Code Duello (Part 7 of 14)
Apr. 18th, 2013 11:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Code Duello (Part 7 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, Bobby gets a guest under his roof, and the team practices.
“Where could he be? This is not like him!”
“I'm sure he's fine.”
“He's not answering his cell!”
“Dean. The guy has a life, you know.”
Dean stood in the middle of the gym floor, looking wretched. “He wasn't at practice. Why would he miss practice? He never misses practice!” Dean searched his younger brother's face.
Sam smiled with genuine affection. “Maybe he had to, you know, do school work?”
“School work. Yeah. What's that.”
Sam chuckled. “Aw, c'mon, it's been less than 24 hours, I guarantee he hasn't forgotten all about you in the meantime. Now, can we take off?”
Dean attempted to shrug it off. He was probably being a girl, but he just had a nagging bad feeling about all this. “I just need to grab some shit out of my locker,” he told his brother.
“Hurry it up. I gotta get home. I still gotta study for an exam tomorrow.”
“You study for exams? Wimp!” Dean turned and marched into the locker room. But he pulled up short.
“Cas!”
“Um. Hello, Dean,” said Castiel. He was sitting on the floor next to his locker, arms hugging his knees, his bag beside him.
Dean squatted down beside him. “Okay, what's going on, buddy? We didn't see you at practice today, and you weren't answering your phone. We were worried.”
“I didn't know where else to go.” Cas's voice was very soft. He wiped his eye on a sleeve.
“What do you mean?” Dean shifted to sit down. Cas was breathing hard, which was weird for him. Usually nothing much flustered him but Jo. When Cas took a while to answer, Dean started to speculate that it was something to do with the Gordon and Jo situation.
“Zachariah. Our … boss. He told me he was going to pull me out of school. And force me to start juicing. They locked me inside the dojo. Like a prisoner, Dean! And took away my phone. So- So I picked the lock, like you taught me. And crawled out the window.”
“You broke out?” said Dean. Cas nodded. “Cool!”
That got a faint smile. “And then I made my way here to campus.”
“You walked all this way?”
Cas nodded. “But I don't know where to go. I don't want them to find me. I don't want to go back, Dean. And I don't know what to do....”
Sam burst into the locker room. “Dean, what the hell is taking- Oh, hey Cas.” He cast a confused glance at Dean. “Where were you today?”
“He's on the lam from his dojo,” said Dean. Cas nodded sadly. “He ran away!”
“That's … pretty serious, actually,” said Sam.
“Sam, they wanted him to drop out. And they were gonna start drugging him.”
Sam scanned his mind for what he knew about the legal status of street fighters. Unfortunately, it was a whole lot of grey on grey. “We're a free state. But he's.... Won’t they come after him? I mean, like you would with an escaped servant?”
Both Dean and Cas nodded sadly. “Look, I don't know what we're gonna do, but you can't stay here tonight. Come on. You're coming with us.” He stood, holding out a hand.
Cas’s face seemed to be all dark eyes. “To … your home?”
“Yeah. You probably should hang with us until we figure out what to do.”
They headed straight back to Bobby's place in near silence. It was dark, so there wasn’t even much to look at along the roadway. At one point, Dean had told Sam, “So now we’re harboring a fugitive, huh? Pretty cool.” But Sam either didn’t think that was the case, or didn’t believe it to be cool, and so didn’t deign to answer.
The car stopped outside a property bounded by a high, razor wire-topped fence. Sam hopped out to unlock the gate and push it open, and then they entered into a strange world filled with stacks of dead vehicles lying one atop the other. Sam and Dean brought him inside the mud room, where they stripped out of heavy boots and also stowed their side arms. Cas’s fingers trailed over an especially long blade mounted neatly on the wall.
“Oh, that was my high school sword,” said Sam apologetically. “I dunno why Bobby doesn’t take it down and store it.”
“This is your home,” said Cas, peering at the weapon. “You need a sword in the entryway.”
Sam demurred. “Bobby’s just … sentimental.”
Dean laughed. “Are you kidding? Bobby is the least sentimental old bastard in the world!”
Sam flashed Dean a look of great vengeance, and then pressed a finger to his lips as he opened the door into the main house.
“Probably best not to wake up Bobby ‘til tomorrow,” Dean whispered. “You can crash on my floor tonight.” Cas nodded, although it as difficult to pay attention as he had never seen the like of this room: there were just as many books stacked in here as there had been cars on the outside. Dean opened a linen closet, and began handing over blankets and pillows to Cas and Sam. And then with strict instructions to be as silent as possible, the three made their way upstairs and past a closed door that Cas assumed was Bobby’s bedroom.
They made their way to Dean’s room, where Sam laughed, “I hope Cas likes your décor.”
Dean looked baffled, but then his expression changed to something Cas couldn’t read. He rushed inside, dumping the linens all on his bed, and tore something down from the wall over his bed, which he somewhat clumsily placed on the nightstand. Cas, who was behind the man-mountain that was Sam, couldn’t see what it was. He smiled slightly, figuring it was probably some kind of pornography: he was certain he’d seem much worse up on the walls of his dormitory. Dean should see the kinds of things Gabriel was capable of!
“Uh, thanks, Sammy. We’ll take it from here.”
Sam grinned and departed, muttering, “G’night.” Dean fussed about making Cas a nest of pillows and blankets on the floor. After a number of assurances from Cas that it was actually more comfortable than his own bed (which was true), Dean finally relented. Cas wearily slipped into a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt and started to doze almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
“What the hell. I get up there's a new set of dueling boots and a sword I don't recognize in my mud room. May I inquire what the actual fuck is goin' on around here?”
Cas, who had been sitting at the cluttered kitchen table sipping coffee along with Sam and Dean that morning, literally jumped when Bobby burst into the house. Bobby, Dean had explained, was an early riser.
“We can explain-” started Sam.
“We have to help him!” said Dean.
“You two idjits shut up and let the boy speak for himself.” Bobby crossed his arms and made a show of looking Cas up and down. “You! I got a duelist staying in my home?”
Cas regarded Bobby nervously. “Yes sir.”
“Oh, polite at least. I like that. You boys might learn some manners!” Bobby added, whacking Dean on the back of the head. “So you're the notorious Cas I take it.”
“Castiel.”
“Yeah, I ain't got time for all that. You're Cas. I'm Bobby Singer, the proprietor of this establishment.”
