Code Duello (Part 5 of 14)
Apr. 11th, 2013 04:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Code Duello (Part 5 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.
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: In this chapter, there is yet another haircut session, plus a visit to the office of the winning-est fencing coach in the Midwest.
Many years ago….
“Are you sure about this, Dean?”
“Aw, c’mon, Sammy. Bobby said the guy is out of town.”
“Why don’t we just wait for Uncle Bobby to come with us?”
“Look, this is a simple job. And we’re getting old enough!”
“Old enough because you have your driver’s license? It’s not the same thing.”
“Aw, quit making a mountain out of a molehill. We’ll just slip in, do our thing, and bring the files back to Bobby. He’ll thank us! Believe me!”
Sam, sitting in the passenger seat of what had until quite recently been their father's 1967 Chevy Impala, which had been unceremoniously dumped one rainy afternoon at Singer Salvage, gazed over at his obviously clinically insane elder brother. Sam did not look so certain. “All right. But no doggie doors!”
“No doggie doors! Promise.”
Aided somewhat by directions scribbled out on a sheet of scrap paper in Dean's terrible handwriting, they eventually found the residence in question, and Dean pulled up the long black car in back. The house was fairly isolated, which was good. And it was well after dark, which was also good, although Sam was of course worried about school tomorrow.
“I’m definitely too big to get in that doggie door,” Sam huffed as they surveyed the front yard.
“You don't have to go in the dog door. I told you. Besides, through my uncanny powers of observation, I noticed an open window around the back. And like Bobby says, guard dog means the dude doesn't have motion detectors. We’re set.”
Sam surveyed the drooping chain link fence that demarcated the front of the property, his face a mask of adolescent skepticism. “Not that a guy like this would have an alarm system. You totally sure he's our guy, Dean? This place looks pretty crappy. Like, banjo-playing albino crappy.”
Dean remained sanguine. “What did you expect? Like Uncle Bobby always says, bounty hunters are scum.”
“Yeah, but if they're any good, don't they usually make some money at it? This looks like a neighborhood where cousins marry!”
Dean, effused with confidence, chuckled indulgently. “Sammy. Just do your thing, and when you’re done, I’ll do mine, and we’ll be out of here and you can go back to writing your paper on the history of the flushing toilet or whatever useless thing you’re up to this evening instead of chasing girls.”
Even in the moonlight, Dean saw Sam’s eyes roll. Leaving Sam waiting at the front of the property, Dean hurried around towards the back yard, which was also bounded by rusty, drooping chain link, and found a weak place at the bottom of the fence. He signaled to Sam.
Sam looked back and forth, and then tossed the paper-wrapped package over the fence. He took out a whistle, which blew at a frequency undetectable by human ears.
The small dog door hinged on the bottom of the front door (it looked like a crude custom job) slammed open and a rather surprisingly huge Rottweiler mix burst out. It lumbered over to the package and, after a couple of careful sniffs, began gnawing greedily on the raw meat inside.
Sam signaled, and Dean scrambled under the fence on his belly, then raced across the yard towards the beckoning window, quick as a shadow in the night. He carefully and quietly as possible tugged up the sash and slipped inside: he didn’t even need to jimmy the latch, as the owner hadn’t bothered to leave it locked.
“Amateur,” he chuckled as he showed his flashlight around the room, thanking his lucky stars when he spotted a file cabinet pushed against the wall. He placed the flashlight in his mouth, and with skillful use of his pick, soon had a locked drawer open. “Jackpot,” he said, pulling out some files and showing the light over them. Skillful hands rifled through the files, and he extracted the ones he was looking for.
And then he froze. It wasn’t a sound, but more like the tickling of some sixth sense. He carefully closed the file he was looking at and, shoving the file drawer closed with one hip, slowly turned around, shining the flashlight beam around the room. There were piles of boxes stacked around, an old ratty couch with a dark comforter tossed on top of it, and more cardboard boxes.
He paused.
He reversed the direction of the flashlight, shining it back on the couch.
The comforter had raised its head. Two eyes blinked back over a grey muzzle.
“Oh. Uh. Hello,” said Dean.
And then the room turned to barking and fur and teeth. Dean flew across the room and pitched headlong out the window, which he had fortunately left open, file clutched under his arm, and then it was a sprint across the dead, unkempt lawn and a running dive under the chain link fence, where a stray wire snagged a belt loop and tore off a good half of the back of his jeans when Sammy grabbed him and pulled him out just a jaw-length ahead of two snapping hounds.
The boys ran to the car accompanied by a chorus of growling and howling and barking, threw themselves inside, and, with a dramatic squeal of tires, were away.
They drove in silence for a good mile or two, both breathing heavily. Dean discovered he still had the file clutched under his arm. He tossed it down on the seat between them. “Two dogs,” he breathed. “Guy didn’t have a dog. Guy had two dogs.”
He heard an obnoxious sound from his brother. Dean looked over. “Dude, your pants!” said Sam, pointing to his brother’s wardrobe malfunction.
“Aw. Consider yourself lucky I put on underwear today.” This only made Sam laugh louder, which in turn made Dean laugh too.
“Uncle Bobby’s gonna kills us, right?” asked Sam.
“Probably. We’re dead men.”
And then shook their heads and laughed some more.
The present day….
“I could cut your hair.”
Castiel peered curiously down at Jo, wondering if this was some kind of coded message that he had missed. Dean was over at the other side of the locker room, conferring with Coach Henricksen. “I’m sorry?” he told her.
“Your hair!” she repeated, reaching up and putting a hand through it. Castiel shuddered under her touch. “You could come by my mom’s house some time and we could fix it so it’s not in your eyes all the time.”
Castiel didn’t answer, but instead looked anxiously around for Gordon.
Jessica, who was standing beside Jo, told him, “It’s okay, Cas. I’ll be there too. We can hang out and eat pizza or something.”
Castiel tried to weigh his options quickly. Jo was a teammate, and it would be good to be nice to her. But on the other hand, Gordon. But, on the other other hand, Jessica would be there, and she was nice. And she was Sam’s girlfriend, and Sam was Dean’s brother.
“All right.”
As it turned out, the event included just Jo and Jess, but also Charlie and Pamela. Meg was not there, although Cas suspected she would at some point spring out of the shadows and give him one of those looks. He recognized the predatory gaze from his fights, but wasn’t quite certain what it meant.
But instead he was here inside the Harvelle’s detached garage, sitting in a chair, wrapped up in a bed-sheet, surrounded by four women. It was an intriguing experience, like being on an anthropological mission.
“So you have a girlfriend?” Jo babbled as she trimmed the short hairs near his neck.
“Um. No. Sorry.”
“Jo,” laughed Jessica.
“Do you get to pick, or are they gonna pick one for you?” Jo continued.
“Jo!” said Jess, her tone now a bit more reproachful.
“No!” said Charlie, who was lying on a yoga mat on the floor browsing through a news magazine. The headline read, Rise of the Roman Empire: Dick Roman on What It Takes to Get to the Top … And Stay There. “I heard they match you up to breed more street fighters.”
“Sounds like bullshit,” grumbled Pamela, who was sitting on a threadbare old couch drinking iced tea with Jess.
“Charlie is right,” Cas told them. “At the appropriate time, they will pick an, um, appropriate ... person.”
“Wait, those freaky stories are true?” stormed Pamela. “And you put up with that crap?”
Cas shrugged, causing Jo to tilt his head back down with firm hands. “They’re my family. It’s what’s expected of me.”
“Fuck that noise!” said Pamela.
Jo blew on the back of Cas's neck, making him jump, and pulled off the sheet with a flourish, scattering bits of dark hair everywhere. She handed him a large, cracked hand mirror, and went to get a broom to sweep up the bits of hair from the floor. Cas stared at himself. He was accustomed to studying his own reflection, as it was customary to practice forms in front of a mirror. But he had never paid much attention to his own face before, especially as it had been draped in hair for so long now. He studied it critically now: all eyes and lips and strange craggy cheekbones. He frowned in great disappointment. He wanted his face to be pleasing to the eye, the way Dean's face appeared so perfect.
And also, despite the haircut, his hair still stuck out every which way.
“Your masterpiece is all done?” asked Pamela, who walked over along with Jess to surround Cas. She thrust her hands into his hair. “It's really wiry.”
“Yeah, it's pretty wiry,” said Jess, who was also molesting Cas's head. “Do you have product Jo?”
“Yeah, he needs product,” tutted Pamela.
“I don't keep any of that girlie stuff around!” said Jo. “Want some super glue?” Cas cringed.
“I've got stuff in my bag!” Charlie announced, pouncing for her gym bag. She pulled out a pink feather boa and a pair of fairy wings, and then extracted a squeeze bottle. Jess grabbed it and began to apply it to a rather flustered Castiel's hair while Pamela looked on critically.
“What do you think?” asked Jess.
“Hrm,” said Pamela.
“Will Dean like it?” giggled Jo.
Castiel found himself wanting to sink down into the chair and disappear.
“Be careful. With Dean I mean,” Pamela told Cas.
“What, the man-slut?” asked Jo, rolling her eyes.
“Jo!” said Jess. “You dated him.”
“You did?” asked Cas.
Jo narrowed her eyes. “For a week. I think it was his personal record.”
