[2012 DCBB] The Dreamer and the Mystic - Chapter One
Title: The Dreamer and the Mystic
Author: bellanovaskies
Artist: littlestshipper
Genre: Fairytale, Romance
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel, Mary/John, implied Dean/Cassie, Sam/Ruby and Sam/Jessica
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 110,000
Warnings: Violence, language, strong sexual content, and scenes of graphic torture.
Summary: When Dean Winchester’s eighteenth birthday arrived, he was expected to choose his Queen-To-Be; instead he found himself falling for a mysterious stranger with eyes like stars. Eleven years later, accompanied by his brother and their father’s knights, Dean journeys into ancient lands that have long since faded into legend and lore, to once again find the eyes that had bewitched him. Castiel's tribe may be a force to be reckoned with, but nothing can prepare Dean to face his own father, and confess his love for a less-than-human being.
The coming morning marks the end of the third month, and Dean has little idea as to where he should be headed next. With little hope, and provisions beginning to run low, he’s arrived at an impasse.
He had not expected it to be this difficult. Finding the ‘mysterious blue-eyed beauty’, or the ‘ghost lady’, as Sam had once referred to him, should be easy. In truth, Castiel is nowhere near as mysterious as the majority of the council thinks the stranger to be. Dean had gotten to know him fairly well the night of the ball, but he is inclined to let Sam and the rest of his family believe otherwise for the time being.
The recently-fallen night is quiet, cloudless and starless, and it is unnatural for the grassy area in which they are scouting. The Oblitus Ager is the field known as the in-between; a zone free of law and rule. Sacred land where people far and wide travel to for sanctuary. Nothing more than wild, savage, unkempt wilderness, Dean thinks. But it’s also full of light. The moon is bigger here, the stars are brighter, and the cool fields vast and rolling.
Horses become uneasy and keep breaking formation, the knights trying to calm them as they push further on into a less hurried trot. Dean has an inkling that they are close to what he is looking for, despite the hollow hopelessness he feels in his gut.
Two weeks back, during their stay at a rundown village, two raiders had provided the information that various caravans were settling for winter. Sam had insisted on taking a more legitimate form of persuasion to extract that information, in contrast to Dean’s ‘tell me or I’ll slice your throat in half’ approach. Once they had retreated to their room, several death threats hanging ominously over their heads, Sam fell into an hour-long lecture on how a prince should behave outside of his kingdom’s lands.
The information itself had proved useless. What the raiders had mentioned was more of the same they had been hearing for miles. Gypsies always migrate in the same pattern, like birds looking for the sun once winter fell. But they fly from things far worse than the cold. It is the hell beasts’ season, and these fields are the only place that offer a safe haven. Sometimes, it awes Dean that the knowledge of the unknown isn’t something belonging strictly to those of noble blood. These people make their own weapons, fight their own monsters and carry on.
Castiel isn’t a gypsy, though. He is something else entirely. Castiel is a part of something greater, one of the ones that make the Oblitus Ager safe with their presence alone. It would be a lie for Dean to say that it doesn’t make him uneasy. The independent tribes have hierarchical systems that set most kingdoms to shame, and at the very pinnacle stand the Nephilim: the Giants of Old. Castiel’s people. Ancient lore paints them as descendants of angels, with their massive arching wings and ethereal beauty. With the insurmountable power they are believed to wield, hunters had been driven to classify the Nephilim as monsters, kin of the darkness, and masters of the hell beasts. Monumental lies King John avidly believes.
The pivotal core of this mission makes Dean’s situation precarious. Not only is he sleeping with the enemy, but the enemy is another man. John’s ire will be something to dread indeed, since his father had repeatedly stressed the necessity that Dean carry on the bloodline and assume his rightful place on the throne. Dean could very well be looking at exile for conspiracy, or the gallows.
Dean hopes he can talk sense into his father’s narrow mind once the time comes.
Being a hedonist all his life, Dean is hesitant. He isn’t one for actual romance, but he has dreamed about living a quiet life once or twice before, instead of sitting in a cold throne room, ruling the people he considers his friends and allies. But he figures that is the burden of being a prince. The weight is on his shoulders; it is his duty, his obligation to keep on fighting, defending and dictating law and order. It isn’t fair, but it is his calling. Not one he’s chosen, but his nonetheless, and like a good son, he will do as is required of him.
He had figured he could stall the inevitable doom of having to take a queen when he hadn’t even wanted to mingle the night of the ball. But, Dean had never expected he would run into that one entity that had floated into his line of sight, and like some kind of spell, enraptured him to the point that he couldn’t even think properly, leading him to make stupid decisions that could have well have killed him. Eleven years later, he doesn’t regret a single thing.
Castiel had been young, thin and awkward, more so than Dean. But he was also of exceedingly pleasing looks, worthy of being one of the many gifts that had been given to Dean that same evening. He remembers how his lips were a little too wide, his cheeks too high, his eyes big and his dark hair unruly. Castiel was a portrait of the average working farmer or blacksmith. Yet there were hints of womanly aspects to him; the slender hips and gentle curves, the softness around his eyes, the fairness of his skin and the elegance of his hands. Maybe he wasn’t as beautiful as the rest of the ladies across the kingdom, but there was an aura of sheer magic that made him more stunning in ways that no human could possibly even begin to describe. He was ethereal.
Of course Dean had been bewitched. There has been no other way to explain it.
“Am I the only one with the bad feeling?” Sam asks his brother. He is the more open one, capable of easily reading the atmosphere around him and picking up on seemingly unimportant trifles.
“Doesn’t take an Elder to tell me that much, Sam.” Dean shakes his head. He knows something is about to happen, and soon. Call it hunter’s instinct; he can feel it down in his very bones. He keeps his sword within hand’s reach and his arrows closer still, as he trudges up to Sam’s side. Raising a hand, he signals his knights to stay alert. The chorus of unsheathing weapons comes in unison, all of them ready for anything that might come their way.
“Something’s been following us for a while. It feels close. I can’t really see it but I can feel it-The hairs are standing up on the back of my neck. Not good.”
Dean looks at Sam, worry finally edging into his eyes. “How close?” He pulls his horse to a complete standstill, glancing around in an attempt to pick up any sort of movement coming from the grassy field.
“Very,” says Sam as he does the same, his brow furrowed.
Their knights come to a stop a few meters behind them, spreading out evenly to protect the princes if the need arises. But everything remains quiet, too quiet for woodland. No far off barking, no birds, no insects, not even the small and barely audible rustle of leaves. Just pure, thick silence, that weighs down on them like an inky veil.
By the time Sam’s back stiffens, Dean’s already adopted an archer’s posture with bow in hand, aiming off to his left. They can’t see or hear a damn thing, but Dean knows by now to always pay attention to Sam’s senses. Those senses have saved them by the skin of their teeth countless times before, a hard lesson learned, and they’ve stuck to it. If Sam feels that something is coming, then they take a stand and fight whatever it is, because something is coming. As simple as that.
The blow is hard enough to knock Dean off his horse, leaving him too stunned to breathe properly as he lands ungracefully on the grass. His sword flies out of its sheath, but his hands are still gripping onto his arrows. Jumping to his feet, Dean has enough time to see his knights drop like flies, one by one, horses and all. He can hear the growling and snarling, smell the stench of rotten eggs and spoiled milk, yet he still sees nothing but dense shadows flashing back and forth.
“Sam!” A few meters away he can see his brother on the ground, swinging his sword with acute ferocity though he’s off balance. He hears the yelp of a wounded dog he still can’t see, but it’s not enough to stop the invisible threats. “Damn it,” Dean mutters as he swiftly draws an arrow, mounting, aiming and shooting all in one breath. He can hear the sharp whistle as it zips through the air and sees Sam flinch, something dark, most likely blood, splashing his face.
