Code Duello (Part 4 of 14)
Apr. 7th, 2013 08:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Code Duello (Part 4 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, Crowley
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.
Many years ago....
“Take care of your brother, Dean.”
Dean picked up the well-worn twenty dollar bill that had been abandoned on the kitchen table and stared at it, biting his lip. He flipped it over and over, as if trying to divine a secret. He shuffled his bare feet and shivered. The floor was ice cold.
He finally looked up. “Dad. I think Sammy has a fever.”
John Winchester paused for a beat, and then went for his wallet. He extracted another twenty and tossed it to the table. “There. Remember to pick up some Nyquil.”
Dean regarded the bill, and then tossed the twenty in his hand down beside it. “Dad. Why do you have to go?”
“Dean, we've talked about this....”
“Why do you always have to go?”
“Dean.” John squatted down so he was at eye level with his young son. He put a hand on the boy's shoulder. “There's a bigger picture here. There's a whole world out there. Full of things you can never imagine. Good men, bad men. Monsters. Angels and demons! I've got responsibilities. Big responsibilities. Out there.” He stood up, and ruffed Dean's hair. “Some day, you'll understand.”
“I don't understand now.”
“Dean. Take care of your brother.”
Dean scowled. He knew enough to hear the dismissal in his father’s voice. His eyes bore into the cold floor as he listened to the door open and shut, and heard the familiar rev of the Impala's engine.
“Did Daddy go?”
Dean turned to his brother. Sam was still in his jammies, smushing a well-worn plush toy to his body. He shivered, beads of sweat glinting on his fevered forehead.
“Sammy, you gotta get back to bed,” sighed Dean. He grabbed the twenties on the table and stuffed them into his jeans pocket, pausing when a scrap of paper fluttered out. He squatted down, looking at the phone number hastily scribbled out in a leaky ball point pen.
The present day....
“So, we got a little … situation.”
Dean didn't like the sound of this. He followed Cas into Henricksen's Marlboro-scented office where the coach indicated they both take chairs. Dean began to sit, but noticed Cas was standing very stiffly, so he decided to remain on his feet as well.
Henricksen, on the other hand, plopped into his chair. “So, I understand you two know Becky Rosen?”
Castiel looked baffled, but Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Chuck's weird girlfriend. She's always slobbering over my brother.” He shrugged. “She's harmless.”
“And Chuck Shurley is the boy who interviewed Castiel for the student paper?”
“He requested the interview. Following our victory,” said Cas.
“Yeah. So, what's the deal?” asked Dean.
“It's not Becky, exactly, but her mother, Mrs. Rosen. Who happens to best friends with the Dean of Students's wife. That Dean is the guy who administers the dress code.”
Dean and Castiel looked at each other and then chorused, “What dress code?”
The coach sighed and handed Dean a memo from off his desk. “They had to go back a hundred years to find it, but basically, Cas, if you're gonna play, we've gotta do something about that hair.”
Dean squinted at the list of rules listed in the memorandum. “But this also says women's skirts shouldn't be shorter than three inches below the knee! What, are they gonna follow us around with rulers now?”
“I know, it's hypocritical. But there's some … uneasiness among the community about having a street fighter on our team. Now!” he held a hand up as Dean attempted to interrupt. “They don't wanna kick him off. They obviously like the part where we win. But, Cas, please. No topknot. It just.... It scares people.”
“It's supposed to scare people!” said Dean.
“No,” said Cas.
“No … what?” asked Henriksen.
“No, I will not cut my hair. It's dishonorable. Thank you for the opportunity to play on the team.” And with that, Cas turned on his heel and stormed out.
“Castiel! Wait!” said Henricksen.
“I'll get him,” said Dean, who ran along behind. “Cas, stop!”
But Castiel did not stop: not to answer the hails of his fellow team mates, and not for Dean. He grabbed his bag and stormed out of the building, Dean hot on his heels.
“Cas, wait, we can talk about this.”
“I will not be something other than what I am,” Cas told him.
Dean caught up and grabbed one of Cas's shoulders. “Look, wait, I get the same thing from Sammy when I tell him he needs a cut.”
Cas whirled around, glaring at Dean. “This is NOT the same thing.”
His town car pulled up at exactly that moment and Cas grabbed the door.
“Cas, please, be reasonable.”
“My name is Castiel,” barked Cas, slamming the door. Dean stood, cursing, as the car drove off.
“What the hell?” said Sam, running up behind Dean. “I was coming to check out practice....”
“Becky Fucking Rosen is what happened,” Dean muttered.
“What. Her?”
Dean was seething. “Your girlfriend tattled to mommy that there's a street fighter loose, endangering her precious daughter. So they told Cas he needs to cut his hair, and he won't even talk to me anymore. Dammit, Sammy! What do we do now? You heard what Uncle Bobby always says. You dishonor these guys, that's it! They don't get un-offended.” He watched his brother, who was calmly dialing his phone. “What?”
“I got this,” said Sam.
“You got what? Who are you calling?”
“I'm gonna call Jess. And have Jess call Pamela.”
“Yeah?”
“And have Pamela call Gabe.”
Dean paused. “Son of a bitch!” he gushed. Sam gave a smug little smile. “My brother, the genius.”
“No, Gabriel!”
“Aw, c'mon Cassie. It's just hair.”
That got Castiel's attention. He ceased pacing up and down the mat in the empty training room, and stood staring in horror at his brother. “You're not serious.”
Gabriel reached around to rub the back of his bare neck. “I cut all mine off. Didn't end the world.
“Yes, but I still have to get back in that cage and face my opponents.”
“So face 'em with less hair in your face. Will probably improve your reaction time. You'd like that. And besides, Dean could see those pretty baby blues.” Gabriel batted his eyes, and Cas retreated, blushing furiously.
“I thought you didn't want me to fence on the college team?”
Gabriel smiled. “Cassie, for a guy who's never happy, I've never seen you as happy as you’ve the last month. I gotta admit, those lamebrains are good for you. And Pamela is cute as hell.” He went back to waggling his eyebrows. “Look, I said my job was to keep you from being stupid. So, stop being stupid. Or at least talk to the saucy Winchester boy.”
Castiel sighed. It was his honor at stake. No one seemed to acknowledge this!
But Gabriel was still his older brother.
And Dean was....
Dean was….
“So he's off the team?”
Benny flipped his cell phone shut and frowned. He grabbed a dart and tossed it at the Coach Henricksen dart board. “Guess so,” he muttered. “Pammy says Sam and Dean are gonna go talk to him.”
“Ohhhh, you don't mess with those guy's honor!” piped up Ash from behind the Roadhouse bar. “He's not gonna do it.”
“Not gonna return, or not gonna quit?” asked Gordon, who was sitting on a barstool with Jo standing between his legs.
“Not gonna return, A-hole.”
“Fuck!” said Jo. “I thought we were gonna finally have a winning season.”
“Joanna Beth! Language!” yelled her mother from across the bar, sparing a withering glance at an oblivious Gordon.
“Too bad,” said Meg, who slithered down a chair or two to approach the group. “That one's got a great little ass.”
Ash looked like he was going to spit. “Ew! Meg. Do not objectify us!”
“I wasn't objectifying you, Opie,” she assured him.
“Dammit. I mean, pardon my French, but I think I'm gonna do something!” said Benny.
“Do what exactly?” Gordon asked him.
“Is it something balls out stupid?” asked Ash hopefully.
“I know what I'm gonna do.”
“What are you gonna do?” asked Sam, who, not for the first time, was having trouble keeping up with his older but much shorter brother.
“I know what I'm gonna do,” Dean repeated.
Sam and Jess, who was running alongside him, exchanged a worried glance. “Dean, are you going to do something really stupid?”