“Yessir.”
“And you’re a genuine duelist, kid?”
“We had him leave his sword outside, Bobby,” Dean explained.
“Hold on, boy. You take a duelist into your home, there are certain rules, of which you idjits are obviously ignorant.”
“Oh!” said Cas. He ran out to the mud room and ran back, holding his sword. He started to go down on one knee.
Bobby grinned. “Don't bother with that, kid. You ain't asking for my hand in marriage.” Cas stood up. He offered the sword to Bobby, hilt-first. Bobby pulled the sword from the scabbard. “Nice!” He looked it over and then carefully replaced it. “All right, you get that back outside before I cut my damn fingers off.”
Cas nodded and hurried back to the mud room.
“Okay, we got that taken care of,” said Bobby, as Dean dimly remembered some kind of code of honor that was invoked when you had a fighter under your roof. He seemed to recall a high school fencing coach scratching them out on a chalkboard years ago. “You two wanna tell me what the blazes is going on?”
“Cas got kicked out,” said Dean.
“He got locked in,” corrected Sam.
“Well, more or less,” said Dean as Cas came skidding back into the room in his stocking feet. “He needs somewhere to stay while we figure things out.”
Bobby smiled. “Is that so? A homeless street fighter. So, what can you do for me, Cas?”
Castiel frowned, uncertain.
“Well, can you fix a car? In case you ain't noticed, I run a business. And it ain't feeding hungry idjits.” Castiel nervously shook his head. “All right, can you wash clothes? Clean the floor? Cook a meal?”
“I can cook!”
“All right then, go make me breakfast. And make it snappy.” Bobby removed his cap and sat down at the table, while Cas fled into the kitchen.
Dean leapt up to follow. “I'll show you where stuff is!” he shouted after Cas.
“Dean, you don't have any fucking clue where anything is in my kitchen!” Bobby bellowed. He turned around to face Sam. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Make yourself useful!” Sam too scampered off, and Bobby, grinning like a fool opened his newspaper. “And somebody get me some fresh fucking coffee!” he shouted, holding up his mug.
Some minutes, some clattering and shouting and some really terrific smells later, Sam and Dean set the table with a bunch of mismatched dishes, and then bustled in with a platter of enough bacon to feed a small army and a basket of fresh biscuits.
Cas emerged with a frying pan. “Do you take your eggs over easy, over medium, or over hard, Mr. Singer?” he asked, pointing to an array in the pan.
“Bobby is fine. Scrambled, usually, but I'll take the middle one.” Castiel dumped the indicated eggs onto Bobby's plate and began to leave. “And did you whip up these biscuits?”
“Yes sir.”
“You bake? Dammit, Dean,” he told Dean, who had just come out with a stack of pancakes. “You need to marry this kid.” Dean blanched and put down the pancakes. “Well, where the hell is the maple syrup? Get on the stick!”
After some more time, the four men were finally all arrayed around the table along with enough breakfast fare to feed ten times their number. “In the future,” said Bobby, stifling a burp, “you probably don't gotta make waffles and pancakes and biscuits and toast all at the same time.”
“Yessir,” muttered Cas, who had barely touched the measly portion of food on his own plate.
“And eat your damn eggs! Don't want you disappearing down to nothing on my watch.”
Dean leaned forward, his voice holding much urgency. “Uncle Bobby, Cas ran away from his dojo.”
“Is that true? Are you AWOL kid?”
“Am I a wall?” asked Cas, nibbling uncertainly on his eggs.
“We figured, with what you do, maybe you'd be able to help,” said Dean.
Bobby laughed. “Dean, you idjit. After all this time, you got no fucking idea what I do?”
“Dean told me you were connected with the underground railroad movement,” Cas told him with utmost seriousness.
“Well, good on Dean for sharing our secret mission with the world,” sighed Bobby. “What I do is help people who wanna get lost disappear. Dean, you dumb shit, you just got one of the most famous street fighters running, and you went and made him more famous!”
Dean, who was rarely at a loss for words, stared at his uncle. “We did?” he asked, voice cracking slightly.
“I'm … famous?” asked Cas, who appeared sweetly baffled at it all.
“The Avenging Angel?” scoffed Bobby. “I had to restrain Rufus from coming to one of your games and kidnapping your skinny ass for his collection!” Castiel looked aghast, so Bobby waved his hand. “I'm joking kid. But you owe the dumb bastard an autograph.”
“So we can't help him?” Dean asked.
Bobby sighed and pushed himself back from the table, patting his stomach. “Well, see here, Cas. I think what's happening is that up until now, your bosses let you play at going to college, probably because they thought you'd get sick of it on your own and quit. I'll be they didn't reckon on you signing up for a third-rate college fencing team.”
Dean looked offended. “We're not third rate!”
“When's the last time your crowd had a winning season? Even before you came on board, Dean, that team's been sort of a local shame. Henricksen at least got you all straightened up, but I'm pretty damn sure you'd still be in the toilet without Cas.”
“Wait just a minute,” said Sam. “Uncle Bobby. What the hell, man. You haven't been to a single game. I thought you hated fencing?”
Bobby grunted out a sigh and stuck an old silver spoon in his coffee to stir it up. “Ain't no American who hates dueling. It's in our blood. I just can't stand to see my boys fighting.” He turned to Cas. “I managed to talk some sense into Sam, but Dean is too fucking stubborn. And you! You're a lunatic. Of course, those folks raised you to be a lunatic, so it ain't your fault.”
“I'm not a lunatic,” Cas protested, surprised as hell to find himself contradicting an elder. “I mean, respectfully. Sir-”
“Why do you owe me any respect?” laughed Bobby. “I'm some grumpy old bastard who just got you hopping around my damn kitchen when you're barely awake. But listen to what I'm saying. How much money you got?”
“Why would I need money?”
“So, none? And how much you think your bosses made on that last fight? The one where that kid got it in the neck?”
Cas stared miserably at his eggs. “I don't know.”
Bobby was staring him down. “Don't know or don't care? So I take it you didn't get any of that money?”
“I wouldn't want any of that money.”
“So. You're a slave.”
Cas was up on his feet, glaring at Bobby with great vengeance. “I am not a slave.” He looked around. “And- And I'm not going to stand around and be insulted!”
