their group.
Dean thought for a second about extricating Castiel from Jo’s clutches, but quickly decided his new friend would be better off learning to fend for himself. Instead, Dean paired up with Gordon for a few spars, but noticed his partner began to appear increasingly distracted.
“Come on, Gordo. Eye on the pointy end,” Dean urged at one point after Gordon had failed, once again, to parry a rather half-hearted attack. Dean peered over to where Castiel and Jo were working, and immediately spotted the problem. “Let’s take five. I’m gonna go talk to Cas,” he told Gordon, hoping he would catch Dean’s meaning and stay out of it. He strolled over to where Castiel appeared to be groping Jo while Charlie watched in apparent awe.
“Remember,” Castiel was telling Jo as he yanked an arm back. “You want to reduce your profile for defense, but increase it during ready position. You want to appear as large as possible, in order to intimidate your opponent.” He pointed to his own head. “Fearing larger creatures is instinctual.”
Jo nodded, her teeth gritted as Castiel gripped her hips in attempt to reposition her pelvis. “It would help if you could find it in yourself to relax.”
“You guys doing okay?” Dean asked, trying not to laugh.
“Yes. Duh! Cas is helping me with my stance,” Jo told him.
“Correct posture is everything,” Castiel lectured. “Now, how does that feel?”
“I feel bigger!” said Jo confidently.
“Try an attack,” said Castiel.
Jo swung wildly with her blade. Dean cringed as he listened to the hum. “Good,” said Cas, though he batted her away like a fly. “You!” he ordered Charlie, who was sitting on the floor, hugging her knees. “You’re a better match for Jo.” Charlie frowned, and pointed to herself, and looked pleadingly at Dean.
“You’re on the team. Last I checked,” Dean told her.
Charlie stumbled to her feet, and then shakily took out her sword, which she then held up in some semblance of an en garde position. Castiel scowled at Dean, who mouthed, “Later.”
“All right, again, Jo,” Castiel told her. “En gard. Pret. Allez.” Jo grunted as she swung, and Charlie shrieked, dropping her sword and falling on her ass, to the general delight of everyone else in the room. Castiel shot a glance at Dean, but then stepped back as he was tackled by Jo.
“Thank you thank you thank you! You’re awesome!” Jo gushed.
Castiel flushed bright red as he gently pried her off. “Um,” he muttered.
Henricksen’s whistle sounded. “Okay you clowns, quit joking around! Back to work.”
“Jo, why don’t you spar with Gordon for a while?” Dean suggested, as Gordon was now nearby, looking none too pleased at Castiel, who was helping Charlie to her feet.
“Sorry, I’m not very good,” Charlie confessed.
“Charlie, what about you practice with Meg?” said Dean, to a violent shaking of red hair. Dean sighed. “Well, how about this: what about you go keep the girls company?” he asked, gesturing towards the stands, where Gabriel was now engrossed in conversation with Pamela and Jess. She nodded happily and scampered off. Dean inclined his head towards the exit, and, though looking a little puzzled, Castiel followed him out.
“Aren’t we supposed to use this hour for practice?” Castiel asked as soon as they were out of the door.
“The session’s almost over. And you frankly don’t need a whole lot of practice. I thought maybe we’d run down to the cafeteria for a burger or something?”
“I’ve- I’ve never eaten at the cafeteria.”
Dean was taken aback. “What? Really?”
Castiel shrugged, a little sheepishly. “I get dropped off to go to class. And then I get picked up again right afterwards. They all thought it would be best to minimize my exposure on campus.”
“Oh, so you don’t hang around? Well, you’re not missing much. But the burgers are okay. Come on.”
It might be supposed that two boys walking across campus carrying dueling swords would attract attention, but as it happened it was fashionable in those days even for non-duelists to carry at least a decorative sidearm. However Castiel’s distinctive hairstyle, as always, caused people to give him a wide berth.
“So, a couple things you should know,” Dean told him, “not that you’re doing anything wrong, but just to keep the peace. First, Charlie’s on the team as a temporary replacement for Pamela. My brother actually met her, playing an RPG. She doesn’t much like it, but we’ve had a hard time filling our roster lately, especially with female players.”