Castiel decided he was unhappy with the direction this conversation was taking. “Uh. Pamela. You're not on the team anymore?” was the first thing that popped into his head.
The diversion worked. Pamela heaved a sigh and removed her dark glasses. “These ain't cause I think I'm a movie star. Yeah. I fought one of Crowley's girls. Ruby. She's a real prize.”
“That's Meg's old team,” said Jo, and there were a lot of angry glances.
“I'm sorry,” said Castiel, who was at last allowed out of the chair.
“Anyway, it was scary as shit. I went down when she hit me, and when they got me up, I couldn’t see out of one eye. I got a detached retina, but I guess I'm lucky because managed to reattach it. But it took a while to heal, and I've still got double vision. No depth perception. I'm useless.”
“Because you can't see?” asked Cas.
“Uh, yeah, that would do it,” cracked Pamela.
Castiel grabbed an electrical dueling blade from the rack on Jo's garage wall. He flicked the switch. “But you can still hear the hum, correct.”
“Well, yeah.”
“You know how high it's set?” he asked, clicking the switch. The hum changed pitch as the setting went higher.
“Yeah.”
Cas swept the blade in a graceful arc. “You feel the wind on your face as it goes by. Smell the scent of ozone. You can hear your opponent's footsteps.” He shuffled his feet. “You can smell the sweat on him, and know he's nervous.”
“Okay, Cas, what the hell are you going on about?”
Cas didn't answer but grabbed down another sword and handed it to Pamela. And then he crouched down near Charlie's bag and grabbed a scarf. Charlie giggled. It was a pink scarf. She helped him tie it around his head like a blindfold. And then he turned to face Pamela. “You should probably keep the setting low. Two, perhaps?”
Pamela scowled at him, but turned on her sword. Cas gave her the sign to come on. She waved her blade uncertainly, and then brought it down at him.
Quick as a cat, he parried.
Charlie jumped up and down, clapping. “He's using the Force!”
“Can I try?” pleaded Jo. “That’s so weird!”
“Give us a minute,” Cas told her.
Pamela backed up, and then got into ready position again. She squinted one eye shut, and then attacked again. Cas parried. She tried one more time, feinting right and attacking left, but he once again caught her.
“How the hell are you doing that?” asked Pamela.
“I'm paying attention.”
Jo finally whined enough that they gave her the blindfold, and she did utterly terribly against Pamela, which caused rather a lot of amusement.
“You could try this, Pammy! For your bad eye!” said Charlie, grabbing something out of her bag.
“Why does this eyepatch had a skull and crossbones on it?” sighed Pamela.
“I was from our pirate role play. Oh come on, you’ll look badass!” urged Charlie.
Pamela rolled her eyes, but suffered to be bedecked in pirate finery. And then she lined up against the still blindfolded Jo, and started kicking her ass.
“Ow!” wailed Jo, as she was struck for the umpteenth time. She tore off the scarf, tossing it at Cas. “Here, you be the Blind Man. Pammy is a killer.”
Pamela grinned. “I just keep imagining you’re that bitch, Ruby.”
Cas let Jess tie on the blindfold again, and then got into his ready position.
And then he turned on his heel, whirling around, preparing to strike out in back of him.
“Wait!” a voice pleaded.
Cas tore off the blindfold.
“Meg!” yelled Jo.
“Meg, you don’t sneak up on people with ignited swords, you idiot,” scolded Pamela.
Castiel lowered his sword, clicking it off. “Why are you here, Meg?”
“Look,” she said, “I know I’m not invited to your little slumber party. And I’m not in the special sparkly cheerleaders club. Boo-hoo. But I gotta talk to Dean. I mean, it’s urgent.” She looked searchingly at Cas. “And I figured he wouldn’t be far from you?”
“I’ll get him,” said Jess, rolling her eyes and grabbing her cell phone.
“Were you really gonna clobber me?” Meg asked Cas.
“Probably.”
Meg looked offended. “He’s deadly with that blindfold on,” bitched Jo.
“Can he see in the dark or something?” asked Meg.
“He’s a Jedi!” said Charlie.
“What is a geddy?” asked Castiel.
“Dean’s on his way,” said Jess, closing her phone.
The front door to Jo’s house opened, and Ellen emerged, wiping her hands on an apron. “Well hello there, Miss Masters,” said Ellen. “Would you like some iced tea?”
“Um, yes. Please?” said Meg.
“Mom,” grumbled Jo.
“Why don’t you go inside and get a glass for your guest, Joanna Beth?” asked Ellen, and Jo, muttering, disappeared inside.
“Yeah, Joanna Beth,” snickered Meg.
“And no sass, young lady,” lectured Ellen. “I know how to use a sword too.”
“Um. Yes ma’am,” said Meg.
“I like Mrs. Harvelle,” Castiel whispered to Jess, who giggled and, to his utter embarrassment, put an arm around his shoulders.
Dean’s Impala was soon pulling into the driveway. “So what’s the big deal?” asked Dean as he and Sam emerged. He walked up to Cas. “Hey! Have you got stuff in your hair?”
Cas nodded sheepishly.
“I need to talk to Dean. Alone,” said Meg.
“And this is an emergency?”
“I might be off the team,” said Meg, who was now staring at the ground. Some of the girls muttered to each other.
“Oh, okay,” said Dean.
“You can talk in the den, if you want,” said Ellen, pointing towards the house.
“Thanks Ellen. Come on,” Dean said to Cas, as Sam and Jo also started to follow.
“I said I would just talk to Dean!” Meg protested.
“My lawyer hears it too,” said Dean, indicating Sam. He then, with no explanation at all, grabbed Cas’s arm and led him inside along with Sam and Jo. Meg followed sullenly along, and they all assembled in the Harvelle’s basement, where Dean hopped up to sit on the bar, Cas seating himself on a barstool nearby. “So what’s the emergency?”
Meg thumped down on one of the worn couches. “Okay, first, you can’t tell Coach Henricksen. Not any of you. You’ll see why.” There were nods all around, and Meg took in a breath. “I cheated. I mean, I did it, I’m guilty. So that’s not the issue.”
“What’s the issue then?” asked Sam, who was sitting nestled next to Jess on the other couch.
“So, this was back at Kansas State. One of my TAs gave us this weird fucking take home exam for the final. I mean, it was open book and all, but the questions were just freaky! Nobody could figure out what the fuck, so we all finally just started working together on it. I know it was against the rules, but I didn’t wanna flunk. It was a required class, and I needed to keep up my grades for my scholarship.
“Anyway, we turned it in and it was fine. But then later it turned out Crowley had found out. I guess somebody squealed.”
“So, he wanted to kick you off the team?” asked Dean.
“No! That was the really screwed up thing! I mean, it was SOP for that rat bastard, but this was more held over our heads-“
“Wait, more than one of you?” asked Sam.
Meg glowered at Sam. “Yeah, more than one of us,” she mocked. “What are you, some kind of boy scout? It was obviously a set-up. Anyway, he kept the memo locked in his office, and it was left hanging over our heads, do what I say, and win, or else.”
Sam sighed and threw up his hands. “You want us to believe Crowley set you up?”
“You don’t know the guy!” said Meg. “He’s pure evil.”
“Sounds like someone you’d like, Meg,” grumbled Dean.
“Isn’t Crowley the most winning coach in the conference?” Cas interjected.
Meg turned towards him. “He doesn’t even really coach, pretty boy! He leaves that all the Alastair. He just sits at the sidelines, drinks from his little flask and bellows at people.”
“Alastair’s the one who cracked my ribs,” said Dean, reflexively feeling his side.
“I will fight him this time, Dean,” said Cas, who quite suddenly had a homicidal gleam in his eye.
“Um,” said Dean, who wasn’t quite certain if he was a little afraid or slightly turned on, or maybe a mix of both.
“Go kick the bastard’s ass,” said Meg. “I don’t care. But that’s when I said fuck this shit and applied for a transfer. I wasn’t gonna spend my days under Crowley’s thumb. And I heard nothing else about it for a whole year. But then this morning I got an anonymous text message with an image of the memo attached.” She pulled out her phone and tossed it over to Dean.
Dean squinted at the screen. “And the sender is … Ann O'Nymus?”
“But it’s pretty fucking clear what it means,” said Meg. Dean had to agree.
“So what do you want us to do about it, Meg?” asked Sam.
“Well, I know I can’t go to Coach Hardass,” said Meg.
“Henricksen will kick your ass off the team,” Dean gleefully supplied, tossing back the phone.
Meg looked back and forth between Sam and Dean. “Look, I’m not gonna beat around the bush. I know what you guys used to do. I mean, before college and you turned all straight arrow.”
Dean grinned smugly, but Sam looked flustered. Cas looked between the two of them, confused.
“Uh, I think I’ll go out and see how the girls are doing,” said Jess, who abruptly stood and left, leaving Cas even more uncertain.
“So I repeat,” said Dean, leaning forward. “What do you think we can do for you?”
Meg huffed. “It’s all in that office. In his files. There’s this memo. But there’s other stuff. I mean, the whole team is dirty. I know for one thing they’re flunking.”
“And juicing?”
“Alastair, definitely. And several of the other guys. And I’m sure he’s keeping blackmail material on all of the other teams. It’s a freaking treasure trove, you guys.”