“Wait, Cas!” shouted Sam, who leapt up too. Cas pushed past him and marched towards the door.
“Cas!” barked Dean, who didn't move from his chair.
Castiel stopped and, reluctantly, turned to face Dean.
“Cas. Where the hell else you think you're gonna go? I mean, come on!”
Cas stared stubbornly at the floor.
“Anyway, there's no humiliation in being a slave, kid,” said Bobby. “The folks who should hang their heads are the owners. Now, I want you to come back to the table, finish your damn breakfast, and we'll figure out what to do with you. But let's get one thing straight: I'm not gonna lie to you or go tippy-toeing around your honor code. I tend to think you've had enough lying so far to last you your whole life.”
Cas's shoulders slumped, and he shambled back to the kitchen table, where he made a show of pushing his eggs around with his fork. Dean leaned over and grabbed the back of his neck, rubbing his thumb up and down. Cas relaxed a fraction, giving Dean a grateful smile.
“So what do we do now, Bobby?” asked Sam.
“Well, first I think we clean up the wreckage in the kitchen. Then you kids get to school, like usual. As for me, I think it might be worthwhile to get ahold of that asshole, Rufus, and get his take. He keeps a tab on the street fighters, more so than I do.”
“I didn't think you gave a shit about fighting, Bobby,” said Dean.
“I give a shit about you two. And having you come home for the last few months blabbering Cas this, Cas that, Cas the other, I've had to start paying attention.”
“Did he really do that?” asked Cas, who suddenly brightened.
“Well...” said Dean, whose ears had gone pink.
Cas looked thoughtful. “There is one more thing. I didn't think to tell you, because of all that happened. The night after the game? When Crowley came to talk to me?”
“Yeah,” said Dean, who was already bristling. “What about it?”
“He didn't come out and say it directly, but he wanted to recruit me for his team.”
“I knew it! I'll kill that motherfucker!”
Cas held up a hand. “Dean, I didn't take it seriously. But there was something else. He seemed to know that Zachariah was unhappy with me, and he implied he could somehow protect me. If I joined his team.”
“Wait, what the fuck? And, how the hell would he know? What's the deal, Bobby?”
Bobby rubbed his beard. “I can't say. I don't know much about Crowley, other than him being a complete pain in the ass. There's always been talk about how he replaced Coach Lilith. That does add a fly in the ointment.” He sipped his coffee. “We'll ask Rufus. He pays a lot of attention to all this fighting crap.”
The drive in to school was strangely quiet, even with three of them in the car. Dean glanced at Cas in the rear view, moping in the back seat. “Hey, I had an idea,” he said.
“Dean, you're not supposed to have ideas,” chuckled Sam. “Remember?”
“I think we need to do something to break up the training regimen,” he told Cas. Cas didn't reply, but did lean forward, hooking an elbow over the front seat.
“Yeah, but, you guys are winning now,” Sam reminded him. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I'm sure I'm sure. This is the time when you can get lazy. We need to bring in a change up. Keep them on their toes. We've got some strong opponents coming up, and they know they can't discount us now.”
“So what would you like to do, Dean?” asked Cas quietly.
“That's why I wanted to talk it over with you. I bet there's a lot of stuff you do in your street fighting training that would carry over. I mentioned this to Henricksen before, and he says there's even a cache of training equipment on campus we could raid.”
Cas sat back, with what Dean desperately hoped was a thoughtful look. Finally he leaned forward again and said, “I have an idea.”
“Oh, no, both of you stop!” shouted Sam. Dean laughed, and Cas just looked perplexed.
“We have a new training exercise today,” Coach Henricksen told his team later that day. “But I'm gonna let these two geniuses explain it to you,” he said, patting Cas and Dean on the shoulder.
Cas and Dean eyed each other. Dean pointed to the new equipment on the court. “For those of you who've never seen one before, this is a balance beam.”
“What are we now, a bunch of ballerinas?” asked Gordon, prompting Ash to do a little pirouette.
“You? Definitely not,” said Dean.
“Performing your routines on the beam enhances your sense of balance,” said Cas. “My sensei used it extensively.” He emphasized his point by hopping lightly on the springboard to the side and gracefully leaping up on the beam, and then swinging his sword around in a stylish fashion.
“Oo,” said Jo, much to Gordon's obvious displeasure.
“Aw, but come on, Cas,” pleaded Benny. “You're half alley cat!”
“Are we really doing this, Coach?” whined Gordon
“Yes, we're really doing this Walker. Now I've gotta do some paperwork.” He grinned and turned around, heading for his office.
“We know you’re going to smoke!” Gordon yelled after him. Henricksen made rude gesture.
“But this is nuts!” said Meg. “We'll break our freaking necks!”
“For once, I agree with Meg,” said Charlie.
“We won't start on the beam,” said Cas. “We'll start here.” He pointed to a wide stripe that had been laid down on the mat. “If you master that, you can practice here,” he said, pointing to a beam that was resting right on the mat. “And only then you'll drill up here. Also, we'll start with wooden swords.”
“Kiddie swords?” shouted Benny.
“Guys, come on,” said Dean. “We have some wins under our belt, and that’s good, but we're up against some strong teams coming up. I don't want you guys to get comfortable.”
“Dean, you can't get up there! Not if your name ain't Castiel!”
“Benny, give us a chance.
Ash sighed and sat down one the mat, pulling off his boots. “And what the burning heck you think you're doing, Mr. Mullet?” Benny asked Ash.
“Just watch, will you?” asked Ash told Benny. He walked over to the springboard and toed it, and then, to the team's general astonishment, hopped up onto the beam next to Cas. He weaved from side to side slightly, and Cas put out a steadying hand. “My Ma made me take gymnastics class when I was a kid. She thought it would help with the ADD.”
“Did it?” Jo asked.
“Naw. But I can do a dive roll!”
“Dean?” said Cas, and Dean handed up one of the wooden swords. “Ash, I want you to go through the basic parries. Take your time, and be aware of your center of gravity. Go ahead, prime, seconde, tierce, quarte….” Uncertainly at first, Ash began to go through the forms. “Very good! Very good!” Cas turned back to the team. “Balance is a great equalizer. I have taken down many an opponent who was stronger and had better reach by knocking them off balance.”
“It ain't that hard, guys,” said Ash.
“Yeah it is,” grumbled Benny.
