SPIRIT OF CHAMPIONS - Dean/Cas AU

Chapter 3

"Where were you this morning?"

Dean looked up into his father's agitated glare and thought about a good excuse. Obviously he wasn't going to tell him he'd been hanging around with an angel, he'd rip him a new one and send someone out to kill Castiel. So he lied.

"I just went on an early ride."

John arched an eyebrow. "And you missed breakfast."

"Sorry," Dean muttered, slinking back as he sat on the edge of his bed.

His father sighed and turned to open the door. "Dean, I expect you to be better behaved than this. You don't leave the manor in the mornings without asking my permission, understood?"

"Yes, sir." Dean bit back his sarcasm.

"Good," John waved for him to leave. "Combat training. Go now. Alistair's gotten out the angel blades for you to practice with."

Dean's eyes shot up, and he felt such an odd mix of excitement and discomfort. He wasn't sure he wanted to do this anymore, but how could he tell his father? Dean was the first born son, the leader and the champion. He was the next in line to own the manor, and their family was in good relations with the family that ruled Alkalyr. He couldn't just back down from a challenge, and couldn't defy history by befriending an angel. Not that he considered Castiel a friend.

His father waved to get his attention, and Dean jumped to his feet and ran from the room. He practically skipped across the courtyard towards the armoury, where he met his combat instructor, Alistair, almost every day. Indeed, the scraggly, tall man was there when Dean bounded through the door, careful not to knock over the assortment of weapons lining each wall.

"Dean, good, you're on time today." Alistair said in way of a greeting.

"Yes, sir." He answered like he'd been trained to from the start.

Alistair reached up onto a high shelf, pushing aside a particularly rusted breast plate and reached back, dragging a hefty box with him. He set it down on the table, pushing aside armour he'd been polishing. He motioned for Dean to come take a look as he took a key off his key ring and unlocked the box, which itself looked as if it hadn't been opened in quite a few years.

"Now, your father had informed me you need to know how to kill an angel." Alistair began. "There's only one way, one weapon that had been known to strike the vile beast dead."

Dean flinched at the term, yet watched in fascination as his instructor opened the lid, revealing a organized row of over a dozen metal swords. Each shone silver, the hilt matching the blade itself, which was about a foot in length, at least. They gleamed and held an awe that captivated Dean as he watched Alistair pick one up, rolling it over in his palm. Strange symbols marked around where blade met hilt.

"These are angel blades." Alistair explained. "You see, back when we were waging the war between our species, over land or rights or conquest, what have you, your father, a young lad at the time, fought against angels who brandished these fine blades. We didn't stand a chance of defeating them when we learned we couldn't kill them. Until your father disarmed one beast, and in a struggle managed to drive the angel's blade straight through its own heart. Turns out the angel's had the only weapon that could kill them."

Dean swallowed, captivated as Alistair continued. "He used it to kill more and more angels, and we stole their blades as we went, until they eventually fled the valley. Each Kingdom and land owner was given these blades, hundreds of them, believe it or not, and these ones were given to your father, along with the manor, for his part in the war."

"Wow," Dean breathed. "I never knew that. Why didn't dad ever tell me about that?"

"I haven't the foggiest." Alistair smirked. "Not my place, boy. Now, take one, and we'll practice. Same routine, different blade. Oh, and remember to watch their wings. Nasty things to come in contact with."

Nodding, Dean lifted a blade out of the box, feeling the weight in his hand. It was cool against his skin, surprisingly light and felt very...empowering. He chuckled to himself and swung it down once, feeling the grip as it moved. Alistair led him outside to the back field. He saw his usual training equipment; archery targets, target dummies, stamina courses, climbing ropes and above ground nets and swings for agility, and his balance course out over the small creek that ran behind the whole place.

Alistair handed Dean his practicing chest plate and helmet, moving off with his own. Den spent his warm up running through the balance and agility courses, Alistair yelling stuff to him about his fast angels were so he had to match it or he was finished. When Dean was already sweating and tired, course completed, Alistair threw an angel blade down in front of him and grabbed his own.

Not usually getting the chance to fight his teacher without formal instruction with a new weapon, Dean reached for the blade cautiously. Which it turns out was good, because as soon as he reached out, Alistair charged, blade ready to strike. Dean ducked and rolled, grabbing the blade in the process and leaping to his feet to face his teacher.

"Hmm, good." Alistair said. "Always be aware or your surroundings. Especially with angels. Their fast, and their wings are faster. Those are going to be the biggest things to avoid. But remember, their also delicate. If you get hold of one, pull the feathers, rip the skin, doesn't matter. Just wound the beast."

Dean nodded and parried another swipe of Alistair's angel blade. Their blades clashed with a sharp metallic sound that resonated a bit in Dean's ears. He quickly grew used to the distraction and the two men, teacher and student, continued to fight into the mid day. When they finally finished, both were panting and covered in dirt. Sweat sat on Dean's brow, his short spiky hair matted against his skin.

As Alistair dismissed him, the man asked, "Dean, put the angel blades away. I trust you can do that? Good lesson today, the same tomorrow."

He left, not to Dean's surprise. He often left right as the lesson finished, leaving Dean to put stuff away. He polished his practice armour back to a nice shine back in the weapon's house, and placed it back on its rack for tomorrow. Then his eyes fell to the two angel blades sitting crossed on the table. Dean wondered if Castiel had a blade like that, or if he knew about the war. He must have, angels were hundreds of years old, weren't they? He must have known.

He placed one of the blades back in the box and locked it quickly, leaving the keys for Alistair to collect. After putting the box back on its high shelf, Dean stared at the angel blade he'd purposely left on the table for a while. Without too much debate, he slipped in into the belt of his pants and hurried out of the armoury.

He headed to his room, stripped and sat down in his bath, rubbing off the dirt and sweat from his body. He sat in the tub, going over every play Alistair had taught him, remembering the feel of the angel blade in his hand. The one he stole sat on his bed, shining in the light through his window. Dean still wasn't sure why he took it, but he felt like he needed to show it to Castiel to get some more answers. It would have to wait until tomorrow, though.

After he bathed, his day continued on as normal. He ate lunch with his father and little brother, went to study session, already bored of the angel lore and returning to fidgeting until the class was over, and spent the night with his father, talking about his training and upcoming challenge while drinking wine. A little more that Dean would have liked. Eventually, late at night, he collapsed back onto his bed.