Gladius

A Supernatural AU by Lywinis

(Original idea by Astroize on tumblr)

Chapter Three

Castiel swayed on the balls of his feet, letting the rhythm of the music that poured from the boombox speakers dictate his pace. He circled the sandbag, his body in constant motion as he closed in. The drums began a slow, rolling beat, circling higher and higher in tempo as he swept forward, judging the distance between himself and his target. His heart hummed in his chest, his thin body drenched in sweat that rolled down his back and caused the tank he wore to stick to his skin. His hands, wrists, ankles and feet were wrapped in reinforcing bandages, supporting his knuckles and the weaker joints. He might not be all mortal, but he was mortal enough that Sam insisted he avoid injury.

He gauged the distance again, his eye critical as his feet moved of their own accord. He'd been listening to the music since day one; the rhythm was more for show and to keep him on balance than it was for any real instruction. Still, his head bobbed the slightest bit as he flexed his muscular legs and leapt high into the air. He could feel the faint, ghostly beat of his wings as he did, lending him enough of his former power to grant him a higher jump than a human. He spun in the air, his heel coming down on the sandbag with a sickening thump.

The seams of the bag split, bursting out in a cloud of dust as he sprang back. His knee lashed out, connecting with the second sandbag hanging by a rope twenty feet to his left. It swung in a wide arc, twisting on its rope until his elbow struck it, and then it too exploded into a puff of sand and burlap.

The music reached a pounding crescendo as he landed, then sprang again, bringing his heels down on the final sandbag, this one much larger than the others. He hit with a solid thwack and rolled backward, pushing off with his palms and landing on his feet once more. He rolled forward, bringing his heel around in a sweeping kick and knocked the bag to its side. In another moment he was airborne once more, spinning into another punishing heel drop. He leapt away, landing at his starting point before turning and surveying the damage.

All three bags lay in ruins, piles of sand and heavy burlap scattered about the ring. The music stopped with an abrupt click, and he turned. He had an audience. Crowley stood there with Sam, the smaller demon bringing his hands together in a slow clap. Sam looked uncomfortable, and he wondered how long the master of the games had been there with his handler. Sam didn't seem to like the demons much, which was understandable after Castiel had turned around one afternoon during training to find Lucifer speaking to Sam.

He didn't have to get close enough to hear them to know what they were speaking about; the shake of Sam's head and the subtle flare of power from Lucifer said enough. Lucifer still wanted his intended vessel. Sam still said no. It was a telling play of body language, and he turned back around before anyone had noticed.

Now, however, Crowley gestured Castiel over. Reluctant as he was to obey, Castiel moved to the edge of the ring to speak with them. The master of the games looked him over with a critical eye. Castiel met his stare with one of his own, knowing his gaze to be unsettling to most.

Crowley seemed to be immune, meeting the angel's eye with a bland smile. "You're looking fit, Castiel. Training going well?"

"It's eating like a horse," Dean said, joining them on the platform above the ring. He glanced down at Castiel, then back at Crowley. "Strong, though, stronger than most."

"You just never know with those brands," said Crowley with a nod and a sigh. "You get lucky, and one angel in five comes out with all faculties intact. The rest are mental, completely mortal, or dead. Shame, but it's the most effective way of culling the herd."

"Dead?" Castiel's voice was low, but Crowley's eyes snapped to him. The horror there seemed to delight the demon.

"Oh yes, some angels can't stand to have their feathers plucked. The shock of it just mauls them," he said. "We must have killed hundreds before we got the Words right, even with your brother's help."

Castiel started forward, but his hip flared with pain, and his leg gave out from underneath him. He dropped to the ground with a grunt, his arms trembling as he fought to keep upright.

"Crowley," he said, his voice a growl.

"Oooh, he does have some fight in him," the demon said, his tone as smooth as silk. "Excellent. Is he ready?"

Sam shrugged. "Depends on where you want to start him. He can't fight main ring, but he could open."

The younger Winchester's lips twisted in disdain as he hopped down into the ring to help Castiel to his feet. His hands were gentle, and Castiel leaned on the larger man as the pain in his hip dulled to a low roar. Crowley smirked.

"I forgot to mention," he said, inspecting his nails for a moment. "There's a drop of my blood mixed in with the phosphorus used to brand you. If you disobey me, or make a move toward me in anger, that brand will light you up like a burning bush. I wouldn't test it again."