“If you find it challenging,” said Cas, “that's good. I can give you some yoga poses that will also help your sense of balance.”
“YOGA?” howled Benny.
“Come on, Benny,” said Dean, grabbing his arm and leading him away. “Let's see if we can channel some of that energy for something useful.”
Despite Benny's whining he soon became intrigued by the new challenge of fighting in a very confined space. He was even more intrigued when Cas wandered over and pointed out how to exploit various weaknesses in Dean's sense of balance. “Thanks, Cas!” Dean grumbled when he ended up knocked on his ass by a now quite suddenly more cheerful Benny.
With the exception of Charlie, the girls seemed more adventurous about trying the beam than the men, and Dean noticed with great pleasure that Pamela had come down to practice on the court tonight, and even ventured to spar with Meg on the beam set down on the mat.
Jo had decided she was ready for the high beam, probably more out of rivalry with Ash than anything else. She had just taken yet another tumble when Cas hopped down to make certain she was all right.
“I almost got it!” Jo protested.
“It might help to remove your boots, Jo,” Cas suggested.
“But you're wearing your boots!”
“Just at first,” Cas told her. “You're practicing with a wooden sword now, so you really don't need heavy boots.”
“So could you do flips like gymnasts do up there?” asked Charlie.
“Don't be weird, Charlie. He's just using it for fencing,” Pamela told her, as both she and Meg crowded around.
“I can do some gymnastics moves, yes,” Cas told Charlie. “Not as many as when I was younger and lighter.”
“Really?” chorused a now quite intrigued female audience.
“Show us!” demanded Charlie.
“Yeah, show us something, hotshot,” said Meg.
Cas glanced over to where Dean was sparring with Benny. “How about this? I'll do a move if you'll promise go back to practicing. All of you,” he emphasized, glaring at Charlie.
“Sure, sure!” she said, giving him a push.
Cas hopped up on the beam. “I'm kinda rusty,” he warned them.
“You always claim you're rusty!” Jo told him.
Cas shrugged and stood for a moment at one end of the beam, in deep concentration. Then suddenly he took two great leaps, the last one slamming down hard, and went into a high flip, his body stretched out straight, and smacking down on two feet right just millimeters from the very edge of the beam. This sent Charlie hopping up and down like a red whirlwind, and even Meg cracked a smile.
Dean was staring slack-jawed at Cas horsing around on the beam. He let out a grunt as he was jabbed in the ribs. “Hey, you need to dance with the one what brought you,” Benny laughed as
“Sorry,” Dean muttered. “Thought he was gonna crack his head open.”
“You should know better,” laughed Benny. “You two have been glued together for weeks now.”
“He's living with us now,” said Dean, who immediately regretted it.
“What?”
“Oh. Uh, it's not like that.” Dean nervously scratched the back of his neck. “The guys in his dojo? They were gonna pull him off the team. And out of school! So he kind of snuck out on them.”
“Wow. So. The street fighters all look down on us little folks? Seems strange, don't it?”
“I hadn't thought of it that way,” Dean confessed. And truly, he hadn't. “Anyway, I haven't told many people, so don't spread it around. I don't know how much Cas wants people to know.” But Dean realized this was a fool's errand the minute the words were out of his mouth. Benny would tell Ash, who would tell Jo, and then the world would know. Or Benny would tell Gordon who'd tell Jo, and the same damn thing. He supposed the only decent thing to do was tell Cas that the world now knew.
He glanced up at the clock. “All right. Good practice, everybody!” he said, clapping his hands. To his surprise, he received a smattering of applause. Were his teammates finally getting a dash of spirit?
“Let's do the chant!” gushed Charlie.
“Aw, no,” grumbled Dean. No, that was too much damn spirit.
“I'd do the chant!” said Jo, to more groaning from Benny. “Gordon will do the chant!”
“You betray us, Gordo,” Benny laughed.
“Guys, no chants,” said Dean.
“Aw, c'mon, Winchester,” said Pamela, gripping him by the shoulder and leading him to the center of the floor. “Let's do the fucking chant. Everybody!” The team, with a mixture of enthusiasm and dread, began to move into a rough circle.
“A chant?” Cas asked.
Dean grabbed his arm and pulled him near. “All right all right. You wanna do the fucking chant? We do the fucking chant!” He looked around. Pamela grinned and Benny stuck out his tongue.
Dean started off, with most of the girls and a reluctant Gordon chanting along.
”Rock....
Chalk....
Jayhawk....
K-UUUUUUUUUUU....”
Dean and Cas both glanced up, the final “U,” as it always did, echoed through the gym like a lost note.
They began again, this time, all voices joining in, full-throated.
”ROCK....
CHALK....
JAYHAWK....
K-UUUUUUUUUUU....”
Cas blinked and smiled at Dean. Dean gripped his shoulder tighter.
“Rock chalk Jayhawk KU - rock chalk Jayhawk KU - rock chalk Jayhawk KU!!!”
“Woo!” screamed Pamela. Everybody applauded.
“Well, that didn't suck,” Dean commented.
“You got the spirit, chief,” said Benny.
“You didn't even wanna do the cheer, Benjamin,” sassed Pamela.
“Come over here and say that!”
“I'll come right over there and say that.”
Dean shook his head, as both of them were grinning like fools. Hell, he was grinning like a fool. Even Cas was smiling, though he looked sweetly baffled.
“Winchester. Castiel.”
Dean and Cas turned to regard Coach Henricksen, who was apparently agitated enough that he hadn't bothered to extinguish his cigarette when he charged out of the office.
“What's up, Coach?” shouted Ash.
“Winchester. You gotta gather up your street fighter buddy and take him to the Admissions office.”
The gym, which had been filled with happy chatter, grew silent.
Dean shook his head. “What? Why?”
“It's a complete SNAFU. I got word he’s off the team. And out of school!”
“What?” asked Dean. There were also angry shouts of, “They can't do that!” and “What?” and “No not now!”
“Just get your asses over there,” ordered Henricksen.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean grumbled, as Cas, looking miserable, came to join him on his way out. Dean flipped open his phone. “I'm calling Sammy. Don't worry Cas. We'll work it out.”
Cas nodded, not looking certain at all.
“Hey, don't worry, buddy. We got you out of your dojo, right?”
Cas heaved a heavy sigh. “Yes, Dean. But those were just a bunch of street fighters. These are college administrators.” The shared a glance and then burst out of the doors of the gym.
