SPN Fic: Center of Balance
Happy birthday to maychorian, who makes fandom a better place in so many ways. *frees the balloons*
Center of Balance
Sam, Dean, Castiel, PG, 1,900 words
a/n: Set between SPN 5x13 and 5x14, with a shout-forward to 5x18. Written for maychorian's birthday. She asked a while back for "Sam&Dean&Cas...something in a meadow." This is not nearly as peaceful as that sounds...but it's not unhappy, either. Beta by the insightful sophiap.
Summary: Castiel decides Sam and Dean need sword-fighting lessons. Sparring ensues.
Their breaths rose in clouds as they walked through the thin row of trees, Castiel in the lead. Sam clapped his gloved hands together to warm his fingers, watching the rigid wall of Castiel's back moving ahead of him. The scuff of Dean's footsteps in the dead leaves followed behind him.
In summer, the meadow might've been thick with wildflowers and high grass. Right now the grasses were dried and flattened from the weight of a thin layer of snow, leaving bare patches of ground.
"Cas, you sure you're feeling up to this?" Dean stepped up next to Sam and stopped. "You were out cold for a whole day, man."
Castiel stopped and turned back to face both of them. "I'm fine, and this is necessary."
That was a tone Sam wasn't inclined to argue with. He put his hand on Dean's arm in case Dean was inclined, which seemed likely -- he had his mouth open, probably to make a smart remark. Sam sometimes wondered why Dean kept doing that, why he felt the need to push at Castiel. It was like he was testing him, to see if he could piss him off and survive the experience.
"We do know sword moves," Dean pointed out, blowing on his fingers to warm them. "My dad took me to a teacher when I was twelve. Sam learned when he was thirteen." He took off his jacket, folded it and put it on the ground.
With two brisk strides, Castiel went up to Dean and tugged the duffel bag from his shoulder. It landed on the ground with a thump. Castiel crouched down and opened it, pulling out two short swords. He handed one to Dean, one to Sam, and then pulled a third out from under his trenchcoat.
"But you haven't fought with these," Castiel said. "You need to know how to defend yourselves against an angel." There was a slight pause. "Or how to kill one."
Sam hefted the light sword, turned the blade, letting the sunlight gleam off of it. The sword seemed like it should be heavier than it was.
"Yeah, uh, well, we're making our own rules." Dean said, gripping his sword with the blade down, not even looking at it. "I'm not planning on going mano-a-mano with any friggin' angels. Not when there's a handy supply of oil and Enochian around."
"You might have to," Castiel bit out, and Sam heard the shut up implicit in his voice. "Hold it like this," Castiel said, gripping Dean's wrist and adjusting his grip.
Sam imitated the grip as Castiel's gaze slid over to him. He nodded approval.
He walked away from them, turned, and raised his sword. "All right, attack me."
"Attack you?" Dean looked like Castiel had just suggested they make hot fudge sundaes using nothing but dirty snow.
The way Castiel's gaze went heavenward, the slump of his shoulders, made Sam have to bite back a laugh -- it was an old joke, made real. His brother could test the patience of an angel. Of course, angels were nothing at all what Sam had believed they were anyway.
"Yes," Castiel said, with the air of one who had undergone many years of suffering and expected many years more. "Attack me. Now," he ordered.
They did, movements in sync from years of long practice. This was familiar in a way that tickled comfortably at the back of Sam's mind. He knew what Dean was going to do, and adjusted his approach automatically.
He had no idea how it happened, it was so fast, but the next thing he knew his wrist was stinging from the smack of the broad of Castiel's blade, Dean was cursing, and both their swords were lying on the ground.
"You suck at blocking," Castiel said, without any hesitation over the slang. In the past few weeks, Sam had noticed that happening more often. "Pick them up, let's go again."
As they picked up their swords, Sam caught Dean's eye and lifted his eyebrows. Dean gave a quick nod.
They ran at Castiel again, using a strategy they'd learned as teenagers. Dean swung, Castiel blocked and the ring of the blades was loud in the hushed, cold day.