“Exactly,” said Dean, bursting into the court. Castiel, standing leaning up against the wall that divided the stands from the court, looked up, and Dean told himself he saw hopefulness in his eyes. Gabriel stood beside him. He for one did not look hopeful.
“Get your sword,” Dean told Cas.
“I'm sorry. What?” asked Gabriel. Castiel only tilted his head.
Dean already had his sword out, and was standing on the mat, stretching. “You can't cut your hair 'til you're defeated, right? So, I’m gonna defeat you. Come on!”
Gabriel chortled. Castiel remained immovable, standing with his arms crossed. “You can’t win, Dean.”
“Maybe not the first game. Or the second. Or the tenth. But some time, you’re gonna make a mistake. And I’ll win. Come on!”
Castiel attempted to form words. He failed several times, and finally said, “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” He gasped as he was pushed forward.
“Come on, like the man said, get going,” said Gabriel. “Engardepretallez and all that stuff.”
Castiel squared his shoulders and approached the mat. They set up, and, with Sam calling it, Dean lost. And lost again. And again. And again.
And after an hour, Dean still hadn’t won. And then it was another hour. And then he sat down on the mat, wiping sweat from his forehead with a sleeve. “Just, gimme a minute,” he told his brother, taking a swig of water.
“Give me your sword,” said Sam.
“What?”
“Give me your damned sword,” said Sam. Dean handed it up. “Okay, Cas, I haven’t tried this since high school, so promise you won’t kill me?” And he extended himself into a ready position.
“Sam-“ Cas started.
“Let’s go before I change my mind.”
“Okay guys, you ready?” said Gabriel, who had moved beside them. Castiel, who was somewhat stiff, moved to stand against Sam.
Of course, Castiel kicked his ass. Repeatedly. Although Sam didn’t do too badly for himself.
It was at this time that several of the crowd from the Roadhouse burst in the door.
“What the blazes is Sam doing fighting Cas?” boomed Benny.
“Dean is going to beat Cas,” Jess explained. “So then he won’t be dishonored chopping his hair.”
“Dean is fighting Cas?” asked Ash, watching as Gabriel started off another match.
“I got a little, uh, exhausted,” said Dean, getting painfully to his feet. “So Sammy is spelling me.”
“Wait, I wanna piece of this!” howled Benny, stomping over to where Sam had just gone down in flames once again.
“Oh, me too me too!” sang Jo, dancing over, Gordon trailing along behind her. “Me next!”
Castiel looked around, dumbfounded. He wiped his face with a towel, and then tossed it aside, nodding grimly at Benny.
At some point, Pamela showed up with Charlie, and so did Meg.
“Why don’t you get tired!” Benny yelled at Castiel, who smiled slightly. “Ain’t normal!”
“Benny,” said Gabriel, “you officiate, it’s my turn.”
“Gabriel! This is not a good idea,” Cas scolded him as Gabriel grabbed a sword from the equipment cabinet.
“Are you kidding? This is a great idea! I could always take my little bro down a peg.”
“Gabriel! No!”
“You want me to challenge you? Because I will.”
“Aw, c’mon, Cas. Let your brother in on the fun,” Benny told him.
Castiel scowled at his brother, who was somewhat painfully trying to find a comfortable ready position, although he also managed a wink at Pamela up in the stands. “Okay, here we go. Benny?”
Benny counted off. The small crowd gasped. Even with his mobility impaired by his injury, Gabriel was quick as lightning. Castiel, who was finally tiring, just barely parried him.
“Damn. He’s good,” said Pamela, who could not help but sound a trifle impressed.
“That’s what I’ve been telling you, darling!” Gabriel shouted over.
They clashed half a dozen times. Gabriel didn’t quite manage to win, but he nevertheless left Castiel considerably flustered.
“Gabriel,” said Dean when Meg had stepped in as Cas’s new opponent and Gabriel retreated to the stands to sit down. “Dude, you’re amazing.”
Gabriel cracked a wide grin. “You should have seen me during my heyday. I fought as The Trickster. Nobody could get past me. Even when I fought above my normal weight class. I sort of have a sweet tooth,” he added, patting his stomach.
Sometime later, Jo called, “Cas, you okay?” Dean, who was sitting up in the stands, charged down to the mat, where Cas was on his knees, breathing hard. Cas didn’t answer.
“You look like shit, buddy,” Dean told him. “Come on.” He held out a hand, and Cas, trembling furiously, took it and got to his feet, although he looked like he was going to drop.
“All right, line it up,” said Gabriel, who was on the sidelines, nodding to Dean. Dean went to grab his sword, and came back to face off once again against Cas, who was now visibly swaying from side to side.
The court grew quiet.
“En garde,” said Gabriel. Cas raised his sword, and nearly overbalanced. “Pret.” Cas’s arm trembled. “Allez.”
And then Dean’s sword was at his neck.
“KO. Winchester,” said Gabriel, as Cas slowly sunk to his knees. He gazed up at Dean, eyes brimming with tears. With trembling hands he held his sword, hilt-first, towards Dean.
Gabriel grabbed the sword and handed it off to Dean. “Okay, here’s what you gotta do, Deano, so you don’t mess it up.” He grabbed Castiel’s hair. “Now, pull it at the knot, and hold it tight. You wanna do this in one smooth stroke so you’re not hacking at his head.”
The entire team, including Sam and Jess, had filtered out of the stands, and now gathered around in a silent circle. Dean did as Gabriel instructed, pulling up Castiel’s long hair in his left hand while he gripped Cas’s sword tightly in his right. To his relief, Castiel had closed his eyes, long lashes fluttering down on chalk white cheeks. Dean blinked as well. “And keep your eyes open,” Gabriel warned Dean. “Don’t wanna lose fingers with this. I’ve seen it done.”
Dean opened his eyes wide. He steeled himself and counted, one-two-three….
“Hey, good one! You’re a real pro!” shouted Gabriel, pounding Dean on his sore back. Dean looked up in surprise to realize he was holding a knot of dark brown hair. He looked down to assure himself Cas was still there, and nodded at his shaking friend.
“Uh. What do I do with this?” he whispered to Gabriel, indicating the hair.
“Can I have it?” gushed Charlie. “I could use it in a wig.”
Gabriel shrugged and rolled his eyes, and Charlie snatched the hair.
Dean stuck a trembling hand down to Cas, who, shaking badly, got to his feet. “Welcome to the team,” he told Cas softly, holding an arm around him to steady him. Castiel stared up curiously at the fringe of uneven bangs now falling in his face. He puffed air at them, and then sent a hand through his hair, which was now sticking literally every which way.
“You look better this way, brother,” said Benny.
“So what do we do now?” asked Ash.
“I think we go get very drunk,” Dean told Cas, who gave him a very tentative smile.
“The Lincoln assassination?” asked Dean.
“The Lincoln assassination!” said Ash.
“The Lincoln assassination,” Castiel muttered into the bar. He was half-sitting on a bar stool, his head nestled in his arms.
“Lincoln died in a duel with John Wilkes Booth,” Dean told them.
“That’s what they want you to think!” said Ash.
“Who the hell are ‘they’ anyway?” asked Dean.
“What are you talking about?” asked Gabriel, who hooked his cane on the bar and the hopped up to sit beside it.
“The Lincoln assassination,” said Dean.
“Yep,” said Gabriel, putting a beer to his lips. “They killed him.”
“How do you know?”
“Every street fighter knows.” Gabriel pointed at Ash. “Ash knows.”
“Yeah, but Ash is a paranoid conspiracy theorist!” said Dean.
Gabriel nodded sagely. “Lincoln was going to end indentured servitude.”
“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.” Dean winced as Gordon got up and, with Jo trailing behind him, stormed out of the bar. “Aw, shit, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“What?” asked Gabriel, hopping down to sit next to Dean.