Castiel bared his teeth, and Crowley chuckled.

"You get him ready for next week, Moose. We'll see how he does. I've invested quite a bit in making sure he performs to standard. See that he does." He snapped his fingers at Dean. "Come on, I've got a list of names for Alastair."

Castiel watched as Dean fell into step behind Crowley, the set of his shoulders betraying everything. The Righteous Man chafed with his neck under the yoke of such evil. It was only fitting. He pondered it as Sam led him to a bench and helped him sit.

"You shouldn't bait him," Sam said, fetching a bottle of water and handing it to him.

"I shouldn't even be here," he replied, unscrewing the cap with a vicious twist and draining half of it in long, measured swallows. "I should have died honorably, in combat. I should not be like this."

He swept a hand down at himself, bound to his vessel and not-quite mortal.

"That could still be arranged," Sam said, plopping down onto the seat next to him. He scrubbed a hand across his face, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "You could always throw the first fight, step across the ring as soon as they light it."

Castiel turned to look at him, brows knit.

"We had a couple suicides. They'd rather kill themselves than work for demons." Sam shrugged. "I can't control you, not if you don't want me to. Once you're in the ring, you're on your own."

Castiel considered it. "Why would you help me?"

"I don't like it here anymore than you do," Sam said. "We lost, though. We fought, and we fought, but we lost. The least I can do is mess with their plans, a little bit anyway."

The angel was surprised at the bitterness in his voice. Sam Winchester was, by all accounts, just as stubborn as his brother. He'd watched them, for a time, before the garrison had called him away to other duties and Uriel had taken over. He'd seen both brothers fight tooth and nail to survive in the world that existed outside most human's senses. Sam was capable and hardy, with size and strength where his brother was sheer tenacity and anger-fueled. The brothers Winchester were survivors, if nothing else.

Castiel saw the bags underneath Sam's eyes. He was tired, the strain of living in the compound lining his face. He looked fifty instead of thirty in that brief moment, his face sagging in weariness.

"Why didn't you say yes?" he asked. Sam's eyes opened, and he met Castiel's gaze.

"Would you?" Sam leaned his head back against the wall, looking up at the bright blue of the sky. "We thought we could win it. Just like everyone else thought we could. Dean didn't say yes, and he knocked some sense into me when I was about to cave."

Castiel looked at the ground, his hands dangling between his knees. "And you're being kept here too, as pets. Because Lucifer wants you, and he knows you wouldn't come without your brother."

"You got it." Sam's chuckle was low, but he didn't sound surprised. "Never figured my family for celestial importance before all this. We just thought bad things happened to good people."

Castiel gave a slow nod. "We all knew your role, to some extent. We knew what you were destined for."

"Figures." He didn't sound bitter, just resigned. "I still won't say yes, though. Point of pride now, I guess."

"He needs you to complete his domination of Earth," Castiel said. "Without his true vessel, he can't exert his full power. He's leashed."

Sam sat forward, and Castiel looked at him again. His eyes were narrowed, focused on him. "You're saying he's stuck in his vessel like you are?"

"Not like me," he replied. "He can leave the vessel if he wants to, but he isn't capable of his full range of power. He needs you, and your bloodline that's been prepared for him. He can't fulfill his side of the prophecy without you."

Sam's lips thinned. "Then it's good that I didn't say yes."

"It is." Castiel rose and went to fetch more sand bags. "You're stronger than you think. You hold power over Lucifer himself, so long as you don't give consent."

Sam didn't reply; the music restarted, and Castiel began to sway to the beat as he took his place again.

Dean shoved another pallet of laundry to the end of the hallway, the cart squeaking as he made his way down the cell block. He passed Castiel's empty cell, and glanced across at Balthazar's cell to find the angel watching him. He felt the familiar chill run down his spine as their eyes locked; Balthazar always seemed to know more than he let on.

"What are you staring at?" Dean's voice was little more than a growl.

"A hairless ape," Balthazar said, its voice snappish. The angel paced his cell with difficulty, the cuffs of its overlong cotton pants brushing the floor behind its heels. It rolled its shoulders before fixing Dean with another chilling stare. "Is Castiel being trained properly?"

