Chapter Text
Castiel easily dodged Dean’s attack. It was sloppy at best, and he’d put too much of his weight behind the blow. When he didn’t land it, he staggered forward in an attempt to catch his balance, but not in time to prevent himself from landing in the dirt.
“Fuck,” Dean hissed as he pushed himself up. He’d long given up trying to dust himself off; after six such falls already, it was a fruitless effort. “You ever going to let me hit you? Build up my confidence and all that?”
“I was told kings already have an abundance of over confidence and not to indulge yours.”
“You and Bobby ganging up on me?” Dean asked incredulously. “My own uncle and my own husband? That’s gotta be some kind of treason right there.”
Castiel rolled his eyes at Dean’s dramatics, but he couldn’t quite keep a smile from pulling at the corner of his lips. Try as he might, there was no ignoring the thrill he felt every time Dean referred to him as his husband.
“Again,” he said, raising his wooden practice sword and getting into an appropriate stance. As much as possible, Castiel tried to model the correct forms for Dean.
“Ugh, fine .” Dean tried to mimic Castiel, but again his footing was off.
“Put your feet wider apart,” Castiel said. Dean barely moved them at all. “Wider. Wider. Wider—” Giving up, Castiel abandoned his own position to come over and stand behind Dean, nudging his legs into the correct spot and fixing his grip on the sword. “You’ll never get better if you don’t listen to me,” he scolded.
“Well then, maybe I should give up.”
Dean was by no means unfit and was clearly frustrated by his lack of progress. He’d been a decent swordsman as a boy, but he’d neglected his training as soon as his father allowed it. After all, why does a king need to know how to fight if he has a skilled bodyguard protecting him?
Castiel didn’t necessarily agree with that line of thinking, but now that Dean’s safety was in the hands of someone other than himself, for his own peace of mind he needed to know that Dean could at least defend himself should the worst happen.
“Unless you’re going to allow me to remain your bodyguard—”
“I’m not.”
“Then you’ll have to keep practicing until you meet a minimal level of competency.”
Dean grit his teeth at that but tensed for the next round of sparring. Castiel resumed his own spot and with a nod they were at it. They went on and on, Dean obviously at a disadvantage and tiring quickly. He did manage to hit Castiel a few times and dodged a great number of attacks, but he failed to ever gain a true advantage.
“Would you just… stand… still …” Dean grunted as he struck Castiel’s sword again and again. On the last blow, Castiel could hear the wood crack a little. Before he could warn Dean, Dean swung again. Instinct had Castiel raising his own sword to block the blow, but the wood broke on contact. Castiel vaguely caught sight of a chunk flying towards him before his world went dark.
- - - -
He woke up groggy and with his head throbbing. Castiel hissed in pain when he tried to move, hand automatically reaching to grab at his head. He felt bandages there, covering a good portion of his head; his left eye and ear were completely wrapped in gauze.
“What happened?” he tried to blink his right eye open, but the light was dim and his vision swirled around him.
“Cas!” The relief in Dean’s voice was palpable. Castiel reached blindly for his husband’s hand and squeezed it once he found it. “Thank the gods! I’ve been worried sick.”
“Didn’t answer my question.”
“My training sword broke apart and hit you in the temple. Luckily it missed your eye, but you were bleeding so much. You fell to the ground, wouldn’t wake up—”
“Have you been crying?” he interrupted. Dean’s eyes were red and swollen, obvious tear tracks paving a way through the dirt on his face.
“I nearly killed my husband, of course I’ve been crying!” Though he tried to smile jokingly, Dean’s concern and distress was obvious.
“Pretty sure I’ve survived more skilled swordsmen than you,” Cas teased.
Dean snorted. “Yet here we are, with you laid up in bed because of me .”
“I should tell the northerners that was their mistake. They should’ve been using wooden swords and been terrible at fighting.”
“Hey!” Dean swatted him. Thankfully his smile appeared more genuine now. “They were terrible, at least that’s how it looked from my vantage point. You blew through forty of them, didn’t you?”
“So I’m told.” With a deep sigh, Castiel settled back into the bed. He was in the barracks, that much was clear. If they were waiting until he felt better to move him, they’d have to wait another day at least. His head throbbed and he was exhausted. “If I fall asleep on you, you won’t be terribly offended, will you?”
“If you try to stay up on my account, I might be.” Dean leaned down and kissed Cas chastely on the lips, pulling away before Castiel had the chance to deepen it. “Does this mean I don’t have to do sword training anymore?” he asked hopefully. “I did injure my instructor, after all. I’m a menace.”
“That you are.” Castiel tried and failed to hold back a yawn. “We’ll discuss it when I’m better, but I’d say odds aren’t in your favor.”
“Awww.” Dean’s pouting was adorable. He really wanted to tease him about it, but sleep was seconds away. “You rest, Cas. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
Dean did
not
get out of training. But he did get upgraded to a metal sword, just to prevent the same accident from happening again.