Code Duello (Part 8 of 14)
Apr. 21st, 2013 10:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Code Duello (Part 8 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. This chapter has violence some may find upsetting.
Word Count: 75,000 total
Summary: The duel of honor is still the law of the land: grievances large and small are settled by means of electrified swords that can be honed to incredible sharpness. When Dean Winchester, captain of the University of Kansas fencing team, finds himself one player short at the beginning of the season, he recruits Castiel, a mysterious boy trained from birth to compete in high stakes illegal sword fighting competitions.
Notes: In this chapter, we start with an info dump (sorry) but then we get to the good stuff later.
Dean and Cas waited nervously in the vomit-tinged waiting room of a college administrator. “Do you think they are really going to kick me off the team, Dean?” Cas whispered nervously.
“I dunno. I wonder if Zachariah found some way to screw with your enrollment.”
The receptionist bid them enter, and Dean and Cas settled themselves into the two guest chairs in an empty office. Dean glanced around nervously. It looked fairly anonymous, except for an odd sculpture pushed over into one corner. It appeared to be an old-fashioned two-handed broadsword that had been embedded in a stone. “Check it out,” he whispered to Cas, hoping to distract his friend.
“What is that?” asked Cas. “It’s a lovely weapon, but why is it stuck in a rock like that?”
“I think if you pull it out, you get to be king of England.”
Cas didn't get a chance to ask his inevitable next question, as the side door to the office opened and shut, and the boys found themselves face to face with a stern-faced woman. She went to stand behind her desk, but did not take her chair, instead looming over them. “Uh, what is this about, Miss … Visyak?” asked Dean, reading the nameplate on her desk.
“You are Castiel?” she asked him, peering over reading glasses on a silver chain around her neck.
“Um, no, this is Cas.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Mr. uh, Castiel. There is a problem with your admissions forms.”
Cas looked at her curiously. “I don't understand. I've been attending this school for over a year now.”
Miss Visyak pulled the top sheet off of the stack of forms in the middle of her desk and held it up. She tapped it with a pen. “We require a first and last name on all forms. You have not supplied one.”
“Cas doesn't have a last name,” Dean protested. “He’s a street fighter.”
Dean felt a pair of eyes boring through him. He shivered. “I'm sorry, am I having a conversation with you, or with Mr. Castiel?”
“Why is this coming up now?” Dean insisted. “Is this Zachariah’s doing?”
“I don’t know any Mr. Zachariah. This is in regards to Mr. Castiel.”
“Oh, goodie, just in time for a meetin'!” said Bobby cheerfully as he bustled into the office, a file folder in his hands. He glared at Dean, who gave up his chair. “I heard you wanted to chat with Cas?” he told Miss Visyak as he settled himself into Dean's vacated chair while Dean stood nervously nearby.
“They need a last name on my forms,” Cas told him softly.
“Well, I don't see how this was ever overlooked. I'm just as sorry as hell. Boy's last name is Singer, just like it says on his birth certificate.”
Miss Visyak glared at Bobby, Dean grinned, and Cas just looked surprised.
“On his birth certificate?” asked Miss Visyak.
“Sure,” said Bobby, leaning over and dumping the file folder on Miss Visyak's desk. “I just happen to have it right here. See, there's the certificate of live birth, his social security card, his driver’s license....” Bobby snatched up the latter and gave it to Cas. “You shouldn't keep forgetting this, boy. I swear, he'd forget his head.” Dean peered at the birth certificate, which listed Robert and Karen Singer as adoptive parents.
Miss Visyak favored the collection of documentation with a steely-eyed bureaucratic scowl.
“Oh, and there's various other official papers there, including a letter from my lawyer suggesting that you'd be asking for legal action if you were to be harassing this boy on account of his prior occupation.”
“Your lawyer is Mr. Rufus Turner?”
“That’s what it says on the form.”
Miss Visyak glowered. “Castiel Singer? Is this correct, young man?” she asked Cas.
Cas was beaming brightly. “Yes! This is my driver’s license! I'm Castiel Singer.” Dean pulled the license out of Cas's hand and set it up rightside-up.
Miss Visyak afforded them a 300-watt glare. “I shall have my administrative assistant make copies,” she said.
A little later, as they were walking out of the office, Cas still cradling his driver’s license, Dean asked, “Did Sam call you, Bobby?”
“No, and you boys had better be grateful to that Becky girl. I guess her ma heard what was coming and told Becky, and she told Chuck and he called me.”
“And you got all this stuff made?”
“I had some help from Rufus and a friend of his who does ID work. You're lucky they're both street fighting fanatics. Did a nice job, if I do say so myself.”
“Does this mean I can drive now?” asked Cas, flashing the license.
Bobby grabbed it back from him. “Not hardly, kid. Dean will teach you later.”
“But not on Baby!” Dean protested.
“You can take one of the wrecks in the back. And show him a stick shift, so he ain't useless. Meantime, just stick close to him today? I don't want no more trouble. And we're set to head out to talk to Rufus tomorrow. I think he just wants Cas's autograph, personally.”
At this point, Sam came running up, out of breath. “Hey, I'm sorry I took so long. Is everything okay?”
“We managed,” said Dean. “Oh, and Cas is now a Singer.”
“Congratulations. And sorry I was delayed. Meg claimed there were some weird dudes hanging out after practice?”
“Weird dudes?” said Dean. “Ah. Meg just probably wants attention.”
“Well, she said they were lurking near the gym.”
“You boys be careful,” said Bobby. “And Cas? I expect a good dinner in return for these papers.”
“Sure,” said Castiel. “Do you like chili, Mr. Singer?”
“The hotter the better, kid. And don't drown it in beans: I like my meat.”
“We'll stop on the way home and buy peppers,” Cas told Bobby as he made his way off.
“Wait, we will?” asked Dean. “Aren’t peppers vegetables?”
“Careful, Cas,” warned Sam. “You might kill Dean, making him eat something that's not a burger.”
“I gotta pass on this little outing. I gotta get to campus for my midterm,” Sam informed everybody the next morning.
“It'll be fine, we'll take my truck,” said Bobby.
“Just put some gas in Baby!” scolded Dean, tossing over the keys as Sam sailed towards the door.
Cas was intrigued as he, Dean and Bobby headed off to visit Rufus Turner: he had never before ridden in a real pickup truck. The window on the passenger side was broken and didn't crank up all the way, so he volunteered to sit on that side while Dean took the hump, and it was wonderful, sitting up high over the world, feeling the wind gusting on his face.
“Tell your buddy not to hang out the window, he'll catch a fly in the face,” Bobby laughed.
“You should get a pickup truck, Dean,” said Cas, who was beaming.
“Cas, this old truck is not better than my car.”
“Kid has good taste,” said Bobby. “You wanna learn to drive a truck, kid?”
“That would be excellent,” said Cas, his eyes shining.
“Well, I ain't got a taxi fleet, and you won't be much use living out there with no car. Dean will show you.”
“How did I get that job?” asked Dean, who didn’t actually seem to upset about it.
“You're the one who brought home the stray. Now quit your bitching,” Bobby told him.
Rufus lived in a rambling house, somewhat reminiscent of Bobby's, minus the surrounding scrap yard. And like the Singer residence it was located in an out of the way area.
“Castiel?” said a tall, dark-skinned man who emerged from the house along with a shorter, rounder, bespectacled man.
Castiel nodded, and, smiling warmly, the man rushed forward, extending a hand to shake. “I'm Rufus Turner. It's a real honor to meet you. A real honor.”
“Thank you, Mr. Turner.”
“Fanboy,” muttered Bobby.
Rufus grinned. “Seriously, Bobby, this is the best Hanukkah present you’ve never given me.”
“What happened to his hair?” asked the chubby guy.
“This is Frank Devereaux, an ID man from upstate. He’s another fan,” said Rufus. “He conjured up the Singer birth certificate for you.”
Bobby regarded the other man suspiciously. “Bobby Singer. This is my nephew, Dean.”
“The hair, Cupcake?” asked Frank, who evidently wouldn't be put off. “They cut it?”
“I cut it,” said Dean.
“Yes, he won a duel,” said Cas, putting a hand through his hair. “It was the only honorable thing to do,” he added, smiling at Dean.
“You’re trying to make me believeyou won a duel with the Avenging Angel, Buncakes?” Frank demanded of Dean.
Cas shrugged. “I was a little tired at the time.”
“Boy's too modest to say so, but I hear tell he took in the entire KU team,” Bobby informed him.
“Who got the hair? Did you keep it?” Frank now asked Dean.
“What? Ew! No.”
“My teammate Charlie took it,” said Cas. “She said she would make a wig?”
“Oh. Do you think she still has a lock?” Frank persisted.
“Okay, Frank?” said Rufus, who was now physically pushing Frank back. “You promised you wouldn't get creepy.”
“I'm not creepy! I'm a fan! I've seen your fights, Sugarplum,” he told Cas. “All of them!”
“That's not creepy at all,” said Dean, who was standing somewhat protectively at Cas's side now.
Cas was squinting at Frank. “My name is Castiel, not Sugarplum nor Cupcake. And I’m sorry. How can you have seen all of my fights? Those videotapes are restricted to a limited audience.” He was too polite to say that said audience tended to be very wealthy.
“We've got them all on tape,” Rufus explained.
“You mean camera phone videos?”