“So we just waltz right in and ask Crowley to open up his files?” asked Dean, who was grinning and batting his eyes while Sam shifted over to sit on the same couch as Meg.
“Quit playing dumb, Winchester!” fumed Meg. “Look I’m not gonna pretend I have this super hot team spirit or anything. But I do wanna play on the team and beat those assholes. Just like you do. And you know I’m off, you’re short your quota of female players. Unless you wanna clone Charlie.”
Dean pulled up his legs to sit cross-legged up on the bar. “How about I talk to Sam?”
Meg nodded glumly and rose. “Okay. Thanks. I guess.” She started towards the door. “Oh, and one more thing?”
Dean squinted at her. This was never good news.
“Crowley’s sort of … got a guard dog.”
Dean didn’t reply, but mouthed, “Oh, fuck.” Meg shrugged and slumped out of the den.
“Dean,” said Sam.
“Why is there always a dog?” grumbled Dean, hopping off the bar and going behind it to prowl for snacks. “I fucking hate dogs.”
Sam angrily crossed his arms. “Well, yeah, there’s that, and we could get our asses kicked not only off the team, but out of school.”
“For fucking with Kansas State? Heh. They’ll give us a medal.” Dean brought out a jar of cocktail peanuts and poured himself a generous, salty handful.
Castiel managed to work up the courage to speak. “Dean, what was Meg talking about? About what you did before?”
Dean held out the jar of peanuts to Castiel, who allowed Dean to shake a greasy pile into his hand. Dean leaned forward conspiratorially. “You’ve heard of the underground railroad?”
Cas nearly choked on his cashews. “You…” he managed to sputter.
“Our Uncle Bobby,” said Sam.
Cas’s mind was reeling. It was like something out of a novel. “Isn’t it … stealing?”
“Not if you don’t get caught!” said Dean.
“Involuntary servitude is unethical!” said Sam. “It violates fundamental principles of human dignity!”
“Plus it’s fun.” Dean held out his hands. “We used to do jobs for Uncle Bobby. When we were small.”
“Yeah, when we were kids, Dean,” said Sam, running his hands through his hair. “Crowley’s got a dog. You hate dogs.”
“Yeah, but we got a guy who can walk up walls!” said Dean, reaching over to grab Cas’s shoulder.
“So, you helped people escape?” asked Cas as he and Sam quietly followed Dean sneaking through the Kansas State campus in the dark of the night. He still wasn’t entirely certain why he had been invited along, but when Dean had asked him, he could hardly say no. When he had asked why he was needed, the brothers had simply muttered something confusing about a doggie door.
“The building with Crowley's office is thataway,” whispered Dean, who hurried off into the dark.
“They had already escaped,” Sam explained. “We mostly set them up with fake IDs and a new identity. And we'd get the bounty hunters off their trail.”
“That was the origin of street fighting!” said Cas appreciatively.
“Yeah, Cas, but there’s other ways besides fighting those scumbags directly,” Dean told him.
Sam nodded. “Uncle Bobby used to have us break into their offices and grab their files. It usually wasn’t too hard. They're paranoid, but they're usually pretty stupid. This started way back when we pretty small, and I could still fit through a doggie door. There’s always a dog. Always.”
Cas squinted at Sam. Yes, it had probably been a while since he had been that small. Although, for such a large person, Sam seemed very adept at melting into the shadows. Cas carefully followed his lead. There wasn't supposed to be a lot of security around the campus at night, and they all had fake K-state ID cards with fanciful names, but it was probably best that they were not stopped. They drew near a brick building beside a large oak tree. A sign near the door read Pratchett Hall.
Sam and Cas crouched next to Dean, who was hiding behind a hedge. “This is it.”
“Why is this nowhere near the athletics complex?” asked Cas.
Sam and Dean rolled their eyes. “Because Crowley has no interest in actually coaching,” said Sam. “So what’s the plan for getting in?” he asked Dean.
“Look, Sammy, it's like they're inviting us in.” Dean pointed upwards: indeed, up on the second floor, set back on a narrow ledge, a window had been left open.
“You’re telling me you’re gonna climb up?” Sam asked Dean. “You get nauseous standing on a step ladder.”
“Not me, Cas!”
“Uh, me?” asked the same.
Dean stared at him. “Can you do it?”
Castiel stared back. “Yes. Yes, of course, I can do it.”
“Great!” said Dean, clapping him on the shoulder. Sam looked more skeptical. “Fuse box?” Dean asked Sam.
“Yeah, I'll go find it,” said Sam.
“We'll wait until the lights are cut,” said Dean. “Just in case there's alarms on any of the windows. If there’s a dog, there’s no motion detectors, but I’ve learned you can never be too careful.” Dean unconsciously rubbed a hand on his butt, remembering a pair of hopelessly torn jeans.
Sam disappeared around the corner of the building while Cas gazed upwards, wondering what the hell he'd gotten himself into. He would have to climb a tree, which would probably be easy enough, and then traverse a very narrow ledge to reach the open window.
Dean dumped his bag on the ground and squatted down next to it. He pulled out a plastic ziploc and gave it to Cas. “In case of dog.”
Cas stuck the item in his messenger bag and, making sure the straps for the bag and for his sword were secure, turned around and walked towards the oak tree. “You need a boost?” asked Dean, who was hurrying after him. Cas smiled and nodded. Why not? Dean leaned over and interlaced his hands, and Cas stepped lightly into them and caught the tree's lowest branches. He swung up, and then carefully clambered his way to the long branch that continued upwards to drape over the ledge on the second floor. Really, the ledge looked less narrow from up here. It was probably wider than a balance beam, he told himself. Of course, the balance beam was a couple feet high, and this was a good twenty feet up, but Castiel had never been particularly chary about heights.
Glancing down to where Dean was standing on the ground, he signaled that he was ready, and Dean signaled back to hold up. He sat on the branch in the chill night air and waited and, not for the first time, wondered what he had done in his life to come to be burglarizing the office of someone who, despite some misdeeds, had never personally done him any harm.
The lights switched off, and Castiel snapped out of his reverie. Dean, down on the ground, signaled to go, so Cas shinnied the rest of the way from the branch to the building, and then stepped off onto the ledge, placing one foot and then the other to first make sure the aging masonry was able to support his weight. He sighted up to the darkened open window, checked the position of his feet, and then quickly glanced down to make certain Dean was watching him.
He smiled. And then he took off running, graceful as a cat.
Easier than the balance beam: he didn't have any guys whacking on him! He halted on a dime outside the window, and once again flicked a quick look down below him, where Dean, at least from the tense silhouette, appeared to be appropriately impressed. Cas squatted down and slid two hands beneath the window sash and very gently pushed up just enough to afford his entrance.
And then he slipped inside, into the dark room. He immediately turned back to the window and slowly lowered the wooden sash back to exactly its starting position.
He froze.
It was such a soft sound: nails clicking on floorboards.
Very slowly and deliberately, he turned to face the darkened room.
“Uh. Hello?”
Dean was on the verge of breaking into the back door when he heard the soft click of the latch opening.
“Cas!” he whispered harshly. “I nearly had a heart attack when you fucking ran down the ledge! Are you-” But the rest of his thought was lost as Cas slapped a hand over his mouth and yanked Dean inside the building, quietly but firmly shutting the door behind them.
Dean gesticulated, and Cas suddenly removed his hand. And then Dean yelped when he felt the soft paws on his shoulders, and a large tongue running across his mouth. “Ugh!”
A dog the size of a small horse dropped back to its four paws, snatched up a bone from the floor, ran around in a delighted circle, and then nestled down on the floor.
“He appeared to appreciate your present,” said Cas, indicating the bone.
“That is the biggest fucking dog in the entire world,” breathed Dean.
“According to his collar, his name is Growley.”
“Uh. Hiya, Growley dude.”
The dog did not pause from chawing the bone, but the tail did stick up in a cheery wag.
“I think I spotted the room that might be Crowley's office down the hall.” Cas started to go, but then turned around and grabbed Dean's arm and half dragged him along. Growley picked up his bone and padded after them.
The stopped by a door bearing Crowley's nameplate. “This particular door was locked, whereas the others I've tried have all been opened.”
Dean appeared to gain back some of his self-possession. “Okay. All right. Hold this, but keep it low,” he said, handing over a flashlight to Cas. Dean slipped on some gloves, and then took out his lock pick and, while Cas watched, fascinated, coaxed the door open. They both slipped into the room, carefully shutting the door in front of Growley, who let out a small, disappointed whine, and then returned to the floor to gnaw on his juicy steak bone.
Dean and Cas both trailed flashlights around the office, but paused for a long moment at the large oil portrait hanging in back of the desk.
Cas tilted his head. “Is that … Coach Crowley?”
“Yeah. Well, after a few months with a personal trainer. And a facelift.” Dean shook his head and continued to train his flashlight around. The entire floor was painted with a large symbol. Cas at first thought it was the K-state logo, but it appeared to be a strange six-sided polygon with many intricate lines drawn within. It was partly hidden underneath Crowley’s desk, so they were unable to be certain.
“Ah. File cabinet.” Dean walked over and pulled open the first drawer, second, third, and finally, tugged on the bottom drawer. “Locked drawer. Think we'll have something.” Dean took out his pick again and got to work, and the lock soon yielded. He pulled out the file drawer, and began flipping through it. “Holy shit! Meg was right. This is a treasure trove.”
