The Precision of The Fall - 3

[snarklyboojum]

Days off in the circus were rare and coveted like fine jewels or single malt scotch. There was always something to be done, a new routine to master or equipment to mend. Hell, even laundry and dirty dishes piled up until people could get to them. In good weather most folks just sat around outside, chatting with their friends or simply enjoying being lazy. It was during times like these that Dean didn’t mind the press of other people close by; otherwise it could be hard to relax in their little gypsy world with just a canvas tent between your bedroom and hundreds of strangers.

On the other hand, the downside to having a day off was that there were plenty of people on hand to watch Dean set up the old hunk of wood scavenged from the machine shop as a target board. Within a few minutes a good dozen people were milling about; Ash was even settling into a lawn chair, beer in hand and ready for the show. Dean was pretty sure if it had been anyone but a Winchester setting up a target they wouldn’t have bothered.

He stretched his arms and shoulders, trying to loosen up the scar tissue and bring life back to tired muscles. Dean threw with his right so the scars probably wouldn’t bother him too much, but the trembling in his hands was a concern. It was more of a fine tremor than the full on shake from the days before but even the smallest variation could send a knife careening past its intended target. A shot of whiskey would help, but not with all these people around, and certainly not with Cas watching his every move. Instead he focused on the basics, repeating the lessons his father had taught him, long drilled into his memory.

“Throwing knives is easy, it’s hitting what you aim at that’s the tricky part.” He paced out the distance between him and the target – seven paces; Sammy was taller and needed eight. He couldn’t remember how far back his Dad had to stand. “Once you figure out which grip works best for you, it’s all about mastering a constant motion, repeating the same throw every time. After awhile, muscle memory kicks in and all you have to do is adjust your aim a little.” He raised his left arm, getting an idea where the target was in relation to his body, checking that his stance was as it should be. “Keep your wrist straight. Never hesitate. Always follow through.” He stretched his body, raising his right arm above his head and quickly back down again, letting go when the knife was pointing at the target. It revolved through the air and stuck blade-first, as Dean intended, though several inches away from the large circle he’d painted into the wood grain.

Ash booed him. Dean flipped him off and picked up another knife from the table next to him, adjusted his grip slightly, and hit the target full on. Exactly where he wanted it to. The group cheered when Dean threw another, and another still, until he had the knives stuck to the board in a wobbly capital C, for Circadia.

Cas nodded from his perch on Dean’s right. “Nicely done, though I can see your point about people losing interest. While you’re obviously skillful, I doubt an act like that would captivate an entire tent’s attention.”

The performers loitering behind him called out some disparaging remarks about Cas’s mother, though they were grinning while they did it. Bobby’s gruff baritone cut through the heckling. “Put some heart into it, boy!”

Dean turned to look over his shoulder; he hadn’t even known Bobby was watching. The gaffer nodded from where he’d moved to the front of the group, hat pulled down so his eyes were in shadow. Dean remembered when their little family traveled with Bobby’s circus in the old days and the countless summer months he and Sammy would follow him around the lot, absorbing everything he had to teach them about circus.

The key to winning over the crowds, he’d said, was to put your heart into your work. You could be the best there is and nobody will give a shit if there’s no passion behind your performance. The rubes want to do what you do, feel what you feel. And you have to make them feel it.

Something warm churned up from the depths of his body, long buried and half forgotten. He grabbed hold of the feeling, breathing on it like a fire trying to catch light. And then he pushed it into the sly tilt of his mouth, the cocky curve of his neck, the gleam in his eyes. He sent it swirling around his hips and tingling down to the tips of his fingers.

I know something you don’t know, he thought, and that’s sexy as hell.

Dean grinned to catcalls from the crowd, the tent bunnies fanning and swooning over themselves. He caressed the smaller knives hidden in his vest before tugging them loose and tossing them from hand to hand, smooth as silk. One by one, until all six were in rotation and Dean couldn’t spare a thought for the girls anymore. He couldn’t think about anything except the rhythm of his heart in his ears and the flow of his hands. Every breath became the gleam of silver in the air until he was flying, as far from the ground as he ever wanted to be, tumbling in a whirl of metal and nasty edges.

For a moment he hung there, serene, separate from his body. Then he gathered himself into a hard knot and pushed himself away, hurling the knives and his thoughts away from him across the distance. If Sam were here, the other half of his act, he’d catch and throw them back, a return as easy as air. But Sam was gone and instead they hit the target dead on, burying themselves deep into the wood.

The wobbly C turned into an even shakier heart, and Dean laughed for the first time in what felt like forever.

His goddamn knees would have given out except he was suddenly being pounded on the back by Victor and had to stiffen or die. The whole gang was there congratulating him, shaking his hand and cheering. It was a small victory, regaining something he hadn’t found necessary in years, but it was one they all understood.

Ash pressed a beer into his hand, cool and slightly damp against his overheated skin. “All the time I’ve known you and I’ve never seen you throw like that. I wouldn’t have guessed you were so good!”

Dean grinned. “Are you kidding? I can slice a pretty girl’s dress off from ten feet away.”

Tamara leaned in, brushing a soft kiss against his cheek. “Only from so far? What can you do when she gets closer?” Isaac huffed behind her, pushing against her shoulder. She grinned back at him and leaned against his chest. He kissed the side of her neck and Dean told himself not to be uncomfortable or envious of how they were with each other.

Bobby worked his way through the crowd, grinning, eyes shining under the brim of his hat. He clamped a paw on Dean’s shoulder and pulled him in close. “Now, that is what I’m talking about, son. Keep it up and we may get you back in the ring, yet.”

Slowly the crew started trickling away, back to whatever Monday revelries they had planned before the impromptu Winchester knife show, until it was just Dean and Cas and the knives still quivering in their wooden sheath. Cas was sitting quietly next to Dean but he was shifting on the bench, lips parted, eyes slightly glazed, a flush in his cheeks.

Cas looked… Christ, Cas looked turned on. And it was a hell of a reminder to Dean that he was more than a little excited, himself. Fuck.

“Uh. Well, I guess we found something I’m good at, huh?” He smiled nervously and raised the beer to his mouth, more reflex than anything else.

The look on Cas’s face immediately darkened from oh my god that is hot to holy crap I’m gonna kill him. He jumped off the bench, grabbed the bottle before Dean could take more than a sip and proceeded to dump it out onto the ground. He ignored Dean’s protest that it was only one drink, come on, man and tossed the empty bottle into the long grass next to the target. The storm on Cas’s face said he was more than willing to argue the dangers of alcohol but his brow cleared when he turned to look at Dean again, catching him rubbing a hand against the rough skin of his lips.