“No, the official tapes!” Frank told him proudly.
“That's not possible.” Castiel looked back and for the between Frank and Rufus.
“There's those of us who are collectors,” said Rufus. “We've tapped into some alternative sources to assemble complete libraries.”
“Rufus,” said Bobby, “you're a bigger nutball than I ever imagined.” Rufus grinned. “You wanna quit heckling the kid and talk?”
They proceeded inside, Castiel stopping at the door to do the thing where he offered his sword to Rufus. Rufus and Frank spent what was probably a rude amount of time examining the blade with a kind of fan-ish glee before returning it to Cas. Dean had the funny feeling there was something bigger and older going on than he had reckoned. He knew the fundamentals of dueling etiquette: everyone did. But no one had ever seriously challenged him to a fight. His thoughts started to wander to what he'd do in a real street fight. But then he dismissed the idea as silly.
Once inside, Castiel enjoyed the very first French press coffee of his life, though Bobby demurred from drinking “that fancy pants gourmet shit,” so Rufus also rustled him up some Sanka. In the meantime, Frank was fussing with an assortment of computer equipment he had piled on the end of Rufus’s kitchen table. He plugged an external hard drive to his laptop and clicked around for a file.
“Take a look, Castiel,” he said. Cas, Dean and Bobby crowded around the small screen. There was a blast of noise of a rowdy crowd cheering. Rufus shouted at him, so Frank toggled the sound down. Dean thought it looked like total chaos, but soon realized it was a cage match. He recognized the look of the eight-sided, clear-walled ring in the center. He wondered how Cas – or anybody really – could duel under these conditions. The audience was literally screaming and throwing things. He could have sworn there were even people firing off guns, even thought he had never really heard a gun fire.
Two kids filed into the ring, and Dean thought he heard the word, “champions.” They looked like teenagers to him. The champions waved at the crowd, which went even more wild, and then two smaller kids were introduced. He recognized the one right off at Gabriel. He stared at the tiny, dark-haired boy beside him. “Cas! Is that you?”
“My first professional fight,” said Cas quietly.
The official got them lined up. Even though he realized this was years in the past, Dean was immediately scared for Cas's sake: he must have been a full head shorter than the kid they matched him up with!
And then the official counted down and they were off, bouncing around the cage like a set of crazy pinballs. Gabriel was amazing: impossibly quick and skillful. Dean wasn't sure how the hell an opponent could keep track of him. But Cas was a revelation. All of them used the wall: Dean was astonished how much more dynamic the fighters were compared to formal duelists. But Cas seemed to live in direct defiance of all laws of gravity. He was everywhere, running up and down and all around.
Dean was transfixed. There was a kind of beauty and joy to it. He saw how Cas said he tuned out the crowd during his fights. The only things he seemed aware of were Gabriel and his opponents, who, despite being champions of some kind, were quickly dispatched: one fell and did not get up, and the other surrendered soon after when both Cas and Gabe got the drop on him.
“That's amazing!” said Dean as Frank stopped the video.
“That's a considerable raw talent!” Rufus shouted over as he brought out a plate of cookies. “Not as elegant as your later fights, but you could tell you got something.”
“Some of those moves,” said Cas, who was blushing slightly. “I can't manage them as well any more. I got too tall.”
“You were fourteen, Cupcake?” asked Frank.
“Thirteen,” said Cas.
Frank and Rufus looked at each other. “Holy crap,” said Rufus. “I didn't know that.”
“We didn't know that,” said Frank, who, oddly enough, pulled out a notebook and scrawled something illegible on the page.
“Is that a code?” asked Dean. Frank nodded curtly and closed up the notebook.
“You're from Zachariah's dojo?” Rufus asked Cas.
“Yes. Joshua's dojo,” said Cas. “He was my sensei.”
“Oh, good man, Joshua. Had a real feel for the classic aspects of the sport.”
“You knew him?” asked Cas.
“I never had the honor of meeting him, no,” admitted Rufus, “but I was an acolyte.”
“Is Joshua dead?” asked Dean, immediately regretting his words when he saw Cas's pained expression.
“To the best of our knowledge, no,” said Rufus looking over to Frank. He had just brought a stack of what looked like old magazines to the table and laid them down there.
“We can't find any evidence one way or the other, Hot Lips,” Frank told Dean. “Wherever he is, he doesn't want to be found.”
“The dojo was under new ownership,” said Rufus portentiously. “New and shadowy.”
Cas looked miserable. “After Zachariah showed up, we started to see less and less of Joshua. And then one day his office was shuttered and locked. We never saw him again. That was soon after Gabriel got injured.”
“That was a tragedy!” said Frank. Cas nodded sadly. “That boy had a unique style.”
“Has a unique style,” Cas shot back. “He’s not dead, you know.”
“Might as well be, Sugarplum,” snorted Frank. Cas was on his feet, both Bobby and Dean holding him back.
“Whoa!” said Rufus, smiling and tapping Cas on the chest. “Hold up there. I’ve got your honor, remember?” he asked. Cas slowly sank back down into his chair, Bobby and Dean sitting down beside him. Rufus breezed over to where Frank was sitting and then, to Dean’s horror, clobbered him but good. Dean jumped up again, but Bobby waved at him to sit down, while Castiel watched with seeming calm.
Rufus had a bleeding Frank by the collar. “You just insulted a street fighter under my roof, you big jackass. Apologize, or it will be my great pleasure to run you through.” Dean was flabbergasted: Rufus had gone from a friendly dude to one terrifying motherfucker in the space of an instant.
“I don’t fight!” Frank sputtered. “Rufus, you know that!”
“Then you might wanna apologize.”
Sweat dripping from his wide forehead, Frank nodded, and Rufus yanked him to his feet. “Uh, I’m sorry for causing offense, Castiel.” He wiped the blood on his lip with the back of his sleeve. “I guess I need to watch my mouth.”
“Accepted,” said Castiel. “Thank you. I am satisfied.” He had taken the opposite turn from Rufus, going from agitation to serenity as Rufus dealt with Frank.
“Rufus,” said Bobby, “like you know, street fighting ain’t my specialty. I just want an idea of what we’re in for with this kid under my roof.”
Frank had taken out a handkerchief and was daubing at his split lip. Rufus darted into the kitchen and, all politeness again, handed him a pack of frozen peas, which he applied to his mouth. “Long story short, you have no fucking idea what you’re dealing with.”
Rufus was now diving into the stack of magazines on his table. He pulled one out and slid it over so Cas could see it. “Recognize anybody?” he asked.
Dean peered over Cas’s shoulder. There was a big bear of a man sitting at ringside in the photograph. “Yes. That’s Zachariah,” he said, his voice flat. “The new sensei who took over from Joshua,” he added. Dean took him in: the dude was big as a house. He looked more like a fighter than a manager. And he was wearing the world's most self-satisfied smirk.
“And this?” asked Rufus, pushing over another magazine. The graphics on this one looked very different.
“This is another picture of Zachariah,” said Cas, surveying the characters sitting ringside.
“What, really?” asked Dean.
“Yes, I am certain.”
“Dude's looking awfully fit.” Cas appeared baffled, so Dean flipped over the magazine and pointed to the date: it had been published a good fifty years ago.
“This was out in the 1960s,” said Bobby. “What the hell?”
Rufus pulled out a crumbling, yellowed periodical from the 1920s, and turned to a black and white image. “That- That looks like Zachariah,” said Cas. “But it can’t be. Can it?”
“Now, my understanding is that sometimes different folks will take the same alias, handed down through the generations,” said Bobby. “You two knot heads sure that’s not the case here?”
“But, Bobby, look at the pictures!” Dean protested. “That’s not another guy. That’s him.”
“It's not just Zachariah. There are others. And we think it goes even further back,” said Rufus.
“Like how far back?” asked Bobby.
“The Lincoln assassination,” said Frank.
Dean rolled his eyes. “For the last time, guys, it was the Lincon-Booth duel!”
“This Lincoln assassination,” said Cas quietly shaking his head.
“The Lincoln assassination,” agreed Rufus.
“Bobby,” pleaded Dean, turning towards his uncle.
“The Lincoln assassination,” Bobby concurred, to which Dean threw up his hands. “Dean, think, boy! You can believe some guy had been involved in street fighting for a damn century, but not that there was a conspiracy?”
“But crazy people believe that stuff, Bobby! And crazy people are crazy!”
Bobby looked Dean up and down. “Well, kid, you are definitely related to your Pa.”
“What?” said Dean.
“We think this all started with a group of Southern Plantation owners sometime in the middle of the Nineteenth Century,” Rufus told them.
“They say that this group of men practiced unnatural magic,” said Frank, rubbing his glasses with the tail of his shirt.
“And who the hell are they?” demanded Dean. “There's always some mysterious 'they.'”
“Dean,” said Bobby, and Dean scowled. “Let the man finish a damn sentence.” He turned to Rufus and Frank. “Now, I heard it before that this went down because Lincoln was bent on eliminating indentured servitude.”
“Not only that: he and Secretary Seward had cooked up a plan to outlaw dueling,” said Rufus. “We have copies of their correspondence from the time.”
“They wanted to conquer the South, and they also wanted to eliminate the southern code of honor,” Frank added.
“So where does the magical part come in?” asked Dean, who got whacked in the back of the head by Bobby for his trouble.