"What do you care? You're not getting out of there, and if I didn't have to get in there to change out your sheets every week, I'd have soldered the door shut a long time ago." Dean shook his head and opened the empty cell that housed the newest angel on the roster. He stripped Castiel's bed, tossing the sheets in the hamper before turning to Balthazar.

"Arms through the bars." Dean pulled out the cuffs, clicking them open.

"No." Balthazar gave him a small, feral smile. "You'll answer me before I do."

Dean sighed and ran a hand down his face in exasperation. "Your buddy has taken to swaying without a beat, leaving me to think Castiel is as nutty as you are, except its bats are all dancing the chacha instead of roosting in the belfry."

Balthazar, to his surprise, stuck its wrists through the bars of the cell. Dean snapped on the handcuffs, making sure they were tight before he opened the door.

"Surprised you care so much," he said, stripping the bed. Balthazar's back was to him, but he could see the line of tension that traced down the angel's spine as he turned with an armful of the soiled sheets.

"I promise you, Castiel is my dearest friend, and you would never understand my motives." Balthazar said. "He'll be fighting soon. I want him to be ready."

"It's none of your business." Dean shrugged and snapped the new sheets over the mattress. "When the fight happens, you won't be there to watch."

The handcuffs clicked against the bars as Balthazar turned to face Dean as best as the angel could manage. "No, but if he dies, I'm holding you personally responsible. You won't like me if Castiel doesn't survive. Not even Alastair will keep me from you."

Dean repressed a shudder at the mention of the elder demon. "Why do you care?"

"You've asked me that several times now, and I keep telling you that you wouldn't understand." Balthazar sighed and pressed its forehead against the bars. "Imagine if it were your brother out there, fighting for his life."

Dean swallowed, pushing down the instinctive panic that the thought of Sammy in danger caused to well up, hot and clenching and terrifying.

"It would never happen," he said, and the ferocity in his voice was terrible, even to his own ears. "I'd kill them all. They'd have to go through me to get to Sammy."

"Then you do understand," said Balthazar. "When you branded me, you crippled me. I can't fight, I can't protect my brother. Which is why I'm relying on you to do it for me."

Dean shook his head as he relocked the cell door. He unsnapped the cuffs and watched Balthazar limp back to its cot. The swayback walk the angel had was something Dean had never really looked at before; it was painful to watch, and he turned away, stuffing the restraints back into the cart.

The angel had been crippled by an overenthusiastic Alastair, the razor's edge of punishment that had stepped over the line. Tendons snapped and stretched beyond even Izra'il's ability to heal, scarred beyond reason. Kept them hidden in the loose cotton legs of his pants, but Dean had seen them, knew they were there.

Crowley kept Balthazar around for his amusement, enjoying the angel's acerbic sense of humor where most other demons would have put it out of its misery. Perhaps that was the reason why Balthazar was still kicking. Misery loved company. Dean turned back to the bars.

"I can't promise anything, but I'll look out for him."

Balthazar nodded. "That's all I can ask."

The arena surged with demonic energy, the walls not thick enough to muffle the excited buzz of the crowd. Castiel wrapped his wrists and tightened the supports on his hands while Sam saw to his ankles and feet. Dean paced just inside the door of the locker room.

"Is it ready?" The older Winchester fixed Castiel with a look, one Castiel could not place. He'd hadn't spoken with Dean much, terse orders and silent obedience the usual order of things in the cell block. Now the Righteous Man had taken interest in his plight, and Castiel was suspicious.

"Relax, Dean." Sam tied off the last of Castiel's wrappings and sat back on his heels. "How do those feel, too tight?"

Castiel shook his head. "They are fine."

"They need to be better than fine," Dean said, starting forward. Sam stood and moved in front of Castiel to block his brother from undoing the twenty minutes of careful wrapping in order to redo it.

"Chill, Dean. He's got this, I told you." Sam put a hand on Dean's shoulder, and Dean frowned.

"It's going up against Hasmal," Dean said. "That one'll take it apart if it's not ready."

Hasmal. Castiel looked down at his hands. His sister was a fearsome fighter, and he could only imagine what she would be capable of in the ring. He stood, flexing both hands and feet to make sure he had optimal range of movement. Satisfied, he rolled his shoulders and nodded at Sam before tugging the tank top over his head. The less handholds he offered, the better.

"I will be fine," Castiel said.

"You're not exactly inspiring confidence," Dean said. He frowned, then sighed and sagged back. "All right, we don't have any real time to back you out anyway. Good luck, I guess."