“His sister,” whispered Dean. “Bounty hunter got here. She’s somewhere down south. The family doesn’t know where.”
“They’re not Freedmen?” asked Gabriel.
“No,” said Ash. “And she was in Missouri on some kind of class trip.”
“Sword fighting is the practice of free men, everywhere!” muttered Castiel, who suddenly popped his head up off his arms.
Dean leaned over and affectionately brushed a ruff of ragged dark hair out of Cas’s eyes. “I think maybe this guy has had enough for one night,” he smiled.
Cas leaned closer. “You have many freckles, Dean.”
“I think you’re right,” laughed Gabriel, hastening over to get one of Cas’s arms over his shoulders. “C’mon, Baldy. Time to get you home.” Dean caught up Castiel's other arm, and the two half walked, half carried him out to the waiting town car.
“We've got a game tomorrow night,” said Dean.
“We'll get him there,” said Gabriel. “I’ll get you all there, in fact. I'll hook this guy up to an IV with hot coffee tomorrow morning.”
Dean smiled and waved them away, and then, deep in thought, walked back into the Roadhouse, where he found himself double-teamed by Benny and Ash.
“So, you and that street fighter,” said Benny, sliding a fresh beer in front of Dean.
“Me and Cas – what?” asked Dean.
“We were just wondering,” said Benny.
“No judgment!” piped up Ash.
“No-?” started Dean, looking from one to the other. “Oh, you think-”
“You know, you two-” said Benny, pressing his index fingers together side by side.
“Oh. Gahd! Are you all turning into girls?” asked Dean.
Benny shrugged. “We were just wondering.”
“No judgment,” said Ash.
“No judgment,” repeated Benny.
“Guys, do me a favor and stop wondering. Okay? We got a game coming up tomorrow, and Cas is gonna be tired and hung over and they're not gonna be sleepwalking like the Sooners. So, drink up and get the fuck home.”
Benny and Ash looked at each other. Ash shrugged, and Benny inclined his head, and they were both suddenly entranced by the pool table.
Dean sat alone with his beer. That had just been weird. He liked Cas, sure. And he liked being around him. He was so different. There was just something really nice about him.
And he smelled really nice too. It was sort of like cookies baking.
“Soooo, nothing going on between you two?” cooed Meg, who was suddenly, in her unsettling silent way, close by.
“Meg, are you still here?”
“So you wouldn't mind if I gave it a go?” asked Meg, who was busily studying her fingernails.
“Meg, stay the fuck away.”
Meg smiled slyly and raised an eyebrow. “Ouch, touchy.”
“We've got- We've got a damn match tomorrow. Keep your head in the game.”
“And where's your head, Captain Ahab?” And then she laughed softly and wafted away, leaving Dean even more unsettled than he'd been before.
They had gathered at around noontime for the drive to Stillwater. They were used to driving themselves, but then Gabriel, as he had promised, had showed up with a big grin and a limousine with enough room for most of the team.
Coach Henricksen had begged off, as he didn't want to accept any favors, or anything that even looked like a favor.
And Dean had determined to make the drive alone, to help clear his head. So it was odd than when Cas had shyly volunteered to keep him company, he had so readily agreed. Sam shot Dean an odd look, but then they were all inside their respective vehicles, and it turned out to be very calming. Cas was in a quiet mood, content to look out the window, and he didn't bitch about Dean's choice of music like Sammy always did.
So they rode a good hour with no sound but the tape deck, Cas staring at the passing landscape, hair bouncing into his eyes. Dean noticed he had to fight the urge to be constantly reaching over and pushing the hair back from Cas's forehead.
“Doesn't that bug you?”
“I'm sorry?” Cas answered.
“The hair?”
Castiel put a hand through the unruly mop, thus rendering it yet more unruly. Dean found himself tempted to stop the car and apply a comb right then and there. He would jam the brake, put the car in park, and then maybe he would climb over into Cas's lap and apply the damn comb....
No, wait.
“Sorry, uh, what did you say?” Dean asked.
Cas looked sweetly baffled and said, “I said it's nice. Like having a weight off. A weight I didn't know I was carrying. If that makes any sense?”
“You get shit about it, I mean, back home?”
“No.” Castiel didn’t elaborate.
“Are you gonna fight-“
“Not for a while.”
They drove for a while in silence. “So, what’s it like?” Dean finally asked.
Dean glanced to the side and saw those intense eyes trained at him now. “You mean fighting?”
“Yeah.”
Castiel took long enough to answer that Dean wondered if he had once again caused an offense. “It’s difficult for me to explain,” he finally said, eyes now trained out the window once again. “I’ve been training almost since I can remember, and I started fighting when I was quite young as well.”
“How old?” Dean asked.
“Thirteen.”
“Holy shit! I thought fifteen was the minimum age.”
Castiel smiled slightly. “There isn’t a board of regulation. I have heard rumors of swordsmen as young as eleven. Of course, once you start fighting, you are no longer a child.”
“No,” said Dean. Although maybe you’ve never eaten French fries or kissed a girl, he thought.
“The cage has an intensity. In a way. It’s nothing like one of our matches. It is somewhat more akin to the carnival atmosphere of the academic duel we witnessed. But I find I don’t notice the crowd very much. The world shrinks for me, until it’s all about you, your opponents, and your partner. During certain fights – not all but some of them – you will experience a sort of transcendence. It’s difficult to explain, but I feel very much … part of the universal experience in these moments.”
Dean listened with astonishment. He had always thought of those cage matches as four guys wailing on each other, but this sounded sort of poetic. Of course, Cas was an unusual guy. Maybe even unusual for a street fighter. “And that’s why you’re a Religious Studies major?”
He glance over to see Cas was staring at him again, eyes shining. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
Dean glanced down at his watch. “Look, we got a ton of time before the game. You wanna stop on the way, grab some lunch? We could get French fries.”
“I usually don’t eat before a game. But I think in this case, yes, that would be enjoyable. Maybe an establishment with tables on the outside? I’ve seen a number of them on the road.”
“You wanna eat your French fries outside, then we’re eating outside,” said Dean. They picked a burger joint with picnic tables on the lawn outside. It was fall, and getting colder, but the day was bright and sunny, so they sat at the roadside and Dean made up ridiculous stories about the cars they saw passing by. “So, you went to live at your training place when you were a kid?”
“I was quite young. Or so they tell me.”
“Do you remember your folks at all?”
“My father, no. I have a dim recollection of my mother, but I don’t know if they’re true or false memories. She was ill. I was given over to what I understand were distant relatives after she died. They’re the ones who sold me to Joshua.”
Dean spat out coke. “Wait, sold you? That’s illegal!”
“So is street fighting,” said Cas, wry smile on his face as he dredged a French fry through hot sauce. “But what about your family, Dean? Is Sam your only brother?”
Dean set down his soda, still feeling rattled. “Yeah, it’s just Sammy and me. Our mom died when we were pretty young too.” Dean fell silent, mopping up the spilled drink with a paper napkin.
“And your father?”
“Dad is…. Well, he’s not much of a family man, I guess. He’s sort of like Ash, in a way, into the conspiracy stuff? He thought there was some connection to our mother’s death. It was just a house fire, so I imagine it was just the wiring. But he brought us up on the road, mostly. Finally, when I was in junior high, I just told him to go fuck off, we’re staying with Uncle Bobby. I’m sort of a screw up, but Sammy is a smart kid, and he needed to be in one school more than a semester. So that’s when I started fencing. Dad had showed me some stuff, mostly for self-defense, but I started getting into it, and actually managed to wrangle a scholarship. I thought there was no way in hell I was ever going to college! Uncle Bobby helped, writing letters and stuff.”
“You started a little late,” said Cas. “At fencing.”