Rufus sat back. “It's said they made a deal with a demon. He granted them eternal life. And gifted them with a great sword fighting abilities.”
“Oh, so that explains why they're mucking around in street fighting,” said Bobby, sipping his terrible Sanka. “Now that there's big money in the sport. So what do you folks reckon we got in store now we've got a runaway under my roof?”
Rufus sat back. “Well, we've been through this before. Remember those bounty hunters from Tennessee who we thought were using paranormal methods. Kubrick and Creedy?”
“Yup, how could I forget those idjits?”
“You're going to have to start using … alternative methods. Some warding. We've got some sigils that you should put up around your property.”
“What about when the kid is fighting?”
“There's precautions for that too,” said Rufus, pulling up his sleeve to reveal an intricate design marked on the inside of his wrist.
“You mean we get tattoos?” asked Dean eagerly.
“Thought you didn't believe in this horse shit?” asked Bobby.
“I could start believing.”
Cas had been quietly leafing through the oldest periodical. “Dean!” he exclaimed, pushing the magazine towards his friend.
“What's up, Cas?”
Cas was excitedly pointing at another photo: a pair of duelists matched up in an old-fashioned square ring. They were both dark-skinned, although the crowd assembled around them was white. “Dean, this fighter?”
“Yeah? What about him.”
“This is Joshua.”
Rufus and Frank had both jumped up – as fast as old legs would allow that is – and crowded around as well. “You sure kid?” asked Bobby. Cas nodded solemnly.
“I've never even seen a picture of him before,” said Rufus as Frank scribbled madly in his little notebook.
“You ain't gonna tell me Joshua was a southern plantation owner,” said Bobby.
“What does this mean, Bobby?” asked Cas.
Bobby nodded thoughtfully. “Kid, I think it means we need to figure out what the hell happened to your old sensei.”
Cas opened his mouth to speak. He thought the better of it, and then began again. “Can I ask one more thing?”
“Anything!” said Rufus.
“If it’s not too much trouble…. I never knew my parents. I mean, not even their names. If you had any way of finding out….” He trailed off, and Dean was there, squeezing his shoulder.
“We’ll see what we can do,” said Rufus.
“No problemo, kemosabe,” added Frank.
“I'm worried about my brother. I'm worried about Gabriel.”
Cas had been silent on the drive back from Rufus's house, so the comment startled Dean, who had been nodding off.
“From what I’ve heard about him, I think Gabe can take care of himself,” said Bobby.
“I don’t know how to get a message to him,” said Cas.
“When Sam gets back, we’ll tell him to call Jess to call Pamela to call Gabriel,” suggested Dean.
“Is that how you kids communicate nowadays?” huffed Bobby.
“It works.” Dean had been drooping over, leaning on Cas, and he now shifted to get even more comfortable.
“Make yourself at home, kid,” chuckled Bobby.
“So, Cas, you were fighting when you were just a little kid?” Dean asked him.
“I was small for my age,” said Cas.
“No, but you said that fight? You were thirteen?”
“Yes. As I told you, I was thirteen. Gabriel was fifteen.”
“Yeah, I remember when Sammy and I were about that age….”
“You were setting off illegal firecrackers, and making my life hell,” said Bobby.
“We make your life exciting, Uncle Bobby.” They had arrived at Singer Salvage, so Dean hopped out of the truck to open the gate. Sam was waiting for them when they pulled up, pacing back and down beside the Impala, looking upset. He was holding his old dueling sword.
“Sammy, what the hell?” asked Dean.
“I was followed!” said Sam.
“Really? Is my car okay?” asked Dean, tracing a hand along the Impala’s fender.
“Dean!” shouted Sam. “This isn’t funny.”
“No, it ain’t,” agreed Bobby. “Did you lose ‘em?”
Sam nodded. “I think so. The way you taught me. It was a black car with tinted windows, so I couldn’t see who was driving.”
“You get the plates? We can run a reverse search.”
“Yeah. It started with the letters CD Bobby.”
“Duelists?” asked Cas. “They’re looking for me.”
“That would be my guess,” said Bobby. “They must know where we are, so I’d imagine they were trying to catch you alone. I think it’s gonna be best if we travel in groups for a while. And make sure you're packing a sidearm. Yeah, even you Sam. In the meantime,” he went over towards the shed and grabbed a couple of paint cans, “we gotta put some warding up. You boys grab a can and a paint brush. We're having a sigil painting party.”
“A what?” asked Sam.
“Sounds good. As long as there's beer,” said Dean.
“It was in the storeroom,” said Dean as he helped Cas push the heavy piece of equipment out onto the gym floor late the next evening. Thankfully, the day had proved uneventful. Dean, who had decided that maybe his younger brother had been mistaken about the whole being followed thing, decided to stay late to practice with Cas, so Sam had caught a ride home from school with Jess.
“I don’t understand. Why would your university offer training in street fighting?” Cas grunted. It was built to look like one corner of a high wall, set up on collapsible rollers so it could be transported. Dean pulled a lever, and the equipment settled down to the floor with a great thump.
Dean gave the practice wall a kick. “Seems steady,” he said.
Cas gave a small smile. He stepped away a few paces, and then suddenly ran up and did a backflip against it, sticking a perfect landing. “Appears so,” he grinned.
Dean was grinning too. “Let’s be serious. You said you’d show me a couple moves.”
“I have a lot of moves,” said Cas. Funny, just being around the wall piece made him seem different, more confident. “Which ones?”
“Don’t be a smartass. I’m not going to be doing that any time soon,” he said, gesturing a backflip. “Just start with the simple stuff.”
Cas nodded and had Dean help him pull one of the mats over to tuck right underneath the wall.
“One more thing,” said Cas, going over to the cabinet containing the swords. He grabbed an older one and brought it out, handing it to Dean.
“A kiddie sword?” said Dean, glaring at the wooden practice blade.
“You could use it or not, Dean. I supposed it depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“How important it is for you to count to ten on your fingers?”
Dean glowered but picked up the battered sword and followed Cas back over to the wall section.
“You understand the concept, right, Dean? The object is not to make the move look stylish, although some of us can’t help that.” The edge of his mouth ticked up in a little smile again, and Dean sort of wanted to wipe the expression off his face. “Let me show you a simple one.” And then, using his regular, cool sword, Cas kicked off the side of the wall, sweeping his sword around in what was inarguably a very awesome cool move. “I want you to try it. Concentrate on the footwork. And try not to drop the sword.”
Gripping the wooden sword’s hilt tightly – Dean decided then and there that he would not let it out of his hand no matter what happened – Dean mentally rehearsed the move a couple of time, and then, stepping back a pace, took a run at the wall, kicked off….
…And landed in a tangle of his own legs, right on his ass.
“You didn’t drop the sword. Very good,” mused Cas.
Dean leapt up, rubbing his sore backside. “I almost got it.”
“That was very graceful, Dean. That move would definitely intimidate an opponent.”
Dean glared at Cas. “You know, you really need someone to wipe that little smirk off your face.”
“What smirk?” smirked Cas.
Dean practiced the move a few more times, and ended up on his posterior probably more than he would have liked. But with some encouragement, and rather too much smugness on Cas’s part, he finally was able to land on his feet, and then add a satisfying sword flourish to the mix.
Dean whooped and leapt down the mat, waving the wooden sword in triumph. “That is a blast!”
“Next time, we’ll try it with a real sword.”
“Downer,” said Dean.
“…set to two.”
Dean gripped him by the collar and tugged him nearer. “Cas. Quit. Being. A smartass.”
Cas stared right back at him, his eyes bright. “No.”
They both jumped as the door slammed shut.
“What the hell did you boys do to my gym?” bellowed Coach Henricksen, striding over in a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“I thought this gym was no smoking,” said Dean.
“Tell it to your old man. Now what was so damned important you had to interrupt my smoke break to talk?”
“It’s Cas, Coach.”
“What about him now? Is he gonna grow a beard? I’ve spent way too much time this fucking semester on that boy’s facial hair.”
Cas looked serious. “I’ve separated from my dojo, sir,” he told Henricksen.
“Separated? What the hell does that mean?”
“The head of his dojo, Zachariah, was going to pull him off the team. And out of college.”
“Was that what all the fuss was about the other day?” asked Henricksen.
“We think so,” Dean told him. “So Cas took off. He’s staying with us now.”
“Your Uncle Bobby?” Henricksen asked. Dean nodded. “He’s one prize old asshole. What do you want me to do about it?”
Dean looked at Cas. “Bobby said we should talk to you about Cas playing on the team. It may be … dangerous.”
Henricksen looked between Cas and Dean. He carelessly flicked ashes on the floor. “Oh, so those guys weren’t entirely happy about you leaving I take it?”
“Meg saw some suspicious guys hanging around the gym after the last practice. And we’re pretty sure someone was tailing Sam the other day.”
Henricksen snorted. “They can bite my ass. I’ve got a winning team. Cas plays.”
“Just like that?” asked Dean.
“Yeah. Wanna fight about it?” asked the coach, nodding at Dean’s wooden sword.
“Uh, not with this sword,” said Dean.
“I was gonna get to Harvelle's for a beer and a game of darts. You guys wanna join me?”
Dean and Cas cheerfully agreed. They had a lot of equipment and were feeling a little lazy, so Dean volunteered to bring the car around while Henricksen and Cas pushed the heavy practice wall aside.