Cas breathed out, expression settling to quiet concern. “You’re bleeding.” He pulled a clean handkerchief from his back pocket, tugging Dean’s hand away from his mouth and wrapping it around.

Oh - just a nick on the side of his hand, bleeding sluggishly. Dean hadn’t even noticed it until Cas started applying pressure. It was a small sting but enough to distract him from… other things. “You’ll ruin your handkerchief that way. Best to just leave it alone.”

“I can buy another handkerchief. Why are you so unconcerned about your health?”

“Why are you so concerned for it?” Cas frowned, glaring at him. Dean sighed and submitted to the mothering. “You can’t expect to throw knives for a living and not get cut, Cas. There’s more scars than skin on my hands at this point. I didn’t even feel it.” Cas’s palms were rough themselves, catching against Dean’s own with strange friction. He supposed it was to be expected; circus folk always got rougher in places normal people didn’t. “It’s no big deal, man. My dad always used to say a scar was just another type of callus, a place the world rubs you tough. It was practically his motto.” Embrace the pain, son, work through it. Use it to make you better.

Cas rubbed his thumb over the binding on Dean’s hand. “Your father and my father would have gotten along very well, I think.”

His lips quirked ruefully and Dean realized exactly how close they were standing. He shifted, their legs rubbing together at the thigh, jeans making a small rasping sound. They were sharing the same air, sawdust tickling the back of Dean’s throat. Cas was holding his fucking hand, stroking his thumb in soothing circles like Dean was an animal needing to be soothed.

Cas’s eyelashes fluttered, his head tilted back –

Dean jerked away sharply, heart pounding in his throat. “Cas, what the hell are you doing?”

Cas blinked, swallowing. “I… I don’t know. I thought-”

It was hard to breathe with Cas so close, so Dean pulled himself away from where they were entangled and rubbed his palms on the back pockets of his jeans, shifting his feet in the grass. “You don’t do that. You can’t do that.”

Cas frowned, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “I’m sorry. I thought you wanted me to.”

“Well, I don’t! Why would I want that? I don’t know what you heard about me on the lot, Cas, but I don’t want that.”

Dean backed away, hands rubbing themselves raw on the denim. He couldn’t look at Cas anymore. “I - I better go take care of those knives. Don’t want them to get dull.”

He stumbled in a wide arc around Cas to the target and tugged the knives free, blade tips still just as sharp as ever. By the time he turned around Cas was gone and Dean was alone again.

+++
+++

That morning in the backyard may have been a kind of breakthrough for his act but Dean knew if he wanted to be good again, truly good, he had a lot of catching up to do. His muscle tone had gone down since his time recuperating in the hospital (after Cas had saved his life, Jesus fuck) and he’d have to build his shoulders back up if he was going to perform anything long term. It meant fifteen minutes a day at his least favorite activity – pushups – and wearing finger weights most afternoons. An added bonus of all the exercise and focus was that the shakes were almost gone, and he hardly ever craved a drink. (There was nothing he could do about the nightmares; his only hope of sleeping through the night was to exhaust himself by going for a run around the tents, which he hated.)

More important than his physical condition was the lack of accuracy, something that would only improve with time and practice. Bobby was encouraging about Dean’s baby steps and set up a small stage in the middle of the midway where he could practice, juggling in front of the crowds and aiming at a fancy target board.

The Wall of Death was retired (momentarily, Dean swore) and returned to the Circadia’s winter quarters. The Indian – sad and broken as she was – remained in the bed of Dean’s truck until he could spare some time to look her over properly.

To combat his growing caloric intake and rein in his wandering focus, Dean found himself drinking a lot of coffee. And since Dean’s little tantrum had broken his tiny coffeemaker, when Ellen closed down the cookhouse the only fresh coffee available was at the pie car.

It was there Dean stumbled upon Sam for the first time since their fight, loitering on one of the benches next to the car in the few hours between the matinee and the night show. Sam’s nose was buried in a book and Dean would have made fun of him for being so nerdy if it wasn’t an obvious attempt to ignore Gabriel, talking a mile a minute about God knew what.

Dean chuckled. Knowing Sam’s metabolism the two of them were probably after the same snacks. Gabriel seemed the type to ambush you and talk your ear off.

He ducked behind the car before Sam could see him, pouring himself a cup of coffee - his fifth for the afternoon - and lingered, eavesdropping.

“It’s a completely new concept for a clown act. This trickster clown pops in and out of the other acts and the audience, messing things up, generally being a fantastic agent of chaos and making everything funny. And he keeps harassing this one guy in the blue seats who’s really a plant and the grand finale is this huge aerial tumble where the plant gets pulled into the show. I mean, it’s foolproof if it’s done right. What do you think?”

Sam didn’t look up from his book. “I think if you mess with my act I’ll let Lucifer eat you.”

Dean smirked, stirring in some milk into his coffee. Sam’s fear of clowns was notorious, if ridiculous. He used to tease him about it all the time; how could someone who grew up in a circus be so nervous around something so silly?

Gabriel blanched a little. “Well, not every act. Obviously.” He contemplated Sam for a minute, sharp features going sly. “Speaking of acts, I heard your little Delilah got into a bit of a tussle with the king of beasts the other day. Everything okay in the corral?”

“She’s fine. It was just a scratch, no big deal.”

The spoon clanged back into the bowl with the others and Sam turned toward the noise. Dean stood there, fuming, unable to look at his brother. There was no such thing as ‘no big deal’ when working with animals; Dean knew it and Sam did, too.

It wasn’t until he was halfway back to the Airstream that he realized he left his coffee on the counter. To hell with it. His hands shook enough these days - he didn’t need the extra caffeine, anyway.

+++

The devil got loose on a perfectly normal Wednesday afternoon.

In the aftermath, Dean would remember the conversation he overheard and think I told you so with all the viciousness an older brother could have. But in the heat of things he was too terrified to play such childish games, even in his own head.

The circus was going well that day, Dean’s shoulders just a little bit sore after he spent a few hours entertaining the locals by spelling their names on the target board or having the braver ones hold out pieces of paper for him to aim at. He was just closing down for the night when he heard a woman scream and a sudden commotion coming from inside the big top.

Dean was moving before the sound died away, feet propelling him toward the tent like the hounds of hell were on his trail. Screams were never a good sign when people did what they did for a living but it wasn’t until he heard the cries of the townies he passed that he began to realize exactly how bad it could be.

Lucifer had gotten away from Sam. Fuck.

He changed direction, heading toward the backdoor instead, hoping to cut off the liger’s escape from that angle in case he got past the road crew and their fancy electric prods. If they could keep it contained Sam or Ruby could eventually get it back under control long enough to secure it in the boxcar.