Dean flipped out a couple of file folders and set them out on what was evidently Crowley's desk. Dean and Cas hovered over, shining lights on the pages. “Man. This is unbelievable. His whole team is on academic probation.”
“Why would he keep such incriminating records?” asked Cas. He directed his light at the door, where there came the soft sound of scratching. “I don't think Growley is happy about being excluded.”
“Like Meg said, he wants something over everyone.” Dean flipped over another file. “And this is dirt on the other teams. See? He moved Meg's stuff over to our folder.”
Cas peered over Dean's shoulder as Dean flipped to a page that bore their Coach's picture. “Coach Henricksen?”
“But he's clean as a whistle,” mused Dean, scanning down the page. He paused. He read over the paragraph again, and gave a low whistle.
“Is that true?” asked Cas.
“Holy shit. I guess so.” Dean looked uncertainly over the files. “Boy, there's a lot here.”
“Do we take it?”
“No. We wanna leave this place exactly like we found it.” Dean frowned, scanning the room. “That's Crowley's copy machine, let me see if I can work out how to use it. And can you do something about your buddy?” he added, inclining his head to where Growley was still scratching and whining outside the door.
Dean went to poke at the Xerox machine while Cas opened the door for the biggest dog in the world. Growley dropped his bone just inside the door and immediately padded over towards Dean, who was currently cursing out the very complicated combination fax/printer/copier. “I bet he has a secretary do all this crap. Hey!” he scolded Growley, who placed his front paws on the counter and nosed the machine.
Which clicked on and whirred to life.
Dean and Cas exchanged an amused glance. “Okay,” said Dean. “Keep everything organized exactly the way you found it. We'll give ourselves,” he consulted his watch, “ten minutes, and then we pack and move.” So, while Growley happily chewed on his bone and watched, Cas and Dean committed a great chunk of the locked file drawer to the copy machine. And then they set everything back, and locked the file drawer, and cleared out of the office. After, that is, one last rather baffled glance at the huge oil painting of Crowley. “I really wanna spray paint a mustache on that puppy,” said Dean, panning his flashlight on the monstrosity one last time. “All right, let's get out of here and find Sammy.”
With a reluctant goodbye to Growley they fled the office building and hastened around to the back of the building, where Sam was waiting very impatiently for them. “I was ready to send out the dogs,” he muttered, throwing the switch on the electrical box and making the power go back on for this section of campus.
“Oh, we found the dog all on our own. Cas has a new friend,” said Dean.
“What, Crowley's guard dog?” asked Sam.
“Yeah, he's more of a pussycat than a dog. Anyway, we gotta get all this stuff back so we can get the anonymous 'blackmailer' off Meg before the game.”
Once they had gotten back to the car and put some miles between themselves and K-State, they decamped to an all-night fast food joint. Sam spread a few of the documents over the sticky tabletop to assess the blackmail potential of each. Meanwhile, Dean pulled a padlock and his pick out of his jacket pocket and began to demonstrate elementary lock picking to an enthralled Castiel.
“Are you sure this is the place to do that?” whispered Sam irritably as he shook dressing on his salad shaker.
“Dude. There's no one else here, and the kid behind the counter just unlocked Link's Master Sword on his Gameboy.” Sam turned towards the check-out counter and smiled as he heard the distinctive beep of Nintendo music. Dean handed the padlock off to Cas, who occupied himself with the pick. “You know, you nearly gave me a heart attack when you ran across the ledge like that.”
“He did what?” asked Sam.
As Cas struggled not to smile, Dean said, “He climbed the tree up to the second floor, and then there's this like three inch ledge...”
“It was at least six inches,” Cas told them with a great amount of false modesty.
“Anyway, he hops off the branch and fucking skips down the ledge.”
“It was more of a controlled run than a skip.” To Cas's astonishment, the padlock popped open in his hands.
“There you go, top shelf,” said Dean, putting his hand up for a fist bump.
“Well,” said Sam, returning to the spread of incriminating evidence in front of him, “I'd say this is the one to drop in the mailbox.”
Dean and Cas leaned over to see. “Oh, I didn't get a good look at these!” said Dean.
“Coach Crowley looks very different with a mustache,” commented Cas, who was tilting his head like a dog to gaze at the picture.
“Coach Crowley looks very different when he's wearing pants,” laughed Dean.
“What I don't understand is why he would keep blackmail material on himself!” said Sam.
“Hey, probably not old enough to remember, but Uncle Bobby says after the Nixon/Ervin duel, they found President Nixon had been taping himself in his office: everything he said!”
“That's just weird,” said Sam. He pulled at a corner of the photo sitting on the table. “Did Nixon ever party dressed like the Fuehrer?”
“I dunno, Sammy. Anyway slap it in an envelope and let's get out of here,” said Dean. “We're still gonna have a time of it against those guys. Even with Meg on the team.”
“I believe Pamela will be able to return,” said Cas.
Both Dean and Sam, who had stood up, paused and looked at him. “What?” asked Dean.
Cas squirmed out of the booth. “I was working with her the other day. She is very talented, despite limited practice time in the past few months, but I believe we can get her up to speed for the latter part of the season.”
“Cas. I could hug you,” said Dean. “In fact-” And with that, he engulfed the rather surprised duelist in a big hug. And then he yelled, “Come on, group hug,” and grabbed in a laughing Sam as well.
Later that night (or really that morning) after they had dropped Cas off to the ever-present town car, Sam looked over from the passenger seat at his brother and asked, “So, exactly how bad do you have it for that guy.”
“What?”
“Okay, Dean, you have his pin-up picture in your room.”
Sam thought Dean was going to drive into the ditch. “It's- It's not a pin-up! It's just a picture of a street fight.”
“What are you gonna tell him when he sees your room?”
“Why would he see my room?”
Sam scowled at his brother's serious lack in the brain cell department. “Okay, let's put it this way. Why do you think he pulled that crazy stunt breaking into the building?”
“What crazy stunt?”
“Running across the ledge like that? You said so yourself!”
“Oh, it looked pretty safe.”
“Dean, do I need to remind you that standing up on a chair makes you hurl!”
“Sammy, believe me, man. There's nothing there. I am Dean Winchester, and I'm just a simple one hundred-woman kinda guy.”
“One hundred women?”
“Per month.”
Sam sighed heavily and slumped down in the seat as Dean pulled into the Singer Salvage yard. The exited the car and quietly as possible, entered Bobby's huge, rambling residence, being very careful to drop their boots and weaponry in the mudroom before they entered the house proper.
“You finally done with the damned secret mission?” came a cranky voice.
“Bobby,” said Dean, feeling his chest to make sure his heart didn't hop out. “You still awake?”
“Still awake? It's the morning, you dimwits.” And indeed, he was holding a fresh cup of coffee and a newspaper. He scanned the boys with great suspicion. “So where's your street fighter buddy?”
“We sent him back home. Why?”
“Just curious as to what all the fuss was about. You got his damn centerfold up in your room.”
“IT'S NOT A CENTERFOLD,” Dean protested as Sam smirked.
Many years ago….
Bobby squinted at the dog-eared file in front of him on the kitchen table. He took off his reading glasses, frowned at them, and set them down, finally looking up at Sam and Dean, who hovered nervously nearby.
“You know, I should tan your hides. The both of you,” he mused, his fingers tracing a strange symbol that had seemingly been scribbled in ball point pen onto the cover of the file.
“But?” urged Dean as Sam cringed.
“You boys have helped give somebody a new life. And I can’t argue with that.”
“Thanks, Uncle Bobby.”
“I gotta say, there’s more than a little of your daddy in you boys.”
Dean was beaming. Sam abruptly stood up.
“I’m nothing like him. I am nothing like John,” Sam declared. And then, muttering something about a homework assignment, he stalked out of the kitchen.
“Sammy,” said Dean.
“Dean,” said Bobby. “Let the boy go. Now, I’m speaking to you, son. You’re the oldest. This is more dangerous than you think.”
“Look, Uncle Bobby, I promise, next time, we’ll get a count of the dogs.” Dean ruefully hitched up his sweat pants.
“That’s aint what I’m talking about. And there won’t be a next time,” said Bobby. “Not until you kids are older at least.”
“What do you mean?” asked Dean.
Bobby folded his hands. “There’s things out there – more’n dogs – things you got no comprehension of.”
“What kind of things?”
Bobby was unconsciously tracing the odd symbol on the folder. “There’s time for that. Later. Right now, you kids got other things to worry about. Like being kids. And don’t you got homework too?”
“Uh….”
“Dean Winchester, you listen to me. While you’re under my roof, it’s still my rules. And my first rule is, you finish your damn education. Then if you want to go off and be a idjit like your daddy, then, it’s your damn funeral. But for now, you be a kid. And you let your brother be a kid. I know it seems like forever, I remember being your age, but believe me, you don’t got a lot of time left.”
Dean studied Uncle Bobby, his lips forming a reply, rejecting it, and then searching for another. Finally he said, “All right, Uncle Bobby. But, we, uh, did okay?”
“You done good here. Now do go your damn homework.”
Dean grinned wide and departed. Bobby’s eyes drifted once again down to the file, and the odd doodle on the cover: a strange six-sided polygon with many intricate lines drawn within.