“Oh, yeah, nothing like you. But I pick up things quickly. I guess I’ll be good, but I’ll never be great. But I like being captain. Even if it’s a pain in the fucking ass sometimes.”
“A pain in the fucking ass,” echoed Castiel.
Dean snorted. “Dude, you sound weird when you curse.”
Castiel flushed. “And Bobby is your father’s brother?”
“Oh, no! He’s not a relative. Not a blood relative. He’s one of dad’s closest friends. I guess they were both into the conspiracy thing, way back when. Or something like that. Anyway, he runs a salvage yard, just out of town. You’ll have to meet him, he’s a trip.”
“I would like to meet him,” said Cas softly.
Dean shrugged and looked at his watch. “Oh, shit, lost track of time. Let’s hit the road, don’t wanna get jawing and miss the match!” They gathered up plastic baskets and hit the road.
Alastair hesitated for a moment as he head the low growl sounding through the door.
“Come in! I don’t have all day,” came the impatient voice from inside the office.
Alastair steeled himself, and grasped the doorknob. He hated that damn dog. The feeling was, apparently, mutual.
“Coach,” he said as he crossed the threshold. A pair of red eyes glinted up at him. Alastair attended to the odd markings on the floor: for whatever reason, his coach considered the weird sigils painted on the floor to be some kind of good luck charm.
“What is it? I am quite busy today,” sighed the coach, sitting behind his desk, idly scratching the head of a dog at least as big as a small horse.
“He’s playing.”
“Who is playing?” The coach was pretending to stare at some paperwork, but Alastair thought he detected a hint of worry flicker through his eyes.
“The street fighter.”
The coach tutted, and then gestured for the dog to sit down. With a snarl at Alastair, it did so, curling up on a rug next to the office. “Where did you hear that nonsense? That’s not possible. Not unless he cut his hair!”
“He cut his hair.”
Alastair’s lips curled into a tiny smile as Crowley, currently the most winning coach in the Midwest as well one of the most evil, was caught, for a brief moment, speechless.
“Wipe that fool smirk off your face, Sunshine,” Crowley barked.
Alastair complied and straightened up. “What are we gonna do about it, Coach?” he asked.
“You? You’re going to do nothing. I will deal with it. With efficiency. As I always do. Now. Go back and practice, or whatever it is you do.” And with that, he waved off Alastair. The player turned on his heel and, with a bitter glance at the dog, who let out a small woof, departed. “And shut the door!”
Crowley leaned back. His hands of their own volition found his lower desk drawer and retrieved a silver flask with odd marking on the side. He uncapped it and took a long pull, and then closed it up, apparently refreshed. “I am surrounded by imbeciles,” he sighed.
“Well, there’s more than one way to skin a street fighter. I always say,” he told the dog. He thereupon scooted his wheeled chair over to a nearby file cabinet and, pulling a silver key from his pocket, opened up the locked bottom drawer.
“Will there be a big crowd here, do you think?” Cas asked. They had parked the car near the Oklahoma State dueling court and grabbed their gear.
“Uh, for an away game? Our stands are gonna be kinda bare.” But to Dean’s surprise, there was a decent showing, and the seats were fairly well covered in crimson and blue.
“Glad you ladies made it,” Coach Henricksen grumbled.
“You guys take the scenic route?” Benny grumped as they took court-side seats.
“We stopped for lunch,” Dean shrugged.
“Ohhhhh,” said Ash, winking at Benny.
“What?” asked Dean.
“No judgment!” laughed Ash.
“What is he talking about?” Castiel whispered to Dean.
“They’re morons. Hey, there’s your opponent. Whoa!”
They had put Cas first on the roster once again, and his opponent from the Cowboys had just lumbered onto the field. There was muttering and a couple of impressed whistles from the Jayhawks bleachers: he was a mountain of a guy. Dean immediately wondered if they’d drafted someone off the football team.
“Cas, are you gonna be okay with this?” He must have weighed at least half again what Cas did.
Castiel stood and stretched. He bent down and whispered in Dean’s ear, “Their coach is an idiot. That man is a club, not a blade.” And then, as if he had all the time in the world, he sauntered down the line of the stands for a while and made a great show of greeting his brother, Sam and Jess where they were sitting. And then he turned and crossed over to the court, deliberately walking several feet in back of where the Cowboys player had lined up on the piste.
The big guy was unnerved, and got his feet in a bit of a tangle turning around to watch a seemingly oblivious Cas cross the mat and walk down to his starting point. But it was pretty clear what Cas had been talking about: the guy was strong, but moving around was like steering a barge. He also seemed easy to rattle.
“Cas is one devious little motor faker,” whispered Benny. “I like him.”
“Me too,” said Dean, now eagerly watching them set up. The big guy looked livid. After their salutes, the official counted off, “En garde, pret, allez,” and the big arm came sweeping down in a massive gesture, as a clattering sounded: with a deft flick of the wrist, Cas had disarmed him, and as his arm uselessly completed the strike, the blade went spinning across the gym, ending up near the KC bench.
The UK crowd was on its feet, cheering. Disarming didn’t count for extra points, it was just hellishly embarrassing. After the referee had called the duel for him, Castiel ambled over to the fallen sword, stuck a toe under the blade and skillfully flipped it into his hand. And then he sauntered back and offered it up to his opponent who, looking very confused, took it back.
“Dude, you gotta show me the thing with the foot!” Ash told Castiel as he returned to the team’s seating area.
“Don’t practice it barefooted,” Cas grinned. And Dean wanted to hug him. Which made him feel a little weird. But then he got caught up in the match, and helping Henricksen coach the team. Benny was cool as a cucumber as usual, giving his crucifix a quick kiss before he strode out, and Charlie was inevitably the worst, although with a lot of nagging from Cas and Jo, at least she would no longer drop her blade. Jo was being a killer tonight, meaning she and Gordon had probably broken up again, meaning they were set for this match, but then there would be repercussions, and did other team captains have to deal with a fucking soap opera?
Dean was so distracted he didn’t hear his name called when it was time for his duel, and then he had Cas catch him and hold him close whisper some last minute advice right in his ear, Cas’s lips so close to his face, and it was really lucky Dean could do this in his sleep, because that’s basically what he did, gliding up to the mat and swatting away the guy without his feet touching the ground.
And then it was the last duel, Gordon easily getting the best of a challenger.
And then they had won. Again!
They began to march out, now all giddy on the unexpected victory. The crowd was a little bit more together this time, now stamping out the KU beat – stamp, stamp, stamp-stamp, stamp – as the team filed out.
Many years ago....
“Yep, you're gonna stay with me a while,” Bobby told the boy in his arms. Sam was still in his pajamas, and wrapped up in a blanket to boot. “We’ll get you to my place, get you some good hot soup in your belly, and get you to bed.”
“All right Unka Bobby,” sighed Sam, nestling his fevered head on Bobby's shoulder.
“I just need to grab a couple things, Uncle Bobby,” said Dean.
“Dean,” said Bobby. “Listen to me, kid.” He carefully laid Sam down on the ratty couch, making sure the blanket was tucked around him. He turned and squatted down in front of Dean, hands on the boy's shoulders. He spoke quietly. “Dean. I want you to take your time and get everything you and your brother are gonna need. You boys are not coming back here. Not for a while.”
Dean felt his heart leap in his chest. He forced himself to calm down. He had obviously misheard. These kinds of things didn't happen to Sam and Dean. “We're gonna stay with you?” he managed to choke out.
“You're staying with me.”
Dean blinked.
There was not an iota of doubt.
He hurled himself blindly into Bobby's arms, hugging his neck, nearly throwing the older man off balance.
“Hey, you don't wanna choke me, do you?” chuckled Bobby.
Dean pushed Bobby away and wiped a tear. “No, Uncle Bobby.”
Bobby stood up. “All right then. Let's get packing.”