“All right,” said Cas. “I, uh, haven’t actually played with … female duelists before.”
“Yeah, that’s the other complication. See, Gordon and Jo are … a thing.”
Castiel squinted, completely baffled. “A … thing?”
Dean searched his mind to try to sum up a full metal Melrose Place situation in fifty words or less. “Yeah. They tend to break up and make up. A lot. Most of us have stopped keeping track.”
“Break up…. Oh, they’re a romantic couple?” asked Castiel.
Dean chuckled. “Yeah, Cas, you know, boys and girls and that stuff?”
Castiel looked more puzzled than anything. “You call me Cas?”
“Yeah, sure. Oh, hey, it’s not insulting or anything?” asked Dean. He knew from Uncle Bobby that sword fighters as a class had a long list of various bizarre things they found dishonorable. Castiel seemed easygoing enough, but Dean didn't want to chance it.
“I don’t find it so, no,” said Castiel, a small smile playing on his lips. “My brothers call me Cassie, which I do find annoying.”
“Yeah, Sammy doesn’t like it when I use his nickname, but I guess he’ll always be my little brother, despite being big as a goddamn bull moose.”
They had reached the entrance of the dining hall. They encountered a knot of students just filing out. Their shouting and laughter stopped as they all spotted Castiel, and then made to edge nervously around him.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Castiel told Dean.
“What, you afraid you’ll be left alone at the lunch table? You’re with me. And the rest of them: fuck them. It’s dumb. They’re all dressing up like fake street fighters this year, but none of them can handle the real thing? I mean, seriously.” And with that, Dean yanked Castiel into the dining hall, where they soon had plastic trays stacked with cheeseburgers and greasy French fries and sugary sodas. They set their heavily laden trays on an empty table and, stowing their weapons on the floor beneath them as was customary, sat down to eat.
“See, all the four food groups. You got grease, you got salt, you got bacon-“ Dean explained, grabbing a slice of bacon off of his burger.
“We don’t generally eat such fare,” said Castiel, squinting at a French fry. His reluctance to enter the building had quickly been quelled by his burning curiosity about the spread offered at the cafeteria. It had taken five minutes for Dean to pry him away from the espresso machine.
“What, do they keep you guys on protein shakes or something?”
“I usually make soups or stews. Joshua believes – believed – in fresh ingredients.”
“Good thing he didn’t work here.” Dean eyed Cas, who seemed to regard his lunch as if it were an art exhibit. “You gonna quit picking and eat something?”
Castiel gave his hamburger a dubious glance. He watched closely as Dean took a large bite of his own dinner, and then carefully placed the bun atop his burger and bit off a small chunk. “That isn’t so bad,” he remarked, wiping his chin with a paper napkin.
“Are you kidding? Nothing better than a burger. Except maybe apple pie.”
“Gabriel likes sweets. It’s sometimes difficult for him to make his weight.”
“Oh, that’s right, you guys fight by weight classes, right?” Castiel just nodded, as his mouth was now full. He noticed Dean was dipping his fries in a dab of ketchup on his plate, so imitated the gesture, experimentally dragging a French fry through the condiment. “They keep you on a diet?” Dean asked.
“They actually want me to go up a class. Uh, put on weight?”
Dean frowned. What that usually meant was more than pigging out, it meant doping. “And … you gonna do it?”
“No. When you bulk up, it slows you down. Joshua always says – said – there was an essential elegance to this sport.”
“Joshua was your coach?”
Castiel’s mood seemed to droop. “He was our sensei. He- He’s not around any more.”
“Hey, Dean!” Dean turned around, surprised to see Chuck and his weird girlfriend, Becky, had ventured near the table.
“Hey Chuck. Becky.”
“Is Sam around?” Becky gushed.
“No.” Becky slumped. Jess always seemed amused by Becky’s too-obvious crush, though it seemed to freak Sam the hell out. Chuck, on the other hand, remained stubbornly oblivious to it all.
“What’s the word?” Chuck asked.