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, Bobby gets a guest under his roof, and the team practices.
“Where could he be? This is not like him!”
“I'm sure he's fine.”
“He's not answering his cell!”
“Dean. The guy has a life, you know.”
Dean stood in the middle of the gym floor, looking wretched. “He wasn't at practice. Why would he miss practice? He never misses practice!” Dean searched his younger brother's face.
Sam smiled with genuine affection. “Maybe he had to, you know, do school work?”
“School work. Yeah. What's that.”
Sam chuckled. “Aw, c'mon, it's been less than 24 hours, I guarantee he hasn't forgotten all about you in the meantime. Now, can we take off?”
Dean attempted to shrug it off. He was probably being a girl, but he just had a nagging bad feeling about all this. “I just need to grab some shit out of my locker,” he told his brother.
“Hurry it up. I gotta get home. I still gotta study for an exam tomorrow.”
“You study for exams? Wimp!” Dean turned and marched into the locker room. But he pulled up short.
“Cas!”
“Um. Hello, Dean,” said Castiel. He was sitting on the floor next to his locker, arms hugging his knees, his bag beside him.
Dean squatted down beside him. “Okay, what's going on, buddy? We didn't see you at practice today, and you weren't answering your phone. We were worried.”
“I didn't know where else to go.” Cas's voice was very soft. He wiped his eye on a sleeve.
“What do you mean?” Dean shifted to sit down. Cas was breathing hard, which was weird for him. Usually nothing much flustered him but Jo. When Cas took a while to answer, Dean started to speculate that it was something to do with the Gordon and Jo situation.
“Zachariah. Our … boss. He told me he was going to pull me out of school. And force me to start juicing. They locked me inside the dojo. Like a prisoner, Dean! And took away my phone. So- So I picked the lock, like you taught me. And crawled out the window.”
“You broke out?” said Dean. Cas nodded. “Cool!”
That got a faint smile. “And then I made my way here to campus.”
“You walked all this way?”
Cas nodded. “But I don't know where to go. I don't want them to find me. I don't want to go back, Dean. And I don't know what to do....”
Sam burst into the locker room. “Dean, what the hell is taking- Oh, hey Cas.” He cast a confused glance at Dean. “Where were you today?”
“He's on the lam from his dojo,” said Dean. Cas nodded sadly. “He ran away!”
“That's … pretty serious, actually,” said Sam.
“Sam, they wanted him to drop out. And they were gonna start drugging him.”
Sam scanned his mind for what he knew about the legal status of street fighters. Unfortunately, it was a whole lot of grey on grey. “We're a free state. But he's.... Won’t they come after him? I mean, like you would with an escaped servant?”
Both Dean and Cas nodded sadly. “Look, I don't know what we're gonna do, but you can't stay here tonight. Come on. You're coming with us.” He stood, holding out a hand.
Cas’s face seemed to be all dark eyes. “To … your home?”
“Yeah. You probably should hang with us until we figure out what to do.”
They headed straight back to Bobby's place in near silence. It was dark, so there wasn’t even much to look at along the roadway. At one point, Dean had told Sam, “So now we’re harboring a fugitive, huh? Pretty cool.” But Sam either didn’t think that was the case, or didn’t believe it to be cool, and so didn’t deign to answer.
The car stopped outside a property bounded by a high, razor wire-topped fence. Sam hopped out to unlock the gate and push it open, and then they entered into a strange world filled with stacks of dead vehicles lying one atop the other. Sam and Dean brought him inside the mud room, where they stripped out of heavy boots and also stowed their side arms. Cas’s fingers trailed over an especially long blade mounted neatly on the wall.
“Oh, that was my high school sword,” said Sam apologetically. “I dunno why Bobby doesn’t take it down and store it.”
“This is your home,” said Cas, peering at the weapon. “You need a sword in the entryway.”
Sam demurred. “Bobby’s just … sentimental.”
Dean laughed. “Are you kidding? Bobby is the least sentimental old bastard in the world!”
Sam flashed Dean a look of great vengeance, and then pressed a finger to his lips as he opened the door into the main house.
“Probably best not to wake up Bobby ‘til tomorrow,” Dean whispered. “You can crash on my floor tonight.” Cas nodded, although it as difficult to pay attention as he had never seen the like of this room: there were just as many books stacked in here as there had been cars on the outside. Dean opened a linen closet, and began handing over blankets and pillows to Cas and Sam. And then with strict instructions to be as silent as possible, the three made their way upstairs and past a closed door that Cas assumed was Bobby’s bedroom.
They made their way to Dean’s room, where Sam laughed, “I hope Cas likes your décor.”
Dean looked baffled, but then his expression changed to something Cas couldn’t read. He rushed inside, dumping the linens all on his bed, and tore something down from the wall over his bed, which he somewhat clumsily placed on the nightstand. Cas, who was behind the man-mountain that was Sam, couldn’t see what it was. He smiled slightly, figuring it was probably some kind of pornography: he was certain he’d seem much worse up on the walls of his dormitory. Dean should see the kinds of things Gabriel was capable of!
“Uh, thanks, Sammy. We’ll take it from here.”
Sam grinned and departed, muttering, “G’night.” Dean fussed about making Cas a nest of pillows and blankets on the floor. After a number of assurances from Cas that it was actually more comfortable than his own bed (which was true), Dean finally relented. Cas wearily slipped into a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt and started to doze almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
“What the hell. I get up there's a new set of dueling boots and a sword I don't recognize in my mud room. May I inquire what the actual fuck is goin' on around here?”
Cas, who had been sitting at the cluttered kitchen table sipping coffee along with Sam and Dean that morning, literally jumped when Bobby burst into the house. Bobby, Dean had explained, was an early riser.
“We can explain-” started Sam.
“We have to help him!” said Dean.
“You two idjits shut up and let the boy speak for himself.” Bobby crossed his arms and made a show of looking Cas up and down. “You! I got a duelist staying in my home?”
Cas regarded Bobby nervously. “Yes sir.”
“Oh, polite at least. I like that. You boys might learn some manners!” Bobby added, whacking Dean on the back of the head. “So you're the notorious Cas I take it.”
“Castiel.”
“Yeah, I ain't got time for all that. You're Cas. I'm Bobby Singer, the proprietor of this establishment.”