The sounds that follow are disturbing. There’s a sea of yelps and growls, curses and blood-curdling screams, soon followed by noises that could not possibly be described. The smell worsens when blood and torn flesh joins in the mix, and it sticks to the back of their tongues like the skin of rotten tomatoes. Dean has been in the midst of many gruesome battles, but ten seconds in, he already feels too ill to properly stand, let alone fight.
Aiming to his right, Dean’s arrow pierces one of the beasts he assumes is trying to gash Balthazar’s face. It’s with absolute grace that Balthazar twirls his miniature blade by the hilt, driving it into the impression left on the grass by the invisible creature. The captain gives Dean a knight’s salute in gratitude, before turning to deflect an incoming hit.
Shining high up in the sky, the moon dips the field into a fluorescent glow. The creatures cast momentary reflections too quick for the untrained eye to see, but it gives them the leverage they need to, if not fight back, defend themselves long enough until they steer clear of the path.
Sam doesn’t need the visual though. With his claymore at the ready, he focuses on listening-left hand side, distance is one meter and moving quickly, most vulnerable section should be across the chest-no higher than a man’s knees-and he acts on it with elite skill. He rides out a full body momentum, pushing his sword into the approaching body and sends it flying onto its back with little effort. Turning on his heels, he’s quick to plunge the bloodied blade into another creature’s back when it charges him. There’s whimpering and growling, but there’s also the sound of uneasy stomping against the ground.
“I thought these grounds are supposed to be sanctuary,” yells Sam as he collides against Dean’s side. His brother’s running out of arrows, so he trades them for his sword. “What’s all this about?”
“How would I know?” Dean launches when moonlight reflects off what he figures are a pair of teeth. He swings, momentarily surprised when the sword catches on thin air, and tugs backwards, a splash of blood now oozing off his armor. There’s a brief moment where he wonders why he doesn’t use a sword more often. The heavy impact is a satisfying sensation while running high on adrenaline. It makes the essence of battle a more tangible thing, keeping him on constant edge.
A claw catches on his shin guard, tearing it away, and with it comes the bottom layer of his trousers, and a large chunk of his skin. Dean’s leg gives out. There’s no pain, but it’s gone numb, and it’s enough to make him weary. With effort, he’s back on his feet, wobbling unsteadily, supported by Sam’s sturdy hold now on his side.
“Dean, you okay?”
“Oh yeah, I’m fine. Just sitting around and admiring the rose bushes. And how are you today?” Sam shoves him to the ground without warning. “Hey!”
“If you’re going to be an ungrateful jerk, then stay there,” Sam grumbles, as he circles around him with his sword held up in a defensive stance. “Quick, any idea what these things could be?”
“No. I don’t remember anything in Bobby’s grimoire on invisible dogs. We’re pretty much blind here.” Dean struggles to get back on his feet, but only succeeds in falling right back on his ass. The pain that finally shoots up from his leg, up his spine and to the nape of his neck is enough to make him freeze up. Instead, kicking out in frustration with his good leg, he opts to kneel. It isn’t much, but with Sam breaking the initial attack, it’s enough to defend himself against whatever got through. That fact that he was brought down by an invisible enemy makes him seethe.
Their soldiers’ numbers have been cut down considerably, only a half a dozen or so still refusing to go down. Balthazar is now favoring a leg, and has an arm cradled against his chest as he sways dangerously to his right on the downstroke of his sword.
“Shit. This is shit.” Dean lets fly a stream of profanities as he tries and fails to stand up when he sees his captain hit the floor. As good as Sam is, he isn’t going to be able to take on an entire horde by himself. “We gotta go. We gotta-Sam! Get Sabbath, now!”
Sam, who has strayed farther away from Dean to widen the defensive barrier, steals a quick look at him. “We’re running?”
Dean can tell from the tone alone that the suggestion disgusts him. The Winchesters never run from anything. They have faced Death head-on, patched up wounds with nothing but salt and water, but they never rolled over and surrendered. There is a reason why, as princes, they are held in such high regard. “It’s not running, it’s choosing your battles.” But sometimes, there is no other choice.
“Our men!” The look alone conveys everything Dean has to say on the subject. Every battle has its casualties. “No. No! Dammit, Dean, we’re not running and we’re not going down without a fight!”
“Sam-!” Dean has a second of disorientation when blinding light flashes behind his eyelids, his mouth suddenly going numb but burning hot all the same. He tries to move, or speak, yell at Sam to stop being such a noble idiot, but his tongue feels fat and sluggish. There’s something poking at his eyes, and it’s only then he notices that it’s grass. Something shoved him onto the ground, and he can feel the weight of it on his back, the pressure hot like hellfire. He struggles, hears Sam calling out to him but he can’t move. Thick liquid drips onto his bare neck, burning a trail down to the collarbone that makes him bite back a yell of both pain and anger.
That’s when he feels it. The ground beneath his body vibrates in a slow thrum, a barely distinguishable movement in the carnage, but slowly, like a song, it picks up strength. The shaking reaches its peak when a piercing sound chills him to the bone. His hands fly up to cover his ears when he feels the pressure build enough to make them blow. Dean can feel blood trickling down his face. He curls into himself, unable to block out the noise and ignoring his limp leg as it shoots bolt after bolt of searing pain.
The heat lifts from his back. The earth stops shaking, and the sound subsides.
There’s a moment of quiet so deep that Dean thinks he’s gone deaf, but then he hears Sam whimper and gasp, soon followed by the sound of a sword being unsheathed. Another chill slides down his back as he scrambles to look up.
Along the horizon, there are horses lined up in an impeccable formation. Massive beasts that could very well be twice the size of his own precious Sabbath. Their riders are cloaked and armed, all of them abnormally still against the dark backdrop of mountains covered in mist. The moonlight eludes them in a way that is so unnatural Dean thinks the entire evening is just one terrible nightmare.
The hairs along Dean’s arms prickle and he fights the urge to recoil, but the pain that shoots up from his legs stops him from doing anything more than look around. Sam’s only four meters away from him, sprawled on the grass but thankfully breathing, openly gawking at the unmoving figures. Dean looks over his shoulder and sees several of his men moving.
“Balthazar?” he hisses out, and is relieved when a hand darts up from the swaying grass, giving him a disembodied salute. “Well, at least we’re alive.”
One of the riders finally moves forward, the long cloak billowing until it settles neatly across the horse, nearly brushing the silver-bathed grass. The only visible things are its hands, elegantly clasping the reins as the horse strides with a pace that leaves Dean in awe. He’s seen princesses walk with less grace. With as much subtlety as possible, Dean reaches for his sword. He stops however, stunned at the realization that he can still hear the beasts that had ambushed them, but they are no longer the howling and growling lot that had ripped them off their horses. Instead, they all whine and whimper from wherever they currently stand.
The rider stops, dismounts, and Dean can feel his heart rapidly slamming against his chest, threatening to break free from its bony confines. “One step closer and your ankles will never be acquainted with your legs again,” Dean snarls, hoping that the art of Winchester intimidation is anything but dead. From the corner of his eye, he notices Sam give him a wide-eyed look. Suddenly, Sam is eight again and he has just woken up from a nightmare. “I won’t say it again.”
The eerie stillness is close to making Dean want to scream just to disrupt it. But then, “Strong words from a child who, if not for us, was about to be devoured by Hounds.” The rider removes the hood of his cloak, but Dean is left nowhere near relieved. “You are far from your domain, young princes of the North, and have no authority in these lands.” The rider, a man still in his youth but hardened by rough winters, smiles. It’s a charming one, but Dean is reminded of a wolf closing in on its prey. “I suggest you be careful with that mouth of yours, brat.”