Dean was walking down a narrow pathway between two buildings on his way back to the gym when the men stepped in front of him. There were three of them, and all carried sidearms.
“We're looking for Castiel. We hear you two are tight.”
“Cas isn't here,” said Dean, putting a hand on his sword hilt.
“Maybe you could bring us to him.”
“Yeah. Or maybe not.”
“I asked politely,” said the man. “Next time, I won’t be so polite.” They unsheathed their swords.
So did Dean. Three of them, one of me, he thought. Good odds. He let his sword fall down and tapped his boot once, twice, feeling the crackle of the shielding, smelling the ozone of his ignited blade. The other guys mirrored the gesture. So this was really happening. The small hairs on the back of Dean's wrist stood up from the blade's electrical field.
And then Dean did something completely stupid, as if he weren't already acting idiotic enough: he hopped up the wall and tried the exact same move Cas had showed him just a few minutes earlier. Thankfully, he didn't end up on his ass, and it must have been impressive enough that one of the sub-goons yelled, “Fuck, watch out! He's a street fighter!” and lowered his sword.
Dean basically crashed into another guy, but it was a good enough hit to knock the guy over with his sword hild. He turned to the third guy, parrying a mediocre lunge just in time. The blades sparked and Dean smiled: these guys weren't very good. He attacked, getting in the guy's face, trying to disarm him. They crossed swords one, two, three times, orange sparks crackling in the alley like Fourth of July fireworks.
A blade went skidding across the alley.
“Hold it right there!” came the lead goon's voice. Dean whirled around, sword in hand, preparing to dice the sucker.
He stopped short.
Lead Goon Guy was holding a gun. A gun. Some kind of pistol. Dean was almost too fascinated to be afraid. Uncle Bobby had a couple of antique shotguns in his collection, but he had never seen an actual working handgun before.
At least, he assumed they were working. He gulped.
The scent of Marlboro.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
Dean had never been so grateful to hear the sound of his coach's voice. “Henricksen,” he muttered as the coach and Cas strolled up, “they've got guns.” And it was true. The other two had gotten back to their feet, and now all were brandishing firearms.
Well, explained why they were fucking awful swordsmen.
“Castiel. Just the man we're looking for. Could you come with us?” asked Lead Goon Guy.
“Castiel is busy right now,” said Henricksen. “He’s got beer to drink.” He and Cas were now flanking Dean.
“I think he comes with us now.”
“Dean, stay behind us,” whispered Henricksen. He nodded to Cas, who was now quietly seething. “You dare threaten us with … guns?” he asked Lead Goon.
“Yeah, I threaten you with guns, smart guy.”
“Put it down, or I’ll have it. And your arm.”
This seemed to put off the lead guy, if only for a moment. But then his resolve hardened. “Give us the boy.”
“Over a dead body. Probably yours,” said Henricksen. He tossed his cigarette butt to the side.
And then a lot of things happened all at once. Dean got broadsided and slammed to the ground, the sound of gunshots echoing over him. He looked up to see Cas already up overhead, sword flashing and sparking off the spray of bullets.
Henricksen was running up the side of the building while bits of plaster sprayed from gunshots, and then he slashed another guy in the neck while Cas pulled his own sword out of the third guy, who fell with a thump, moaning at the deep gash in his side.
The guy who had spoken was now on his knees, his gun, as well as his gun arm, lying in a bloody pool on the ground.
‘You threaten me with a gun?” yelled Henricksen. “A gun?” he yelled, grabbing the dismembered guy by the collar and shaking him.
Cas pried the gun out of the dead hand. He flipped it up in the air, and flicked his sword. It fell in pieces of hot metal on the ground.
Dean spotted something on the ground nearby. He picked up a small, hot metallic object. It looked like a bullet.
It was part of a bullet. It had been sliced clean in half.
Dean blinked between Cas and the Coach.
“You go back to your boss,” Henricksen told the now one-armed guy. “You tell them next time, I’ll send you guys back in a bucket. You tell him not to piss off the Dark Agent.” He nodded to Cas and the two of them yanked Dean up off the ground. Dean pocketed the half bullet, and they made their way to the parking lot.
They arrived at Harvelle’s Roadhouse bar some time later, Dean not quite certain how he’d gotten there. He downed a big gulp from the beer sitting in front of him. He felt in his pocket, and pulled out the bullet fragment. “The guys with guns: they had guns,” he babbled. “The gun guys.”
“Those lousy sonsabitches!” Henricksen raved. “They didn’t just wanna kill us, they wanted to dishonor us.” He tapped his cigarette into an ashtray. Dean noticed with wonder that Ellen was letting him smoke in her bar.
“You’re a street fighter, Coach?” said Cas.
Henricksen nodded. He leaned over towards Cas. “You understand why I don’t want this to get around?”
Cas nodded enthusiastically. “What was your dojo?”
“Didn’t have one. My grandpa was a Freedman.”
“You learned from a Freedman?” asked Cas, who appeared enormously impressed.
“Yeah. Long story. Grandpa was a sensei, but my dad didn’t want anything to do with that life. He just wanted to be a fat businessman. Anyway, I had my grandpa teach me everything he knew, once I was old enough. I even fought in a few semi-pro bouts. It was strictly small time, nothing like your circuit. But I finally decided my knees were not gonna hold out for much longer, so I started coaching instead.”
“I would be greatly honored if you would share you grandfather's teachings some time,” Cas told him.
“I've probably forgotten half of it,” said Henricksen. “And I don't see how I'd have much to teach a guy like you. But, yeah, okay. Buy me another beer.”
Dean opened his hand containing the half bullet. He waved it in front of Cas. “Cas, did you...?”
“Yes, Dean.”
“Holy shit.” He looked between Cas and Henricksen. “You can do that?”
“Some guys can do that,” said Henricksen, smiling at Cas. “I bet it's a bitch to practice though.”
Dean suddenly turned around to the sound of his own name being called. He stood, and found himself engulfed in one of Sam's tremendous bear hugs. “Dean,” said Bobby, who grabbed his shoulder once Sam released him.
“Are you guys all okay?” Sam asked Cas and Henricksen.
“They tried guns on us. Guns! Rat bastards,” grumbled Henricksen.
“Bobby. Sam. What are you guys doing here?” asked Dean.
“I called them,” Ellen told him. “Soon as you got here, and Victor explained what happened.”
“Oh,” said Dean. Had Henricksen told the story? It was all a blur.
“I believe Dean is suffering from some after-effects,” said Cas, his voice filled with concern.
“We'll get you boys home,” said Bobby. “Dean, you give Sam your car keys.”
“What, my keys?” asked Dean, who nonetheless dug them out. Sam grabbed them.
“Dean, you're in the truck with me. Cas, you go with Sam. Sam, you stick close, you hear. On my bumper.”
“Yessir,” said Sam.
“Will you be all right getting home, Victor?” Bobby asked.
“Mr. Dark Agent is spending the night here,” said Ellen.
“I am?” grinned Henricksen.
“On the couch, hotshot,” she corrected. “Jo will grab you some blankets.”
“Victor,” said Bobby. “What you done. For my kids.” He stuck out a hand.
Henricksen reached over and shook. “It was nothing. And that one got two of them,” he said, nodding towards Cas.
Dean looked at Cas, who he found had an arm around his shoulders. “You got two.”
“Yes, Dean.”
“Did you do the arm thing?”
“Yes, I did the arm thing.”
“That was pretty badass.”
“I think they will be able to sew it back on again. If they get to him in time. And he doesn't lose too much blood.”
“Uh. Good to know,” said Dean, who was ushered into the waiting car by Sam.
They made an extra careful effort to secure the property that evening, double locking the gate, and making sure the doors and windows were bolted.
Bobby had found a cot folded up in the attic, and they had pushed it into Dean's room for Cas to sleep on, despite his protestations that the floor was completely sufficient. Dean sat on his own bed, covers bunched up around him, watching Cas return from the bathroom, towel over his shoulder, holding his toothbrush. Cas sat down on his cot and tucked the toothbrush into his toiletry bag. “You know, we told you, you could just leave that stuff in the bathroom.”
“I don't want to intrude,” said Cas. “I've caused enough trouble as it is.”
“Hey, tonight was awesome. Even if it was sort of fucking scary.”
“I don't know if- Dean!”
Dean had started to tremble violently. Castiel hurried over to him, but the seemed uncertain what to do. Dean wrapped his arms around his knees, but seemed unable to stop shaking. “Cas?” he whispered.
Cas sat on the bed and slid over towards Dean, and put his arms around him. And then he slowly lowered his shaking friend down to the bed, so he was lying in back of him, arms around him. “It's all right. I'm here.” The trembling slowed, and Dean's breathing started to ease.
“Just- Just-”
“What, Dean?”
Dean twisted his head around to look Cas in the eye. “Don't tell Sam!”
Cas smiled and hugged tighter. “I won't,” he promised. “I won't.”
They were silent for a long moment, the only sound hushed breathing and Dean's heart pounding against his rib cage.
“Dean, you took on three armed men?”
“I didn't know they had guns! And ... I thought they wanted to hurt you.”
“That was very brave.”
“Yeah?”
“No one's ever done anything like that for me.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Dean broke into a broad, blushing smile. Very slowly, his heart stopped its mad racing, and his breathing slowed to a steady, quiet rhythm. And that was how he fell asleep that night, held tightly in Cas's arms.