“Time enough for that later,” he mused, grabbing up the file and going to put it away.
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.
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: In this chapter, there is yet another haircut session, plus a visit to the office of the winning-est fencing coach in the Midwest.
Many years ago….
“Are you sure about this, Dean?”
“Aw, c’mon, Sammy. Bobby said the guy is out of town.”
“Why don’t we just wait for Uncle Bobby to come with us?”
“Look, this is a simple job. And we’re getting old enough!”
“Old enough because you have your driver’s license? It’s not the same thing.”
“Aw, quit making a mountain out of a molehill. We’ll just slip in, do our thing, and bring the files back to Bobby. He’ll thank us! Believe me!”
Sam, sitting in the passenger seat of what had until quite recently been their father's 1967 Chevy Impala, which had been unceremoniously dumped one rainy afternoon at Singer Salvage, gazed over at his obviously clinically insane elder brother. Sam did not look so certain. “All right. But no doggie doors!”
“No doggie doors! Promise.”
Aided somewhat by directions scribbled out on a sheet of scrap paper in Dean's terrible handwriting, they eventually found the residence in question, and Dean pulled up the long black car in back. The house was fairly isolated, which was good. And it was well after dark, which was also good, although Sam was of course worried about school tomorrow.
“I’m definitely too big to get in that doggie door,” Sam huffed as they surveyed the front yard.
“You don't have to go in the dog door. I told you. Besides, through my uncanny powers of observation, I noticed an open window around the back. And like Bobby says, guard dog means the dude doesn't have motion detectors. We’re set.”
Sam surveyed the drooping chain link fence that demarcated the front of the property, his face a mask of adolescent skepticism. “Not that a guy like this would have an alarm system. You totally sure he's our guy, Dean? This place looks pretty crappy. Like, banjo-playing albino crappy.”
Dean remained sanguine. “What did you expect? Like Uncle Bobby always says, bounty hunters are scum.”
“Yeah, but if they're any good, don't they usually make some money at it? This looks like a neighborhood where cousins marry!”
Dean, effused with confidence, chuckled indulgently. “Sammy. Just do your thing, and when you’re done, I’ll do mine, and we’ll be out of here and you can go back to writing your paper on the history of the flushing toilet or whatever useless thing you’re up to this evening instead of chasing girls.”
Even in the moonlight, Dean saw Sam’s eyes roll. Leaving Sam waiting at the front of the property, Dean hurried around towards the back yard, which was also bounded by rusty, drooping chain link, and found a weak place at the bottom of the fence. He signaled to Sam.
Sam looked back and forth, and then tossed the paper-wrapped package over the fence. He took out a whistle, which blew at a frequency undetectable by human ears.
The small dog door hinged on the bottom of the front door (it looked like a crude custom job) slammed open and a rather surprisingly huge Rottweiler mix burst out. It lumbered over to the package and, after a couple of careful sniffs, began gnawing greedily on the raw meat inside.
Sam signaled, and Dean scrambled under the fence on his belly, then raced across the yard towards the beckoning window, quick as a shadow in the night. He carefully and quietly as possible tugged up the sash and slipped inside: he didn’t even need to jimmy the latch, as the owner hadn’t bothered to leave it locked.
“Amateur,” he chuckled as he showed his flashlight around the room, thanking his lucky stars when he spotted a file cabinet pushed against the wall. He placed the flashlight in his mouth, and with skillful use of his pick, soon had a locked drawer open. “Jackpot,” he said, pulling out some files and showing the light over them. Skillful hands rifled through the files, and he extracted the ones he was looking for.
And then he froze. It wasn’t a sound, but more like the tickling of some sixth sense. He carefully closed the file he was looking at and, shoving the file drawer closed with one hip, slowly turned around, shining the flashlight beam around the room. There were piles of boxes stacked around, an old ratty couch with a dark comforter tossed on top of it, and more cardboard boxes.
He paused.
He reversed the direction of the flashlight, shining it back on the couch.
The comforter had raised its head. Two eyes blinked back over a grey muzzle.
“Oh. Uh. Hello,” said Dean.
And then the room turned to barking and fur and teeth. Dean flew across the room and pitched headlong out the window, which he had fortunately left open, file clutched under his arm, and then it was a sprint across the dead, unkempt lawn and a running dive under the chain link fence, where a stray wire snagged a belt loop and tore off a good half of the back of his jeans when Sammy grabbed him and pulled him out just a jaw-length ahead of two snapping hounds.
The boys ran to the car accompanied by a chorus of growling and howling and barking, threw themselves inside, and, with a dramatic squeal of tires, were away.
They drove in silence for a good mile or two, both breathing heavily. Dean discovered he still had the file clutched under his arm. He tossed it down on the seat between them. “Two dogs,” he breathed. “Guy didn’t have a dog. Guy had two dogs.”
He heard an obnoxious sound from his brother. Dean looked over. “Dude, your pants!” said Sam, pointing to his brother’s wardrobe malfunction.
“Aw. Consider yourself lucky I put on underwear today.” This only made Sam laugh louder, which in turn made Dean laugh too.
“Uncle Bobby’s gonna kills us, right?” asked Sam.
“Probably. We’re dead men.”
And then shook their heads and laughed some more.
The present day….
“I could cut your hair.”
Castiel peered curiously down at Jo, wondering if this was some kind of coded message that he had missed. Dean was over at the other side of the locker room, conferring with Coach Henricksen. “I’m sorry?” he told her.
“Your hair!” she repeated, reaching up and putting a hand through it. Castiel shuddered under her touch. “You could come by my mom’s house some time and we could fix it so it’s not in your eyes all the time.”
Castiel didn’t answer, but instead looked anxiously around for Gordon.
Jessica, who was standing beside Jo, told him, “It’s okay, Cas. I’ll be there too. We can hang out and eat pizza or something.”
Castiel tried to weigh his options quickly. Jo was a teammate, and it would be good to be nice to her. But on the other hand, Gordon. But, on the other other hand, Jessica would be there, and she was nice. And she was Sam’s girlfriend, and Sam was Dean’s brother.
“All right.”
As it turned out, the event included just Jo and Jess, but also Charlie and Pamela. Meg was not there, although Cas suspected she would at some point spring out of the shadows and give him one of those looks. He recognized the predatory gaze from his fights, but wasn’t quite certain what it meant.
But instead he was here inside the Harvelle’s detached garage, sitting in a chair, wrapped up in a bed-sheet, surrounded by four women. It was an intriguing experience, like being on an anthropological mission.
“So you have a girlfriend?” Jo babbled as she trimmed the short hairs near his neck.
“Um. No. Sorry.”
“Jo,” laughed Jessica.
“Do you get to pick, or are they gonna pick one for you?” Jo continued.
“Jo!” said Jess, her tone now a bit more reproachful.
“No!” said Charlie, who was lying on a yoga mat on the floor browsing through a news magazine. The headline read, Rise of the Roman Empire: Dick Roman on What It Takes to Get to the Top … And Stay There. “I heard they match you up to breed more street fighters.”
“Sounds like bullshit,” grumbled Pamela, who was sitting on a threadbare old couch drinking iced tea with Jess.
“Charlie is right,” Cas told them. “At the appropriate time, they will pick an, um, appropriate ... person.”
“Wait, those freaky stories are true?” stormed Pamela. “And you put up with that crap?”
Cas shrugged, causing Jo to tilt his head back down with firm hands. “They’re my family. It’s what’s expected of me.”
“Fuck that noise!” said Pamela.
Jo blew on the back of Cas's neck, making him jump, and pulled off the sheet with a flourish, scattering bits of dark hair everywhere. She handed him a large, cracked hand mirror, and went to get a broom to sweep up the bits of hair from the floor. Cas stared at himself. He was accustomed to studying his own reflection, as it was customary to practice forms in front of a mirror. But he had never paid much attention to his own face before, especially as it had been draped in hair for so long now. He studied it critically now: all eyes and lips and strange craggy cheekbones. He frowned in great disappointment. He wanted his face to be pleasing to the eye, the way Dean's face appeared so perfect.
And also, despite the haircut, his hair still stuck out every which way.
“Your masterpiece is all done?” asked Pamela, who walked over along with Jess to surround Cas. She thrust her hands into his hair. “It's really wiry.”
“Yeah, it's pretty wiry,” said Jess, who was also molesting Cas's head. “Do you have product Jo?”
“Yeah, he needs product,” tutted Pamela.
“I don't keep any of that girlie stuff around!” said Jo. “Want some super glue?” Cas cringed.
“I've got stuff in my bag!” Charlie announced, pouncing for her gym bag. She pulled out a pink feather boa and a pair of fairy wings, and then extracted a squeeze bottle. Jess grabbed it and began to apply it to a rather flustered Castiel's hair while Pamela looked on critically.
“What do you think?” asked Jess.
“Hrm,” said Pamela.
“Will Dean like it?” giggled Jo.
Castiel found himself wanting to sink down into the chair and disappear.
“Be careful. With Dean I mean,” Pamela told Cas.
“What, the man-slut?” asked Jo, rolling her eyes.
“Jo!” said Jess. “You dated him.”
“You did?” asked Cas.
Jo narrowed her eyes. “For a week. I think it was his personal record.”
Castiel decided he was unhappy with the direction this conversation was taking. “Uh. Pamela. You're not on the team anymore?” was the first thing that popped into his head.