Castiel fixed Dean with his gaze for a moment. "I am not afraid."

"Never said you were. Give 'em hell, and you might just make it." Dean looked down at the stained concrete floor of the locker room and gave an uncomfortable shuffle of his feet.

"Yes," Castiel said, turning for the door that led to the arena. The waiting room was nearer to the fighting floor than anything else, and the thump and murmur of the crowd grew louder as he approached the ring. Sam walked beside him; Dean had disappeared, perhaps to report to Crowley. Castiel couldn't say.

Sam walked into the ring first, and Castiel followed. He wasn't prepared for the wall of sound that greeted him. Thousands of demons packed the stands, shoved themselves into humans of every size and shape in order to walk the earth once more. The crowd roared as he entered, jeering at the new fighter with boos and hisses that ricocheted around the concrete walls of the arena and deafened him with their intensity. His heart thrummed in his chest, adrenalin surging through him at the waves of hostile intent that speared him from all directions.

Sam stood to one side as his handler, and Castiel walked forward, careful to step over the divot dug into the concrete floor. It was filled with oil, glistening in the bright overhead spotlights, and Castiel stood at the very edge, judging the distance around the ring. It was wide, wide enough to accommodate even his highest jumps, and at his estimation, about thirty feet in diameter. The divot was a circle, filled with oil, and would be lit when the competitors were to fight.

He straightened as he caught sight of her. He heard her, even over the crowd; her frequency shimmered to his ears as he waited there. Hasmal stepped over the divot as well, her vessel a petite brunette with her hair chopped short, wearing a sports bra and a pair of loose pants. She was tanned, lean and fit. Her feet were bare like his, and she stepped toward him at the same time he moved to greet her.

"Castiel," she said, her face falling as she realized who it was. There was sadness in her liquid-dark eyes. "Little brother, you've been captured."

"Hello, sister," he said, grasping her forearm. He could feel the raised letters on the inside of her wrist.

Arp Urpaah - conquered wings.

His vessel towered over hers, and he bent his head in deference. She gave him a squeeze, and then stepped back, her expression grave.

"I cannot be lenient with you," she said, flexing her fingers. "We are…"

"You do not have to explain, sister." He nodded. "I understand. No apology is necessary."

She gave him a curt nod and they retreated to their respective sides as Crowley stood up and stepped to the podium.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his smooth accent washing over the crowd and hushing them. They fell silent and he continued. "Tonight, we have a special treat for you from our favorite hunters."

There were jeers and titters from the crowd at this. Castiel winced as a spotlight flashed on above his head, bathing him in harsh light.

"Straight from a dilapidated farm house in Nebraska, the angel Castiel has decided to join in our little game," Crowley said, to more laughter. "Tonight, he faces Hasmal, the Torch of the East, the Living Flame! Can he survive his first matchup, or will he be barbeque?"

Two demons bearing torches stepped forward, one on either side of the ring, and touched the flames to the ring of oil. The crackle of flame rushed around the ring, bathing the combatants in lurid, dancing shadows as the demons cheered. Castiel felt the heat on his bare back, and sweat broke out on his skin as he moved forward, away from the flames and toward Hasmal.

The beat of drums echoed through the loudspeakers, the familiar rhythm that had become a part of him in his long training sessions. He dropped into a bobbing crouch, circling around Hasmal, who paced in the opposite direction, sizing him up. She was small and agile, balanced on the balls of her feet and moving with a catlike grace that he would admire were he not the one facing her in combat.

He leapt out of the way in surprise as her cheeks distended and a great gout of flame painted the air where he had been standing. He scrambled around the ring as the flame followed him, shimmering heat at his back as he tucked and rolled away. He squirmed to the side as the flame chased him, ducking beneath it and going in the opposite direction. The crowd jeered as he sprang away, landing on the balls of his feet as Hasmal's flame died. He felt the faint twitch of his wings at his back as he neared the flame ring.

Hasmal breathed in again, and Castiel leapt straight up, his feet trailed by the flame gout as she tracked his progress. He arced down in a streak of flame, his heel missing her face by inches as she dodged his kick. He lashed his leg out in a sweep as he rolled away, connecting with her ankle and sending her stumbling as he recovered.