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. This chapter has violence some may find upsetting.
Word Count: 75,000 total
Summary: The duel of honor is still the law of the land: grievances large and small are settled by means of electrified swords that can be honed to incredible sharpness. When Dean Winchester, captain of the University of Kansas fencing team, finds himself one player short at the beginning of the season, he recruits Castiel, a mysterious boy trained from birth to compete in high stakes illegal sword fighting competitions.
Notes: In this chapter, we start with an info dump (sorry) but then we get to the good stuff later.
Dean and Cas waited nervously in the vomit-tinged waiting room of a college administrator. “Do you think they are really going to kick me off the team, Dean?” Cas whispered nervously.
“I dunno. I wonder if Zachariah found some way to screw with your enrollment.”
The receptionist bid them enter, and Dean and Cas settled themselves into the two guest chairs in an empty office. Dean glanced around nervously. It looked fairly anonymous, except for an odd sculpture pushed over into one corner. It appeared to be an old-fashioned two-handed broadsword that had been embedded in a stone. “Check it out,” he whispered to Cas, hoping to distract his friend.
“What is that?” asked Cas. “It’s a lovely weapon, but why is it stuck in a rock like that?”
“I think if you pull it out, you get to be king of England.”
Cas didn't get a chance to ask his inevitable next question, as the side door to the office opened and shut, and the boys found themselves face to face with a stern-faced woman. She went to stand behind her desk, but did not take her chair, instead looming over them. “Uh, what is this about, Miss … Visyak?” asked Dean, reading the nameplate on her desk.
“You are Castiel?” she asked him, peering over reading glasses on a silver chain around her neck.
“Um, no, this is Cas.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Mr. uh, Castiel. There is a problem with your admissions forms.”
Cas looked at her curiously. “I don't understand. I've been attending this school for over a year now.”
Miss Visyak pulled the top sheet off of the stack of forms in the middle of her desk and held it up. She tapped it with a pen. “We require a first and last name on all forms. You have not supplied one.”
“Cas doesn't have a last name,” Dean protested. “He’s a street fighter.”
Dean felt a pair of eyes boring through him. He shivered. “I'm sorry, am I having a conversation with you, or with Mr. Castiel?”
“Why is this coming up now?” Dean insisted. “Is this Zachariah’s doing?”
“I don’t know any Mr. Zachariah. This is in regards to Mr. Castiel.”
“Oh, goodie, just in time for a meetin'!” said Bobby cheerfully as he bustled into the office, a file folder in his hands. He glared at Dean, who gave up his chair. “I heard you wanted to chat with Cas?” he told Miss Visyak as he settled himself into Dean's vacated chair while Dean stood nervously nearby.
“They need a last name on my forms,” Cas told him softly.
“Well, I don't see how this was ever overlooked. I'm just as sorry as hell. Boy's last name is Singer, just like it says on his birth certificate.”
Miss Visyak glared at Bobby, Dean grinned, and Cas just looked surprised.
“On his birth certificate?” asked Miss Visyak.
“Sure,” said Bobby, leaning over and dumping the file folder on Miss Visyak's desk. “I just happen to have it right here. See, there's the certificate of live birth, his social security card, his driver’s license....” Bobby snatched up the latter and gave it to Cas. “You shouldn't keep forgetting this, boy. I swear, he'd forget his head.” Dean peered at the birth certificate, which listed Robert and Karen Singer as adoptive parents.
Miss Visyak favored the collection of documentation with a steely-eyed bureaucratic scowl.
“Oh, and there's various other official papers there, including a letter from my lawyer suggesting that you'd be asking for legal action if you were to be harassing this boy on account of his prior occupation.”
“Your lawyer is Mr. Rufus Turner?”
“That’s what it says on the form.”
Miss Visyak glowered. “Castiel Singer? Is this correct, young man?” she asked Cas.
Cas was beaming brightly. “Yes! This is my driver’s license! I'm Castiel Singer.” Dean pulled the license out of Cas's hand and set it up rightside-up.
Miss Visyak afforded them a 300-watt glare. “I shall have my administrative assistant make copies,” she said.
A little later, as they were walking out of the office, Cas still cradling his driver’s license, Dean asked, “Did Sam call you, Bobby?”
“No, and you boys had better be grateful to that Becky girl. I guess her ma heard what was coming and told Becky, and she told Chuck and he called me.”
“And you got all this stuff made?”
“I had some help from Rufus and a friend of his who does ID work. You're lucky they're both street fighting fanatics. Did a nice job, if I do say so myself.”
“Does this mean I can drive now?” asked Cas, flashing the license.
Bobby grabbed it back from him. “Not hardly, kid. Dean will teach you later.”
“But not on Baby!” Dean protested.
“You can take one of the wrecks in the back. And show him a stick shift, so he ain't useless. Meantime, just stick close to him today? I don't want no more trouble. And we're set to head out to talk to Rufus tomorrow. I think he just wants Cas's autograph, personally.”
At this point, Sam came running up, out of breath. “Hey, I'm sorry I took so long. Is everything okay?”
“We managed,” said Dean. “Oh, and Cas is now a Singer.”
“Congratulations. And sorry I was delayed. Meg claimed there were some weird dudes hanging out after practice?”
“Weird dudes?” said Dean. “Ah. Meg just probably wants attention.”
“Well, she said they were lurking near the gym.”
“You boys be careful,” said Bobby. “And Cas? I expect a good dinner in return for these papers.”
“Sure,” said Castiel. “Do you like chili, Mr. Singer?”
“The hotter the better, kid. And don't drown it in beans: I like my meat.”
“We'll stop on the way home and buy peppers,” Cas told Bobby as he made his way off.
“Wait, we will?” asked Dean. “Aren’t peppers vegetables?”
“Careful, Cas,” warned Sam. “You might kill Dean, making him eat something that's not a burger.”
“I gotta pass on this little outing. I gotta get to campus for my midterm,” Sam informed everybody the next morning.
“It'll be fine, we'll take my truck,” said Bobby.
“Just put some gas in Baby!” scolded Dean, tossing over the keys as Sam sailed towards the door.
Cas was intrigued as he, Dean and Bobby headed off to visit Rufus Turner: he had never before ridden in a real pickup truck. The window on the passenger side was broken and didn't crank up all the way, so he volunteered to sit on that side while Dean took the hump, and it was wonderful, sitting up high over the world, feeling the wind gusting on his face.
“Tell your buddy not to hang out the window, he'll catch a fly in the face,” Bobby laughed.
“You should get a pickup truck, Dean,” said Cas, who was beaming.
“Cas, this old truck is not better than my car.”
“Kid has good taste,” said Bobby. “You wanna learn to drive a truck, kid?”
“That would be excellent,” said Cas, his eyes shining.
“Well, I ain't got a taxi fleet, and you won't be much use living out there with no car. Dean will show you.”
“How did I get that job?” asked Dean, who didn’t actually seem to upset about it.
“You're the one who brought home the stray. Now quit your bitching,” Bobby told him.
Rufus lived in a rambling house, somewhat reminiscent of Bobby's, minus the surrounding scrap yard. And like the Singer residence it was located in an out of the way area.
“Castiel?” said a tall, dark-skinned man who emerged from the house along with a shorter, rounder, bespectacled man.
Castiel nodded, and, smiling warmly, the man rushed forward, extending a hand to shake. “I'm Rufus Turner. It's a real honor to meet you. A real honor.”
“Thank you, Mr. Turner.”
“Fanboy,” muttered Bobby.
Rufus grinned. “Seriously, Bobby, this is the best Hanukkah present you’ve never given me.”
“What happened to his hair?” asked the chubby guy.
“This is Frank Devereaux, an ID man from upstate. He’s another fan,” said Rufus. “He conjured up the Singer birth certificate for you.”
Bobby regarded the other man suspiciously. “Bobby Singer. This is my nephew, Dean.”
“The hair, Cupcake?” asked Frank, who evidently wouldn't be put off. “They cut it?”
“I cut it,” said Dean.
“Yes, he won a duel,” said Cas, putting a hand through his hair. “It was the only honorable thing to do,” he added, smiling at Dean.
“You’re trying to make me believeyou won a duel with the Avenging Angel, Buncakes?” Frank demanded of Dean.
Cas shrugged. “I was a little tired at the time.”
“Boy's too modest to say so, but I hear tell he took in the entire KU team,” Bobby informed him.
“Who got the hair? Did you keep it?” Frank now asked Dean.
“What? Ew! No.”
“My teammate Charlie took it,” said Cas. “She said she would make a wig?”
“Oh. Do you think she still has a lock?” Frank persisted.
“Okay, Frank?” said Rufus, who was now physically pushing Frank back. “You promised you wouldn't get creepy.”
“I'm not creepy! I'm a fan! I've seen your fights, Sugarplum,” he told Cas. “All of them!”
“That's not creepy at all,” said Dean, who was standing somewhat protectively at Cas's side now.
Cas was squinting at Frank. “My name is Castiel, not Sugarplum nor Cupcake. And I’m sorry. How can you have seen all of my fights? Those videotapes are restricted to a limited audience.” He was too polite to say that said audience tended to be very wealthy.
“We've got them all on tape,” Rufus explained.
“You mean camera phone videos?”
“No, the official tapes!” Frank told him proudly.