When he arrived at the backdoor it was almost empty, quiet in the middle of the chaos, and Dean thought he could hear… There, a low rumble. Dean rounded the corner, slowly, and his heart stuttered in his chest.

Lucifer’s back was to him, crouched low, stalking the small girl hiding under the bleachers just to the left of the entryway. Sam was blocking its path, hand raised, speaking quietly. For a moment it looked like Lucifer was willing to be soothed - my brother, Dean thought, the lion tamer.

Then the cat’s tail twitched and it let out a fearsome yowl that raised the short hairs on the back of Dean’s neck. He saw it gather itself to leap and moved without thinking, muscle memory pulling two of the small knives from his vest and sending them hurling through the air. They hit Lucifer square between the ribs, embedding themselves deep inside flesh. The cat died with a pitiful groan but too late–

Its jaws had already clamped around Sam’s shoulder, claws taking down Dean’s baby brother with the beast.

Dean was running before the third knife even left his grip, hitting the cat at the base of its massive skull. He was dimly aware of the child’s mother rushing over to gather her daughter into her arms but he was too busy pushing the dead weight of the cat off his brother to care. Sam was conscious, but barely, Lucifer’s teeth leaving a jagged line from his neck down to the side of his collarbone. There was a lot of blood.

He tore at his t-shirt, ripping the bottom half off to form a makeshift bandage, pressing it tight to the wound. His grey shirt quickly became red with the blood soaking around his fingers and Dean pressed harder, putting all his weight behind it, willing the hurt away. Sam cried out and Dean shhed him, like he had when they were little and Sam had a bad dream. He shouted, begging for help, for someone to get some fucking help, and suddenly Bobby was there, adding his own hands atop Dean’s, saying the ambulance was on its way. Ash brought a blanket, talked to Sam. Tried to keep him awake.

Dean looked up at the sound of sirens, for the first time noticing the crowd of people in a circle around them. The townies stood there watching the spectacle of his brother bleeding out before them like it was just another act, eyes wide and mouths hanging open. Sprinkled among them were the circus folk, crying through their false lashes and whispering hopeful prayers.

The only ones who gave a damn were covered in sequins and makeup, pushing the normal people back to make room for the paramedics and the stretcher that would take Sam away.

+++

The hospital waiting room was far too bright after the neon of the circus lot. Dean squinted in the fluorescents, stomach cold where the processed air snuck in under his torn shirt. There was blood under his nails and up past his wrists. He felt clogged, numb, like he was the one that left part of himself behind in the dirt.

The doors pinged and Ruby burst in, makeup running down her face and the feathers from her costume sticking out of her coat. Dean tensed – they’d been avoiding each other as much as possible since he and Sam split, mostly because Dean couldn’t stand the little bitch and Ruby had decent self-preservation instincts. Not anymore, apparently. She marched right up to Dean and started hitting him on the shoulders, as feral as any of her cats. “You son of a bitch!”

“Hey, hey!” Dean stood, grabbing at her hands and trying to avoid getting nailed in the face. “It’ll be okay, Ruby! It’s all right. Sam’s with the doctors right now.”

“No, it won’t be okay! He’s dead!” She pulled away roughly, Dean’s short nails leaving red marks on her wrists. She snarled at him through her tears like Lilith on a bender. “You killed him, you bastard. He was beautiful and mine and you killed him.” She hit him again, dissolving into sobs. “Do you have any idea what I had to do to get him? Any idea how much he cost? What the fuck am I going to do now?”

“Wait a minute.” Dean’s brain finally caught with a jolt like electric shock. “Are you… are you upset about Lucifer?”

Ruby looked at him like he was an idiot. “Of course I’m upset about Lucifer. What, you think I’m worried about Sam? Please. Sam’s a great guy but he’s not worth fucking up the act. No, that was his faggy older brother’s fault. What the hell’s wrong with you? Ligers are temperamental, he would have been fine--”

Only one thing was clear through the red haze covering Dean’s vision and that was how badly he wanted to hurt Ruby at that exact moment. He pushed her against the wall, cutting off her tirade with a strangled yelp. He held her tight with his heavier weight pressed against hers. He had three knives left and he placed one – ever so gently – against the curve of her throat.

Dean tilted his head until he could look her in the eye. Smiled. “I killed your cat and I’m glad I did it. I’ve killed people before too, Ruby. Women and children, not just soldiers. Hell, I lost count of the number of souls I popped for God and country. And right now? Nothing would give me greater pleasure than doing the same to you.”

Her brown eyes were huge and frightened, but her jaw was clenched in defiance. He snarled and pressed harder. “What? No witty comeback? No retort? Don’t you want to say something about my lips now, bitch?”

Dean pushed against the blade a final time until she gasped, a small trickle of blood pearling down her neck. “I would do anything for my brother,” he leaned in to whisper against her ear, “even let you live.”

He pulled back, lowering his arm. His hands were shaking again but this time from repressed anger. “Any woman who values the life of an inbred animal over a man like my brother is more of a monster than I’ll ever be. I want you gone by the time Sam gets out of here. And if I ever hear of you showing your face around a ring again I swear by Christ I’ll cut it up so badly you’ll only be good for the freak show.”

And Dean walked away, simple as that. He got as far as the door when Ruby gathered her courage again. “You don’t have the guts.”

He turned, lightning fast, throwing the knife toward her head. It caught just to the left of her ear, tangling in her hoop earring. Ruby froze for a few glorious seconds, a small animal caught in oncoming headlights, and then the trembling settled in. Dean could almost hear her teeth rattling across the room.

It was a hell of a shot, not that he’d bothered to aim all that much. “Guess practice does make perfect, huh? Who would’ve thought?”

They locked eyes and kept them locked until the doctor came in, pausing at the scene before him. He cleared his throat. “Uh… Do I need to call security in here?”

Dean smiled his devil-may-care smile, known for charming little old ladies out of their dollars and their daughters out of their pants. “Nope. We were just rehearsing for an act. Weren’t we, Ruby?”

Ruby shuddered out a nod, her earring chiming sweetly against the metal of the knife.

The doctor nodded, still wary. “Right. That means you must be with the circus boy? The one with the lion mauling-”

“His name is Sam. He’s my brother.”

The doctor must have heard something in Dean’s voice – the way that it cracked on Sam’s name, or the tremble he tried to hide - whatever it was, his shoulders relaxed, the tension bleeding away. “Sam is out of surgery now. It was touch and go for awhile, but he made it through. We think he’ll make a full recovery, given time.”

Dean exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, knees going a little weak. He even laughed a little, clapping the doctor on the shoulder.

The doctor smiled, eyes flicking between Dean and Ruby. “I can go over his condition with you now… unless this is a bad time?”