“I’m quaking in my boots,” Dean bites out sarcastically.
The rider continues to smile down at them, thin lips pressed into a thin line.
Dean nearly jumps out of his skin when a jaw snaps beside his ear, the acrid smell of decay making him gag that morning’s roasted rabbit. With a snap of the rider’s fingers, the Hound recoils again, leaving Dean, quite literally this time around, quaking in his boots.
“Mind your tone,” says the rider, stepping close enough to look down at the both of them.
His eyes are green, Dean notices, but they hold a hint of blue that swirls into a color he has never seen before. He wants to believe that it is the moonlight playing tricks on him, making them shine silver for a brief moment, but something in the back of his mind tells him that it isn’t the moonlight at all.
“Who the hell are you?” Sam finally asks, having regained his voice after the initial shock of everything that has just happened. He crawls closer to Dean, but keeps his eyes on the man looking down at them. “H-How are you controlling them? Those... those things, whatever they are.”
The rider considers them for a long moment, his cloak softly drifting in the non-existent breeze. Neither brother asks how he does it, or if such a thing is even possible. “I have many names, much of which are older than this Earth.” He opens his mouth, and both Dean and Sam wince, slamming their palms against their ears.
It’s like the roar of a million lions and the cry of a thousand eagles; a child’s whimper and a mother’s agonized scream. It’s the scorching boom out of a dragon’s throat and the explosion of an uncountable amount of stars in the night sky. It’s a soft breeze and the drowning pull of the ocean. It’s nothing and everything poured into a single word neither of them can understand.
When he closes his mouth, the rider gives them a more muted smile. “But please, call me Michael. I insist.”
Dean can feel the blood draining from his face. “W-Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mike. I’m Dean.” He aims for poisonous nonchalance, but in truth it only comes out as a squeak.
“I know who you are. In truth, we hoped to witness a better spectacle than this. For a hunter prince, you are quite lacking. But you,” Michael turns to Sam with a nod, “you are a man of your craft. You fought well, Sam. It would have been a shame to see you mauled by Hellhounds, and so I interfered.”
“Lacking.” Dean snorts under his breath. “S’not what the ladies tell me.”
“Hellhounds?” Sam chokes out, ignoring his brother and looking frantically to his sides, short of breath and tensing for another attack.
“Yes.” Michael turns on his heels and returns to his horse without another word.
They both watch in confused silence as he mounts it, and breaks into an easy gallop to the line of motionless riders. He weaves around them, his lips not moving, but they all nod in unison, and it is the creepiest thing Dean has ever seen. All but Michael and three of his riders advance towards Dean and his men, each one moving with the same fluid and unworldly grace.
“Who the hell are these people?” Sam asks after finally snapping out of his stupor. He turns Dean onto his back and examines his leg, frowning at the blood still gushing from the wound. It was going to need stitches, but he figures it’s better to not mention it.
“I think I have an idea,” Dean croaks, groaning in pain as Sam moves his leg up to slip a strand of fabric underneath it, preparing a makeshift bandage. “That guy, Michael, he’s way up in the chain of command. Viceroy or something, I think.”
Sam apologizes in his mind as he tugs both ends of the fabric tightly, making Dean grunt and whine all at once. It won’t hold long, but it will stop the blood loss for the time being. “What makes you so sure?”
“What he said, that language, I’ve heard it before. A long time ago. That should go a little tighter.” Sam nods and re-ties the knot. The grunt is louder, this time accompanied by a sharp curse. “Heh. There we go.”
“And you weren’t going to mention it? The odds of these things not being human is pretty high up there, Dean. The grimoire doesn’t say a single thing about human-like creatures that speak in other tongues.”
“There’s demons.”
“Yeah, but these things aren’t demons. You’ve heard them speak before, this was something else-something massive. Hell, I can’t even remember what it sounded like.” Sam’s words are rushed, near panicking again, but his face is turned down into an accusatory frown.
Dean smiles sheepishly. “It’s a long story. But it’ll tell you this much, Sammy: we’re here.”
Sam blinks at him owlishly, before taking a look around. The riders have dismounted their horses and are now scouring the field. He notices, much to his relief, that they are tending to their knights. He can see Balthazar chatting up one of the hooded figures like it was child's play. “Where are we?” Dean gives him a pointed nod. “Oh... oh!”
The knowledge of Dean’s obsession is limited to Sam. He knows of the lady with eyes like sapphire that had left his brother reeling. Never had there been a time in which Dean had seemed so smitten with someone. There had been Cassie, a young woman belonging to the Southern Kingdom, but the starry-eyed proclamations of love ended within a couple of hours.
At first, when Dean had disappeared for the evening, Sam had thought it was with her. Later on he had seen Cassie being courted by another man, and seeming happy. Curiosity had gotten the best of him, as it always has, and he wandered along the stone halls of the castle until he reached Dean’s chambers. It went without saying that Sam did not need to see his brother completely naked as he crawled up his velvet sheets. The sounds of pleasured moans chased Sam as he ran down the hall, desperate to never witness such a thing again. He never mentioned it to anyone.
Dean has always been promiscuous. He never shies away from taking what he wants when he wants, but the ferocity with which he speaks of that woman is something to be reckoned with. Sam remembers when they left the palace three months ago, the fierce determination in Dean’s eyes as he stared down their father, stating that, yes, he would find her. That he would have no one but her.
It was when they reached the first village that Dean had confided in him that she belonged to no kingdom; that he truly had no idea where to even start his search. It had been more than a decade since he had last laid eyes on her. Sam was left feeling uneasy with the thought of a woman without even a village, but it was Dean. There is little Sam wouldn’t do for his brother.
“Wait,” Sam says, interrupting his own thought process. “You could have mentioned it. Don’t you think that ‘speaks a spooky language you’ve probably never heard before’ would give us at least a hint as what to look for?” There is little Sam wouldn’t do for his brother, but there was plenty of times in which he could just slap him for his idiocy. “Dammit, Dean.”
“Look, I’m not really sure. It sounds like it, but there’s no way of really knowing. This could be it, or maybe we just stumbled into a tribe of cannibalistic warriors. But what are the odds that they have a guy named Michael, too, huh?”
Sam fights the urge to punch him. “Dean, that was eleven years ago. Michael looks younger than us.”
He does have a point. “So... tribe of cannibalistic warriors?” Before Sam can retort, or reopen the wound on Dean’s leg, another voice interrupts them.
“Cool it, pretty boys. We aren’t cannibals. In fact, Inias over there only eats leaves and grapes.” One of the riders drops to his knees to inspect Dean’s leg, surprising the both of them. “Besides, Michael’s baby bro said we can’t eat you. Yet.” The man grins at them, mischievous, sarcastic and bright all at once. He stands up and wipes his hands against the cloth. “You’ll live.”
It takes Sam several moments to process what it is that he’s seeing, and when he does he’s left breathless for the umpteenth time that evening. “Are those... What... You have...”
“Wings,” Dean’s kind enough to finish for him. “He’s got wings.” True enough, the rider is tiny as he stands across Sam’s gargantuan build, but the size of the appendages neatly folded against his back make up for the disadvantage.
“Dude’s got wings,” Sam repeats.
The man spreads out his arms and barks out a laugh, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Maybe not the biggest, but their performance goes unmatched. If you know what I mean.” He claps his hands together before raising his right hand and making a beckoning motion. “The name’s Gabriel. Just change that last supernova in Michael’s name and you’ve got mine. Don’t bother asking, those tiny brains of yours won’t be able to understand. Here we go.”