The diversion worked. Pamela heaved a sigh and removed her dark glasses. “These ain't cause I think I'm a movie star. Yeah. I fought one of Crowley's girls. Ruby. She's a real prize.”
“That's Meg's old team,” said Jo, and there were a lot of angry glances.
“I'm sorry,” said Castiel, who was at last allowed out of the chair.
“Anyway, it was scary as shit. I went down when she hit me, and when they got me up, I couldn’t see out of one eye. I got a detached retina, but I guess I'm lucky because managed to reattach it. But it took a while to heal, and I've still got double vision. No depth perception. I'm useless.”
“Because you can't see?” asked Cas.
“Uh, yeah, that would do it,” cracked Pamela.
Castiel grabbed an electrical dueling blade from the rack on Jo's garage wall. He flicked the switch. “But you can still hear the hum, correct.”
“Well, yeah.”
“You know how high it's set?” he asked, clicking the switch. The hum changed pitch as the setting went higher.
“Yeah.”
Cas swept the blade in a graceful arc. “You feel the wind on your face as it goes by. Smell the scent of ozone. You can hear your opponent's footsteps.” He shuffled his feet. “You can smell the sweat on him, and know he's nervous.”
“Okay, Cas, what the hell are you going on about?”
Cas didn't answer but grabbed down another sword and handed it to Pamela. And then he crouched down near Charlie's bag and grabbed a scarf. Charlie giggled. It was a pink scarf. She helped him tie it around his head like a blindfold. And then he turned to face Pamela. “You should probably keep the setting low. Two, perhaps?”
Pamela scowled at him, but turned on her sword. Cas gave her the sign to come on. She waved her blade uncertainly, and then brought it down at him.
Quick as a cat, he parried.
Charlie jumped up and down, clapping. “He's using the Force!”
“Can I try?” pleaded Jo. “That’s so weird!”
“Give us a minute,” Cas told her.
Pamela backed up, and then got into ready position again. She squinted one eye shut, and then attacked again. Cas parried. She tried one more time, feinting right and attacking left, but he once again caught her.
“How the hell are you doing that?” asked Pamela.
“I'm paying attention.”
Jo finally whined enough that they gave her the blindfold, and she did utterly terribly against Pamela, which caused rather a lot of amusement.
“You could try this, Pammy! For your bad eye!” said Charlie, grabbing something out of her bag.
“Why does this eyepatch had a skull and crossbones on it?” sighed Pamela.
“I was from our pirate role play. Oh come on, you’ll look badass!” urged Charlie.
Pamela rolled her eyes, but suffered to be bedecked in pirate finery. And then she lined up against the still blindfolded Jo, and started kicking her ass.
“Ow!” wailed Jo, as she was struck for the umpteenth time. She tore off the scarf, tossing it at Cas. “Here, you be the Blind Man. Pammy is a killer.”
Pamela grinned. “I just keep imagining you’re that bitch, Ruby.”
Cas let Jess tie on the blindfold again, and then got into his ready position.
And then he turned on his heel, whirling around, preparing to strike out in back of him.
“Wait!” a voice pleaded.
Cas tore off the blindfold.
“Meg!” yelled Jo.
“Meg, you don’t sneak up on people with ignited swords, you idiot,” scolded Pamela.
Castiel lowered his sword, clicking it off. “Why are you here, Meg?”
“Look,” she said, “I know I’m not invited to your little slumber party. And I’m not in the special sparkly cheerleaders club. Boo-hoo. But I gotta talk to Dean. I mean, it’s urgent.” She looked searchingly at Cas. “And I figured he wouldn’t be far from you?”
“I’ll get him,” said Jess, rolling her eyes and grabbing her cell phone.
“Were you really gonna clobber me?” Meg asked Cas.
“Probably.”
Meg looked offended. “He’s deadly with that blindfold on,” bitched Jo.
“Can he see in the dark or something?” asked Meg.
“He’s a Jedi!” said Charlie.
“What is a geddy?” asked Castiel.
“Dean’s on his way,” said Jess, closing her phone.
The front door to Jo’s house opened, and Ellen emerged, wiping her hands on an apron. “Well hello there, Miss Masters,” said Ellen. “Would you like some iced tea?”
“Um, yes. Please?” said Meg.
“Mom,” grumbled Jo.
“Why don’t you go inside and get a glass for your guest, Joanna Beth?” asked Ellen, and Jo, muttering, disappeared inside.
“Yeah, Joanna Beth,” snickered Meg.
“And no sass, young lady,” lectured Ellen. “I know how to use a sword too.”
“Um. Yes ma’am,” said Meg.
“I like Mrs. Harvelle,” Castiel whispered to Jess, who giggled and, to his utter embarrassment, put an arm around his shoulders.
Dean’s Impala was soon pulling into the driveway. “So what’s the big deal?” asked Dean as he and Sam emerged. He walked up to Cas. “Hey! Have you got stuff in your hair?”
Cas nodded sheepishly.
“I need to talk to Dean. Alone,” said Meg.
“And this is an emergency?”
“I might be off the team,” said Meg, who was now staring at the ground. Some of the girls muttered to each other.
“Oh, okay,” said Dean.
“You can talk in the den, if you want,” said Ellen, pointing towards the house.
“Thanks Ellen. Come on,” Dean said to Cas, as Sam and Jo also started to follow.
“I said I would just talk to Dean!” Meg protested.
“My lawyer hears it too,” said Dean, indicating Sam. He then, with no explanation at all, grabbed Cas’s arm and led him inside along with Sam and Jo. Meg followed sullenly along, and they all assembled in the Harvelle’s basement, where Dean hopped up to sit on the bar, Cas seating himself on a barstool nearby. “So what’s the emergency?”
Meg thumped down on one of the worn couches. “Okay, first, you can’t tell Coach Henricksen. Not any of you. You’ll see why.” There were nods all around, and Meg took in a breath. “I cheated. I mean, I did it, I’m guilty. So that’s not the issue.”
“What’s the issue then?” asked Sam, who was sitting nestled next to Jess on the other couch.
“So, this was back at Kansas State. One of my TAs gave us this weird fucking take home exam for the final. I mean, it was open book and all, but the questions were just freaky! Nobody could figure out what the fuck, so we all finally just started working together on it. I know it was against the rules, but I didn’t wanna flunk. It was a required class, and I needed to keep up my grades for my scholarship.
“Anyway, we turned it in and it was fine. But then later it turned out Crowley had found out. I guess somebody squealed.”
“So, he wanted to kick you off the team?” asked Dean.
“No! That was the really screwed up thing! I mean, it was SOP for that rat bastard, but this was more held over our heads-“
“Wait, more than one of you?” asked Sam.
Meg glowered at Sam. “Yeah, more than one of us,” she mocked. “What are you, some kind of boy scout? It was obviously a set-up. Anyway, he kept the memo locked in his office, and it was left hanging over our heads, do what I say, and win, or else.”
Sam sighed and threw up his hands. “You want us to believe Crowley set you up?”
“You don’t know the guy!” said Meg. “He’s pure evil.”
“Sounds like someone you’d like, Meg,” grumbled Dean.
“Isn’t Crowley the most winning coach in the conference?” Cas interjected.
Meg turned towards him. “He doesn’t even really coach, pretty boy! He leaves that all the Alastair. He just sits at the sidelines, drinks from his little flask and bellows at people.”
“Alastair’s the one who cracked my ribs,” said Dean, reflexively feeling his side.
“I will fight him this time, Dean,” said Cas, who quite suddenly had a homicidal gleam in his eye.
“Um,” said Dean, who wasn’t quite certain if he was a little afraid or slightly turned on, or maybe a mix of both.
“Go kick the bastard’s ass,” said Meg. “I don’t care. But that’s when I said fuck this shit and applied for a transfer. I wasn’t gonna spend my days under Crowley’s thumb. And I heard nothing else about it for a whole year. But then this morning I got an anonymous text message with an image of the memo attached.” She pulled out her phone and tossed it over to Dean.
Dean squinted at the screen. “And the sender is … Ann O'Nymus?”
“But it’s pretty fucking clear what it means,” said Meg. Dean had to agree.
“So what do you want us to do about it, Meg?” asked Sam.
“Well, I know I can’t go to Coach Hardass,” said Meg.
“Henricksen will kick your ass off the team,” Dean gleefully supplied, tossing back the phone.
Meg looked back and forth between Sam and Dean. “Look, I’m not gonna beat around the bush. I know what you guys used to do. I mean, before college and you turned all straight arrow.”
Dean grinned smugly, but Sam looked flustered. Cas looked between the two of them, confused.
“Uh, I think I’ll go out and see how the girls are doing,” said Jess, who abruptly stood and left, leaving Cas even more uncertain.
“So I repeat,” said Dean, leaning forward. “What do you think we can do for you?”
Meg huffed. “It’s all in that office. In his files. There’s this memo. But there’s other stuff. I mean, the whole team is dirty. I know for one thing they’re flunking.”
“And juicing?”
“Alastair, definitely. And several of the other guys. And I’m sure he’s keeping blackmail material on all of the other teams. It’s a freaking treasure trove, you guys.”
“So we just waltz right in and ask Crowley to open up his files?” asked Dean, who was grinning and batting his eyes while Sam shifted over to sit on the same couch as Meg.