“No, now’s good. Oh, almost forgot!” He jogged up to Ruby, smiling, and pulled the knife out of the wall where it had embedded a good two inches into the plaster. “You have a nice day now. Remember what we talked about.”

Then Dean followed the doctor out without bothering to look back.

+++

Sam was awake by the time Dean finished with the doctor. He was still a little out of it from the surgery, bruised eyes a little spacey as they followed Dean around the room.

He blinked. “Lucifer’s dead, isn’t he?”

Dean’s clenched his jaw. “Yeah. I killed it myself.”

Sam raised an eyebrow but didn’t react otherwise. If he remembered the attack at all he would have expected the cat’s death. “Ruby?”

“Gone.” If she knows what’s good for her.

“You kill her, too?”

Dean rubbed a hand through his hair, vigorously tugging at his scalp. Flecks of dried blood fluttered down onto his shirt. “No, Sam, I didn’t kill her. I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

Sam nodded, slowly, trying to focus hard through the drugs. “I know you wouldn’t, Dean. You’re a good person, despite it all. Unlike me.” His chin quivered and he looked down at the hands in his lap, twisting the bed sheets into abstract monstrosities. “This is all my fault. I knew he was dangerous but I wouldn’t listen to anyone about him. That scratch Ruby got? I know you heard about it. She probably should have gone to the doctor but I stitched it up myself. We didn’t want to ruin the act.”

A tear fell from his watery eyes and he winced, though his voice held more anger than pain. “I thought I was strong enough to control him. I thought I could save us. And instead that little girl almost died.”

Dean looked around for a chair, pulling the uncomfortable looking thing close to Sam’s bedside. He wished he was better at talking about this stuff. “It wasn’t your fault, Sam.”

“I took the cage down, Dean. I didn’t think he’d get away from me, but he did.”

Dean rubbed his mouth, tasting iron and wishing for whiskey. “All right, so maybe it was your fault. We’ve all done stupid shit before. The important thing is that you stopped it from happening. Nobody got hurt besides you. And by the way…” He slapped Sam on top of his head, gentler than he wanted to but making Sam jerk anyway, more tears spilling down his cheeks. “Don’t you ever risk yourself like that again, you hear me? I didn’t survive freak shows, crabs, and ‘Nam just to watch my little brother get himself killed.”

“Jerk.” Sam smoothed his hair down, sheepish. “Crabs?”

“Never you mind, Sammy. Some things are between a man and his midget.”

Sam laughed, quietly, and winced again. “Man, I’m really tired.”

“Right, right. You rest up, Sam. I’ll go hit on some of the nurses, butter them up for you.” He stood, shuffling his feet a little. What was he thinking? Sam had just lost his girl and his job, of course he’d want to be left alone. So what if things had almost been good between them for a minute there.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Sam?” He stopped at the door, turning when Sam didn’t continue.

His brother was watching him, half out already. “Don’t laugh. Stay until I fall asleep?”

Dean smiled, eyes blurring a little with tears he’d deny forever and a day. “Girl.”

He sat back down on the uncomfortable chair, holding Sam’s hand. Sam’s head turned toward him on the pillow, eyes fluttering shut, and was asleep within seconds.

Dean stayed awake all night in the chair. His complaints about the crook in his back and the shitty hospital breakfast were what woke Sam the next morning.

+++
+++

Bobby arrived full of thunder and brimstone, a tempest in a ballcap. Dean thought it best to leave the two alone for awhile, so they could hug and argue and hug again in privacy. He headed outside for a bit of fresh air and was surprised to find Rufus waiting in the parking lot, truck and Airstream in tow.

Rufus raised his hands before Dean could say anything. “Don’t thank me yet, I had to hotwire it since you ran off with the keys. This is practically an antique, you know. When you boys gonna invest in a nice Mountain King like me?”

“When they’re free.” Dean liked the shiny silver Airstream but he wasn’t going to admit it to a hardass like Rufus. He ducked inside to wash his hands and change his shirt, leaving the door open so Rufus would hear him yell. “It ain’t that old, anyway. Can I give you a lift back?”

“Bobby can manage it. ‘Sides, Circadia has to be on the road by ten; wouldn’t do to leave this all by its lonesome in that field. I think they play soccer there on the weekends.”

Right. It was strange to think that after everything only a single night had passed. By all rights the circus should have been well on their way by now. They must have been waiting to hear about Sam. “I appreciate you bringing it around, then. I doubt we’ll be welcome back after all this mess.”

“Don’t be dumb - of course you will, boy. You’re family, ain’t ya? Bobby takes care of his family. We all do.”

Dean left Rufus loitering against Bobby’s battered pickup and wandered back upstairs, the canvasman’s words rolling around in his head. Dean bumped into Bobby just stepping outside Sam’s room, almost literally. He tilted his head down the hallway, silently asking Dean to walk him out.

As soon as the door closed behind him Bobby rounded on Dean. “All right, spill. How is he, really?”

Dean sighed. Sam must have played the everything’s all right card. “They’re worried about limited mobility in his shoulder. We won’t know for sure until he heals up some.” Removal of damaged muscle tissue, that’s what the doctor had said. Fuck. Deep breaths, Dean. “Sam’s tough. It was close one, but he’ll be fine. We should be able to move him in a couple days if he wants.”

“Fucking Winchesters. I oughta fire the lot of you.” Bobby tugged at his beard, sighing. “That boy is damn lucky. I’m getting rid of every one of those flea bitten bastards the second I get back. Never did trust cats.”

They walked down the hall to the elevators. Bobby pressed the down button, tapping a hand against his leg. “Stay with Sam as long as you need, then get your asses back home. You’ve got a new act to plot out.”

“But Sam won’t be ring-ready for months.”

“I’m not talking about Sam, you idjit. You’ve been getting better with the knives every day and that last throw of yours was the best knife work I’ve seen since your father. You harness that, toss a couple sequins its way, and you might have something special. And I need another headliner since your brother’s out of commission now. And that reminds me.” He pulled a bundle out of his jeans pocket, passing it over to Dean.

The doors dinged and Bobby stepped in. “Time to nut up or shut up. Find yourself a target girl and you go into Ring One when we hit Fort Worth. Don’t make me regret it, son.”

Dean stood there, mouth hanging open. Fort Worth? That was – fuck, that was in three weeks. He couldn’t put an act together in three weeks.

“By the way, Ruby’s disappeared, and all her stuff with her. Don’t suppose you know anything about that, do you?” Bobby’s grin was the last thing to disappear behind the closing elevator doors.

Dean unwrapped the bundle. It was three small throwing knives, washed clean.

Fuck.