Dean heaves a sigh of relief when he spots Sabbath trudging up to his line of view unscathed. She huffs, stomping the ground beneath as she lowers her head for Gabriel to pat.
With Sam’s help, Dean manages to sit up and properly take in his surroundings. There’s an interesting mix of red, silver and black, his knights and the unknown riders mingling as their wounds are seen to. He can hear the hushed chatter and the occasional chuckle. Suddenly they don’t seem as threatening as they did at first, but when Dean looks back to Michael and the other three riders standing still as night, he makes note not to trust them.
“You okay?” he asks Sam, who looks pale and more than a little nauseous against the moonlight. He isn’t hurt except for a small scratch on his cheek, but there’s plenty of blood on his armor.
Sam nods. “Yeah, I’m good. How you feeling?”
“Actually...” Dean moves his leg. “Pretty damn good.” His tone is bewildered as he gets up, aided by Sam, but manages to stand on his own. The gash on his leg doesn’t hurt. Not even a faint throbbing. The wound is still there, bleeding, but he can’t feel the pain. “What the hell?”
“Like it? It’s my spiffy little trick,” Gabriel chirps from where he’s still combing Sabbath’s mane. “You might want to get that checked once we get back, though. It isn’t permanent, but it’ll let you ride.”
“Ride?” Sam turns when his own horse nudges his back. He turns to her with a smile and pats her. “Ride where?”
“Back to our place, duh. Or do you plan on sleeping here for the night?”
Dean’s back stiffens at the suggestion. “Like hell I’m following you people.” No matter which way he slices it, those creatures may look human, but not only could they deafen them with a single word, they could control hell beasts with a lone thought. Hunter instinct overrides whatever desire he has to find that one person. Then again, Castiel is one of them isn’t he?
Like blowing out a candle, Gabriel’s smile falls away into a tight expression filled with distaste. It shakes them both just how easily his demeanor shifted. “Look, contrary to popular belief, we can’t keep these lands clean. The moment we leave, those things will be picking your bones from their teeth for months. Now I’m all for a man-on-dog fight, but our little brother has been waiting for this moment for the past ten years, give or take a century. So this is how it’s going to play out.” The feathers along the arch of Gabriel’s wings bristle. “You two are going to get on your horses and you’re going to come with.” He speaks slowly, accentuating each word with a twirl of his hand. “If you don’t-especially you, Dean-I will personally tie you to my horse and drag you there. Understood?”
“Now listen here, you dick-” Dean is interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. For a moment he figures it to be Sam, but Balthazar steps in quickly, pulling him away from Gabriel with a grimace. “Hey, I’m talking here.”
“Excuse us,” Balthazar says with a smile meant to be diplomatic, and tugs both Dean and Sam to the side. Useless really, chances were the riders’ hearing was as good as a hawk’s. “Are you stupid?” He directs his question at Dean. “Have you any idea what you are up against? And you just flaunt your little smug attitude and petty threats?”
Balthazar is one of the best knights under John’s reign. He is cunning and more than a little sly, his trousers as loose as his tongue, but an able captain. He has a knack for getting on Dean’s nerves and poking fun at him, completely ignoring the fact that he is to be his next ruler. Dean couldn’t care less for titles, but there are times when he wishes he can just threaten Balthazar with the gallows.
“You just expect us to go in blind?” Dean asks, more than a little too loud. “I’m not buying anything these people are selling. If anything happens to us, Dad is going to raze every village from the North all the way to the South. This is going to get bloody pretty damn fast.”
“Exactly!” Balthazar exclaims, “if we don’t agree, that is exactly what is going to happen. Would you want that? Chances are, if they turn on us, we can see them. We’ll have the advantage contrary to these-”
“What did he mean by his brother is waiting for you?” Sam is also the master of interrupting people, much to Balthazar’s exasperation.
“Excuse me, I was talking here.”
“How should I know?” Dean bites back defensively.
“Would you two just lis-”
“Gee, I don’t know, maybe because you probably slept with his sister. For Christ’s sake, Dean, what did you do this time?”
Dean huffs, closing in on Sam’s personal space. He might be shorter than his younger brother, but Dean is not of short stature. The intimidation scheme doesn’t work on Sam, but it sure as hell gives him leverage in an argument. Not that there is an argument to begin with. Dean doesn’t like when his actions are questioned, much less by his little brother who doesn’t know half the story. He feels guilty. “Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does matter!” By this point, they have attracted the attention of everyone around them.
Balthazar, beyond tired and aching all over, throws his arms over his head in exasperation as he turns away. “That’s it, I resign. No one ever bothers to listen to the captain. I don’t get paid enough for this idiocy.”
Sam is puffing out his chest, towering over Dean and demanding answers. He knows for a fact that there’s a lot more that Dean’s not telling him, and he isn’t moving from the spot until he gets the information he wants. “It matters because you’re my brother and I’m not letting you risk your life because some jerk commands you to do something stupid. We’ve been training for this type of situation for years, Dean. But I can’t fall in line if you don’t tell me the truth.”
“Dammit, Sam-”
They’re both ripped apart when a massive beast of a horse decides to stomp its way between them, knocking them both apart abruptly enough to nearly knock them off their feet.
On the opposite side, Dean can hear Sam cussing like a sailor, seething with every right he has. A part of Dean whispers that he should be worried, that he needs to calm Sam down before he says or does something they will both come to regret, but the world around him suddenly goes quiet and still, frozen in a way that only happens in dreams.
The cloak that cascades around the horse is not black, as he had originally thought. The golden stars intricately embroidered onto its hem take him back to a night eleven years ago. He knows that cloth, and intimately. The sight alone triggers the memory of how it had felt slipping through his fingers, warm and smooth as he had removed the brooch and it dropped down in a fluid swoop from the man’s shoulders. No, the cloak was indeed not black, but midnight blue.
Dean’s eyes remain fixed as the rider continues his slow gallop before fully coming to a stop, only half-turning his horse as he waits. Well above his head, a pair of massive black wings drop down, shining blue against the moonlight, their aura alone something so ferocious and almighty that Dean feels himself frozen on the spot with unmarred awe.
To his left, he can hear Sam quieting down; Balthazar is there, whispering something and holding onto his shoulder in a silent warning. But Sam is still agitated, changing his sights from the rider to Dean and back again.
Behind Sam stands Gabriel, his chin held high and his eyes trained on Dean. Dean meets them and Gabriel gives him a single nod.
Dean swears the valley gets quieter, if it were even possible. Not even his knights complained about the pain caused by their injuries, nor did the riders speak soothing words to them. Dean can hear his blood rushing in his ears however, his heart pounding like Sabbath’s hooves against dry earth as she charges in the heat of battle. His palms are sweating against the worn leather of his fingerless gloves, his knees shaking beneath his weight as he finally decides to walk forward.
So maybe it’s more than a little dramatic, the entire valley holding a collective breath. Then again, what does Dean know about him? Now that he thinks further into it, there are a lot of things Dean doesn’t know. Suddenly he fears that it has all been a grave mistake. Maybe he shouldn’t have let his lower brain do the thinking when the stranger had shyly dropped his eyes, looking vulnerable and just begging to be adored. Why does Michael hold him in such high regard? Is he a prince to his people?
But in the flash of a moment, a single look, Dean finds himself filled with mirth. Those insecurities seem so pathetic now with how fast they have vanished. This is it. After so many years of thinking that maybe he’d dreamed that entire evening, there he is.
Dean steps into the horse’s shadow, fully admiring the height and build of the majestic creature, before angling his head upward. There, buried in darkness, he can see the smooth slope of pale cheekbones, unspeakably blue eyes like the afternoon sky and a minute smile.