There was a collective gasp as she went careening toward the ring of holy fire, but she corrected her course and whipped around. He bounced to the beat, his hands clenching and unclenching as he waited for his opening. She prowled closer, her eyes on him as he danced toward her.

He leapt forward again, and the flame seared his right side before he could correct himself. He lashed his foot out, catching her in the ribs with a sickening crunch. The flame died with a cry as she staggered away. He could feel the blister forming as he clutched his side. The smell of singed flesh reached his nostrils and he felt his stomach roil.

Hasmal righted herself and leaped in, her fist connecting with Castiel's shoulder as he bent backward to avoid the brunt of the blow. It was still brutal, sending him reeling. He went sliding, rolling in a haphazard sprawl toward the edge of the flames. The cries and shouts of the audience were no longer audible; all he heard was his ragged breathing as he rolled to his feet. He jumped again, his wings giving him a short boost and he rocketed down toward her, his heel landing on her collarbone in a violent crunch of bone.

Hasmal screamed and dropped to her knees. He landed on his feet and kicked off on her chest, rolling away as she sent another long burst of flame at him. His bandaged feet smoked, the cloth seared from the angel's fiery breath. She fell to all fours, struggling to stand. Her arms trembled as she spat blood onto the concrete; it ran from her nose in a torrent as she fixed her dark eyes on his bright blue ones.

The crowd was chanting; Castiel shook his head and tried to clear it so he could understand. The haze of adrenaline coursing through his system made it hard to concentrate. His music was muted, and he realized Crowley was speaking.

"How about it, folks?" Crowley asked. "They both look pretty beat to hell, if you'll pardon the expression. Does he go in for the kill?"

Kill kill kill kill kill kill-

The chant was almost as hypnotic as his drumbeats, and far more insistent. He knelt in front of her, his hand on her shoulder, and she shook her head.

"You can't disobey them," she said, her voice a wheeze. "They'll kill us both."

"I won't kill you," he said. "What have we come to, sister?"

"The end," she said, and her hand snapped out to seize his wrist. She stood, her knees wobbly, and dragged him towards the flames. Castiel tried to pull away, but her fingers were a band of iron around his wrist and her pull was inexorable. She was strong, impossible for such a small frame, and he struggled in vain to pry her fingers loose.

"Hasmal," he said, his heels digging in to the concrete of the ring. The flames around the ring leapt higher, as though hungry to taste his essence. His voice took a desperate edge as the neared the edge. "Don't do this."

"I have to," she said. "I am sorry, Castiel."

"As am I," he said, his heel connecting with the back of her knee. She screamed as his foot cracked her kneecap, and her hold loosened a fraction. He kicked her again, and she staggered forward, letting go of his arm. His foot landed with a solid thump in the small of her back, and she fell into the flames with an anguished scream.

Hasmal ignited in a gout of pure white flame, brighter than the phosphorus used to mark him, the holy oil consuming her essence as she wailed. There was a deafening pop as the air left the room, then returned in a rush to fill the space that the angel had been moments before. Castiel fell to his knees, his head in his hands as he felt the piece of him that was connected to Hasmal wither on the vine. It was a hole, an emptiness that had never been there before, and he mourned because he had put it there.

He had done it to himself.

The crowd recoiled, quiet and blinded by the death of the angel. Then, with a swell of sound, they were on their feet, roaring their approval to the arena's steel beamed ceiling. The applause was a torrent of noise that Castiel did not hear, and he stared at the place where his sister had been moments before, until the demons extinguished the fire and Sam helped him to his feet. The larger man wrapped an arm around the angel's shoulders and guided him from the arena. They passed Dean, and the older Winchester locked eyes with him for a moment, before turning away, his eyebrows knit in a frown as his shoulders slumped.

No one mentioned the tears that tracked down his face, and Sam settled him on his cot. He turned on his side and faced the wall. Balthazar hummed comforting things from across the hall in Enochian, pure sound that flowed between them like a warm, calming wave, but Castiel remained silent.

Forgive me, Hasmal.

Murderer.

Are you not your sister's keeper?

What have you become?

He could not answer himself. He remained awake long after lights out, the hole in his heart burning bright.

A/N: More Gladius for you over the weekend. Recuperationg from a month at the job over the three day weekend. Apologies for the slow updates, but a lot of time has been eaten up with real life stuff. Still more to come, though.

Enjoy, Constant Readers.

Lywinis