+++

Sam left the hospital against medical advice six days later, under strict instructions not to stress the sutures and to follow up with physical therapy after a few weeks. They suggested a break from the ‘transient lifestyle’ but Sam just stared at them until they let him leave.

Dean spent the downtime flirting with the nurses and emptying the vending machines along the third floor corridor. (It was particularly cruel of the hospital to put the candy in the children’s wing; it wasn’t like the kids could actually eat anything, seeing as how they were meant to get better with healthy foods, not worse with sugar. Dean was just eating for the cause.) Sam watched him devour Twizzlers and Reece’s Pieces and frowned over his hospital-issued generic Jell-o.

In the interest of sharing, Dean located some of Sam’s favorite treats about three days into his stay. Granted, he probably shouldn’t have slipped the Pop Rocks into Sam’s ice chips without telling him first, but he made up for it by convincing the hot nurse to perform his baby bro’s sponge bath. You’re welcome, Sammy.

They piled into the truck and headed southwest, making sure to cash in Sam’s prescriptions before they got too far down the highway. It was nice, having Sam in the passenger seat again. Although not everything went back to normal right away, whatever normal might have been. Sam sat with his back stiff, probably in pain, and the cab filled with tense silence - like the jungle right before a sniper would start shooting from the bushes. It wasn’t until the first gas station stop that they said anything.

Sam eyeballed Dean’s can of Coke, watching as we took a sip and grimaced at the taste. “Huh.”

Dean wiped some foam off his chin. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just… Where’s your flask?”

“What?”

“Flask.” Sam made the universal drinking motion with the arm not in the sling

“Oh. Cas stole it a couple weeks ago. Said he’d hold onto it until I could be trusted, whatever the hell that means.”

“Huh.”

“Again, what?”

“Nothing, I’m just – surprised, I guess. That’s all.”

Dean raised his eyebrow and stuck out his chin, waiting.

Sam took a deep breath, realizing Dean wasn’t going to let this pass without explanation. “When we used to stop at gas stations you always stayed with the car, demanded candy, and drank a couple shots by the time I got back. Now I’m car-bound and you’re drinking Coke. It’s a little much to take in all at once.”

Dean shrugged, taking another sip and pulling back onto I95. The carbonation tickled his nose. Sam watched him try not to sneeze and smiled, sadly. “I’d heard rumors about what happened with the Indian, but I didn’t actually believe them. You really gave up the drinking, huh?”

“Yeah, well. It was either that or Bobby was gonna feed me to the clowns.”

Sam shivered a little at the thought. He looked down, playing with a string hanging from the bottom of his shirt. “Must have been hard.”

“A little.” And there was a gross understatement. “Cas helped.”

Sam looked up again. “How is Cas? He called my room once, asked how I was doing.”

“How the hell should I know? I don’t have a leash on the guy.”

“Well, it’s just I thought you two were close. He followed you around a lot before…” Before Sam and Dean rolled around on the ground like a couple teenagers? Before he got mauled? Before he and Cas almost...

“I don’t want to talk about him, if it’s all the same to you.”

Sam shrugged a shoulder and they drove in silence for awhile. Dean was just running through which eight tracks went best with Virginia highways when Sam humphed in the seat next to him. “So what’s the plan here, man? Do you know where we’re going or are we just gonna drive around until we run out of gas like last time?”

“Hey, that detour in Texas was not my fault and you know it. Who’s supposed to be the navigator here, anyway?” Sam flipped him the bird. Dean flipped it back. “There’s a layover in Raleigh, smart ass, it’s not too far from here. I figure we can meet up with everyone there.”

“Meet up? With Carter Circadia?” Sam frowned, Bitchface #9 making an appearance: I’m Confused And I Don’t Like It. “I thought they were done with me.”

“Done with cats, yes. You? Probably not. You know how Bobby is.” Hell, Sam could have been eaten and Bobby’d invite his corpse back with open arms. A slap on the head and a demotion to clean-up duty, but open arms all the same. And wasn’t that a thought: zombie Sam pushing a broom through clown alley. It’d be kind of funny if it wasn’t so terrible.

Sometimes, Dean’s mind was a strange place.

Sam was getting seriously worked up. “To do what? I can’t go in the ring like this. I’m practically useless.”

“You just worry about healing; I’ll worry about paying the bills.”

“The last time I let you worry about the bills by yourself you wound up in drag on a freak show, so forgive me if I don’t relax just yet.”

Jesus, there was not enough alcohol in the entire world for this conversation. He took another swig of Coke, swished it around in his mouth, and spit the fuzz out all over his brother.

+++
+++

Sam and Dean’s triumphant return to the show revealed that Ruby had, indeed, run away into the night, taking her trailer - and all of Sam’s possessions that he’d moved into it – with her. They hit up the Salvation Army for some clothes and the library for some books, but Dean could tell having new things didn’t help lessen the guilt Sam was still feeling. He’d sit, day after day, occasionally offering pointers as he watched Dean pick out the details of the knife routine.

The Airstream had enough depression soaked into its walls – it didn’t need any more. So Dean decided to do something about it.

Sam didn’t notice Dean’s approach until he dropped the little squirming bundle in his lap. “You take this. It peed in the truck; I wash my hands of it.”

Sam almost dropped the puppy, juggling it between his good arm and his knee. “What-“

“Bobby has a weak spot for dogs. I figure if you start training the runt now by the time your shoulder heals you’ll be ready to show him something. We’ve never had a dog act in the Circadia before.”

Sam stared at Dean, scratching the mutt behind his ears. The fur there was extra soft – Dean made sure of that before leaving the pound.

“Don’t look at me like that, okay? It was you or a lethal injection so it’s not like I can take him back. Just shut up and pet the damn dog.”

“Dean… I thought you’d want me back in the ring with you. The old act. From before.”

“Of course I want you with me, loser. I just want you to be happy more. I don’t give a shit about the act.” Sam looked at Dean, eyes the exact duplicate of the puppy yawning in his lap. “All right, fine, you fucking hippy, if you insist on sharing our feelings. I admit you were good with the cats, okay? You handled them right, you just… got in over your head a little.”

He reached over to pat the puppy once on the head. Yeah, still soft. “I thought this time you could start small and work your way up. Minus giving your brother a heart attack.”

“Thanks, Dean.” Sam’s smile was a little wobbly around the edges, forever cementing the fact that Dean was the manliest Winchester.

He grunted. “Whatever.”

Sam angled the puppy so he could stare it in the face. “I always was more of a dog person, anyway.”

“Yeah. So what are you going to call him?”

Sam’s smile went from wobbly to wicked in 1.5 seconds, a new record in all things naughty.

+++

Sam called the puppy Hershey.

Dean called Sam a bitch.