His heartbeat continues at a steady pace, each beat pronounced. It’s almost calming as he stares unabashedly. The seconds stretch on and they do nothing but gaze into each other’s eyes, trying to catch up on a decade lost. It’s when the horse shuffles in place that the moonlight reflects on something that catches Dean’s attention. Breaking away, his eyes fall to the bronze amulet resting over the dark cloak.
He had kept it. After so many years, something as insignificant as an amulet given to him by a one-night partner destined to never meet again, he had kept it. It had been a small token from Dean; a promise that he’d never forget him. Dean grimaces. He had forgotten how much of a sentimental girl he used to be, but the point is, he had kept it.
Castiel only remembers to speak after Dean breaks away and looks back up again. “Hello, Dean.”
His voice is a rumble that vibrates in Dean’s chest, making him double-take. It shouldn’t surprise him that his voice has changed, but it serves as a reminder that he isn’t looking up at the same awkward teenager he had fooled around with.
After a few false attempts, Dean finally gathers the air he needs to reply. “Castiel.” It’s almost a whisper, but the man hears it, if the widening smile is anything to go by. Dean laughs, a small and nervous sound as he returns it, filling his lungs with the crisp air that’s suddenly floating around him. “It’s been a while.”
Castiel nods, his eyes still fixed on Dean’s green ones with an adoration that is enough to leave Dean weak at the knees. “Far too long.”
Dean brings up a hand to hesitantly touch his fingertips to the back of Castiel’s hand that’s still holding on tightly to the reins. The knot in his stomach clenches as he swipes his tongue to wet his lips. “Yeah.” It’s a breathless word accompanied by a shaky smile. “Yeah. Too damn long.”
The moment is broken by an approaching rider who leans towards Castiel and whispers something Dean can’t hear. It’s nothing hurried or threatening, so Dean figures they’re still in the clear. When Castiel nods, he turns to Dean with the same small smile as before. “My brothers insist you join us for the rest of the evening. You’ll be safe in our village until morning. You may continue on your journey once the sun has ascended.”
“Uh, thanks, but... I kind of came here looking for you.” Dean hesitates, clenching his fists by his side. “Well, you see, there’s this thing and stuff and-”
“We can discuss this once we arrive to the village, Dean. I know why you’re here,” Castiel says in a soft voice, a mellow timbre that could lull a child to sleep. His horse shuffles on the spot, turning around, ready to head off into the forest from which they came. Castiel runs a hand along its mane, willing him to calm down.
Dean crosses his arms in a defensive gesture. “No, you don’t.” He huffs out a laugh. “You don’t know a damn thing.”
Castiel sighs. “Do you expect to waste the next three months of your life out in this field? I can’t protect you here, not the two of you. If you want Michael’s blessing then please, come with us.”
The old Winchester suspicion kicks into high-gear. Dean takes a step back, eyes narrowed at Castiel’s words. Smitten or not, he is still a warrior and a prince above all else. He trusts nothing that insists on dragging him into unknown territory. “Okay, what’s the deal? Gabriel-or what’s his name-said that you’ve been waiting for me for God knows how long. Something tells me that I’m not getting the full story. What the hell does Michael have to do with anything? And no, I’m not moving until I get some pretty serious answers.”
The plan had been simple. Find Castiel, tell him that he was to sit on a throne by his side, get him on a horse and ride back; nothing more and nothing less. Dean had been expecting a brief exchange of goodbyes between him and his townsfolk, perhaps an exchange of diplomatic words between Dean and Castiel’s brothers, but never anything on this scale. These people know things only he, the king and his court had discussed. There are things regarding Castiel that Dean is willing to ignore, but just two minutes in and he is already crossing the line.
The horse beneath Castiel snorts, his legs stomping uneasily as it snickers and turns, antsy. Castiel casts a look out at the field and Dean can see how he holds his wings closer to his back. He’s uneasy, and coming from creatures one can barely hear approaching on beasts twice as big as his knights’, Dean is pretty damn uneasy too.
“What is it?” Dean asks, looking in the same direction Castiel is. He turns to see that Sam is standing by his side, and he’s tense as well. “Sam?”
“They’re coming back,” is all Sam manages to say before he looks up at Castiel. Had the situation been any different, Dean would have thought his brother’s expression to be amusing. “You’re... not a woman.”
“Dean, if you don’t trust my brothers, then trust me. I’ll lead you to safety,” Castiel near implores, blue eyes wide and pleading. It’s when Dean’s posture refuses to ease that Castiel’s smile finally falls, his face slipping into a blank mask too similar to Michael’s. He tugs the reins and agilely turns his horse, heading back towards where he had come from without another word.
“Dean-”
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean bites out tersely. He reaches for Sabbath, but a hand on his shoulder stops him.
Balthazar’s face is as sober as Dean’s ever seen it, his lips set in a tight line as he nods at Sam. “Dean, I think it’s best we follow the good people who are kind enough to offer us shelter from those things. Our numbers have been decimated, we can’t afford another ambush.” He’s trying for persuasive, but Balthazar’s sure he is coming up more along the lines of forceful.
“He’s right,” Sam is quick to interject before Dean can refuse. “I don’t think they mean us any harm, especially not with... Castiel... there.” Yeah, Dean figures, Sam is not going to let him live it down now that he knows the truth about the big mystery. “You heard Gabriel. They can’t protect us out here.”
“We don’t need protecting,” says Dean sharply. “We were taken off guard, but now we know what we’re up against.”
“Sir,” Balthazar interrupts snappishly, squaring off his shoulders. “My knights were entrusted to me under the condition that I would keep Princes Sam and Dean Winchester safe during their journey. I do not intend to return to the kingdom empty-handed, and inform King John, ‘Oops, my bad. Your son was too bloody stubborn and got eaten by overgrown dogs’!” Both princes stare at him before Dean turns away, looking sheepish. “So, please, as captain of the Northern Knights, I insist. Get your skinny little asses on your horses and follow me. If your lives are threatened, I will personally interfere, for you have my sword and my honor. But other than that, for Christ’s sake, stop being so prejudicial.”
And with that, Balthazar mounts his horse and says, “Well? We don’t have all night.”
“He’s right, you know,” Sam repeats with a frown. “We’re no safer out in the open, not with most of our men wounded.” Even as a prince himself, Sam always feels inclined to listen to his older brother. But if Dean continues to act like a petulant kid, then he is riding off without him. “There’s no need to be scared, Dean.”
“Who said I was scared? It’s survival.”
“No, it’s called chickening out when it’s time to face the music. You found your woman, er, man, now go get her. Him. Whatever.” Sam bends down and picks up his discarded sword, slides it smoothly into its scabbard and heads for his horse as well. “I did not just waste three months of my life because you suddenly decide to have a crisis. Man up, your Highness.” There’s no venom in Sam’s voice, just light-hearted sarcasm meant to make Dean fight back. He would rather have an angry brother than a sullen one.
Glaring at Sam’s back, Dean grunts out in frustration. This is nothing like he had expected his little reunion to go. Looking off to his right, he spots one of his arrows embedded on the ground, the brown feathers at the end matted in blood. Figuring that he might need it later on, Dean tugs it free and slips it into the quiver on his back. He needs to stock up.
“This is bullshit,” he mutters, shifting his sight from the ground to the caravan of riders now moving into the tree line fifty meters or so away. He can see Castiel’s cloak as he rides by Michael’s side, flanked by the two other riders that had stayed behind when they first arrived.
Sabbath nudges his shoulder, shaking her head and shuffling her feet. Dean pats her lovingly. “What do you say, big girl? Should we waltz to our death?” She huffs. “Thought you’d say that.” Hooking a boot on the stirrup, Dean mounts her with fluid ease. “Let’s go get friendly with the natives.”