Dean ran to his bedroom.
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, Crowley
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.
Many years ago....
“Take care of your brother, Dean.”
Dean picked up the well-worn twenty dollar bill that had been abandoned on the kitchen table and stared at it, biting his lip. He flipped it over and over, as if trying to divine a secret. He shuffled his bare feet and shivered. The floor was ice cold.
He finally looked up. “Dad. I think Sammy has a fever.”
John Winchester paused for a beat, and then went for his wallet. He extracted another twenty and tossed it to the table. “There. Remember to pick up some Nyquil.”
Dean regarded the bill, and then tossed the twenty in his hand down beside it. “Dad. Why do you have to go?”
“Dean, we've talked about this....”
“Why do you always have to go?”
“Dean.” John squatted down so he was at eye level with his young son. He put a hand on the boy's shoulder. “There's a bigger picture here. There's a whole world out there. Full of things you can never imagine. Good men, bad men. Monsters. Angels and demons! I've got responsibilities. Big responsibilities. Out there.” He stood up, and ruffed Dean's hair. “Some day, you'll understand.”
“I don't understand now.”
“Dean. Take care of your brother.”
Dean scowled. He knew enough to hear the dismissal in his father’s voice. His eyes bore into the cold floor as he listened to the door open and shut, and heard the familiar rev of the Impala's engine.
“Did Daddy go?”
Dean turned to his brother. Sam was still in his jammies, smushing a well-worn plush toy to his body. He shivered, beads of sweat glinting on his fevered forehead.
“Sammy, you gotta get back to bed,” sighed Dean. He grabbed the twenties on the table and stuffed them into his jeans pocket, pausing when a scrap of paper fluttered out. He squatted down, looking at the phone number hastily scribbled out in a leaky ball point pen.
The present day....
“So, we got a little … situation.”
Dean didn't like the sound of this. He followed Cas into Henricksen's Marlboro-scented office where the coach indicated they both take chairs. Dean began to sit, but noticed Cas was standing very stiffly, so he decided to remain on his feet as well.
Henricksen, on the other hand, plopped into his chair. “So, I understand you two know Becky Rosen?”
Castiel looked baffled, but Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Chuck's weird girlfriend. She's always slobbering over my brother.” He shrugged. “She's harmless.”
“And Chuck Shurley is the boy who interviewed Castiel for the student paper?”
“He requested the interview. Following our victory,” said Cas.
“Yeah. So, what's the deal?” asked Dean.
“It's not Becky, exactly, but her mother, Mrs. Rosen. Who happens to best friends with the Dean of Students's wife. That Dean is the guy who administers the dress code.”
Dean and Castiel looked at each other and then chorused, “What dress code?”
The coach sighed and handed Dean a memo from off his desk. “They had to go back a hundred years to find it, but basically, Cas, if you're gonna play, we've gotta do something about that hair.”
Dean squinted at the list of rules listed in the memorandum. “But this also says women's skirts shouldn't be shorter than three inches below the knee! What, are they gonna follow us around with rulers now?”
“I know, it's hypocritical. But there's some … uneasiness among the community about having a street fighter on our team. Now!” he held a hand up as Dean attempted to interrupt. “They don't wanna kick him off. They obviously like the part where we win. But, Cas, please. No topknot. It just.... It scares people.”
“It's supposed to scare people!” said Dean.
“No,” said Cas.
“No … what?” asked Henriksen.
“No, I will not cut my hair. It's dishonorable. Thank you for the opportunity to play on the team.” And with that, Cas turned on his heel and stormed out.
“Castiel! Wait!” said Henricksen.
“I'll get him,” said Dean, who ran along behind. “Cas, stop!”
But Castiel did not stop: not to answer the hails of his fellow team mates, and not for Dean. He grabbed his bag and stormed out of the building, Dean hot on his heels.
“Cas, wait, we can talk about this.”
“I will not be something other than what I am,” Cas told him.
Dean caught up and grabbed one of Cas's shoulders. “Look, wait, I get the same thing from Sammy when I tell him he needs a cut.”
Cas whirled around, glaring at Dean. “This is NOT the same thing.”
His town car pulled up at exactly that moment and Cas grabbed the door.
“Cas, please, be reasonable.”
“My name is Castiel,” barked Cas, slamming the door. Dean stood, cursing, as the car drove off.
“What the hell?” said Sam, running up behind Dean. “I was coming to check out practice....”
“Becky Fucking Rosen is what happened,” Dean muttered.
“What. Her?”
Dean was seething. “Your girlfriend tattled to mommy that there's a street fighter loose, endangering her precious daughter. So they told Cas he needs to cut his hair, and he won't even talk to me anymore. Dammit, Sammy! What do we do now? You heard what Uncle Bobby always says. You dishonor these guys, that's it! They don't get un-offended.” He watched his brother, who was calmly dialing his phone. “What?”
“I got this,” said Sam.
“You got what? Who are you calling?”
“I'm gonna call Jess. And have Jess call Pamela.”
“Yeah?”
“And have Pamela call Gabe.”
Dean paused. “Son of a bitch!” he gushed. Sam gave a smug little smile. “My brother, the genius.”
“No, Gabriel!”
“Aw, c'mon Cassie. It's just hair.”
That got Castiel's attention. He ceased pacing up and down the mat in the empty training room, and stood staring in horror at his brother. “You're not serious.”
Gabriel reached around to rub the back of his bare neck. “I cut all mine off. Didn't end the world.
“Yes, but I still have to get back in that cage and face my opponents.”
“So face 'em with less hair in your face. Will probably improve your reaction time. You'd like that. And besides, Dean could see those pretty baby blues.” Gabriel batted his eyes, and Cas retreated, blushing furiously.
“I thought you didn't want me to fence on the college team?”
Gabriel smiled. “Cassie, for a guy who's never happy, I've never seen you as happy as you’ve the last month. I gotta admit, those lamebrains are good for you. And Pamela is cute as hell.” He went back to waggling his eyebrows. “Look, I said my job was to keep you from being stupid. So, stop being stupid. Or at least talk to the saucy Winchester boy.”
Castiel sighed. It was his honor at stake. No one seemed to acknowledge this!
But Gabriel was still his older brother.
And Dean was....
Dean was….
“So he's off the team?”
Benny flipped his cell phone shut and frowned. He grabbed a dart and tossed it at the Coach Henricksen dart board. “Guess so,” he muttered. “Pammy says Sam and Dean are gonna go talk to him.”
“Ohhhh, you don't mess with those guy's honor!” piped up Ash from behind the Roadhouse bar. “He's not gonna do it.”
“Not gonna return, or not gonna quit?” asked Gordon, who was sitting on a barstool with Jo standing between his legs.
“Not gonna return, A-hole.”
“Fuck!” said Jo. “I thought we were gonna finally have a winning season.”
“Joanna Beth! Language!” yelled her mother from across the bar, sparing a withering glance at an oblivious Gordon.
“Too bad,” said Meg, who slithered down a chair or two to approach the group. “That one's got a great little ass.”
Ash looked like he was going to spit. “Ew! Meg. Do not objectify us!”
“I wasn't objectifying you, Opie,” she assured him.
“Dammit. I mean, pardon my French, but I think I'm gonna do something!” said Benny.
“Do what exactly?” Gordon asked him.
“Is it something balls out stupid?” asked Ash hopefully.
“I know what I'm gonna do.”
“What are you gonna do?” asked Sam, who, not for the first time, was having trouble keeping up with his older but much shorter brother.
“I know what I'm gonna do,” Dean repeated.
Sam and Jess, who was running alongside him, exchanged a worried glance. “Dean, are you going to do something really stupid?”
