A/N: Another "ficlet" that's really much too long to be one, lol. But here it is.
"Sport"
Dean and Sam stand in the back row of the audience seating. There's more people here than he expected, a throng of yelling, boisterous bodies shouting cheers and jeers down at the arena below. It's a pit, a concrete floor and walls topped with barbed wire that rises up and curves inward into spears just below the spectators' balcony. It's built to shred anything that tries to escape.
Sam's breath catches in his throat as the next contender is brought out, while Dean watches with steely fury.
They've taken his suit and trench coat and forced him into a costume for their little games—brown breastplate, Roman skirt with leather lappets over a short tunic, vambraces on his forearms, and sandals. He even has a sword. The only thing that doesn't match the period piece is the metal collar cinched snugly around his neck.
A few people in the audience let out catcalls. Dean wants to butcher every last one of them. The Mark on his arm sings for it. But he can't yet, because they haven't found a way down into the barracks where the prisoners are kept, and this is a rescue mission first, retribution second.
He and Sam should move, should start looking for side entrances or stairwells, but Dean can't bring himself to take his eyes off the figure in the center of the pit. Two werewolves enter the ring. They're wearing nothing more than sackcloth, torn in places. Probably from shifting. They have swords too.
The angel glowers at them as they begin to stalk around him. And then they move like lightning. Swords clash with discordant clangs and the werewolves snarl. The angel is a silent storm, pivoting and parrying, spinning back and forth to meet the blows coming at him from both sides. Dean always knew Cas was a warrior, but he's never seen how damn artful he is at it. Cas moves like water, the sword an extension of his body. Even in a fight against two monsters—who are abandoning their swords in favor of shifting to teeth and claws—the angel possesses poise and grace. It's no wonder he's their reigning champion.
The transformed wolves lunge. Cas brandishes his sword and cuts them down. There's a ripple of disappointment through the crowd; the fight is over too soon for their bloodlust.
Dean clenches his fists. Hunters did this. Switched from killing monsters to capturing them and making a profit off supernatural dog fights.
The thing is, Dean's not sure he would have batted an eye if they had just stuck to vampires, werewolves, and the like. But they'd taken his friend. Forced him into slavery for sport. And that crossed the line.
Cas stands in the middle of the pit, sword dripping crimson onto the concrete. His eyes are cold, not quite deadened, but getting close. He's been missing for almost three months. It'd taken the Winchesters too long to realize it, and even longer to find a lead. The pamphlet advertising the underground fights and their undefeated contender, "The Angel," sits crumpled in Dean's pocket. The sketch artist had captured Cas's likeness with only a few scant lines.
The door to the arena slides open and three handlers walk in. Cas slowly turns to face them. His sword is raised, and the tension in his taut muscles telegraphs his intention to not go quietly. It must be a repeated ritual, because one handler simply presses a button on a remote. The collar lights up and Cas's body goes rigid. His fingers whiten around the hilt of the sword, refusing to let go, but it only takes another push of the button for his hand to spasm open and for the blade to clatter on the ground. Cas drops to his knees, and the other two men move in to grab him and drag him out of the arena. A pair of vampires are brought in next.
Dean finally turns away. His stomach is churning with volatile choler and his arm itches.
He and Sam find a bookie and ask to speak with the orchestrator of this little event.
"How would he like a supply of more angels for the fights?"
That gets some attention, and they're escorted through a door and into an office. Some guy with red hair is sitting behind a desk, but Dean doesn't stop long enough to get a name. He spins so fast and punches their escort straight in the face. Blood spurts from a broken nose, and he goes down, instantly out cold.
Sam whips his gun out and aims it at the boss man. "Take us down to where you keep the contenders."
The guy doesn't argue, and turns to open a concealed door in the wall. A set of stairs leads down. Once they're in a hallway, Dean gives the guy a shove and tells him to show them where the angel is. They pass bare cells containing a variety of monsters before coming to one at the very back. It's dim inside, but Dean can make out the shape of someone sitting huddled against the far corner, knees drawn up to his chest. He recognizes the head of dark hair.
The lock is old-fashioned and Sam demands the key. As soon as the guy hands it over, Sam clocks him with the butt of his gun, and he goes down like a rag doll.