The forest isn’t as thick as Dean had expected it to be, having briefly judged it by the dark tree line a few minutes back. It’s easy enough to maneuver through it, all riders moving at a slow pace in a single file. All except Gabriel, who has taken a fancy to poking fun at Balthazar a few horses upfront. They remain the serene creatures they had been upon their arrival.
If only Sam would be just as quiet and still. “I’m guessing you messed up big time. Castiel seemed pretty....” he trails off.
“Shut up, Sam. I’m too tired to think about it.”
“Wouldn’t blame him, though. Hell, I’d be pissed at you if after waiting-what, eleven years?-you just turn me down because you’re having internal issues. I mean, he did offer you passage into his village. And Michael seemed pretty okay with it, too.”
“I said, shut up, Sam. I’m not saying it twice, dammit,” Dean nudges Sabbath to quicken her pace, leaving his brother behind to better sulk by himself. He doesn’t want to think about how he did mess everything up from the very start.
The blue lights that twinkle around them are enough to make him forget about the argument for the time being, as he tries and fails to put a name to them. They are too big to be fireflies, and he is sure those don’t shine blue. The light flickers in and out like the sun reflected in a mirror, bouncing off the rough surfaces of the tree barks. Even said trees look unreal, Dean decides, as he leans over to better look at them. While most are rough and flaking with age, others are as smooth as crystal and as silver as his armor. Pale violet and green, hues of orange and rose, all swirling together to create a spectacle that even he has to admit is beautiful.
In the near distance he can hear the sound of rolling water over sleek stones, a small stream, and it is calming in a way that he can feel sleep tugging at the edges of his consciousness. Dean blinks, hard, but blackness is trimming his vision quicker than he had expected.
“Dean.”
Dean jumps, making Sabbath protest underneath him. “Wha-I’m awake, I’m up.”
Castiel is riding beside him, blue eyes unwavering as he takes in the sight of Dean’s poorly lit face. “You shouldn’t shut your eyes.”
“I’m tired, man. It’s been a long couple of months.”
“If you fall asleep here, you will never wake up,” says Castiel bleakly, breaking away only to stare at one of the small balls of light now twinkling in front of his nose. He waves it away.
“What are those?” And his question sounds lost as he turns his head back, whistling at his men to garner their attention. Balthazar has already taken charge, and is kicking the half-dozen knights awake rather rudely.
“Guardians of the forest,” Castiel explains while removing his hood, revealing a face much older than Dean remembers. His hair is longer, a single lock sticking to his pale forehead. His cheeks are fuller, the blunt edges of his face hardened with age, and there’s the beginning of scruff reaching all the way down to his neck. Once he had looked beautiful; now, Dean decides, he looks roguishly handsome. “They keep outsiders at bay, and those who enter are lulled into eternal sleep.”
Dean huffs out a laugh. “Guardians, huh? Honestly, if you’re gonna protect an age old forest, wouldn’t you choose to be something a bit more, I don’t know, menacing? I could probably just sneeze these things away.”
“They don’t aim to frighten. They enjoy luring travelers in order to whisk them off to sleep. I’m sure your king has told you the stories.” The bitterness in Castiel’s tone does not go unnoticed.
“So are you going to tell me, or do I have to wait until we arrive?” The weariness Dean is feeling is one thing, but he would never admit to his curiosity getting the best of him. “How’d you know I was coming?”
Pointedly ignoring the last question, Castiel opts to elaborate on the previous subject. “When they sense a possible threat, the Guardians call upon the Beasts to protect their home, which happens to be the pathway to ours.” He offers Dean a small smile. “We were not the ones that summoned them. Contrary to what the kingdoms say, we are not in league with them, nor are we their masters. And, most importantly, we do not keep the Oblitus Ager safe. We protect the travelers, not the land.”
It takes Dean a moment to fully grasp what it is the Castiel is saying. There are plenty of things Dean does not enjoy being told. Information that can alter nearly thirty years of ingrained beliefs is one of them. “These lands aren’t sacred?”
“All land is sacred, don’t misunderstand me. But land is only land, after all. My people can protect you, your brother and your men, but it would be a difficult task in such vast terrain.” Castiel turns to Dean and creases his forehead with worry at his expression. “What is it?”
Dean frowns. “Kind of feel like an ass, right now. Sorry about that.”
“Heh, look who finally came to terms with the truth,” Gabriel snickers, as he trots past the both of them. “No offense, your royal heiny.”
“Screw you, too,” Dean retorts with a sarcastic grin that leaves Castiel far more confused than he already is. “Your brother’s a dick.”
“Gabriel is best known for his mischievous behavior, I’m afraid. Then again, we all have our faults.”
“Let me guess. Yours is personal boundaries. Or lack of, better said,” Dean says with a knowing smirk, clearly referencing that night. “Am I right or am I right?”
Castiel has the decency to look embarrassed, turning his head to admire the small stream that has now come into view as an excuse to not look at Dean. “Yes, I’ve been told I have a problem with ‘personal space’, as Gabriel puts it.”
“Experienced it first hand, buddy,” Dean says with a smile that is more than a little warm.
The caravan eases down a small cliffside flanked on either side by waterfalls that sparkle a stunning pink, contrasting sharply with the blue-gray of sheer rock. For all of the years both brothers had spent reading through Bobby’s library, nothing could have possibly prepared them for something like it. Not even Sam’s vivid imagination.
They come to a stop a few meters away from a wood-and-stone drawbridge. The sword Michael uses to open it, with several circular patterns as if he were drawing on air, is short but thin, much like Balthazar’s. It is dark in that particular part of the forest, no source of light under the thick canopy of trees, but the blade still gleams. Dean casts Sam a look when the drawbridge opens so quietly that, hadn’t he been looking it, he would have thought it wasn’t moving. Dean figures that it will take less than an hour for those people to get on his nerves with all of the silentness floating around them. A part of him wants to make a witty comment, but the look Gabriel gives him shuts him up before he can muster the energy to do so.
Michael is the first to cross, quickly followed by Castiel and the two other hooded riders that seem to be following him around like lost pups. Or guards, figures Dean after a moment of thought. Part of it begins to make sense as the other riders cross the bridge in a single file. Balthazar escorts the brothers while Gabriel trots close behind them. Rumors of tribes being so well organized in a hierarchical sense all start to ring true in his head, which mostly likely means that, yes, he did sleep with a prince, or at least someone who ranked high enough to be respected as if he were one. The entire situation has just turned into a diplomatic situation that requires Dean to slip on his metaphorical crown if he wants to make it out without having a war declared.
“Oh my God,” Sam whispers from his side, looking up at what could easily be the most marvelous set of structures they’ve ever borne witness to.
It takes Dean a moment to decide that he isn’t dreaming at all. He has seen hundreds of paintings gifted to his father from his land’s most talented artists. The castle walls are littered with thousands of tapestries depicting magnificent sceneries of all colors and places, but what rises before them under a beam of fluorescent moonlight is unlike anything he has seen before.
“Welcome to Rod’im,” one of the riders, a woman with long red hair, says, as she glides past to join a dark skinned rider ahead of them.
“I’ve heard about this place,” Sam says, still breathlessly marveling at the white and silver castle that seems to roll on for miles on top of a hill below the mountain they are currently travelling on. “Rod’im, it literally means ‘paradise’. Dean, this is supposed to be a lost city, I mean, this is the stuff of legends. Hell, not even the stories of Avalon could compare.”
Dean, not really listening to a word Sam is saying, nods. “Know-it-all.”