“Exactly,” said Dean, bursting into the court. Castiel, standing leaning up against the wall that divided the stands from the court, looked up, and Dean told himself he saw hopefulness in his eyes. Gabriel stood beside him. He for one did not look hopeful.
“Get your sword,” Dean told Cas.
“I'm sorry. What?” asked Gabriel. Castiel only tilted his head.
Dean already had his sword out, and was standing on the mat, stretching. “You can't cut your hair 'til you're defeated, right? So, I’m gonna defeat you. Come on!”
Gabriel chortled. Castiel remained immovable, standing with his arms crossed. “You can’t win, Dean.”
“Maybe not the first game. Or the second. Or the tenth. But some time, you’re gonna make a mistake. And I’ll win. Come on!”
Castiel attempted to form words. He failed several times, and finally said, “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” He gasped as he was pushed forward.
“Come on, like the man said, get going,” said Gabriel. “Engardepretallez and all that stuff.”
Castiel squared his shoulders and approached the mat. They set up, and, with Sam calling it, Dean lost. And lost again. And again. And again.
And after an hour, Dean still hadn’t won. And then it was another hour. And then he sat down on the mat, wiping sweat from his forehead with a sleeve. “Just, gimme a minute,” he told his brother, taking a swig of water.
“Give me your sword,” said Sam.
“What?”
“Give me your damned sword,” said Sam. Dean handed it up. “Okay, Cas, I haven’t tried this since high school, so promise you won’t kill me?” And he extended himself into a ready position.
“Sam-“ Cas started.
“Let’s go before I change my mind.”
“Okay guys, you ready?” said Gabriel, who had moved beside them. Castiel, who was somewhat stiff, moved to stand against Sam.
Of course, Castiel kicked his ass. Repeatedly. Although Sam didn’t do too badly for himself.
It was at this time that several of the crowd from the Roadhouse burst in the door.
“What the blazes is Sam doing fighting Cas?” boomed Benny.
“Dean is going to beat Cas,” Jess explained. “So then he won’t be dishonored chopping his hair.”
“Dean is fighting Cas?” asked Ash, watching as Gabriel started off another match.
“I got a little, uh, exhausted,” said Dean, getting painfully to his feet. “So Sammy is spelling me.”
“Wait, I wanna piece of this!” howled Benny, stomping over to where Sam had just gone down in flames once again.
“Oh, me too me too!” sang Jo, dancing over, Gordon trailing along behind her. “Me next!”
Castiel looked around, dumbfounded. He wiped his face with a towel, and then tossed it aside, nodding grimly at Benny.
At some point, Pamela showed up with Charlie, and so did Meg.
“Why don’t you get tired!” Benny yelled at Castiel, who smiled slightly. “Ain’t normal!”
“Benny,” said Gabriel, “you officiate, it’s my turn.”
“Gabriel! This is not a good idea,” Cas scolded him as Gabriel grabbed a sword from the equipment cabinet.
“Are you kidding? This is a great idea! I could always take my little bro down a peg.”
“Gabriel! No!”
“You want me to challenge you? Because I will.”
“Aw, c’mon, Cas. Let your brother in on the fun,” Benny told him.
Castiel scowled at his brother, who was somewhat painfully trying to find a comfortable ready position, although he also managed a wink at Pamela up in the stands. “Okay, here we go. Benny?”
Benny counted off. The small crowd gasped. Even with his mobility impaired by his injury, Gabriel was quick as lightning. Castiel, who was finally tiring, just barely parried him.
“Damn. He’s good,” said Pamela, who could not help but sound a trifle impressed.
“That’s what I’ve been telling you, darling!” Gabriel shouted over.
They clashed half a dozen times. Gabriel didn’t quite manage to win, but he nevertheless left Castiel considerably flustered.
“Gabriel,” said Dean when Meg had stepped in as Cas’s new opponent and Gabriel retreated to the stands to sit down. “Dude, you’re amazing.”
Gabriel cracked a wide grin. “You should have seen me during my heyday. I fought as The Trickster. Nobody could get past me. Even when I fought above my normal weight class. I sort of have a sweet tooth,” he added, patting his stomach.
Sometime later, Jo called, “Cas, you okay?” Dean, who was sitting up in the stands, charged down to the mat, where Cas was on his knees, breathing hard. Cas didn’t answer.
“You look like shit, buddy,” Dean told him. “Come on.” He held out a hand, and Cas, trembling furiously, took it and got to his feet, although he looked like he was going to drop.
“All right, line it up,” said Gabriel, who was on the sidelines, nodding to Dean. Dean went to grab his sword, and came back to face off once again against Cas, who was now visibly swaying from side to side.
The court grew quiet.
“En garde,” said Gabriel. Cas raised his sword, and nearly overbalanced. “Pret.” Cas’s arm trembled. “Allez.”
And then Dean’s sword was at his neck.
“KO. Winchester,” said Gabriel, as Cas slowly sunk to his knees. He gazed up at Dean, eyes brimming with tears. With trembling hands he held his sword, hilt-first, towards Dean.
Gabriel grabbed the sword and handed it off to Dean. “Okay, here’s what you gotta do, Deano, so you don’t mess it up.” He grabbed Castiel’s hair. “Now, pull it at the knot, and hold it tight. You wanna do this in one smooth stroke so you’re not hacking at his head.”
The entire team, including Sam and Jess, had filtered out of the stands, and now gathered around in a silent circle. Dean did as Gabriel instructed, pulling up Castiel’s long hair in his left hand while he gripped Cas’s sword tightly in his right. To his relief, Castiel had closed his eyes, long lashes fluttering down on chalk white cheeks. Dean blinked as well. “And keep your eyes open,” Gabriel warned Dean. “Don’t wanna lose fingers with this. I’ve seen it done.”
Dean opened his eyes wide. He steeled himself and counted, one-two-three….
“Hey, good one! You’re a real pro!” shouted Gabriel, pounding Dean on his sore back. Dean looked up in surprise to realize he was holding a knot of dark brown hair. He looked down to assure himself Cas was still there, and nodded at his shaking friend.
“Uh. What do I do with this?” he whispered to Gabriel, indicating the hair.
“Can I have it?” gushed Charlie. “I could use it in a wig.”
Gabriel shrugged and rolled his eyes, and Charlie snatched the hair.
Dean stuck a trembling hand down to Cas, who, shaking badly, got to his feet. “Welcome to the team,” he told Cas softly, holding an arm around him to steady him. Castiel stared up curiously at the fringe of uneven bangs now falling in his face. He puffed air at them, and then sent a hand through his hair, which was now sticking literally every which way.
“You look better this way, brother,” said Benny.
“So what do we do now?” asked Ash.
“I think we go get very drunk,” Dean told Cas, who gave him a very tentative smile.
“The Lincoln assassination?” asked Dean.
“The Lincoln assassination!” said Ash.
“The Lincoln assassination,” Castiel muttered into the bar. He was half-sitting on a bar stool, his head nestled in his arms.
“Lincoln died in a duel with John Wilkes Booth,” Dean told them.
“That’s what they want you to think!” said Ash.
“Who the hell are ‘they’ anyway?” asked Dean.
“What are you talking about?” asked Gabriel, who hooked his cane on the bar and the hopped up to sit beside it.
“The Lincoln assassination,” said Dean.
“Yep,” said Gabriel, putting a beer to his lips. “They killed him.”
“How do you know?”
“Every street fighter knows.” Gabriel pointed at Ash. “Ash knows.”
“Yeah, but Ash is a paranoid conspiracy theorist!” said Dean.
Gabriel nodded sagely. “Lincoln was going to end indentured servitude.”
“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.” Dean winced as Gordon got up and, with Jo trailing behind him, stormed out of the bar. “Aw, shit, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“What?” asked Gabriel, hopping down to sit next to Dean.
“His sister,” whispered Dean. “Bounty hunter got here. She’s somewhere down south. The family doesn’t know where.”