“Yessir.”
“And you’re a genuine duelist, kid?”
“We had him leave his sword outside, Bobby,” Dean explained.
“Hold on, boy. You take a duelist into your home, there are certain rules, of which you idjits are obviously ignorant.”
“Oh!” said Cas. He ran out to the mud room and ran back, holding his sword. He started to go down on one knee.
Bobby grinned. “Don't bother with that, kid. You ain't asking for my hand in marriage.” Cas stood up. He offered the sword to Bobby, hilt-first. Bobby pulled the sword from the scabbard. “Nice!” He looked it over and then carefully replaced it. “All right, you get that back outside before I cut my damn fingers off.”
Cas nodded and hurried back to the mud room.
“Okay, we got that taken care of,” said Bobby, as Dean dimly remembered some kind of code of honor that was invoked when you had a fighter under your roof. He seemed to recall a high school fencing coach scratching them out on a chalkboard years ago. “You two wanna tell me what the blazes is going on?”
“Cas got kicked out,” said Dean.
“He got locked in,” corrected Sam.
“Well, more or less,” said Dean as Cas came skidding back into the room in his stocking feet. “He needs somewhere to stay while we figure things out.”
Bobby smiled. “Is that so? A homeless street fighter. So, what can you do for me, Cas?”
Castiel frowned, uncertain.
“Well, can you fix a car? In case you ain't noticed, I run a business. And it ain't feeding hungry idjits.” Castiel nervously shook his head. “All right, can you wash clothes? Clean the floor? Cook a meal?”
“I can cook!”
“All right then, go make me breakfast. And make it snappy.” Bobby removed his cap and sat down at the table, while Cas fled into the kitchen.
Dean leapt up to follow. “I'll show you where stuff is!” he shouted after Cas.
“Dean, you don't have any fucking clue where anything is in my kitchen!” Bobby bellowed. He turned around to face Sam. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Make yourself useful!” Sam too scampered off, and Bobby, grinning like a fool opened his newspaper. “And somebody get me some fresh fucking coffee!” he shouted, holding up his mug.
Some minutes, some clattering and shouting and some really terrific smells later, Sam and Dean set the table with a bunch of mismatched dishes, and then bustled in with a platter of enough bacon to feed a small army and a basket of fresh biscuits.
Cas emerged with a frying pan. “Do you take your eggs over easy, over medium, or over hard, Mr. Singer?” he asked, pointing to an array in the pan.
“Bobby is fine. Scrambled, usually, but I'll take the middle one.” Castiel dumped the indicated eggs onto Bobby's plate and began to leave. “And did you whip up these biscuits?”
“Yes sir.”
“You bake? Dammit, Dean,” he told Dean, who had just come out with a stack of pancakes. “You need to marry this kid.” Dean blanched and put down the pancakes. “Well, where the hell is the maple syrup? Get on the stick!”
After some more time, the four men were finally all arrayed around the table along with enough breakfast fare to feed ten times their number. “In the future,” said Bobby, stifling a burp, “you probably don't gotta make waffles and pancakes and biscuits and toast all at the same time.”
“Yessir,” muttered Cas, who had barely touched the measly portion of food on his own plate.
“And eat your damn eggs! Don't want you disappearing down to nothing on my watch.”
Dean leaned forward, his voice holding much urgency. “Uncle Bobby, Cas ran away from his dojo.”
“Is that true? Are you AWOL kid?”
“Am I a wall?” asked Cas, nibbling uncertainly on his eggs.
“We figured, with what you do, maybe you'd be able to help,” said Dean.
Bobby laughed. “Dean, you idjit. After all this time, you got no fucking idea what I do?”
“Dean told me you were connected with the underground railroad movement,” Cas told him with utmost seriousness.
“Well, good on Dean for sharing our secret mission with the world,” sighed Bobby. “What I do is help people who wanna get lost disappear. Dean, you dumb shit, you just got one of the most famous street fighters running, and you went and made him more famous!”
Dean, who was rarely at a loss for words, stared at his uncle. “We did?” he asked, voice cracking slightly.
“I'm … famous?” asked Cas, who appeared sweetly baffled at it all.
“The Avenging Angel?” scoffed Bobby. “I had to restrain Rufus from coming to one of your games and kidnapping your skinny ass for his collection!” Castiel looked aghast, so Bobby waved his hand. “I'm joking kid. But you owe the dumb bastard an autograph.”
“So we can't help him?” Dean asked.
Bobby sighed and pushed himself back from the table, patting his stomach. “Well, see here, Cas. I think what's happening is that up until now, your bosses let you play at going to college, probably because they thought you'd get sick of it on your own and quit. I'll be they didn't reckon on you signing up for a third-rate college fencing team.”
Dean looked offended. “We're not third rate!”
“When's the last time your crowd had a winning season? Even before you came on board, Dean, that team's been sort of a local shame. Henricksen at least got you all straightened up, but I'm pretty damn sure you'd still be in the toilet without Cas.”
“Wait just a minute,” said Sam. “Uncle Bobby. What the hell, man. You haven't been to a single game. I thought you hated fencing?”
Bobby grunted out a sigh and stuck an old silver spoon in his coffee to stir it up. “Ain't no American who hates dueling. It's in our blood. I just can't stand to see my boys fighting.” He turned to Cas. “I managed to talk some sense into Sam, but Dean is too fucking stubborn. And you! You're a lunatic. Of course, those folks raised you to be a lunatic, so it ain't your fault.”
“I'm not a lunatic,” Cas protested, surprised as hell to find himself contradicting an elder. “I mean, respectfully. Sir-”
“Why do you owe me any respect?” laughed Bobby. “I'm some grumpy old bastard who just got you hopping around my damn kitchen when you're barely awake. But listen to what I'm saying. How much money you got?”
“Why would I need money?”
“So, none? And how much you think your bosses made on that last fight? The one where that kid got it in the neck?”
Cas stared miserably at his eggs. “I don't know.”
Bobby was staring him down. “Don't know or don't care? So I take it you didn't get any of that money?”
“I wouldn't want any of that money.”
“So. You're a slave.”
Cas was up on his feet, glaring at Bobby with great vengeance. “I am not a slave.” He looked around. “And- And I'm not going to stand around and be insulted!”
“Wait, Cas!” shouted Sam, who leapt up too. Cas pushed past him and marched towards the door.