When Sam came at Castiel from the other side, Castiel's blade went up to block his. He leg-swept Dean at the same time, bringing him crashing to the ground.
"Son of a bitch!" Dean yelled, and several crows fluttered up from the bare branches of a tree.
Sam scrambled back out of the way before Castiel could reach him.
"Okay, isn't this a little unfair?" Sam said. "You do have some super angel strength, right?"
"It's not about strength," Castiel said. He held his hand out to Dean, who grasped his wrist and allowed himself to be pulled up. "It's about speed as well and precision. And you two are sloppy." He frowned, looking disappointed.
"Thank you, Mister Miyagi," Dean said. "I'm not sanding any floors."
Castiel met Dean's glare with one of his own.
"Hey, we appreciate you wanting to teach us, we do," Sam said, holding up a free hand.
Castiel nodded. "Perhaps you should try fighting each other. I'll observe, and correct your technique." He placed his sword on the ground.
Moving into the ready stance, Dean lightly spun his blade like the show-off he was. He grinned at Sam. "Hope you enjoy winding up on your ass."
"In your dreams."
They went at it, parry and thrust, blades clanging.
"You're treating them like they're long swords," Castiel said, circling them. "They aren't. They aren't like any short sword you've used either. It's hand-to-hand fighting as much as the blade."
Despite the cold, the sweat formed under the layers of Sam's flannel and thermal shirts. Their breaths quickened, going up in thicker clouds. Sam managed to hit Dean in the thigh with the flat of the blade, but then Dean spun and thrust, halting the blade inches from striking Sam.
"Better," said Castiel. "But you're too far apart from each other."
They started again, close enough this time Sam felt the heat off his brother's body in contrast to the cold air. The blade felt less and less awkward and strange in Sam's hand, his heartbeat thrumming through him. This was like any other sparring session and the fact that the blades could slice either of them open with a wrong step wasn't a worry -- they'd sparred more dangerously than this and always, their blows stopped within an inch of striking home, the blades turned so they hit with the flat or halted faster than a breath. Sam had gone through his teenage years blowing off pent up resentment this way. It had been a while since he and Dean had sparred like this, since he'd felt a rush that was familiar and real and a part of him, not an alien thing that raced through his veins and made him feel heady and detached from himself.
He'd missed this. He'd missed his brother.
Dean hooked his ankle around Sam's, trying to bring him down. Sam dropped his blade, grabbed Dean's arm and twisted, making him let go of his blade too. They wound up on their knees, Dean pinning Sam with a wrestling move.
"Say 'uncle'," Dean muttered.
"Screw you," said Sam, his face pressed against a mix of leaves and snow.
"What are you two doing?"
They paused in their wrestling. Sam looked up to see Castiel glowering down at them like a disapproving schoolteacher.
"It's called 'wrestling,' Mister High-and-Mighty. Might help you to learn a few moves."
"You are not focusing on the matter at hand," Castiel said. His breath was barely visible in the air. "You're very annoying."
"So I've been told." Dean smirked, releasing Sam.
"Now, could we get back to wor--" Castiel's words cut off into a startled grunt when Dean's hand shot out, his fingers closing around Castiel's ankle.
At the expression on Castiel's face when he landed on his back, Sam couldn't help it, he started laughing. "You were right, Cas," Sam said. "It's not just about strength."
Always pushing it, Dean waited until Castiel was crouching, catching his breath, before he leapt. Again it was probably only the element of surprise that allowed Dean to take Castiel down. With a minimum of struggle, he caught Cas in a double-armed pin.
"Dean," Castiel said, his face against the snow and his voice frighteningly level.
"Yeah, Cas?"
"Don't make me hurt you," he said.
Anyone else, and Sam would know that was posturing and teasing. Not in this case -- Castiel literally meant it. He was pretty sure Castiel could push his brother off without too much force. The problem was Dean, who wouldn't give up easily. If Dean kept on pushing, the angel would have to exert more force in kind, and he was a lot stronger than Dean.