“They’re not Freedmen?” asked Gabriel.
“No,” said Ash. “And she was in Missouri on some kind of class trip.”
“Sword fighting is the practice of free men, everywhere!” muttered Castiel, who suddenly popped his head up off his arms.
Dean leaned over and affectionately brushed a ruff of ragged dark hair out of Cas’s eyes. “I think maybe this guy has had enough for one night,” he smiled.
Cas leaned closer. “You have many freckles, Dean.”
“I think you’re right,” laughed Gabriel, hastening over to get one of Cas’s arms over his shoulders. “C’mon, Baldy. Time to get you home.” Dean caught up Castiel's other arm, and the two half walked, half carried him out to the waiting town car.
“We've got a game tomorrow night,” said Dean.
“We'll get him there,” said Gabriel. “I’ll get you all there, in fact. I'll hook this guy up to an IV with hot coffee tomorrow morning.”
Dean smiled and waved them away, and then, deep in thought, walked back into the Roadhouse, where he found himself double-teamed by Benny and Ash.
“So, you and that street fighter,” said Benny, sliding a fresh beer in front of Dean.
“Me and Cas – what?” asked Dean.
“We were just wondering,” said Benny.
“No judgment!” piped up Ash.
“No-?” started Dean, looking from one to the other. “Oh, you think-”
“You know, you two-” said Benny, pressing his index fingers together side by side.
“Oh. Gahd! Are you all turning into girls?” asked Dean.
Benny shrugged. “We were just wondering.”
“No judgment,” said Ash.
“No judgment,” repeated Benny.
“Guys, do me a favor and stop wondering. Okay? We got a game coming up tomorrow, and Cas is gonna be tired and hung over and they're not gonna be sleepwalking like the Sooners. So, drink up and get the fuck home.”
Benny and Ash looked at each other. Ash shrugged, and Benny inclined his head, and they were both suddenly entranced by the pool table.
Dean sat alone with his beer. That had just been weird. He liked Cas, sure. And he liked being around him. He was so different. There was just something really nice about him.
And he smelled really nice too. It was sort of like cookies baking.
“Soooo, nothing going on between you two?” cooed Meg, who was suddenly, in her unsettling silent way, close by.
“Meg, are you still here?”
“So you wouldn't mind if I gave it a go?” asked Meg, who was busily studying her fingernails.
“Meg, stay the fuck away.”
Meg smiled slyly and raised an eyebrow. “Ouch, touchy.”
“We've got- We've got a damn match tomorrow. Keep your head in the game.”
“And where's your head, Captain Ahab?” And then she laughed softly and wafted away, leaving Dean even more unsettled than he'd been before.
They had gathered at around noontime for the drive to Stillwater. They were used to driving themselves, but then Gabriel, as he had promised, had showed up with a big grin and a limousine with enough room for most of the team.
Coach Henricksen had begged off, as he didn't want to accept any favors, or anything that even looked like a favor.
And Dean had determined to make the drive alone, to help clear his head. So it was odd than when Cas had shyly volunteered to keep him company, he had so readily agreed. Sam shot Dean an odd look, but then they were all inside their respective vehicles, and it turned out to be very calming. Cas was in a quiet mood, content to look out the window, and he didn't bitch about Dean's choice of music like Sammy always did.
So they rode a good hour with no sound but the tape deck, Cas staring at the passing landscape, hair bouncing into his eyes. Dean noticed he had to fight the urge to be constantly reaching over and pushing the hair back from Cas's forehead.
“Doesn't that bug you?”
“I'm sorry?” Cas answered.
“The hair?”
Castiel put a hand through the unruly mop, thus rendering it yet more unruly. Dean found himself tempted to stop the car and apply a comb right then and there. He would jam the brake, put the car in park, and then maybe he would climb over into Cas's lap and apply the damn comb....
No, wait.
“Sorry, uh, what did you say?” Dean asked.
Cas looked sweetly baffled and said, “I said it's nice. Like having a weight off. A weight I didn't know I was carrying. If that makes any sense?”
“You get shit about it, I mean, back home?”
“No.” Castiel didn’t elaborate.
“Are you gonna fight-“
“Not for a while.”
They drove for a while in silence. “So, what’s it like?” Dean finally asked.
Dean glanced to the side and saw those intense eyes trained at him now. “You mean fighting?”
“Yeah.”
Castiel took long enough to answer that Dean wondered if he had once again caused an offense. “It’s difficult for me to explain,” he finally said, eyes now trained out the window once again. “I’ve been training almost since I can remember, and I started fighting when I was quite young as well.”
“How old?” Dean asked.
“Thirteen.”
“Holy shit! I thought fifteen was the minimum age.”
Castiel smiled slightly. “There isn’t a board of regulation. I have heard rumors of swordsmen as young as eleven. Of course, once you start fighting, you are no longer a child.”
“No,” said Dean. Although maybe you’ve never eaten French fries or kissed a girl, he thought.
“The cage has an intensity. In a way. It’s nothing like one of our matches. It is somewhat more akin to the carnival atmosphere of the academic duel we witnessed. But I find I don’t notice the crowd very much. The world shrinks for me, until it’s all about you, your opponents, and your partner. During certain fights – not all but some of them – you will experience a sort of transcendence. It’s difficult to explain, but I feel very much … part of the universal experience in these moments.”
Dean listened with astonishment. He had always thought of those cage matches as four guys wailing on each other, but this sounded sort of poetic. Of course, Cas was an unusual guy. Maybe even unusual for a street fighter. “And that’s why you’re a Religious Studies major?”
He glance over to see Cas was staring at him again, eyes shining. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
Dean glanced down at his watch. “Look, we got a ton of time before the game. You wanna stop on the way, grab some lunch? We could get French fries.”
“I usually don’t eat before a game. But I think in this case, yes, that would be enjoyable. Maybe an establishment with tables on the outside? I’ve seen a number of them on the road.”
“You wanna eat your French fries outside, then we’re eating outside,” said Dean. They picked a burger joint with picnic tables on the lawn outside. It was fall, and getting colder, but the day was bright and sunny, so they sat at the roadside and Dean made up ridiculous stories about the cars they saw passing by. “So, you went to live at your training place when you were a kid?”
“I was quite young. Or so they tell me.”
“Do you remember your folks at all?”
“My father, no. I have a dim recollection of my mother, but I don’t know if they’re true or false memories. She was ill. I was given over to what I understand were distant relatives after she died. They’re the ones who sold me to Joshua.”
Dean spat out coke. “Wait, sold you? That’s illegal!”
“So is street fighting,” said Cas, wry smile on his face as he dredged a French fry through hot sauce. “But what about your family, Dean? Is Sam your only brother?”
Dean set down his soda, still feeling rattled. “Yeah, it’s just Sammy and me. Our mom died when we were pretty young too.” Dean fell silent, mopping up the spilled drink with a paper napkin.
“And your father?”
“Dad is…. Well, he’s not much of a family man, I guess. He’s sort of like Ash, in a way, into the conspiracy stuff? He thought there was some connection to our mother’s death. It was just a house fire, so I imagine it was just the wiring. But he brought us up on the road, mostly. Finally, when I was in junior high, I just told him to go fuck off, we’re staying with Uncle Bobby. I’m sort of a screw up, but Sammy is a smart kid, and he needed to be in one school more than a semester. So that’s when I started fencing. Dad had showed me some stuff, mostly for self-defense, but I started getting into it, and actually managed to wrangle a scholarship. I thought there was no way in hell I was ever going to college! Uncle Bobby helped, writing letters and stuff.”
“You started a little late,” said Cas. “At fencing.”
“Oh, yeah, nothing like you. But I pick up things quickly. I guess I’ll be good, but I’ll never be great. But I like being captain. Even if it’s a pain in the fucking ass sometimes.”