“On the team?” breezed Dean, gesturing for them to sit. Becky shot an oblivious Castiel the kind of look you’d give a squashed stink bug, and then slid in on the opposite side of Castiel next to Dean. Chuck shrugged and sat down next to Castiel, who was trying out French fries variously dipped in mustard and dragged across salt and/or pepper.
“Try the ranch dressing,” Dean suggested, passing over a squeeze bottle. Chuck wrote for the crap-ass student newspaper, but he took his job seriously, including his sports “column.” Dean had always thought it slightly stupid that someone who wasn’t legally allowed to drink a beer could call a piece of writing a “column.” Like Bobby said, never trust a sports writer who didn’t smoke cigars.
On the other hand, a sympathetic story could generate some interest, and it wasn’t as if Dean and Victor had had great luck recruiting or pulling in a crowd of fans of late. “On the record, I’m optimistic, Chuck. Off the record, we’re gonna slice some ass and take some names.”
“You mean you’ll actually win a game?” groused Becky, wrinkling her nose at Cas and his dressing-soaked fries.
“You wanna talk to our secret weapon?” asked Dean. Chuck frowned. “Our new star player is sitting right here.” Castiel blinked up at Dean, cheeks stuffed full of ranch-drenched French fries.
“Ewwww. He’s a street fighter!” said Becky.
Castiel nodded. “Yes. I take it you don’t approve of me?” Becky didn’t answer, but didn’t bother to contradict him. “But I noticed you’re wearing those boots. The Wellington Wellies, correct?”
“Wellman Wellies. Everyone is wearing them.”
“Yes. They are a poorly made replica of the footwear used in classic street fighting, down to the scoring marks on the side. My question is, why would you appropriate this sort of thing if you find street fighting … unsavory?”
Becky’s sour face soured further and there was an uncomfortable silence.
“You think you can manage classic?” Chuck butted in.
“I feel comfortable with the techniques. Dean is of course assisting my transition.”
Dean sucked in a breath and squared his shoulders. He leaned forward and gestured for Chuck to do the same. “Between you and me, his teammates are already calling him KO Cas.” He watched in satisfaction as Chuck’s eyes glazed over. For most everyone on campus the fencing team was a constant source of frustration and anguish, capped by last season’s utterly dismal record of eight straight losses. News of Coach Henricksen booting a couple of promising seniors had been the straw that broke just about everyone’s heart. Dean’s favorite campus bar now featured a Coach Henricksen dartboard. Henricksen had actually played darts there, and nearly beat Sam on it, causing Dean to decide the new coach was one awesome dude.
“Tell you what, Chuck, see me after our first victory, and we’ll give you an exclusive interview,” Dean promised.
“That would be great!” said Chuck.
“We’re actually on our way … somewhere,” said Becky, who stood up. “To do stuff.”
“Yeah, we’re going.” Chuck patted Castiel on the shoulder, extending a hand to shake. “Hey, hope to see you again soon, KO Cas.”
Castiel shook, though he looked a little mystified by the nickname. “They seem … nice,” he tried as Becky hurried Chuck away.
“We should probably get going too. If you’re all done?”
“I think I like French fries, Dean,” Castiel told him, scooping up the last two and jamming them in his mouth. Dean smiled. Castiel had looked every inch the badass street fighter when he Dean spotted him a few days ago, but here he was, acting like a giddy eight-year-old over something as dumb as French fries.
It was pretty damned cute.
“Cool. We’ll take you to the Roadhouse. Jo's mom runs the place. They’ve got killer fries,” Dean told him, idly wondering if Castiel had ever drunk a beer before. If not, this would all be worth it. They collected their weapons and made their way back to the court. Dean had underestimated the time, as he usually did, and nearly everyone was already cleared out. Gabriel was still sitting up in the stands with Jess, and now Sam was there, looking out of breath.
“Where the hell did you run off to?” Gabriel demanded, glaring at Castiel
“Dean, have you heard?” Sam asked at the same time.
Dean looked back and forth, and decided to answer Sam first. “Heard what?”
“Academic duel.”