+++
+++

The first time Dean saw Cas after the knife throwing debacle was, ironically, while he was throwing knives.

Sam had been out of the hospital for about a week and almost everyone had been by with well wishes or – to Dean’s delight – slices of home baked goodness. It was a little overwhelming and Sam and Hershey were taking a nap in the trailer, the repetitive thunks of the knives into the wood too much for his drug-addled head. The rest of the Circadia was milling around outside the piecar, another party in full swing.

So when Cas turned the corner in the new configuration of trailers to discover Dean practicing they were alone. They stood there on either side of the target for a minute, staring at each other. Then Cas took a deep breath and the initiative, crossing to stand next to Dean. He watched Dean fiddle with the knives for a moment then turned to contemplate the target, spinning lazily. Dean had drawn a picture of Ruby on it, to Sam’s mortification.

“I can’t help but think that a real person would make a better target. This artwork is… not ideal. Perhaps you should enlist an assistant for the act? After all: it’s not the thrower who counts, but the target.”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh – his father used to say that exact phrase. “You’ve been talking philosophy with Sam again, haven’t you?”

Cas shrugged, shifting in the dirt. His shoulder brushed Dean’s.

Dean stepped away, adjusting his stance and throwing the knife. It hit outside the drawing but not as close as he’d like.

He lifted another knife, memorizing the revolutions of the wheel. “It’s about trust, Cas.”

Out of the corner of his eye Dean could see Cas tilting his head and frowning. It was his I don’t understand expression.

Dean sighed and released the knife. “You’ve got to trust people in this business otherwise we could never do what we do. If your brothers didn’t trust you to catch them they’d never let go of the bar, right?”

Cas nodded, a shadow passing over his face that Dean would ask about if he were braver.

“It’s the same with the knives. The target girl has to trust that I won’t kill her twice a day and once on Sundays. I’ve got to trust that she’ll stay put. And that’s not even the hard part.” The hard part was trusting himself not to hurt her, on and off the stage. Trusting himself to let go of the knife and not hear screams at the end of it. “I always wind up sticking my foot in it somehow. We fuck, I sleep around, she sleeps around, I’m an asshole, whatever. The point is they never stick around longer than a few weeks anyway, so there’s no point in even training with one. I’ll just use the wooden target until Bobby convinces one of the tent bunnies to step in.”

Cas frowned. “It seems the basis of your trouble lies in sex. Is it possible for you to employ a target girl without sleeping with her?”

Dean felt a grin split his face as he raised his arm over his shoulder. “They don’t call it the impalement arts for nothing, Cas. It’s all about penetration.” The knife thwacked into the board. Bull’s-eye, just to the left of the outline’s neck.

Cas was silent for a little while, watching Dean’s body get comfortable with the throwing. After a few practice shots the patterns and rhythm of the spins became almost familiar. The balance came easy but the timing was still proving trickier than it should. If Dean let go of the knives too early they’d fly high; too late, low. He just needed to concentrate… which was difficult with an Angel hovering over his shoulder.

Dean was just beginning to break a sweat when Cas spoke through the tension. “I trust you, Dean.”

His hand jerked, sending the knife spinning through the air and bouncing off of the target. Fuck. “Did you say something?”

“I said I trust you, Dean. Do you trust me?”

Dean swallowed, thought about all the nights traveling with Cas by his side in the truck, confessions he refused to talk about. He shrugged. “Yeah, Cas, I trust you.”

Cas shifted, walking backwards until his back thudded against the target, stopping its spin. “Then throw the knives.”

“I dunno, man. It didn’t work out so well the last time I threw knives around you.”

“And whose fault was that?”

Dean coughed. “Cas, I don’t think you understand. Blunted edges or not these are still real knives-”

“I know that. I’ve been watching you play with them for weeks. Now it’s time for you to use them.” He lowered his head, daring Dean to look him in the eye. “I trust you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean shivered, raising his arm. “All right. But whatever you do, don’t move.”

He took a deep breath, visualized the target in his mind, pictured the limitations of Cas’s body over it… and lowered his arm hard. The knife sailed through the air, turning twice before connecting with a thwack a good foot above Cas’s head.

“Not good enough, Dean. Is that the best you can do?”

Dean growled and picked up another knife. He didn’t look away from Cas’s eyes. He didn’t even blink.

Neither did Cas, the knife tucking itself snugly against his arm. Then another by his hip. And another against his knee.

They were both breathing heavily when Dean threw the knife into the board by his neck, the vibrations traveling through the wood and surely tingling up Cas’s skull. His eyelids fluttered closed and open again, and Dean swore he heard a moan.

His fingers passed through open air before his knuckles hit the table – all out of knives. Dean stalked forward, fists clenching around the grips of the knives imbedded above Cas’s head and neck, ready to tear them out and go again..

Cas blinked, licking his lips, and Dean’s stomach flipped over, almost like he was falling. He leaned close into Cas’s space, their knees tangling together again, hands slipping off the hilts to bury themselves in Cas’s shirt. They both gasped, noses bumping, the feeling finally too much—

Their hips touched, dangerously.

– and then they were kissing. Hot and hard, lips pressed tightly together, teeth mashing under the veil of skin and muscle. Cas opened his mouth and Dean sunk right in, tongue rubbing wetly against tongue. It was perfect, Christ, so perfect .

Someone laughed around the corner. A radio was turned up louder and Hershey barked from inside the trailer. Dean pulled back, gasping for air. Cas followed him, trying to press their lips together again. Dean pushed himself to arm’s length, trying to breathe. “No, Cas, someone will see.”

“So?”

“Jesus.” Dean pushed Cas back again, making his own shaky knees take his weight. He stumbled the nine paces back to the knife table, physically in pain – actual fucking pain – from forcing himself away from Cas’s mouth.

Cas was quiet against the target, blinking, catching his breath. Then he started to talk, his deep voice carrying easily across the distance. “I’ve failed before, too, Dean. I’ve fallen so many times training with my brothers and it’s terrifying every time. Your grip slips and there’s a moment when your stomach’s in your throat and you know what’s going to happen but you can’t stop it. Then you’re falling and your heart’s pounding in your chest as the earth comes up to meet you.”

He moved until he was pressed against Dean’s back, his strong arms wrapped tight around Dean’s shaking ones. “Kissing you is like the feeling of falling.”

Dean breathed, caught and afraid. “You know what they say about falling: it’s not the fall that kills you, but the sudden stop at the end.” He straightened, pushing Cas’s hands away. “You work without a net, Cas, and it’s an awfully long way to fall.”

“I didn’t start out that way. You always get better with practice.”

“No, Cas. Not this time. It’s not worth the effort to try.”

I’m not worth it.