And if Dean got hurt by Castiel in all this roughhousing, Cas would go around looking guilty and mournful and wouldn't talk about it, Dean wouldn't talk about it, and Sam felt a headache just thinking about it.
"Dean," Sam said. He sighed. "Let him up."
Dean rolled off and got to his feet, brushing dead leaves and snow from his flannel shirt. He watched as Castiel got to his feet. There was no gloating in his expression, and he said nothing -- Sam thought Dean got what had happened there.
It didn't seem to bother Castiel when Dean reached out and picked dead leaves off his trenchcoat. If Dean hadn't done it, Castiel would've left things as they were, treating his coat with the same casual disregard he gave to the shedding of his own blood.
Suddenly cold, Sam went to get the thermos of hot coffee from the duffel bag, along with a couple of light metal camping mugs. He poured a cup of liquid that was still warm enough to steam and held it out to Dean.
"Here."
Dean took the cup, gave it a long, slow sip and cleared his throat in appreciation.
After pouring another mug for himself, and adding sugar, Sam raised the thermos again. "Cas? You want some?"
The angel hesitated, as if he was trying to figure out what the right answer is. "I'm not cold," he said. Then his face softened a fraction. "Much."
Sam poured him a cup, no sugar, and held it out. Castiel took it.
"Thank you, Sam," he said, all formal.
Dean put his jacket back on, then sat down beside Sam sat on the tattered blanket soaked with the scents of oil and french fries and thousands of hours on the road. They drank their coffee, looking out across the field towards the woods with their bare branches edging the sky. Castiel stood a little apart from them, head tilted to one side as he sipped his coffee, like he was on alert, like he expected something to attack them.
After a little while, Dean stood up. "You up for another round?" He said to Sam, who nodded. "Cas?" Dean added, a little hesitant, as if he knew maybe he had gone too far this time.
"Yes," said Castiel.
Dean picked up his sword and rolled his shoulders. "I'm so going to kick both your asses."
Sam snorted.
"In your dreams," said Castiel.
Sam thought he saw a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
~end
Center of Balance
Sam, Dean, Castiel, PG, 1,900 words
a/n: Set between SPN 5x13 and 5x14, with a shout-forward to 5x18. Written for maychorian's birthday. She asked a while back for "Sam&Dean&Cas...something in a meadow." This is not nearly as peaceful as that sounds...but it's not unhappy, either. Beta by the insightful sophiap.
Summary: Castiel decides Sam and Dean need sword-fighting lessons. Sparring ensues.
Their breaths rose in clouds as they walked through the thin row of trees, Castiel in the lead. Sam clapped his gloved hands together to warm his fingers, watching the rigid wall of Castiel's back moving ahead of him. The scuff of Dean's footsteps in the dead leaves followed behind him.
In summer, the meadow might've been thick with wildflowers and high grass. Right now the grasses were dried and flattened from the weight of a thin layer of snow, leaving bare patches of ground.
"Cas, you sure you're feeling up to this?" Dean stepped up next to Sam and stopped. "You were out cold for a whole day, man."
Castiel stopped and turned back to face both of them. "I'm fine, and this is necessary."
That was a tone Sam wasn't inclined to argue with. He put his hand on Dean's arm in case Dean was inclined, which seemed likely -- he had his mouth open, probably to make a smart remark. Sam sometimes wondered why Dean kept doing that, why he felt the need to push at Castiel. It was like he was testing him, to see if he could piss him off and survive the experience.
"We do know sword moves," Dean pointed out, blowing on his fingers to warm them. "My dad took me to a teacher when I was twelve. Sam learned when he was thirteen." He took off his jacket, folded it and put it on the ground.
With two brisk strides, Castiel went up to Dean and tugged the duffel bag from his shoulder. It landed on the ground with a thump. Castiel crouched down and opened it, pulling out two short swords. He handed one to Dean, one to Sam, and then pulled a third out from under his trenchcoat.