“A pain in the fucking ass,” echoed Castiel.
Dean snorted. “Dude, you sound weird when you curse.”
Castiel flushed. “And Bobby is your father’s brother?”
“Oh, no! He’s not a relative. Not a blood relative. He’s one of dad’s closest friends. I guess they were both into the conspiracy thing, way back when. Or something like that. Anyway, he runs a salvage yard, just out of town. You’ll have to meet him, he’s a trip.”
“I would like to meet him,” said Cas softly.
Dean shrugged and looked at his watch. “Oh, shit, lost track of time. Let’s hit the road, don’t wanna get jawing and miss the match!” They gathered up plastic baskets and hit the road.
Alastair hesitated for a moment as he head the low growl sounding through the door.
“Come in! I don’t have all day,” came the impatient voice from inside the office.
Alastair steeled himself, and grasped the doorknob. He hated that damn dog. The feeling was, apparently, mutual.
“Coach,” he said as he crossed the threshold. A pair of red eyes glinted up at him. Alastair attended to the odd markings on the floor: for whatever reason, his coach considered the weird sigils painted on the floor to be some kind of good luck charm.
“What is it? I am quite busy today,” sighed the coach, sitting behind his desk, idly scratching the head of a dog at least as big as a small horse.
“He’s playing.”
“Who is playing?” The coach was pretending to stare at some paperwork, but Alastair thought he detected a hint of worry flicker through his eyes.
“The street fighter.”
The coach tutted, and then gestured for the dog to sit down. With a snarl at Alastair, it did so, curling up on a rug next to the office. “Where did you hear that nonsense? That’s not possible. Not unless he cut his hair!”
“He cut his hair.”
Alastair’s lips curled into a tiny smile as Crowley, currently the most winning coach in the Midwest as well one of the most evil, was caught, for a brief moment, speechless.
“Wipe that fool smirk off your face, Sunshine,” Crowley barked.
Alastair complied and straightened up. “What are we gonna do about it, Coach?” he asked.
“You? You’re going to do nothing. I will deal with it. With efficiency. As I always do. Now. Go back and practice, or whatever it is you do.” And with that, he waved off Alastair. The player turned on his heel and, with a bitter glance at the dog, who let out a small woof, departed. “And shut the door!”
Crowley leaned back. His hands of their own volition found his lower desk drawer and retrieved a silver flask with odd marking on the side. He uncapped it and took a long pull, and then closed it up, apparently refreshed. “I am surrounded by imbeciles,” he sighed.
“Well, there’s more than one way to skin a street fighter. I always say,” he told the dog. He thereupon scooted his wheeled chair over to a nearby file cabinet and, pulling a silver key from his pocket, opened up the locked bottom drawer.
“Will there be a big crowd here, do you think?” Cas asked. They had parked the car near the Oklahoma State dueling court and grabbed their gear.
“Uh, for an away game? Our stands are gonna be kinda bare.” But to Dean’s surprise, there was a decent showing, and the seats were fairly well covered in crimson and blue.
“Glad you ladies made it,” Coach Henricksen grumbled.
“You guys take the scenic route?” Benny grumped as they took court-side seats.
“We stopped for lunch,” Dean shrugged.
“Ohhhhh,” said Ash, winking at Benny.
“What?” asked Dean.
“No judgment!” laughed Ash.
“What is he talking about?” Castiel whispered to Dean.
“They’re morons. Hey, there’s your opponent. Whoa!”
They had put Cas first on the roster once again, and his opponent from the Cowboys had just lumbered onto the field. There was muttering and a couple of impressed whistles from the Jayhawks bleachers: he was a mountain of a guy. Dean immediately wondered if they’d drafted someone off the football team.
“Cas, are you gonna be okay with this?” He must have weighed at least half again what Cas did.
Castiel stood and stretched. He bent down and whispered in Dean’s ear, “Their coach is an idiot. That man is a club, not a blade.” And then, as if he had all the time in the world, he sauntered down the line of the stands for a while and made a great show of greeting his brother, Sam and Jess where they were sitting. And then he turned and crossed over to the court, deliberately walking several feet in back of where the Cowboys player had lined up on the piste.
The big guy was unnerved, and got his feet in a bit of a tangle turning around to watch a seemingly oblivious Cas cross the mat and walk down to his starting point. But it was pretty clear what Cas had been talking about: the guy was strong, but moving around was like steering a barge. He also seemed easy to rattle.
“Cas is one devious little motor faker,” whispered Benny. “I like him.”
“Me too,” said Dean, now eagerly watching them set up. The big guy looked livid. After their salutes, the official counted off, “En garde, pret, allez,” and the big arm came sweeping down in a massive gesture, as a clattering sounded: with a deft flick of the wrist, Cas had disarmed him, and as his arm uselessly completed the strike, the blade went spinning across the gym, ending up near the KC bench.
The UK crowd was on its feet, cheering. Disarming didn’t count for extra points, it was just hellishly embarrassing. After the referee had called the duel for him, Castiel ambled over to the fallen sword, stuck a toe under the blade and skillfully flipped it into his hand. And then he sauntered back and offered it up to his opponent who, looking very confused, took it back.
“Dude, you gotta show me the thing with the foot!” Ash told Castiel as he returned to the team’s seating area.
“Don’t practice it barefooted,” Cas grinned. And Dean wanted to hug him. Which made him feel a little weird. But then he got caught up in the match, and helping Henricksen coach the team. Benny was cool as a cucumber as usual, giving his crucifix a quick kiss before he strode out, and Charlie was inevitably the worst, although with a lot of nagging from Cas and Jo, at least she would no longer drop her blade. Jo was being a killer tonight, meaning she and Gordon had probably broken up again, meaning they were set for this match, but then there would be repercussions, and did other team captains have to deal with a fucking soap opera?
Dean was so distracted he didn’t hear his name called when it was time for his duel, and then he had Cas catch him and hold him close whisper some last minute advice right in his ear, Cas’s lips so close to his face, and it was really lucky Dean could do this in his sleep, because that’s basically what he did, gliding up to the mat and swatting away the guy without his feet touching the ground.
And then it was the last duel, Gordon easily getting the best of a challenger.
And then they had won. Again!
They began to march out, now all giddy on the unexpected victory. The crowd was a little bit more together this time, now stamping out the KU beat – stamp, stamp, stamp-stamp, stamp – as the team filed out.
Many years ago....
“Yep, you're gonna stay with me a while,” Bobby told the boy in his arms. Sam was still in his pajamas, and wrapped up in a blanket to boot. “We’ll get you to my place, get you some good hot soup in your belly, and get you to bed.”
“All right Unka Bobby,” sighed Sam, nestling his fevered head on Bobby's shoulder.
“I just need to grab a couple things, Uncle Bobby,” said Dean.
“Dean,” said Bobby. “Listen to me, kid.” He carefully laid Sam down on the ratty couch, making sure the blanket was tucked around him. He turned and squatted down in front of Dean, hands on the boy's shoulders. He spoke quietly. “Dean. I want you to take your time and get everything you and your brother are gonna need. You boys are not coming back here. Not for a while.”
Dean felt his heart leap in his chest. He forced himself to calm down. He had obviously misheard. These kinds of things didn't happen to Sam and Dean. “We're gonna stay with you?” he managed to choke out.
“You're staying with me.”
Dean blinked.
There was not an iota of doubt.
He hurled himself blindly into Bobby's arms, hugging his neck, nearly throwing the older man off balance.
“Hey, you don't wanna choke me, do you?” chuckled Bobby.
Dean pushed Bobby away and wiped a tear. “No, Uncle Bobby.”
Bobby stood up. “All right then. Let's get packing.”
Dean ran to his bedroom.