“That's not possible.” Castiel looked back and for the between Frank and Rufus.
“There's those of us who are collectors,” said Rufus. “We've tapped into some alternative sources to assemble complete libraries.”
“Rufus,” said Bobby, “you're a bigger nutball than I ever imagined.” Rufus grinned. “You wanna quit heckling the kid and talk?”
They proceeded inside, Castiel stopping at the door to do the thing where he offered his sword to Rufus. Rufus and Frank spent what was probably a rude amount of time examining the blade with a kind of fan-ish glee before returning it to Cas. Dean had the funny feeling there was something bigger and older going on than he had reckoned. He knew the fundamentals of dueling etiquette: everyone did. But no one had ever seriously challenged him to a fight. His thoughts started to wander to what he'd do in a real street fight. But then he dismissed the idea as silly.
Once inside, Castiel enjoyed the very first French press coffee of his life, though Bobby demurred from drinking “that fancy pants gourmet shit,” so Rufus also rustled him up some Sanka. In the meantime, Frank was fussing with an assortment of computer equipment he had piled on the end of Rufus’s kitchen table. He plugged an external hard drive to his laptop and clicked around for a file.
“Take a look, Castiel,” he said. Cas, Dean and Bobby crowded around the small screen. There was a blast of noise of a rowdy crowd cheering. Rufus shouted at him, so Frank toggled the sound down. Dean thought it looked like total chaos, but soon realized it was a cage match. He recognized the look of the eight-sided, clear-walled ring in the center. He wondered how Cas – or anybody really – could duel under these conditions. The audience was literally screaming and throwing things. He could have sworn there were even people firing off guns, even thought he had never really heard a gun fire.
Two kids filed into the ring, and Dean thought he heard the word, “champions.” They looked like teenagers to him. The champions waved at the crowd, which went even more wild, and then two smaller kids were introduced. He recognized the one right off at Gabriel. He stared at the tiny, dark-haired boy beside him. “Cas! Is that you?”
“My first professional fight,” said Cas quietly.
The official got them lined up. Even though he realized this was years in the past, Dean was immediately scared for Cas's sake: he must have been a full head shorter than the kid they matched him up with!
And then the official counted down and they were off, bouncing around the cage like a set of crazy pinballs. Gabriel was amazing: impossibly quick and skillful. Dean wasn't sure how the hell an opponent could keep track of him. But Cas was a revelation. All of them used the wall: Dean was astonished how much more dynamic the fighters were compared to formal duelists. But Cas seemed to live in direct defiance of all laws of gravity. He was everywhere, running up and down and all around.
Dean was transfixed. There was a kind of beauty and joy to it. He saw how Cas said he tuned out the crowd during his fights. The only things he seemed aware of were Gabriel and his opponents, who, despite being champions of some kind, were quickly dispatched: one fell and did not get up, and the other surrendered soon after when both Cas and Gabe got the drop on him.
“That's amazing!” said Dean as Frank stopped the video.
“That's a considerable raw talent!” Rufus shouted over as he brought out a plate of cookies. “Not as elegant as your later fights, but you could tell you got something.”
“Some of those moves,” said Cas, who was blushing slightly. “I can't manage them as well any more. I got too tall.”
“You were fourteen, Cupcake?” asked Frank.
“Thirteen,” said Cas.
Frank and Rufus looked at each other. “Holy crap,” said Rufus. “I didn't know that.”
“We didn't know that,” said Frank, who, oddly enough, pulled out a notebook and scrawled something illegible on the page.
“Is that a code?” asked Dean. Frank nodded curtly and closed up the notebook.
“You're from Zachariah's dojo?” Rufus asked Cas.
“Yes. Joshua's dojo,” said Cas. “He was my sensei.”
“Oh, good man, Joshua. Had a real feel for the classic aspects of the sport.”
“You knew him?” asked Cas.
“I never had the honor of meeting him, no,” admitted Rufus, “but I was an acolyte.”
“Is Joshua dead?” asked Dean, immediately regretting his words when he saw Cas's pained expression.
“To the best of our knowledge, no,” said Rufus looking over to Frank. He had just brought a stack of what looked like old magazines to the table and laid them down there.
“We can't find any evidence one way or the other, Hot Lips,” Frank told Dean. “Wherever he is, he doesn't want to be found.”
“The dojo was under new ownership,” said Rufus portentiously. “New and shadowy.”
Cas looked miserable. “After Zachariah showed up, we started to see less and less of Joshua. And then one day his office was shuttered and locked. We never saw him again. That was soon after Gabriel got injured.”
“That was a tragedy!” said Frank. Cas nodded sadly. “That boy had a unique style.”
“Has a unique style,” Cas shot back. “He’s not dead, you know.”
“Might as well be, Sugarplum,” snorted Frank. Cas was on his feet, both Bobby and Dean holding him back.
“Whoa!” said Rufus, smiling and tapping Cas on the chest. “Hold up there. I’ve got your honor, remember?” he asked. Cas slowly sank back down into his chair, Bobby and Dean sitting down beside him. Rufus breezed over to where Frank was sitting and then, to Dean’s horror, clobbered him but good. Dean jumped up again, but Bobby waved at him to sit down, while Castiel watched with seeming calm.
Rufus had a bleeding Frank by the collar. “You just insulted a street fighter under my roof, you big jackass. Apologize, or it will be my great pleasure to run you through.” Dean was flabbergasted: Rufus had gone from a friendly dude to one terrifying motherfucker in the space of an instant.
“I don’t fight!” Frank sputtered. “Rufus, you know that!”
“Then you might wanna apologize.”
Sweat dripping from his wide forehead, Frank nodded, and Rufus yanked him to his feet. “Uh, I’m sorry for causing offense, Castiel.” He wiped the blood on his lip with the back of his sleeve. “I guess I need to watch my mouth.”
“Accepted,” said Castiel. “Thank you. I am satisfied.” He had taken the opposite turn from Rufus, going from agitation to serenity as Rufus dealt with Frank.
“Rufus,” said Bobby, “like you know, street fighting ain’t my specialty. I just want an idea of what we’re in for with this kid under my roof.”
Frank had taken out a handkerchief and was daubing at his split lip. Rufus darted into the kitchen and, all politeness again, handed him a pack of frozen peas, which he applied to his mouth. “Long story short, you have no fucking idea what you’re dealing with.”
Rufus was now diving into the stack of magazines on his table. He pulled one out and slid it over so Cas could see it. “Recognize anybody?” he asked.
Dean peered over Cas’s shoulder. There was a big bear of a man sitting at ringside in the photograph. “Yes. That’s Zachariah,” he said, his voice flat. “The new sensei who took over from Joshua,” he added. Dean took him in: the dude was big as a house. He looked more like a fighter than a manager. And he was wearing the world's most self-satisfied smirk.
“And this?” asked Rufus, pushing over another magazine. The graphics on this one looked very different.
“This is another picture of Zachariah,” said Cas, surveying the characters sitting ringside.
“What, really?” asked Dean.
“Yes, I am certain.”
“Dude's looking awfully fit.” Cas appeared baffled, so Dean flipped over the magazine and pointed to the date: it had been published a good fifty years ago.
“This was out in the 1960s,” said Bobby. “What the hell?”
Rufus pulled out a crumbling, yellowed periodical from the 1920s, and turned to a black and white image. “That- That looks like Zachariah,” said Cas. “But it can’t be. Can it?”
“Now, my understanding is that sometimes different folks will take the same alias, handed down through the generations,” said Bobby. “You two knot heads sure that’s not the case here?”
“But, Bobby, look at the pictures!” Dean protested. “That’s not another guy. That’s him.”
“It's not just Zachariah. There are others. And we think it goes even further back,” said Rufus.
“Like how far back?” asked Bobby.
“The Lincoln assassination,” said Frank.
Dean rolled his eyes. “For the last time, guys, it was the Lincon-Booth duel!”
“This Lincoln assassination,” said Cas quietly shaking his head.
“The Lincoln assassination,” agreed Rufus.
“Bobby,” pleaded Dean, turning towards his uncle.
“The Lincoln assassination,” Bobby concurred, to which Dean threw up his hands. “Dean, think, boy! You can believe some guy had been involved in street fighting for a damn century, but not that there was a conspiracy?”
“But crazy people believe that stuff, Bobby! And crazy people are crazy!”
Bobby looked Dean up and down. “Well, kid, you are definitely related to your Pa.”
“What?” said Dean.
“We think this all started with a group of Southern Plantation owners sometime in the middle of the Nineteenth Century,” Rufus told them.
“They say that this group of men practiced unnatural magic,” said Frank, rubbing his glasses with the tail of his shirt.
“And who the hell are they?” demanded Dean. “There's always some mysterious 'they.'”
“Dean,” said Bobby, and Dean scowled. “Let the man finish a damn sentence.” He turned to Rufus and Frank. “Now, I heard it before that this went down because Lincoln was bent on eliminating indentured servitude.”
“Not only that: he and Secretary Seward had cooked up a plan to outlaw dueling,” said Rufus. “We have copies of their correspondence from the time.”
“They wanted to conquer the South, and they also wanted to eliminate the southern code of honor,” Frank added.
“So where does the magical part come in?” asked Dean, who got whacked in the back of the head by Bobby for his trouble.
Rufus sat back. “It's said they made a deal with a demon. He granted them eternal life. And gifted them with a great sword fighting abilities.”