"But you haven't fought with these," Castiel said. "You need to know how to defend yourselves against an angel." There was a slight pause. "Or how to kill one."
Sam hefted the light sword, turned the blade, letting the sunlight gleam off of it. The sword seemed like it should be heavier than it was.
"Yeah, uh, well, we're making our own rules." Dean said, gripping his sword with the blade down, not even looking at it. "I'm not planning on going mano-a-mano with any friggin' angels. Not when there's a handy supply of oil and Enochian around."
"You might have to," Castiel bit out, and Sam heard the shut up implicit in his voice. "Hold it like this," Castiel said, gripping Dean's wrist and adjusting his grip.
Sam imitated the grip as Castiel's gaze slid over to him. He nodded approval.
He walked away from them, turned, and raised his sword. "All right, attack me."
"Attack you?" Dean looked like Castiel had just suggested they make hot fudge sundaes using nothing but dirty snow.
The way Castiel's gaze went heavenward, the slump of his shoulders, made Sam have to bite back a laugh -- it was an old joke, made real. His brother could test the patience of an angel. Of course, angels were nothing at all what Sam had believed they were anyway.
"Yes," Castiel said, with the air of one who had undergone many years of suffering and expected many years more. "Attack me. Now," he ordered.
They did, movements in sync from years of long practice. This was familiar in a way that tickled comfortably at the back of Sam's mind. He knew what Dean was going to do, and adjusted his approach automatically.
He had no idea how it happened, it was so fast, but the next thing he knew his wrist was stinging from the smack of the broad of Castiel's blade, Dean was cursing, and both their swords were lying on the ground.
"You suck at blocking," Castiel said, without any hesitation over the slang. In the past few weeks, Sam had noticed that happening more often. "Pick them up, let's go again."
As they picked up their swords, Sam caught Dean's eye and lifted his eyebrows. Dean gave a quick nod.
They ran at Castiel again, using a strategy they'd learned as teenagers. Dean swung, Castiel blocked and the ring of the blades was loud in the hushed, cold day.
When Sam came at Castiel from the other side, Castiel's blade went up to block his. He leg-swept Dean at the same time, bringing him crashing to the ground.
"Son of a bitch!" Dean yelled, and several crows fluttered up from the bare branches of a tree.
Sam scrambled back out of the way before Castiel could reach him.
"Okay, isn't this a little unfair?" Sam said. "You do have some super angel strength, right?"
"It's not about strength," Castiel said. He held his hand out to Dean, who grasped his wrist and allowed himself to be pulled up. "It's about speed as well and precision. And you two are sloppy." He frowned, looking disappointed.
"Thank you, Mister Miyagi," Dean said. "I'm not sanding any floors."
Castiel met Dean's glare with one of his own.
"Hey, we appreciate you wanting to teach us, we do," Sam said, holding up a free hand.
Castiel nodded. "Perhaps you should try fighting each other. I'll observe, and correct your technique." He placed his sword on the ground.
Moving into the ready stance, Dean lightly spun his blade like the show-off he was. He grinned at Sam. "Hope you enjoy winding up on your ass."
"In your dreams."
They went at it, parry and thrust, blades clanging.
"You're treating them like they're long swords," Castiel said, circling them. "They aren't. They aren't like any short sword you've used either. It's hand-to-hand fighting as much as the blade."
Despite the cold, the sweat formed under the layers of Sam's flannel and thermal shirts. Their breaths quickened, going up in thicker clouds. Sam managed to hit Dean in the thigh with the flat of the blade, but then Dean spun and thrust, halting the blade inches from striking Sam.
"Better," said Castiel. "But you're too far apart from each other."
They started again, close enough this time Sam felt the heat off his brother's body in contrast to the cold air. The blade felt less and less awkward and strange in Sam's hand, his heartbeat thrumming through him. This was like any other sparring session and the fact that the blades could slice either of them open with a wrong step wasn't a worry -- they'd sparred more dangerously than this and always, their blows stopped within an inch of striking home, the blades turned so they hit with the flat or halted faster than a breath. Sam had gone through his teenage years blowing off pent up resentment this way. It had been a while since he and Dean had sparred like this, since he'd felt a rush that was familiar and real and a part of him, not an alien thing that raced through his veins and made him feel heady and detached from himself.