“Cas!” barked Dean, who didn't move from his chair.
Castiel stopped and, reluctantly, turned to face Dean.
“Cas. Where the hell else you think you're gonna go? I mean, come on!”
Cas stared stubbornly at the floor.
“Anyway, there's no humiliation in being a slave, kid,” said Bobby. “The folks who should hang their heads are the owners. Now, I want you to come back to the table, finish your damn breakfast, and we'll figure out what to do with you. But let's get one thing straight: I'm not gonna lie to you or go tippy-toeing around your honor code. I tend to think you've had enough lying so far to last you your whole life.”
Cas's shoulders slumped, and he shambled back to the kitchen table, where he made a show of pushing his eggs around with his fork. Dean leaned over and grabbed the back of his neck, rubbing his thumb up and down. Cas relaxed a fraction, giving Dean a grateful smile.
“So what do we do now, Bobby?” asked Sam.
“Well, first I think we clean up the wreckage in the kitchen. Then you kids get to school, like usual. As for me, I think it might be worthwhile to get ahold of that asshole, Rufus, and get his take. He keeps a tab on the street fighters, more so than I do.”
“I didn't think you gave a shit about fighting, Bobby,” said Dean.
“I give a shit about you two. And having you come home for the last few months blabbering Cas this, Cas that, Cas the other, I've had to start paying attention.”
“Did he really do that?” asked Cas, who suddenly brightened.
“Well...” said Dean, whose ears had gone pink.
Cas looked thoughtful. “There is one more thing. I didn't think to tell you, because of all that happened. The night after the game? When Crowley came to talk to me?”
“Yeah,” said Dean, who was already bristling. “What about it?”
“He didn't come out and say it directly, but he wanted to recruit me for his team.”
“I knew it! I'll kill that motherfucker!”
Cas held up a hand. “Dean, I didn't take it seriously. But there was something else. He seemed to know that Zachariah was unhappy with me, and he implied he could somehow protect me. If I joined his team.”
“Wait, what the fuck? And, how the hell would he know? What's the deal, Bobby?”
Bobby rubbed his beard. “I can't say. I don't know much about Crowley, other than him being a complete pain in the ass. There's always been talk about how he replaced Coach Lilith. That does add a fly in the ointment.” He sipped his coffee. “We'll ask Rufus. He pays a lot of attention to all this fighting crap.”
The drive in to school was strangely quiet, even with three of them in the car. Dean glanced at Cas in the rear view, moping in the back seat. “Hey, I had an idea,” he said.
“Dean, you're not supposed to have ideas,” chuckled Sam. “Remember?”
“I think we need to do something to break up the training regimen,” he told Cas. Cas didn't reply, but did lean forward, hooking an elbow over the front seat.
“Yeah, but, you guys are winning now,” Sam reminded him. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I'm sure I'm sure. This is the time when you can get lazy. We need to bring in a change up. Keep them on their toes. We've got some strong opponents coming up, and they know they can't discount us now.”
“So what would you like to do, Dean?” asked Cas quietly.
“That's why I wanted to talk it over with you. I bet there's a lot of stuff you do in your street fighting training that would carry over. I mentioned this to Henricksen before, and he says there's even a cache of training equipment on campus we could raid.”
Cas sat back, with what Dean desperately hoped was a thoughtful look. Finally he leaned forward again and said, “I have an idea.”
“Oh, no, both of you stop!” shouted Sam. Dean laughed, and Cas just looked perplexed.
“We have a new training exercise today,” Coach Henricksen told his team later that day. “But I'm gonna let these two geniuses explain it to you,” he said, patting Cas and Dean on the shoulder.
Cas and Dean eyed each other. Dean pointed to the new equipment on the court. “For those of you who've never seen one before, this is a balance beam.”
“What are we now, a bunch of ballerinas?” asked Gordon, prompting Ash to do a little pirouette.
“You? Definitely not,” said Dean.
“Performing your routines on the beam enhances your sense of balance,” said Cas. “My sensei used it extensively.” He emphasized his point by hopping lightly on the springboard to the side and gracefully leaping up on the beam, and then swinging his sword around in a stylish fashion.
“Oo,” said Jo, much to Gordon's obvious displeasure.
“Aw, but come on, Cas,” pleaded Benny. “You're half alley cat!”
“Are we really doing this, Coach?” whined Gordon
“Yes, we're really doing this Walker. Now I've gotta do some paperwork.” He grinned and turned around, heading for his office.
“We know you’re going to smoke!” Gordon yelled after him. Henricksen made rude gesture.
“But this is nuts!” said Meg. “We'll break our freaking necks!”
“For once, I agree with Meg,” said Charlie.
“We won't start on the beam,” said Cas. “We'll start here.” He pointed to a wide stripe that had been laid down on the mat. “If you master that, you can practice here,” he said, pointing to a beam that was resting right on the mat. “And only then you'll drill up here. Also, we'll start with wooden swords.”
“Kiddie swords?” shouted Benny.
“Guys, come on,” said Dean. “We have some wins under our belt, and that’s good, but we're up against some strong teams coming up. I don't want you guys to get comfortable.”
“Dean, you can't get up there! Not if your name ain't Castiel!”
“Benny, give us a chance.
Ash sighed and sat down one the mat, pulling off his boots. “And what the burning heck you think you're doing, Mr. Mullet?” Benny asked Ash.
“Just watch, will you?” asked Ash told Benny. He walked over to the springboard and toed it, and then, to the team's general astonishment, hopped up onto the beam next to Cas. He weaved from side to side slightly, and Cas put out a steadying hand. “My Ma made me take gymnastics class when I was a kid. She thought it would help with the ADD.”
“Did it?” Jo asked.
“Naw. But I can do a dive roll!”
“Dean?” said Cas, and Dean handed up one of the wooden swords. “Ash, I want you to go through the basic parries. Take your time, and be aware of your center of gravity. Go ahead, prime, seconde, tierce, quarte….” Uncertainly at first, Ash began to go through the forms. “Very good! Very good!” Cas turned back to the team. “Balance is a great equalizer. I have taken down many an opponent who was stronger and had better reach by knocking them off balance.”
“It ain't that hard, guys,” said Ash.
“Yeah it is,” grumbled Benny.
“If you find it challenging,” said Cas, “that's good. I can give you some yoga poses that will also help your sense of balance.”