“WHAT?” both Dean and Gabriel chorused.
“What department?” Dean asked Sam.
“Psych.” Sam was a double major in psychology and political science. “Swift versus Jaunoeil.”
Cas frowned. Dean rolled his eyes. “Those psych guys are always going at it.”
“Can you get us in?” Gabriel demanded. “I've heard of these academic fights and I've always wanted to see one.”
“Wait, a street fighter wants to see a couple of old professors whack on each other?” Dean asked him skeptically.
“I’ve heard there’s nothing quite as vicious!”
“They get tickets,” Sam told Gabriel, waving at Dean.
“They're crap seats,” Dean admitted, “but yeah, that's one of the perks.”
“We're in,” said Gabriel. “Get tickets for me and Cassie.”
“I'm not sure I'd like to attend, Gabriel,” said Castiel.
Dean studied his friend with concern. Castiel looked downcast. “You don't have to go if you don't want to. We just get tickets as a courtesy.”
“Oh, c'mon baby bro,” said Gabriel, slinging an arm around Castiel's shoulders. “Anyway, the car's a-waiting, we gotta get outta here. We'll be back for blood and academics though!”
The demand for tickets to the duel, as it happened, outstripped the seating available in the usual fencing venue, so tonight they all headed towards the hockey stadium. Never underestimate the public's thirst for blood, Dean thought soberly. Most of the team had made it, along with some boyfriends and girlfriends, and Jo's mom, Ellen. The boys had offered a ticket to Uncle Bobby, who told them those dumb sons of bitches could go slice themselves up into McNuggets without him.
Castiel was there with Gabriel as well, Gabriel swinging his cane and whistling softly as he walked towards the stadium with them, Cas looking slightly miserable. Once they'd gotten themselves all seated up in the nosebleed section, Dean had grabbed Cas to go buy snacks with him.
“Dude, you're not looking happy. Are you sure you wanna be here?”
Cas calmly grabbed another sack of popcorn from Dean and set it in the cardboard tray he was carrying. “I don't. But, in our culture, if your older brother requests you do something, well...” He trailed off while watching Dean run over the popcorn with a salt shaker.
“But, you're not happy to be here?”
“The professor who was challenged, Dr. Jaunoeil?”
Dean grabbed another tray full of sodas and they began to walk back up towards the seats. “What about him. You a psych major?”
Cas smiled shyly. “Religious studies, actually.” Dean chuckled. “But I'm taking a class in sports psychology as an elective.”
“That's what you do for fun?”
Cas's eyes drifted towards the floor and a smile etched his features. “I find it … enlightening. Professor Jaunoeil teaches the class.” He looked up, his eyes searching. “Dean. You are aware that my sport involves a lot of mental preparation, what you might call, mind games. You get an instinct for sizing up an opponent. And Jaunoeil....” Castiel shuddered.
“Bad vibes?” asked Dean, juggling his box of sodas as he stole a handful of popcorn and tossed it in his mouth.
“I think he is capable of doing most anything to win.”
“You know the other professor dude challenged him.”
“And you know one may be goaded into a duel.”
They had reached the stands again. Dean nodded and, after distributing the sodas, helped Castiel pass out bags of popcorn, and then they took their seats. Those seated down below, faculty and honored guests, for the most part, were quiet. Dean grabbed some field glasses and noticed one or two of the older professors had fallen asleep. The balcony, by contrast, was rumbling with excited students. The night was cold, so when the flask came by, Dean took a good swig, and then poured a generous amount in his cola. He leaned over and, unbidden, spiked Cas's drink as well. Castiel didn't object.
Down below they could see a section mostly dressed in yellow and waving yellow banners over by the goal line – presumably, for Jaunoeil. It may have been his graduate students. His opponent, Swift, appeared to have his own cheering section more or less opposite of where the fencing team group was seated. Their colors were red and orange.
“Hey, check it out,” said Dean, pointing down to some empty seats right up front. Some big, armed bodyguards were now lumbering through the crowd downstairs, scattering assistant professors as they made their way down the aisle. They stood aside to allow a snappily dressed contingent file into the empty row. Dean squinted through his field glasses. “Isn't that Dick Roman?”