He'd missed this. He'd missed his brother.
Dean hooked his ankle around Sam's, trying to bring him down. Sam dropped his blade, grabbed Dean's arm and twisted, making him let go of his blade too. They wound up on their knees, Dean pinning Sam with a wrestling move.
"Say 'uncle'," Dean muttered.
"Screw you," said Sam, his face pressed against a mix of leaves and snow.
"What are you two doing?"
They paused in their wrestling. Sam looked up to see Castiel glowering down at them like a disapproving schoolteacher.
"It's called 'wrestling,' Mister High-and-Mighty. Might help you to learn a few moves."
"You are not focusing on the matter at hand," Castiel said. His breath was barely visible in the air. "You're very annoying."
"So I've been told." Dean smirked, releasing Sam.
"Now, could we get back to wor--" Castiel's words cut off into a startled grunt when Dean's hand shot out, his fingers closing around Castiel's ankle.
At the expression on Castiel's face when he landed on his back, Sam couldn't help it, he started laughing. "You were right, Cas," Sam said. "It's not just about strength."
Always pushing it, Dean waited until Castiel was crouching, catching his breath, before he leapt. Again it was probably only the element of surprise that allowed Dean to take Castiel down. With a minimum of struggle, he caught Cas in a double-armed pin.
"Dean," Castiel said, his face against the snow and his voice frighteningly level.
"Yeah, Cas?"
"Don't make me hurt you," he said.
Anyone else, and Sam would know that was posturing and teasing. Not in this case -- Castiel literally meant it. He was pretty sure Castiel could push his brother off without too much force. The problem was Dean, who wouldn't give up easily. If Dean kept on pushing, the angel would have to exert more force in kind, and he was a lot stronger than Dean.
And if Dean got hurt by Castiel in all this roughhousing, Cas would go around looking guilty and mournful and wouldn't talk about it, Dean wouldn't talk about it, and Sam felt a headache just thinking about it.
"Dean," Sam said. He sighed. "Let him up."
Dean rolled off and got to his feet, brushing dead leaves and snow from his flannel shirt. He watched as Castiel got to his feet. There was no gloating in his expression, and he said nothing -- Sam thought Dean got what had happened there.
It didn't seem to bother Castiel when Dean reached out and picked dead leaves off his trenchcoat. If Dean hadn't done it, Castiel would've left things as they were, treating his coat with the same casual disregard he gave to the shedding of his own blood.
Suddenly cold, Sam went to get the thermos of hot coffee from the duffel bag, along with a couple of light metal camping mugs. He poured a cup of liquid that was still warm enough to steam and held it out to Dean.
"Here."
Dean took the cup, gave it a long, slow sip and cleared his throat in appreciation.
After pouring another mug for himself, and adding sugar, Sam raised the thermos again. "Cas? You want some?"
The angel hesitated, as if he was trying to figure out what the right answer is. "I'm not cold," he said. Then his face softened a fraction. "Much."
Sam poured him a cup, no sugar, and held it out. Castiel took it.
"Thank you, Sam," he said, all formal.
Dean put his jacket back on, then sat down beside Sam sat on the tattered blanket soaked with the scents of oil and french fries and thousands of hours on the road. They drank their coffee, looking out across the field towards the woods with their bare branches edging the sky. Castiel stood a little apart from them, head tilted to one side as he sipped his coffee, like he was on alert, like he expected something to attack them.
After a little while, Dean stood up. "You up for another round?" He said to Sam, who nodded. "Cas?" Dean added, a little hesitant, as if he knew maybe he had gone too far this time.
"Yes," said Castiel.
Dean picked up his sword and rolled his shoulders. "I'm so going to kick both your asses."
Sam snorted.
"In your dreams," said Castiel.
Sam thought he saw a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
~end