“YOGA?” howled Benny.
“Come on, Benny,” said Dean, grabbing his arm and leading him away. “Let's see if we can channel some of that energy for something useful.”
Despite Benny's whining he soon became intrigued by the new challenge of fighting in a very confined space. He was even more intrigued when Cas wandered over and pointed out how to exploit various weaknesses in Dean's sense of balance. “Thanks, Cas!” Dean grumbled when he ended up knocked on his ass by a now quite suddenly more cheerful Benny.
With the exception of Charlie, the girls seemed more adventurous about trying the beam than the men, and Dean noticed with great pleasure that Pamela had come down to practice on the court tonight, and even ventured to spar with Meg on the beam set down on the mat.
Jo had decided she was ready for the high beam, probably more out of rivalry with Ash than anything else. She had just taken yet another tumble when Cas hopped down to make certain she was all right.
“I almost got it!” Jo protested.
“It might help to remove your boots, Jo,” Cas suggested.
“But you're wearing your boots!”
“Just at first,” Cas told her. “You're practicing with a wooden sword now, so you really don't need heavy boots.”
“So could you do flips like gymnasts do up there?” asked Charlie.
“Don't be weird, Charlie. He's just using it for fencing,” Pamela told her, as both she and Meg crowded around.
“I can do some gymnastics moves, yes,” Cas told Charlie. “Not as many as when I was younger and lighter.”
“Really?” chorused a now quite intrigued female audience.
“Show us!” demanded Charlie.
“Yeah, show us something, hotshot,” said Meg.
Cas glanced over to where Dean was sparring with Benny. “How about this? I'll do a move if you'll promise go back to practicing. All of you,” he emphasized, glaring at Charlie.
“Sure, sure!” she said, giving him a push.
Cas hopped up on the beam. “I'm kinda rusty,” he warned them.
“You always claim you're rusty!” Jo told him.
Cas shrugged and stood for a moment at one end of the beam, in deep concentration. Then suddenly he took two great leaps, the last one slamming down hard, and went into a high flip, his body stretched out straight, and smacking down on two feet right just millimeters from the very edge of the beam. This sent Charlie hopping up and down like a red whirlwind, and even Meg cracked a smile.
Dean was staring slack-jawed at Cas horsing around on the beam. He let out a grunt as he was jabbed in the ribs. “Hey, you need to dance with the one what brought you,” Benny laughed as
“Sorry,” Dean muttered. “Thought he was gonna crack his head open.”
“You should know better,” laughed Benny. “You two have been glued together for weeks now.”
“He's living with us now,” said Dean, who immediately regretted it.
“What?”
“Oh. Uh, it's not like that.” Dean nervously scratched the back of his neck. “The guys in his dojo? They were gonna pull him off the team. And out of school! So he kind of snuck out on them.”
“Wow. So. The street fighters all look down on us little folks? Seems strange, don't it?”
“I hadn't thought of it that way,” Dean confessed. And truly, he hadn't. “Anyway, I haven't told many people, so don't spread it around. I don't know how much Cas wants people to know.” But Dean realized this was a fool's errand the minute the words were out of his mouth. Benny would tell Ash, who would tell Jo, and then the world would know. Or Benny would tell Gordon who'd tell Jo, and the same damn thing. He supposed the only decent thing to do was tell Cas that the world now knew.
He glanced up at the clock. “All right. Good practice, everybody!” he said, clapping his hands. To his surprise, he received a smattering of applause. Were his teammates finally getting a dash of spirit?
“Let's do the chant!” gushed Charlie.
“Aw, no,” grumbled Dean. No, that was too much damn spirit.
“I'd do the chant!” said Jo, to more groaning from Benny. “Gordon will do the chant!”
“You betray us, Gordo,” Benny laughed.
“Guys, no chants,” said Dean.
“Aw, c'mon, Winchester,” said Pamela, gripping him by the shoulder and leading him to the center of the floor. “Let's do the fucking chant. Everybody!” The team, with a mixture of enthusiasm and dread, began to move into a rough circle.
“A chant?” Cas asked.
Dean grabbed his arm and pulled him near. “All right all right. You wanna do the fucking chant? We do the fucking chant!” He looked around. Pamela grinned and Benny stuck out his tongue.
Dean started off, with most of the girls and a reluctant Gordon chanting along.
”Rock....
Chalk....
Jayhawk....
K-UUUUUUUUUUU....”
Dean and Cas both glanced up, the final “U,” as it always did, echoed through the gym like a lost note.
They began again, this time, all voices joining in, full-throated.
”ROCK....
CHALK....
JAYHAWK....
K-UUUUUUUUUUU....”
Cas blinked and smiled at Dean. Dean gripped his shoulder tighter.
“Rock chalk Jayhawk KU - rock chalk Jayhawk KU - rock chalk Jayhawk KU!!!”
“Woo!” screamed Pamela. Everybody applauded.
“Well, that didn't suck,” Dean commented.
“You got the spirit, chief,” said Benny.
“You didn't even wanna do the cheer, Benjamin,” sassed Pamela.
“Come over here and say that!”
“I'll come right over there and say that.”
Dean shook his head, as both of them were grinning like fools. Hell, he was grinning like a fool. Even Cas was smiling, though he looked sweetly baffled.
“Winchester. Castiel.”
Dean and Cas turned to regard Coach Henricksen, who was apparently agitated enough that he hadn't bothered to extinguish his cigarette when he charged out of the office.
“What's up, Coach?” shouted Ash.
“Winchester. You gotta gather up your street fighter buddy and take him to the Admissions office.”
The gym, which had been filled with happy chatter, grew silent.
Dean shook his head. “What? Why?”
“It's a complete SNAFU. I got word he’s off the team. And out of school!”
“What?” asked Dean. There were also angry shouts of, “They can't do that!” and “What?” and “No not now!”
“Just get your asses over there,” ordered Henricksen.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean grumbled, as Cas, looking miserable, came to join him on his way out. Dean flipped open his phone. “I'm calling Sammy. Don't worry Cas. We'll work it out.”
Cas nodded, not looking certain at all.
“Hey, don't worry, buddy. We got you out of your dojo, right?”
Cas heaved a heavy sigh. “Yes, Dean. But those were just a bunch of street fighters. These are college administrators.” The shared a glance and then burst out of the doors of the gym.