The village is no village at all, but a massive city neatly nestled on the middle of a flat mountaintop, surrounded by mountains whose peaks are hidden within deep mists. Graceful arches that seem to be made of embroidered stones are the predominant features, being the next thing that catches Dean’s eye. There are pathways that are exposed to the elements, only a canopy of woven leaves drop over them like weeping willows, swaying softly in the crisp, cool breeze. More of the crystalline, pink-colored waterfalls run down the mountains and across the city, falling into an empty void beneath it with an impressive roar. If it is that beautiful during the night, Dean can’t even begin to imagine how astonishing it would be come daylight.
Chapter Continued Here
Author: bellanovaskies
Artist: littlestshipper
Genre: Fairytale, Romance
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel, Mary/John, implied Dean/Cassie, Sam/Ruby and Sam/Jessica
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 110,000
Warnings: Violence, language, strong sexual content, and scenes of graphic torture.
Summary: When Dean Winchester’s eighteenth birthday arrived, he was expected to choose his Queen-To-Be; instead he found himself falling for a mysterious stranger with eyes like stars. Eleven years later, accompanied by his brother and their father’s knights, Dean journeys into ancient lands that have long since faded into legend and lore, to once again find the eyes that had bewitched him. Castiel's tribe may be a force to be reckoned with, but nothing can prepare Dean to face his own father, and confess his love for a less-than-human being.
The coming morning marks the end of the third month, and Dean has little idea as to where he should be headed next. With little hope, and provisions beginning to run low, he’s arrived at an impasse.
He had not expected it to be this difficult. Finding the ‘mysterious blue-eyed beauty’, or the ‘ghost lady’, as Sam had once referred to him, should be easy. In truth, Castiel is nowhere near as mysterious as the majority of the council thinks the stranger to be. Dean had gotten to know him fairly well the night of the ball, but he is inclined to let Sam and the rest of his family believe otherwise for the time being.
The recently-fallen night is quiet, cloudless and starless, and it is unnatural for the grassy area in which they are scouting. The Oblitus Ager is the field known as the in-between; a zone free of law and rule. Sacred land where people far and wide travel to for sanctuary. Nothing more than wild, savage, unkempt wilderness, Dean thinks. But it’s also full of light. The moon is bigger here, the stars are brighter, and the cool fields vast and rolling.
Horses become uneasy and keep breaking formation, the knights trying to calm them as they push further on into a less hurried trot. Dean has an inkling that they are close to what he is looking for, despite the hollow hopelessness he feels in his gut.
Two weeks back, during their stay at a rundown village, two raiders had provided the information that various caravans were settling for winter. Sam had insisted on taking a more legitimate form of persuasion to extract that information, in contrast to Dean’s ‘tell me or I’ll slice your throat in half’ approach. Once they had retreated to their room, several death threats hanging ominously over their heads, Sam fell into an hour-long lecture on how a prince should behave outside of his kingdom’s lands.
The information itself had proved useless. What the raiders had mentioned was more of the same they had been hearing for miles. Gypsies always migrate in the same pattern, like birds looking for the sun once winter fell. But they fly from things far worse than the cold. It is the hell beasts’ season, and these fields are the only place that offer a safe haven. Sometimes, it awes Dean that the knowledge of the unknown isn’t something belonging strictly to those of noble blood. These people make their own weapons, fight their own monsters and carry on.
Castiel isn’t a gypsy, though. He is something else entirely. Castiel is a part of something greater, one of the ones that make the Oblitus Ager safe with their presence alone. It would be a lie for Dean to say that it doesn’t make him uneasy. The independent tribes have hierarchical systems that set most kingdoms to shame, and at the very pinnacle stand the Nephilim: the Giants of Old. Castiel’s people. Ancient lore paints them as descendants of angels, with their massive arching wings and ethereal beauty. With the insurmountable power they are believed to wield, hunters had been driven to classify the Nephilim as monsters, kin of the darkness, and masters of the hell beasts. Monumental lies King John avidly believes.
The pivotal core of this mission makes Dean’s situation precarious. Not only is he sleeping with the enemy, but the enemy is another man. John’s ire will be something to dread indeed, since his father had repeatedly stressed the necessity that Dean carry on the bloodline and assume his rightful place on the throne. Dean could very well be looking at exile for conspiracy, or the gallows.
Dean hopes he can talk sense into his father’s narrow mind once the time comes.
Being a hedonist all his life, Dean is hesitant. He isn’t one for actual romance, but he has dreamed about living a quiet life once or twice before, instead of sitting in a cold throne room, ruling the people he considers his friends and allies. But he figures that is the burden of being a prince. The weight is on his shoulders; it is his duty, his obligation to keep on fighting, defending and dictating law and order. It isn’t fair, but it is his calling. Not one he’s chosen, but his nonetheless, and like a good son, he will do as is required of him.
He had figured he could stall the inevitable doom of having to take a queen when he hadn’t even wanted to mingle the night of the ball. But, Dean had never expected he would run into that one entity that had floated into his line of sight, and like some kind of spell, enraptured him to the point that he couldn’t even think properly, leading him to make stupid decisions that could have well have killed him. Eleven years later, he doesn’t regret a single thing.
Castiel had been young, thin and awkward, more so than Dean. But he was also of exceedingly pleasing looks, worthy of being one of the many gifts that had been given to Dean that same evening. He remembers how his lips were a little too wide, his cheeks too high, his eyes big and his dark hair unruly. Castiel was a portrait of the average working farmer or blacksmith. Yet there were hints of womanly aspects to him; the slender hips and gentle curves, the softness around his eyes, the fairness of his skin and the elegance of his hands. Maybe he wasn’t as beautiful as the rest of the ladies across the kingdom, but there was an aura of sheer magic that made him more stunning in ways that no human could possibly even begin to describe. He was ethereal.
Of course Dean had been bewitched. There has been no other way to explain it.
“Am I the only one with the bad feeling?” Sam asks his brother. He is the more open one, capable of easily reading the atmosphere around him and picking up on seemingly unimportant trifles.
“Doesn’t take an Elder to tell me that much, Sam.” Dean shakes his head. He knows something is about to happen, and soon. Call it hunter’s instinct; he can feel it down in his very bones. He keeps his sword within hand’s reach and his arrows closer still, as he trudges up to Sam’s side. Raising a hand, he signals his knights to stay alert. The chorus of unsheathing weapons comes in unison, all of them ready for anything that might come their way.
“Something’s been following us for a while. It feels close. I can’t really see it but I can feel it-The hairs are standing up on the back of my neck. Not good.”
Dean looks at Sam, worry finally edging into his eyes. “How close?” He pulls his horse to a complete standstill, glancing around in an attempt to pick up any sort of movement coming from the grassy field.
“Very,” says Sam as he does the same, his brow furrowed.
Their knights come to a stop a few meters behind them, spreading out evenly to protect the princes if the need arises. But everything remains quiet, too quiet for woodland. No far off barking, no birds, no insects, not even the small and barely audible rustle of leaves. Just pure, thick silence, that weighs down on them like an inky veil.
By the time Sam’s back stiffens, Dean’s already adopted an archer’s posture with bow in hand, aiming off to his left. They can’t see or hear a damn thing, but Dean knows by now to always pay attention to Sam’s senses. Those senses have saved them by the skin of their teeth countless times before, a hard lesson learned, and they’ve stuck to it. If Sam feels that something is coming, then they take a stand and fight whatever it is, because something is coming. As simple as that.
The blow is hard enough to knock Dean off his horse, leaving him too stunned to breathe properly as he lands ungracefully on the grass. His sword flies out of its sheath, but his hands are still gripping onto his arrows. Jumping to his feet, Dean has enough time to see his knights drop like flies, one by one, horses and all. He can hear the growling and snarling, smell the stench of rotten eggs and spoiled milk, yet he still sees nothing but dense shadows flashing back and forth.