Dean unlocks the cell and sweeps inside while Sam stands guard at the door.
"Cas."
Dean kneels in front of him, and Cas looks up with wide eyes full of stunned disbelief, like never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined Dean and Sam could be here. His lips move around Dean's name, though no sound comes out.
"Are you hurt?" Dean asks.
Cas doesn't answer; his expression only pinches. Dean frowns at him, and Cas reaches up to gingerly touch the metal collar. Dean sees red as he gets it. Cas has effectively been gagged. Dean wonders what the angel said to make these bastards go to such lengths.
He tilts Cas's head forward so he can get a look at the collar, but there's no latch or clasp he can flip to get the damned thing off.
"Okay, come on."
He grabs Cas's arm and hauls him up, then leads him out of the cell. Sam shoots Cas a look mixed with relief and worry before falling in behind them to cover their backs as they make their way toward the stairs to get out of this hellhole.
A man rounds the corner before they get there and pulls up short. Dean recognizes him as the handler who used the remote on Cas. He doesn't even hesitate before pulling his gun and shooting the bastard point blank.
"Sam, see if he's got a key for the collar."
Sam's expression is tight, but he doesn't say anything as he moves forward and rifles through the guy's pockets. He comes out with the remote, and Dean feels Cas instantly stiffen beside him. Then Sam pulls out a smaller box of similar design and stands quickly. He comes over and lifts the smaller device to the collar. There's a tiny beep and click, and then Sam's pulling the heinous thing off and throwing it on the ground.
Cas rubs at his throat. "Thank you," he rasps.
They resume their escape route up the stairs and out the office. There's a backdoor into the alley so they can avoid going out through the spectator balcony. But then Dean hears a raucous clamor echo through the opposite door, and he stops. His hand is still on Cas's arm, and he nudges the angel toward Sam.
"Take him."
Sam sputters in response. "Dean, what are you doing? Dean!"
But he's already headed back down the stairs to the cells. He makes his way to the center, stops, and raises his voice.
"Listen up. My name is Dean Winchester, and I'd just as soon kill you all where you stand. That's my job. But these hunters upstairs, they're barbarians. Dressing you up as gladiators and sending you into a ring to kill each other, all for their own entertainment."
There were a few rumbling growls at that.
"So I have a proposition for you. I let you all out, and you can take your revenge on them as you see fit. While me, my brother, and the angel leave in one piece. Got it?"
He roves his gaze around the closest cells where the monsters within shift and fidget. But then a vampire walks up to the bars, teeth bared.
"Got it," she hisses.
Dean strolls out of the warehouse just as the screams start.
Sam is standing by the Impala, Cas already tucked into the backseat. His brother's expression is terrified.
"Dean, what did you do?"
"I gave them a sporting chance."
He climbs behind the wheel and starts the engine, making Sam frantically scramble into the passenger seat. And Dean pulls out of there without a second thought.
He drives for a while until he finally veers off the highway at a rest stop. He grabs a pair of jeans, t-shirt, and an extra set of boots from the trunk, which he hands to Cas so he can get out of those degrading clothes.
Cas takes them wordlessly and heads for the restroom.
"Dean," Sam says quietly.
"Don't."
The Mark burbles, discontent with Dean's form of vengeance since it wasn't him personally partaking in it. But the Mark can shove it. Those bastards got what they deserved, and right now the only thing that matters is getting Cas home.
When the angel comes back dressed in regular clothes, the costume is nowhere to be seen, probably left on a filthy bathroom floor where it belongs. Dean makes a mental note to take Cas shopping for a new suit and trench coat.
He watches with scrutiny as Cas heads straight for the backseat again, not saying a word. Sam's jaw is working like he has a bunch of questions he wants to ask, probably "how did they grab you?", "how long were you there?", "what did they do?" Dean wants those answers too, but they can wait. He shoots his brother a warning look and gives him a subtle head shake as they climb back into the car.
He starts up the engine again but pauses to twist around and face the backseat. "Cas," he says. "It's over. We're going home."
Cas closes his eyes and lets out a full body shudder, but then nods. "Thank you," he whispers.