“Quit playing dumb, Winchester!” fumed Meg. “Look I’m not gonna pretend I have this super hot team spirit or anything. But I do wanna play on the team and beat those assholes. Just like you do. And you know I’m off, you’re short your quota of female players. Unless you wanna clone Charlie.”
Dean pulled up his legs to sit cross-legged up on the bar. “How about I talk to Sam?”
Meg nodded glumly and rose. “Okay. Thanks. I guess.” She started towards the door. “Oh, and one more thing?”
Dean squinted at her. This was never good news.
“Crowley’s sort of … got a guard dog.”
Dean didn’t reply, but mouthed, “Oh, fuck.” Meg shrugged and slumped out of the den.
“Dean,” said Sam.
“Why is there always a dog?” grumbled Dean, hopping off the bar and going behind it to prowl for snacks. “I fucking hate dogs.”
Sam angrily crossed his arms. “Well, yeah, there’s that, and we could get our asses kicked not only off the team, but out of school.”
“For fucking with Kansas State? Heh. They’ll give us a medal.” Dean brought out a jar of cocktail peanuts and poured himself a generous, salty handful.
Castiel managed to work up the courage to speak. “Dean, what was Meg talking about? About what you did before?”
Dean held out the jar of peanuts to Castiel, who allowed Dean to shake a greasy pile into his hand. Dean leaned forward conspiratorially. “You’ve heard of the underground railroad?”
Cas nearly choked on his cashews. “You…” he managed to sputter.
“Our Uncle Bobby,” said Sam.
Cas’s mind was reeling. It was like something out of a novel. “Isn’t it … stealing?”
“Not if you don’t get caught!” said Dean.
“Involuntary servitude is unethical!” said Sam. “It violates fundamental principles of human dignity!”
“Plus it’s fun.” Dean held out his hands. “We used to do jobs for Uncle Bobby. When we were small.”
“Yeah, when we were kids, Dean,” said Sam, running his hands through his hair. “Crowley’s got a dog. You hate dogs.”
“Yeah, but we got a guy who can walk up walls!” said Dean, reaching over to grab Cas’s shoulder.
“So, you helped people escape?” asked Cas as he and Sam quietly followed Dean sneaking through the Kansas State campus in the dark of the night. He still wasn’t entirely certain why he had been invited along, but when Dean had asked him, he could hardly say no. When he had asked why he was needed, the brothers had simply muttered something confusing about a doggie door.
“The building with Crowley's office is thataway,” whispered Dean, who hurried off into the dark.
“They had already escaped,” Sam explained. “We mostly set them up with fake IDs and a new identity. And we'd get the bounty hunters off their trail.”
“That was the origin of street fighting!” said Cas appreciatively.
“Yeah, Cas, but there’s other ways besides fighting those scumbags directly,” Dean told him.
Sam nodded. “Uncle Bobby used to have us break into their offices and grab their files. It usually wasn’t too hard. They're paranoid, but they're usually pretty stupid. This started way back when we pretty small, and I could still fit through a doggie door. There’s always a dog. Always.”
Cas squinted at Sam. Yes, it had probably been a while since he had been that small. Although, for such a large person, Sam seemed very adept at melting into the shadows. Cas carefully followed his lead. There wasn't supposed to be a lot of security around the campus at night, and they all had fake K-state ID cards with fanciful names, but it was probably best that they were not stopped. They drew near a brick building beside a large oak tree. A sign near the door read Pratchett Hall.
Sam and Cas crouched next to Dean, who was hiding behind a hedge. “This is it.”
“Why is this nowhere near the athletics complex?” asked Cas.
Sam and Dean rolled their eyes. “Because Crowley has no interest in actually coaching,” said Sam. “So what’s the plan for getting in?” he asked Dean.
“Look, Sammy, it's like they're inviting us in.” Dean pointed upwards: indeed, up on the second floor, set back on a narrow ledge, a window had been left open.
“You’re telling me you’re gonna climb up?” Sam asked Dean. “You get nauseous standing on a step ladder.”
“Not me, Cas!”
“Uh, me?” asked the same.
Dean stared at him. “Can you do it?”
Castiel stared back. “Yes. Yes, of course, I can do it.”
“Great!” said Dean, clapping him on the shoulder. Sam looked more skeptical. “Fuse box?” Dean asked Sam.
“Yeah, I'll go find it,” said Sam.
“We'll wait until the lights are cut,” said Dean. “Just in case there's alarms on any of the windows. If there’s a dog, there’s no motion detectors, but I’ve learned you can never be too careful.” Dean unconsciously rubbed a hand on his butt, remembering a pair of hopelessly torn jeans.
Sam disappeared around the corner of the building while Cas gazed upwards, wondering what the hell he'd gotten himself into. He would have to climb a tree, which would probably be easy enough, and then traverse a very narrow ledge to reach the open window.
Dean dumped his bag on the ground and squatted down next to it. He pulled out a plastic ziploc and gave it to Cas. “In case of dog.”
Cas stuck the item in his messenger bag and, making sure the straps for the bag and for his sword were secure, turned around and walked towards the oak tree. “You need a boost?” asked Dean, who was hurrying after him. Cas smiled and nodded. Why not? Dean leaned over and interlaced his hands, and Cas stepped lightly into them and caught the tree's lowest branches. He swung up, and then carefully clambered his way to the long branch that continued upwards to drape over the ledge on the second floor. Really, the ledge looked less narrow from up here. It was probably wider than a balance beam, he told himself. Of course, the balance beam was a couple feet high, and this was a good twenty feet up, but Castiel had never been particularly chary about heights.
Glancing down to where Dean was standing on the ground, he signaled that he was ready, and Dean signaled back to hold up. He sat on the branch in the chill night air and waited and, not for the first time, wondered what he had done in his life to come to be burglarizing the office of someone who, despite some misdeeds, had never personally done him any harm.
The lights switched off, and Castiel snapped out of his reverie. Dean, down on the ground, signaled to go, so Cas shinnied the rest of the way from the branch to the building, and then stepped off onto the ledge, placing one foot and then the other to first make sure the aging masonry was able to support his weight. He sighted up to the darkened open window, checked the position of his feet, and then quickly glanced down to make certain Dean was watching him.
He smiled. And then he took off running, graceful as a cat.
Easier than the balance beam: he didn't have any guys whacking on him! He halted on a dime outside the window, and once again flicked a quick look down below him, where Dean, at least from the tense silhouette, appeared to be appropriately impressed. Cas squatted down and slid two hands beneath the window sash and very gently pushed up just enough to afford his entrance.
And then he slipped inside, into the dark room. He immediately turned back to the window and slowly lowered the wooden sash back to exactly its starting position.
He froze.
It was such a soft sound: nails clicking on floorboards.
Very slowly and deliberately, he turned to face the darkened room.
“Uh. Hello?”
Dean was on the verge of breaking into the back door when he heard the soft click of the latch opening.
“Cas!” he whispered harshly. “I nearly had a heart attack when you fucking ran down the ledge! Are you-” But the rest of his thought was lost as Cas slapped a hand over his mouth and yanked Dean inside the building, quietly but firmly shutting the door behind them.
Dean gesticulated, and Cas suddenly removed his hand. And then Dean yelped when he felt the soft paws on his shoulders, and a large tongue running across his mouth. “Ugh!”
A dog the size of a small horse dropped back to its four paws, snatched up a bone from the floor, ran around in a delighted circle, and then nestled down on the floor.
“He appeared to appreciate your present,” said Cas, indicating the bone.
“That is the biggest fucking dog in the entire world,” breathed Dean.
“According to his collar, his name is Growley.”
“Uh. Hiya, Growley dude.”
The dog did not pause from chawing the bone, but the tail did stick up in a cheery wag.
“I think I spotted the room that might be Crowley's office down the hall.” Cas started to go, but then turned around and grabbed Dean's arm and half dragged him along. Growley picked up his bone and padded after them.
The stopped by a door bearing Crowley's nameplate. “This particular door was locked, whereas the others I've tried have all been opened.”
Dean appeared to gain back some of his self-possession. “Okay. All right. Hold this, but keep it low,” he said, handing over a flashlight to Cas. Dean slipped on some gloves, and then took out his lock pick and, while Cas watched, fascinated, coaxed the door open. They both slipped into the room, carefully shutting the door in front of Growley, who let out a small, disappointed whine, and then returned to the floor to gnaw on his juicy steak bone.
Dean and Cas both trailed flashlights around the office, but paused for a long moment at the large oil portrait hanging in back of the desk.
Cas tilted his head. “Is that … Coach Crowley?”
“Yeah. Well, after a few months with a personal trainer. And a facelift.” Dean shook his head and continued to train his flashlight around. The entire floor was painted with a large symbol. Cas at first thought it was the K-state logo, but it appeared to be a strange six-sided polygon with many intricate lines drawn within. It was partly hidden underneath Crowley’s desk, so they were unable to be certain.
“Ah. File cabinet.” Dean walked over and pulled open the first drawer, second, third, and finally, tugged on the bottom drawer. “Locked drawer. Think we'll have something.” Dean took out his pick again and got to work, and the lock soon yielded. He pulled out the file drawer, and began flipping through it. “Holy shit! Meg was right. This is a treasure trove.”