“Oh, so that explains why they're mucking around in street fighting,” said Bobby, sipping his terrible Sanka. “Now that there's big money in the sport. So what do you folks reckon we got in store now we've got a runaway under my roof?”
Rufus sat back. “Well, we've been through this before. Remember those bounty hunters from Tennessee who we thought were using paranormal methods. Kubrick and Creedy?”
“Yup, how could I forget those idjits?”
“You're going to have to start using … alternative methods. Some warding. We've got some sigils that you should put up around your property.”
“What about when the kid is fighting?”
“There's precautions for that too,” said Rufus, pulling up his sleeve to reveal an intricate design marked on the inside of his wrist.
“You mean we get tattoos?” asked Dean eagerly.
“Thought you didn't believe in this horse shit?” asked Bobby.
“I could start believing.”
Cas had been quietly leafing through the oldest periodical. “Dean!” he exclaimed, pushing the magazine towards his friend.
“What's up, Cas?”
Cas was excitedly pointing at another photo: a pair of duelists matched up in an old-fashioned square ring. They were both dark-skinned, although the crowd assembled around them was white. “Dean, this fighter?”
“Yeah? What about him.”
“This is Joshua.”
Rufus and Frank had both jumped up – as fast as old legs would allow that is – and crowded around as well. “You sure kid?” asked Bobby. Cas nodded solemnly.
“I've never even seen a picture of him before,” said Rufus as Frank scribbled madly in his little notebook.
“You ain't gonna tell me Joshua was a southern plantation owner,” said Bobby.
“What does this mean, Bobby?” asked Cas.
Bobby nodded thoughtfully. “Kid, I think it means we need to figure out what the hell happened to your old sensei.”
Cas opened his mouth to speak. He thought the better of it, and then began again. “Can I ask one more thing?”
“Anything!” said Rufus.
“If it’s not too much trouble…. I never knew my parents. I mean, not even their names. If you had any way of finding out….” He trailed off, and Dean was there, squeezing his shoulder.
“We’ll see what we can do,” said Rufus.
“No problemo, kemosabe,” added Frank.
“I'm worried about my brother. I'm worried about Gabriel.”
Cas had been silent on the drive back from Rufus's house, so the comment startled Dean, who had been nodding off.
“From what I’ve heard about him, I think Gabe can take care of himself,” said Bobby.
“I don’t know how to get a message to him,” said Cas.
“When Sam gets back, we’ll tell him to call Jess to call Pamela to call Gabriel,” suggested Dean.
“Is that how you kids communicate nowadays?” huffed Bobby.
“It works.” Dean had been drooping over, leaning on Cas, and he now shifted to get even more comfortable.
“Make yourself at home, kid,” chuckled Bobby.
“So, Cas, you were fighting when you were just a little kid?” Dean asked him.
“I was small for my age,” said Cas.
“No, but you said that fight? You were thirteen?”
“Yes. As I told you, I was thirteen. Gabriel was fifteen.”
“Yeah, I remember when Sammy and I were about that age….”
“You were setting off illegal firecrackers, and making my life hell,” said Bobby.
“We make your life exciting, Uncle Bobby.” They had arrived at Singer Salvage, so Dean hopped out of the truck to open the gate. Sam was waiting for them when they pulled up, pacing back and down beside the Impala, looking upset. He was holding his old dueling sword.
“Sammy, what the hell?” asked Dean.
“I was followed!” said Sam.
“Really? Is my car okay?” asked Dean, tracing a hand along the Impala’s fender.
“Dean!” shouted Sam. “This isn’t funny.”
“No, it ain’t,” agreed Bobby. “Did you lose ‘em?”
Sam nodded. “I think so. The way you taught me. It was a black car with tinted windows, so I couldn’t see who was driving.”
“You get the plates? We can run a reverse search.”
“Yeah. It started with the letters CD Bobby.”
“Duelists?” asked Cas. “They’re looking for me.”
“That would be my guess,” said Bobby. “They must know where we are, so I’d imagine they were trying to catch you alone. I think it’s gonna be best if we travel in groups for a while. And make sure you're packing a sidearm. Yeah, even you Sam. In the meantime,” he went over towards the shed and grabbed a couple of paint cans, “we gotta put some warding up. You boys grab a can and a paint brush. We're having a sigil painting party.”
“A what?” asked Sam.
“Sounds good. As long as there's beer,” said Dean.
“It was in the storeroom,” said Dean as he helped Cas push the heavy piece of equipment out onto the gym floor late the next evening. Thankfully, the day had proved uneventful. Dean, who had decided that maybe his younger brother had been mistaken about the whole being followed thing, decided to stay late to practice with Cas, so Sam had caught a ride home from school with Jess.
“I don’t understand. Why would your university offer training in street fighting?” Cas grunted. It was built to look like one corner of a high wall, set up on collapsible rollers so it could be transported. Dean pulled a lever, and the equipment settled down to the floor with a great thump.
Dean gave the practice wall a kick. “Seems steady,” he said.
Cas gave a small smile. He stepped away a few paces, and then suddenly ran up and did a backflip against it, sticking a perfect landing. “Appears so,” he grinned.
Dean was grinning too. “Let’s be serious. You said you’d show me a couple moves.”
“I have a lot of moves,” said Cas. Funny, just being around the wall piece made him seem different, more confident. “Which ones?”
“Don’t be a smartass. I’m not going to be doing that any time soon,” he said, gesturing a backflip. “Just start with the simple stuff.”
Cas nodded and had Dean help him pull one of the mats over to tuck right underneath the wall.
“One more thing,” said Cas, going over to the cabinet containing the swords. He grabbed an older one and brought it out, handing it to Dean.
“A kiddie sword?” said Dean, glaring at the wooden practice blade.
“You could use it or not, Dean. I supposed it depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“How important it is for you to count to ten on your fingers?”
Dean glowered but picked up the battered sword and followed Cas back over to the wall section.
“You understand the concept, right, Dean? The object is not to make the move look stylish, although some of us can’t help that.” The edge of his mouth ticked up in a little smile again, and Dean sort of wanted to wipe the expression off his face. “Let me show you a simple one.” And then, using his regular, cool sword, Cas kicked off the side of the wall, sweeping his sword around in what was inarguably a very awesome cool move. “I want you to try it. Concentrate on the footwork. And try not to drop the sword.”
Gripping the wooden sword’s hilt tightly – Dean decided then and there that he would not let it out of his hand no matter what happened – Dean mentally rehearsed the move a couple of time, and then, stepping back a pace, took a run at the wall, kicked off….
…And landed in a tangle of his own legs, right on his ass.
“You didn’t drop the sword. Very good,” mused Cas.
Dean leapt up, rubbing his sore backside. “I almost got it.”
“That was very graceful, Dean. That move would definitely intimidate an opponent.”
Dean glared at Cas. “You know, you really need someone to wipe that little smirk off your face.”
“What smirk?” smirked Cas.
Dean practiced the move a few more times, and ended up on his posterior probably more than he would have liked. But with some encouragement, and rather too much smugness on Cas’s part, he finally was able to land on his feet, and then add a satisfying sword flourish to the mix.
Dean whooped and leapt down the mat, waving the wooden sword in triumph. “That is a blast!”
“Next time, we’ll try it with a real sword.”
“Downer,” said Dean.
“…set to two.”
Dean gripped him by the collar and tugged him nearer. “Cas. Quit. Being. A smartass.”
Cas stared right back at him, his eyes bright. “No.”
They both jumped as the door slammed shut.
“What the hell did you boys do to my gym?” bellowed Coach Henricksen, striding over in a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“I thought this gym was no smoking,” said Dean.
“Tell it to your old man. Now what was so damned important you had to interrupt my smoke break to talk?”
“It’s Cas, Coach.”
“What about him now? Is he gonna grow a beard? I’ve spent way too much time this fucking semester on that boy’s facial hair.”
Cas looked serious. “I’ve separated from my dojo, sir,” he told Henricksen.
“Separated? What the hell does that mean?”
“The head of his dojo, Zachariah, was going to pull him off the team. And out of college.”
“Was that what all the fuss was about the other day?” asked Henricksen.
“We think so,” Dean told him. “So Cas took off. He’s staying with us now.”
“Your Uncle Bobby?” Henricksen asked. Dean nodded. “He’s one prize old asshole. What do you want me to do about it?”
Dean looked at Cas. “Bobby said we should talk to you about Cas playing on the team. It may be … dangerous.”
Henricksen looked between Cas and Dean. He carelessly flicked ashes on the floor. “Oh, so those guys weren’t entirely happy about you leaving I take it?”
“Meg saw some suspicious guys hanging around the gym after the last practice. And we’re pretty sure someone was tailing Sam the other day.”
Henricksen snorted. “They can bite my ass. I’ve got a winning team. Cas plays.”
“Just like that?” asked Dean.
“Yeah. Wanna fight about it?” asked the coach, nodding at Dean’s wooden sword.
“Uh, not with this sword,” said Dean.
“I was gonna get to Harvelle's for a beer and a game of darts. You guys wanna join me?”
Dean and Cas cheerfully agreed. They had a lot of equipment and were feeling a little lazy, so Dean volunteered to bring the car around while Henricksen and Cas pushed the heavy practice wall aside.