He walked away, leaving Cas alone in the shadows and the dirt.

+++
+++

Sam didn’t comment on Dean’s sour mood the next week. He just gave him his distance; leaving Hershey behind in places he knew Dean would be alone, letting him have some puppy-time without having to ask for it. It wasn’t what Dean had planned for the circus act/therapy dog, but he had to admit it had its merits.

Dean had just settled down after a long training session – arms like limp noodles – when the door to the airstream flew open. He pushed Hershey aside and sat up. “I wasn’t doing anything!”

Sam paused, glanced down to where the squirming puppy had obviously been napping on Dean’s lap, and dismissed it with a shake of his head. “Dean, I need your help. I met a girl.”

“What? Oh my god, it’s finally happened.” He leaned out the side window, yelling across the aisle to the nearest trailer. “Ash, pop the champagne, Sammy’s become a man!”

“Drank the champagne.” Ash yelled back, holding up a can. ”How about a Bud?” He popped the top, gulping it down in one go.

Dean scowled, falling back in the window. “Traitor.”

“You deserved it, asswipe. Listen, she wants to join the show. I showed her what we did and she wants to be in the act. She can be your target.”

“I don’t need a target.”

“Yeah, you do and Cas doesn’t count. He didn’t seem too happy last time he left here, did he? Come on, man, you know it’s got to be a pretty girl or the audience will never buy it.”

“Oh? And this is a pretty girl? I don’t like you bringing your tent bunnies into the act, Sam, you know how that ended last time.”

Sam huffed, breaking out Bitchface #6. “She’s not a tent bunny, Dean. I was in town filling a prescription and she was working behind the counter. She noticed I was on some heavy duty pills and didn’t believe me when I said a lion crossbreed attacked me. So I brought her around backstage so she could see for herself.”

Dean had to admit: ‘injured while saving a small child from a deadly liger’ certainly beat all of his scar stories. And chicks did dig scars.

He smirked. “You let her go backstage already? You shouldn’t do that on a first date, Sammy, people will talk.”

“Dick. But seriously, she really likes it here and I think she’s got a lot of potential. She’s outside right now –“

“Outside? Sam, this isn’t the sort of thing you audition for.”

“Just come meet her, please? And try not to be offensive. Or, you know, you. This is a good girl, I don’t want to scare her away.”

Dean took in his brother’s eager expression, eyes alight with excitement for the first time in forever and knew he’d give the girl a shot, or at least a brief once-over. If he was this hung up on her after one roll in the hay – or was that backstage thing a date? Did Sam have dates now? Christ, Dean was getting old.

He pulled himself to his feet and huffed out the door, Sam and Hershey hot at his heels. An Amazon goddess was standing by the rear tire well, legs up to the sky and curves a man could go blind looking at. She straightened and pushed her long blonde hair behind her shoulder, smiling, hoping to make a good impression. The light touched her face in a delicate way, except for the cute mole on her forehead – all that separated her from perfection. Like his and Sam’s, hers was a face made for the spotlight.

Nice one, Sammy.

Dean was already grinning and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively when he saw his brother step behind the girl, not quite touching her shoulder but close enough to brush the fabric of her dress. His smile was brighter than any Dean had seen since before Sam ran off to college. And suddenly Dean knew – there would be no romps in the menagerie cages, no cocky flirtation, no deliberate attempts to push her out of the act.

I’ll be damned, he thought. It really did finally happen.

“Dean, this is Jessica. Jessica, this is my big brother Dean.”

Her hand was warm and soft in his, as small as her smile was wide. “Hi, Dean. Sam said you like to play with knives?”

+++

Ezra was none too pleased about having to create – or in Dean’s case, update – two costumes in the middle of the season. Dean figured it gave her something to do other than repair rips and busted seams, so he and Sam escorted Jessica into Ezra’s domain two mornings after she officially gave her landlord notice and pulled up stakes to join the Circadia.

Ezra was already buzzing around her tent by the time they arrived, helping another performer slip on a jacket. When she stepped away from the mirror Dean was shocked to see Cas, hair windswept like he’d just gotten down off the trapeze.

He was wearing, of all things, the beginnings of a suit and tie, complete with tan trench coat. He looked so ridiculous in the clothes – and so reminiscent of the accountant Dean first mistook him for – that Dean couldn’t help but laugh

Cas looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time since Dean pulled a runner, and his laughter died in his throat at the blank expression on Cas’s face, the downturned mouth. He looked at Dean as if he were a stranger.

Ezra patted Cas on the shoulders to adjust the line one more time. “The jacket’s a little loose. You want me to take it in a bit?”

Cas shook his head. “Gabriel assures me it is funnier if I appear careless in my appearance.”

“Hmph. All right, do a couple flips or tumbles or whatever and see how it suits you. Let me know if you feel restrained in any way and we’ll fix it before the dress rehearsal.”

He wandered off a little way, beginning a series of stretches. Dean watched, curious, as the coat billowed out around him like a pair of wings. What the hell did Cas need a new suit for? Dating? Was he going on a fancy date with someone? Why was everybody suddenly going out except for Dean? More importantly, who the fuck was Cas going out with? Because if it was some random bunny slut Dean would--

A roll of measuring tape bounced off his forehead. “Dean. Over here.”

Caught, he rejoined Sam and Jessica, calling up his best innocent expression.

Ezra was squinting at him. “Uh huh. Okay, Romeo, try this on for size while I measure the lovely lady.” She threw a bit of black clothing at him, nodding toward the mirror Cas just vacated.

“What, here?” He looked at Cas behind him, Jessica in front. Jess blushed. Cas continued to ignore them.

Ezra patted his cheek, the only woman to get away with doing so since he was four. “If you’re feeling dainty you can always duck behind the curtain, princess. Not like you’ve got anything we haven’t seen before. Though maybe in a nicer package, I’ll give you that.”

Jessica giggled, still blushing, but was distracted when Ezra picked up the measuring tape from where it had fallen on the floor and started measuring. Sam laughed at Dean’s blush for a full five minutes. The asshole.

Faced with such a challenge, Dean dropped trou with dignity. The costume was in pieces: the flared black pants and boots Dean could live with, but the shirt –

“Why does everything in this place have to be covered in sparkles? I’m not wearing this.”

Ezra didn’t bother to look up from where her hands were spanning Jessica’s waist. “Silver reflects the light better and brings attention to the knives. You’re the one who has to wear it but Bobby’s already laid out his stamp of approval so unless there’s technical problems I suggest you suck it up and deal. And we’ll never know if there are technical problems unless you put it on.”

Sam was clearly enjoying this. “At least it’s not a leotard.”