Dean flipped out a couple of file folders and set them out on what was evidently Crowley's desk. Dean and Cas hovered over, shining lights on the pages. “Man. This is unbelievable. His whole team is on academic probation.”
“Why would he keep such incriminating records?” asked Cas. He directed his light at the door, where there came the soft sound of scratching. “I don't think Growley is happy about being excluded.”
“Like Meg said, he wants something over everyone.” Dean flipped over another file. “And this is dirt on the other teams. See? He moved Meg's stuff over to our folder.”
Cas peered over Dean's shoulder as Dean flipped to a page that bore their Coach's picture. “Coach Henricksen?”
“But he's clean as a whistle,” mused Dean, scanning down the page. He paused. He read over the paragraph again, and gave a low whistle.
“Is that true?” asked Cas.
“Holy shit. I guess so.” Dean looked uncertainly over the files. “Boy, there's a lot here.”
“Do we take it?”
“No. We wanna leave this place exactly like we found it.” Dean frowned, scanning the room. “That's Crowley's copy machine, let me see if I can work out how to use it. And can you do something about your buddy?” he added, inclining his head to where Growley was still scratching and whining outside the door.
Dean went to poke at the Xerox machine while Cas opened the door for the biggest dog in the world. Growley dropped his bone just inside the door and immediately padded over towards Dean, who was currently cursing out the very complicated combination fax/printer/copier. “I bet he has a secretary do all this crap. Hey!” he scolded Growley, who placed his front paws on the counter and nosed the machine.
Which clicked on and whirred to life.
Dean and Cas exchanged an amused glance. “Okay,” said Dean. “Keep everything organized exactly the way you found it. We'll give ourselves,” he consulted his watch, “ten minutes, and then we pack and move.” So, while Growley happily chewed on his bone and watched, Cas and Dean committed a great chunk of the locked file drawer to the copy machine. And then they set everything back, and locked the file drawer, and cleared out of the office. After, that is, one last rather baffled glance at the huge oil painting of Crowley. “I really wanna spray paint a mustache on that puppy,” said Dean, panning his flashlight on the monstrosity one last time. “All right, let's get out of here and find Sammy.”
With a reluctant goodbye to Growley they fled the office building and hastened around to the back of the building, where Sam was waiting very impatiently for them. “I was ready to send out the dogs,” he muttered, throwing the switch on the electrical box and making the power go back on for this section of campus.
“Oh, we found the dog all on our own. Cas has a new friend,” said Dean.
“What, Crowley's guard dog?” asked Sam.
“Yeah, he's more of a pussycat than a dog. Anyway, we gotta get all this stuff back so we can get the anonymous 'blackmailer' off Meg before the game.”
Once they had gotten back to the car and put some miles between themselves and K-State, they decamped to an all-night fast food joint. Sam spread a few of the documents over the sticky tabletop to assess the blackmail potential of each. Meanwhile, Dean pulled a padlock and his pick out of his jacket pocket and began to demonstrate elementary lock picking to an enthralled Castiel.
“Are you sure this is the place to do that?” whispered Sam irritably as he shook dressing on his salad shaker.
“Dude. There's no one else here, and the kid behind the counter just unlocked Link's Master Sword on his Gameboy.” Sam turned towards the check-out counter and smiled as he heard the distinctive beep of Nintendo music. Dean handed the padlock off to Cas, who occupied himself with the pick. “You know, you nearly gave me a heart attack when you ran across the ledge like that.”
“He did what?” asked Sam.
As Cas struggled not to smile, Dean said, “He climbed the tree up to the second floor, and then there's this like three inch ledge...”
“It was at least six inches,” Cas told them with a great amount of false modesty.
“Anyway, he hops off the branch and fucking skips down the ledge.”
“It was more of a controlled run than a skip.” To Cas's astonishment, the padlock popped open in his hands.
“There you go, top shelf,” said Dean, putting his hand up for a fist bump.
“Well,” said Sam, returning to the spread of incriminating evidence in front of him, “I'd say this is the one to drop in the mailbox.”
Dean and Cas leaned over to see. “Oh, I didn't get a good look at these!” said Dean.
“Coach Crowley looks very different with a mustache,” commented Cas, who was tilting his head like a dog to gaze at the picture.
“Coach Crowley looks very different when he's wearing pants,” laughed Dean.
“What I don't understand is why he would keep blackmail material on himself!” said Sam.
“Hey, probably not old enough to remember, but Uncle Bobby says after the Nixon/Ervin duel, they found President Nixon had been taping himself in his office: everything he said!”
“That's just weird,” said Sam. He pulled at a corner of the photo sitting on the table. “Did Nixon ever party dressed like the Fuehrer?”
“I dunno, Sammy. Anyway slap it in an envelope and let's get out of here,” said Dean. “We're still gonna have a time of it against those guys. Even with Meg on the team.”
“I believe Pamela will be able to return,” said Cas.
Both Dean and Sam, who had stood up, paused and looked at him. “What?” asked Dean.
Cas squirmed out of the booth. “I was working with her the other day. She is very talented, despite limited practice time in the past few months, but I believe we can get her up to speed for the latter part of the season.”
“Cas. I could hug you,” said Dean. “In fact-” And with that, he engulfed the rather surprised duelist in a big hug. And then he yelled, “Come on, group hug,” and grabbed in a laughing Sam as well.
Later that night (or really that morning) after they had dropped Cas off to the ever-present town car, Sam looked over from the passenger seat at his brother and asked, “So, exactly how bad do you have it for that guy.”
“What?”
“Okay, Dean, you have his pin-up picture in your room.”
Sam thought Dean was going to drive into the ditch. “It's- It's not a pin-up! It's just a picture of a street fight.”
“What are you gonna tell him when he sees your room?”
“Why would he see my room?”
Sam scowled at his brother's serious lack in the brain cell department. “Okay, let's put it this way. Why do you think he pulled that crazy stunt breaking into the building?”
“What crazy stunt?”
“Running across the ledge like that? You said so yourself!”
“Oh, it looked pretty safe.”
“Dean, do I need to remind you that standing up on a chair makes you hurl!”
“Sammy, believe me, man. There's nothing there. I am Dean Winchester, and I'm just a simple one hundred-woman kinda guy.”
“One hundred women?”
“Per month.”
Sam sighed heavily and slumped down in the seat as Dean pulled into the Singer Salvage yard. The exited the car and quietly as possible, entered Bobby's huge, rambling residence, being very careful to drop their boots and weaponry in the mudroom before they entered the house proper.
“You finally done with the damned secret mission?” came a cranky voice.
“Bobby,” said Dean, feeling his chest to make sure his heart didn't hop out. “You still awake?”
“Still awake? It's the morning, you dimwits.” And indeed, he was holding a fresh cup of coffee and a newspaper. He scanned the boys with great suspicion. “So where's your street fighter buddy?”
“We sent him back home. Why?”
“Just curious as to what all the fuss was about. You got his damn centerfold up in your room.”
“IT'S NOT A CENTERFOLD,” Dean protested as Sam smirked.
Many years ago….
Bobby squinted at the dog-eared file in front of him on the kitchen table. He took off his reading glasses, frowned at them, and set them down, finally looking up at Sam and Dean, who hovered nervously nearby.
“You know, I should tan your hides. The both of you,” he mused, his fingers tracing a strange symbol that had seemingly been scribbled in ball point pen onto the cover of the file.
“But?” urged Dean as Sam cringed.
“You boys have helped give somebody a new life. And I can’t argue with that.”
“Thanks, Uncle Bobby.”
“I gotta say, there’s more than a little of your daddy in you boys.”
Dean was beaming. Sam abruptly stood up.
“I’m nothing like him. I am nothing like John,” Sam declared. And then, muttering something about a homework assignment, he stalked out of the kitchen.
“Sammy,” said Dean.
“Dean,” said Bobby. “Let the boy go. Now, I’m speaking to you, son. You’re the oldest. This is more dangerous than you think.”
“Look, Uncle Bobby, I promise, next time, we’ll get a count of the dogs.” Dean ruefully hitched up his sweat pants.
“That’s aint what I’m talking about. And there won’t be a next time,” said Bobby. “Not until you kids are older at least.”
“What do you mean?” asked Dean.
Bobby folded his hands. “There’s things out there – more’n dogs – things you got no comprehension of.”
“What kind of things?”
Bobby was unconsciously tracing the odd symbol on the folder. “There’s time for that. Later. Right now, you kids got other things to worry about. Like being kids. And don’t you got homework too?”
“Uh….”
“Dean Winchester, you listen to me. While you’re under my roof, it’s still my rules. And my first rule is, you finish your damn education. Then if you want to go off and be a idjit like your daddy, then, it’s your damn funeral. But for now, you be a kid. And you let your brother be a kid. I know it seems like forever, I remember being your age, but believe me, you don’t got a lot of time left.”
Dean studied Uncle Bobby, his lips forming a reply, rejecting it, and then searching for another. Finally he said, “All right, Uncle Bobby. But, we, uh, did okay?”
“You done good here. Now do go your damn homework.”
Dean grinned wide and departed. Bobby’s eyes drifted once again down to the file, and the odd doodle on the cover: a strange six-sided polygon with many intricate lines drawn within.
“Time enough for that later,” he mused, grabbing up the file and going to put it away.