“That guy from TV?” asked Benny. “How the hell does he rate a ringside seat?”
“He is on the school's board of regents,” said Cas flatly.
“That bitch is everywhere,” grumbled Ash through a mouth full of popcorn.
Sam related the backstory he'd heard from a classmate, who’d heard it from his roommate, who worked in the Department of Psychology. Scuttlebutt said that Swift was up for tenure, but Jaunoeil had been blackballing him for the past few years. Swift finally called out Jaunoeil at a department meeting. Nobody was sure exactly what was said, but Swift demanded satisfaction, with blades.
A roar went up and the fencing team turned their attention to the arena below. The opponents, dressed in their academic gowns, their seconds, and the officials had entered the field of play.
Everyone cringed as the microphone squealed with feedback. “Faculty, students, and distinguished guests. We have assembled here for a duel of honor between professors Jaunoeil and Swift, both of the University of Kanas Department of Psychology. Dr. Swift has asked for satisfaction, by blades. We would like request that, due to the grave seriousness of this matter, those assembled in the audience maintain a respectful silence while this matter is concluded.” In response, there was some yelling and general beer-tossing from the nosebleeds, all solemnly ignored by those below.
“The participants have agreed to draw to three. Point total to win.”
There followed a general hubbub in the audience, much louder up in the balconies. Sam turned around looked up to where Dean and Cas were sitting, mouthing, “What the fuck?”
“It’s fucking weird is what it is,” Dean told them. “Normally, these guys will do one, to first blood. Usually, that’s not literal blood – “
“I want my money back!” hollered Benny, to much laughter.
“But to whoever gets the first point. Draw to three is real old school dueling. Means they do three separate matches, and whoever adds up the most points, wins.”
“Sounds kinda boring,” Jo remarked, as she and Gordon tossed popcorn.
“Well, it’s a weird choice for Jaunoeil, he’s so fucking old, I thought he’d be worn out after just one, what with carting around all those fancy academic gowns and shit.”
Castiel leaned closer to Dean. His lips were just a breath away from Dean's ear. Dean found it a little distracting. “I have an idea. Why,” Cas whispered.
After the seconds checked the swords, and weapons were returned to the duelists, they began the first match. It was Jaunoeil’s call. As was the tradition, he called out the blade setting, “Four!” Four Teslas out of a possible ten: it was a fairly low setting, just above the practice levels. And then, after the salutes, the official shouted, “En gard, pret, allez!”
There ensued some rather boring parrying. Two old men dueling looked remarkably like two old men dueling. “One point, Swift,” yelled the official.
“Jaunoeil is gonna get his ass kicked,” said Ash. The audience rumbled again while they got set up.
The men returned to their starting positions. It was going to be Swift’s call for the blade settings this time. Unofficially, he could call any setting, but he really needed to ramp it up at least one or, basically, look like a pussy.
“Six!” This round may have lasted another stroke, and then, “One point, Swift.”
Dean dug out a pair of field glasses, and scoped the audience down below. He noticed a couple of the old professors were still snoozing.
They lined up one last time.
Jaunoeil’s call.
“TEN!”
The audience gasped. Castiel and Dean were already on their feet.
An obviously rattled Swift swung and missed. Badly. Jaunoeil moved quick as a viper, and his electrical-charged blade connected. The sword swung true. It sliced cleanly through Swift’s shielding, and then Swift's neck. There was a torrent of blood spewing out of the neck as his body fell. The rest of the crowd was on their feet. There was a roar. Dean grabbed his glasses once again. There was general panic in the box with Swift’s family. A man was hurrying to get one of the women away, off the field. Dean looked at Swift’s body, still twitching, pumping blood, uselessly, out onto the mat.
He turned the field glasses to Dick Roman, who was sitting stock still, a slight smirk on his face.
And then he cringed back. Roman had turned to look up: straight up at the balcony.
Straight at Dean. Or so it seemed.
The official needlessly called, “KO, Jaunoeil,” but no one was listening.