Dean supposed it wasn’t all bad, compared to what some of the clowns had to wear. Basic black with a high open collar, a shiny dark pattern curving up his ribs and blending into silver over his shoulder blades, tiny bits of metal glinting in the dim light. At least there wasn’t any red.

There was, however, one minor issue. “It doesn’t have any sleeves.”

Ezra was quiet a moment, hands still busy. Sam frowned, too, good humor fading away. “We thought about that. Sleeveless gives you ease of movement and emphasizes the muscles in your arms. Bobby thought the scars would tell a story, get folks interested in the danger of what you’re doing.”

“Sure. ‘Cause rubes are too dumb to know the difference between a knife scar and a burn mark.”

Ezra nodded. “All the same.”

He wasn’t sure if he was okay with this. He’d gotten used to seeing the scar in the shower, or when changing his clothes, or peeking out from under his shirt sleeve, but having it visible for everyone to see? Dean caught Cas’s eye in the mirror. They stared at each other for a moment and then Can walked out without saying anything, passing Ezra on the way.

“Hey, Angel! Don’t forget to send your layabout brother in here. Tell him if he doesn’t get measured soon he’s gonna be performing in his skivvies!”

But Cas was already gone. Jess, sensing the tension, broke the silence that fell in his wake. “I think you look great, Dean. Very impressive. I can’t wait to see what you come up with for me, Ezra.”

“Why thank you, Jessica.” Ezra winked and nudged Sam with her elbow. “This one’s a keeper, Samuel.”

Sam blushed, Jess just smiling at him. He sidled up next to Dean and looked in the mirror at his reflection. “Not bad. Shirt’s a little tight in the middle though – you give her the right measurements?”

“Yes, Sam.”

“Hmm… You know what I think it is?”

“Sam, I swear to god.”

“Too much pie.”

Then it was Dean’s turn to blush. “Shut up, catnip!”

Jess just laughed, spreading her arms wide so Ezra could get the fitting right.

+++

It wasn’t until later that Sam brought it up, after yet another training session ended with Dean flopped into the grass and Jess off exploring the backyard. He lounged in the doorway of the Airstream, trying to teach Hershey to sit.

“What’s up with you and Cas, man? The way you’ve been avoiding him I thought you had a fight or something.”

Dean panted, the smell of new grass tickling his nose. “Just drop it Sam, please? My brain feels like it’s dribbling out of my ears.”

“You can talk to me about it, you know. I’ve got nothing to judge you for.”

“Sam, I’m really not in the mood for your hippy crap, okay? There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You sure Cas thinks that? ‘Cause the way he was looking at you begs to differ.”

“He’s seen the scars before, Sam.” Seen them when they were red and oozing, raw and fresh. And that was a pretty thought. He was a fucking Angel, all right.

“Sit, Hershey, come on.” Sam pushed the puppy’s little rump down to the ground, where it stayed for a second before popping back up with a wiggle. Sam sighed. “The scars just made him sad, I think. I’m talking about before then.”

Before then? When had Cas… Oh.

When Dean had changed and stripped out of his pants.

Oh.

He flopped an arm over his face - too late, Sam saw him blushing.

His brother grinned, kicking him in the leg. “Seriously, man, love is love. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Dean was all kinds of offended (and embarrassed) by Sam’s hippy way of thinking and stormed off in search of more coffee.

+++
+++

On the night the circus rolled into Fort Worth, Dean returned from his final dress rehearsal to find a stranger in his living room. The man was tall, with dark hair and piercing eyes, something familiar in the shape of his cheeks.

Dean reached for the knives in his vest only to realize he’d left it hanging on the back of the dining bench before changing into his new costume. The man tutted when he saw Dean’s aborted gesture. “Now, Dean, I’m here with a proposition. No need to get excited.”

The man stood and Dean recognized the broad shoulders from the tent months ago, flying through the air with the greatest of ease. Michael.

Cas’s brother wandered around the trailer, looking curiously at all the little knickknacks and things a person gathered after life on the road. He stared for a particularly long time at the poster above Dean’ bed.

“It appears as though we are going to be moving upward in the world very soon, Mr. Winchester. We are being courted by Ringling Brothers – I believe you refer to them as The Big Show. I thought I’d extend the offer and invite you along.”

Dean frowned, not sure he was following.

“You can still perform your little knife tricks while I teach you how to be a catcher.”

“You have a catcher. And anyway, Cas said it was a lot harder than it looked. He trained for years.”

“So he did.” Michael looked back at Dean, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes raked up and down Dean’s body, taking in every detail. They caught on his hips – the costume left very little to the imagination – and continued up to his shoulders and the scar tissue there. Dean shivered, not liking where this was going.

“Your balance is good already; it showed when you were on the Wall. It’s a shame about the bowlegs, but if you build up your upper body a little more you shouldn’t have a problem transitioning to aerial work.”

“Hey man, my upper body is fine as it is.”

Michael looked him over once again, this time slowly. He grinned with all his teeth, predatory. “Well, there’s no denying that.”

Dean gulped, pushing the door open behind him. “Fuck you. And don’t let the door hit you on your way out.”

Michael didn’t move. “I don’t wish any harm to come to this circus, Dean, and I do not like voiding our contract, but I’m not as young as I used to be. My time in the spotlight is very short and I need to protect my life as much as I can. This move will do that. You could do that.”

“I said get out, asshole.”

Michael sighed, walking over to the bench he’d been sitting on earlier. There was a box there Dean hadn’t noticed before and that hadn’t been there when he’d left that afternoon.

“When Castiel suggested we come here I didn’t see the merit in it, at first. But when he explained about his relationship with you and how the nurses told him you were a famous circus star, well – I just had to come see what the fuss was about.” He smiled, licking his teeth. “Odd that he doesn’t want to see you anymore, isn’t it? What could have happened between then and now I wonder?”

He passed the box – surprisingly heavy – into Dean’s hands as he left, calling over his shoulder, “If you happen to come to your senses then I’ll be in my trailer. But keep in mind this is a limited time offer.”

Dean slammed the door behind him, pacing across the small space between the bathroom and the living room. He rubbed at his lip, trying to control his breathing. Fuck, his hands were shaking again.

He dropped the box on the counter and tore it open, expecting anything from a bomb to a severed head, but was surprised to see a glimmer of metal in the middle of all the wrapping.

Nestled inside the box were two new sets of throwing knives, shiny silver, with no handle - just what he would have picked out for himself. The tips were razors, the edges dull but wickedly curved to look dangerous. He threw one against the bathroom door to test the balance; it soared through the air easily, with the sweetest balance he’d ever had in a knife before. They even fit into the straps on his vest.

There was a note at the bottom of the box, written in ink on plain paper: Sam helped. No net, Dean.

+++

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