Dean was walking down a narrow pathway between two buildings on his way back to the gym when the men stepped in front of him. There were three of them, and all carried sidearms.
“We're looking for Castiel. We hear you two are tight.”
“Cas isn't here,” said Dean, putting a hand on his sword hilt.
“Maybe you could bring us to him.”
“Yeah. Or maybe not.”
“I asked politely,” said the man. “Next time, I won’t be so polite.” They unsheathed their swords.
So did Dean. Three of them, one of me, he thought. Good odds. He let his sword fall down and tapped his boot once, twice, feeling the crackle of the shielding, smelling the ozone of his ignited blade. The other guys mirrored the gesture. So this was really happening. The small hairs on the back of Dean's wrist stood up from the blade's electrical field.
And then Dean did something completely stupid, as if he weren't already acting idiotic enough: he hopped up the wall and tried the exact same move Cas had showed him just a few minutes earlier. Thankfully, he didn't end up on his ass, and it must have been impressive enough that one of the sub-goons yelled, “Fuck, watch out! He's a street fighter!” and lowered his sword.
Dean basically crashed into another guy, but it was a good enough hit to knock the guy over with his sword hild. He turned to the third guy, parrying a mediocre lunge just in time. The blades sparked and Dean smiled: these guys weren't very good. He attacked, getting in the guy's face, trying to disarm him. They crossed swords one, two, three times, orange sparks crackling in the alley like Fourth of July fireworks.
A blade went skidding across the alley.
“Hold it right there!” came the lead goon's voice. Dean whirled around, sword in hand, preparing to dice the sucker.
He stopped short.
Lead Goon Guy was holding a gun. A gun. Some kind of pistol. Dean was almost too fascinated to be afraid. Uncle Bobby had a couple of antique shotguns in his collection, but he had never seen an actual working handgun before.
At least, he assumed they were working. He gulped.
The scent of Marlboro.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
Dean had never been so grateful to hear the sound of his coach's voice. “Henricksen,” he muttered as the coach and Cas strolled up, “they've got guns.” And it was true. The other two had gotten back to their feet, and now all were brandishing firearms.
Well, explained why they were fucking awful swordsmen.
“Castiel. Just the man we're looking for. Could you come with us?” asked Lead Goon Guy.
“Castiel is busy right now,” said Henricksen. “He’s got beer to drink.” He and Cas were now flanking Dean.
“I think he comes with us now.”
“Dean, stay behind us,” whispered Henricksen. He nodded to Cas, who was now quietly seething. “You dare threaten us with … guns?” he asked Lead Goon.
“Yeah, I threaten you with guns, smart guy.”
“Put it down, or I’ll have it. And your arm.”
This seemed to put off the lead guy, if only for a moment. But then his resolve hardened. “Give us the boy.”
“Over a dead body. Probably yours,” said Henricksen. He tossed his cigarette butt to the side.
And then a lot of things happened all at once. Dean got broadsided and slammed to the ground, the sound of gunshots echoing over him. He looked up to see Cas already up overhead, sword flashing and sparking off the spray of bullets.
Henricksen was running up the side of the building while bits of plaster sprayed from gunshots, and then he slashed another guy in the neck while Cas pulled his own sword out of the third guy, who fell with a thump, moaning at the deep gash in his side.
The guy who had spoken was now on his knees, his gun, as well as his gun arm, lying in a bloody pool on the ground.
‘You threaten me with a gun?” yelled Henricksen. “A gun?” he yelled, grabbing the dismembered guy by the collar and shaking him.
Cas pried the gun out of the dead hand. He flipped it up in the air, and flicked his sword. It fell in pieces of hot metal on the ground.
Dean spotted something on the ground nearby. He picked up a small, hot metallic object. It looked like a bullet.
It was part of a bullet. It had been sliced clean in half.
Dean blinked between Cas and the Coach.
“You go back to your boss,” Henricksen told the now one-armed guy. “You tell them next time, I’ll send you guys back in a bucket. You tell him not to piss off the Dark Agent.” He nodded to Cas and the two of them yanked Dean up off the ground. Dean pocketed the half bullet, and they made their way to the parking lot.
They arrived at Harvelle’s Roadhouse bar some time later, Dean not quite certain how he’d gotten there. He downed a big gulp from the beer sitting in front of him. He felt in his pocket, and pulled out the bullet fragment. “The guys with guns: they had guns,” he babbled. “The gun guys.”
“Those lousy sonsabitches!” Henricksen raved. “They didn’t just wanna kill us, they wanted to dishonor us.” He tapped his cigarette into an ashtray. Dean noticed with wonder that Ellen was letting him smoke in her bar.
“You’re a street fighter, Coach?” said Cas.
Henricksen nodded. He leaned over towards Cas. “You understand why I don’t want this to get around?”
Cas nodded enthusiastically. “What was your dojo?”
“Didn’t have one. My grandpa was a Freedman.”
“You learned from a Freedman?” asked Cas, who appeared enormously impressed.
“Yeah. Long story. Grandpa was a sensei, but my dad didn’t want anything to do with that life. He just wanted to be a fat businessman. Anyway, I had my grandpa teach me everything he knew, once I was old enough. I even fought in a few semi-pro bouts. It was strictly small time, nothing like your circuit. But I finally decided my knees were not gonna hold out for much longer, so I started coaching instead.”
“I would be greatly honored if you would share you grandfather's teachings some time,” Cas told him.
“I've probably forgotten half of it,” said Henricksen. “And I don't see how I'd have much to teach a guy like you. But, yeah, okay. Buy me another beer.”
Dean opened his hand containing the half bullet. He waved it in front of Cas. “Cas, did you...?”
“Yes, Dean.”
“Holy shit.” He looked between Cas and Henricksen. “You can do that?”
“Some guys can do that,” said Henricksen, smiling at Cas. “I bet it's a bitch to practice though.”
Dean suddenly turned around to the sound of his own name being called. He stood, and found himself engulfed in one of Sam's tremendous bear hugs. “Dean,” said Bobby, who grabbed his shoulder once Sam released him.
“Are you guys all okay?” Sam asked Cas and Henricksen.
“They tried guns on us. Guns! Rat bastards,” grumbled Henricksen.
“Bobby. Sam. What are you guys doing here?” asked Dean.
“I called them,” Ellen told him. “Soon as you got here, and Victor explained what happened.”
“Oh,” said Dean. Had Henricksen told the story? It was all a blur.
“I believe Dean is suffering from some after-effects,” said Cas, his voice filled with concern.
“We'll get you boys home,” said Bobby. “Dean, you give Sam your car keys.”
“What, my keys?” asked Dean, who nonetheless dug them out. Sam grabbed them.
“Dean, you're in the truck with me. Cas, you go with Sam. Sam, you stick close, you hear. On my bumper.”
“Yessir,” said Sam.
“Will you be all right getting home, Victor?” Bobby asked.
“Mr. Dark Agent is spending the night here,” said Ellen.
“I am?” grinned Henricksen.
“On the couch, hotshot,” she corrected. “Jo will grab you some blankets.”
“Victor,” said Bobby. “What you done. For my kids.” He stuck out a hand.
Henricksen reached over and shook. “It was nothing. And that one got two of them,” he said, nodding towards Cas.
Dean looked at Cas, who he found had an arm around his shoulders. “You got two.”
“Yes, Dean.”
“Did you do the arm thing?”
“Yes, I did the arm thing.”
“That was pretty badass.”
“I think they will be able to sew it back on again. If they get to him in time. And he doesn't lose too much blood.”
“Uh. Good to know,” said Dean, who was ushered into the waiting car by Sam.
They made an extra careful effort to secure the property that evening, double locking the gate, and making sure the doors and windows were bolted.
Bobby had found a cot folded up in the attic, and they had pushed it into Dean's room for Cas to sleep on, despite his protestations that the floor was completely sufficient. Dean sat on his own bed, covers bunched up around him, watching Cas return from the bathroom, towel over his shoulder, holding his toothbrush. Cas sat down on his cot and tucked the toothbrush into his toiletry bag. “You know, we told you, you could just leave that stuff in the bathroom.”
“I don't want to intrude,” said Cas. “I've caused enough trouble as it is.”
“Hey, tonight was awesome. Even if it was sort of fucking scary.”
“I don't know if- Dean!”
Dean had started to tremble violently. Castiel hurried over to him, but the seemed uncertain what to do. Dean wrapped his arms around his knees, but seemed unable to stop shaking. “Cas?” he whispered.
Cas sat on the bed and slid over towards Dean, and put his arms around him. And then he slowly lowered his shaking friend down to the bed, so he was lying in back of him, arms around him. “It's all right. I'm here.” The trembling slowed, and Dean's breathing started to ease.
“Just- Just-”
“What, Dean?”
Dean twisted his head around to look Cas in the eye. “Don't tell Sam!”
Cas smiled and hugged tighter. “I won't,” he promised. “I won't.”
They were silent for a long moment, the only sound hushed breathing and Dean's heart pounding against his rib cage.
“Dean, you took on three armed men?”
“I didn't know they had guns! And ... I thought they wanted to hurt you.”
“That was very brave.”
“Yeah?”
“No one's ever done anything like that for me.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Dean broke into a broad, blushing smile. Very slowly, his heart stopped its mad racing, and his breathing slowed to a steady, quiet rhythm. And that was how he fell asleep that night, held tightly in Cas's arms.