“Sam!” A few meters away he can see his brother on the ground, swinging his sword with acute ferocity though he’s off balance. He hears the yelp of a wounded dog he still can’t see, but it’s not enough to stop the invisible threats. “Damn it,” Dean mutters as he swiftly draws an arrow, mounting, aiming and shooting all in one breath. He can hear the sharp whistle as it zips through the air and sees Sam flinch, something dark, most likely blood, splashing his face.
The sounds that follow are disturbing. There’s a sea of yelps and growls, curses and blood-curdling screams, soon followed by noises that could not possibly be described. The smell worsens when blood and torn flesh joins in the mix, and it sticks to the back of their tongues like the skin of rotten tomatoes. Dean has been in the midst of many gruesome battles, but ten seconds in, he already feels too ill to properly stand, let alone fight.
Aiming to his right, Dean’s arrow pierces one of the beasts he assumes is trying to gash Balthazar’s face. It’s with absolute grace that Balthazar twirls his miniature blade by the hilt, driving it into the impression left on the grass by the invisible creature. The captain gives Dean a knight’s salute in gratitude, before turning to deflect an incoming hit.
Shining high up in the sky, the moon dips the field into a fluorescent glow. The creatures cast momentary reflections too quick for the untrained eye to see, but it gives them the leverage they need to, if not fight back, defend themselves long enough until they steer clear of the path.
Sam doesn’t need the visual though. With his claymore at the ready, he focuses on listening-left hand side, distance is one meter and moving quickly, most vulnerable section should be across the chest-no higher than a man’s knees-and he acts on it with elite skill. He rides out a full body momentum, pushing his sword into the approaching body and sends it flying onto its back with little effort. Turning on his heels, he’s quick to plunge the bloodied blade into another creature’s back when it charges him. There’s whimpering and growling, but there’s also the sound of uneasy stomping against the ground.
“I thought these grounds are supposed to be sanctuary,” yells Sam as he collides against Dean’s side. His brother’s running out of arrows, so he trades them for his sword. “What’s all this about?”
“How would I know?” Dean launches when moonlight reflects off what he figures are a pair of teeth. He swings, momentarily surprised when the sword catches on thin air, and tugs backwards, a splash of blood now oozing off his armor. There’s a brief moment where he wonders why he doesn’t use a sword more often. The heavy impact is a satisfying sensation while running high on adrenaline. It makes the essence of battle a more tangible thing, keeping him on constant edge.
A claw catches on his shin guard, tearing it away, and with it comes the bottom layer of his trousers, and a large chunk of his skin. Dean’s leg gives out. There’s no pain, but it’s gone numb, and it’s enough to make him weary. With effort, he’s back on his feet, wobbling unsteadily, supported by Sam’s sturdy hold now on his side.
“Dean, you okay?”
“Oh yeah, I’m fine. Just sitting around and admiring the rose bushes. And how are you today?” Sam shoves him to the ground without warning. “Hey!”
“If you’re going to be an ungrateful jerk, then stay there,” Sam grumbles, as he circles around him with his sword held up in a defensive stance. “Quick, any idea what these things could be?”
“No. I don’t remember anything in Bobby’s grimoire on invisible dogs. We’re pretty much blind here.” Dean struggles to get back on his feet, but only succeeds in falling right back on his ass. The pain that finally shoots up from his leg, up his spine and to the nape of his neck is enough to make him freeze up. Instead, kicking out in frustration with his good leg, he opts to kneel. It isn’t much, but with Sam breaking the initial attack, it’s enough to defend himself against whatever got through. That fact that he was brought down by an invisible enemy makes him seethe.
Their soldiers’ numbers have been cut down considerably, only a half a dozen or so still refusing to go down. Balthazar is now favoring a leg, and has an arm cradled against his chest as he sways dangerously to his right on the downstroke of his sword.
“Shit. This is shit.” Dean lets fly a stream of profanities as he tries and fails to stand up when he sees his captain hit the floor. As good as Sam is, he isn’t going to be able to take on an entire horde by himself. “We gotta go. We gotta-Sam! Get Sabbath, now!”
Sam, who has strayed farther away from Dean to widen the defensive barrier, steals a quick look at him. “We’re running?”
Dean can tell from the tone alone that the suggestion disgusts him. The Winchesters never run from anything. They have faced Death head-on, patched up wounds with nothing but salt and water, but they never rolled over and surrendered. There is a reason why, as princes, they are held in such high regard. “It’s not running, it’s choosing your battles.” But sometimes, there is no other choice.
“Our men!” The look alone conveys everything Dean has to say on the subject. Every battle has its casualties. “No. No! Dammit, Dean, we’re not running and we’re not going down without a fight!”
“Sam-!” Dean has a second of disorientation when blinding light flashes behind his eyelids, his mouth suddenly going numb but burning hot all the same. He tries to move, or speak, yell at Sam to stop being such a noble idiot, but his tongue feels fat and sluggish. There’s something poking at his eyes, and it’s only then he notices that it’s grass. Something shoved him onto the ground, and he can feel the weight of it on his back, the pressure hot like hellfire. He struggles, hears Sam calling out to him but he can’t move. Thick liquid drips onto his bare neck, burning a trail down to the collarbone that makes him bite back a yell of both pain and anger.
That’s when he feels it. The ground beneath his body vibrates in a slow thrum, a barely distinguishable movement in the carnage, but slowly, like a song, it picks up strength. The shaking reaches its peak when a piercing sound chills him to the bone. His hands fly up to cover his ears when he feels the pressure build enough to make them blow. Dean can feel blood trickling down his face. He curls into himself, unable to block out the noise and ignoring his limp leg as it shoots bolt after bolt of searing pain.
The heat lifts from his back. The earth stops shaking, and the sound subsides.
There’s a moment of quiet so deep that Dean thinks he’s gone deaf, but then he hears Sam whimper and gasp, soon followed by the sound of a sword being unsheathed. Another chill slides down his back as he scrambles to look up.
Along the horizon, there are horses lined up in an impeccable formation. Massive beasts that could very well be twice the size of his own precious Sabbath. Their riders are cloaked and armed, all of them abnormally still against the dark backdrop of mountains covered in mist. The moonlight eludes them in a way that is so unnatural Dean thinks the entire evening is just one terrible nightmare.
The hairs along Dean’s arms prickle and he fights the urge to recoil, but the pain that shoots up from his legs stops him from doing anything more than look around. Sam’s only four meters away from him, sprawled on the grass but thankfully breathing, openly gawking at the unmoving figures. Dean looks over his shoulder and sees several of his men moving.
“Balthazar?” he hisses out, and is relieved when a hand darts up from the swaying grass, giving him a disembodied salute. “Well, at least we’re alive.”
One of the riders finally moves forward, the long cloak billowing until it settles neatly across the horse, nearly brushing the silver-bathed grass. The only visible things are its hands, elegantly clasping the reins as the horse strides with a pace that leaves Dean in awe. He’s seen princesses walk with less grace. With as much subtlety as possible, Dean reaches for his sword. He stops however, stunned at the realization that he can still hear the beasts that had ambushed them, but they are no longer the howling and growling lot that had ripped them off their horses. Instead, they all whine and whimper from wherever they currently stand.
The rider stops, dismounts, and Dean can feel his heart rapidly slamming against his chest, threatening to break free from its bony confines. “One step closer and your ankles will never be acquainted with your legs again,” Dean snarls, hoping that the art of Winchester intimidation is anything but dead. From the corner of his eye, he notices Sam give him a wide-eyed look. Suddenly, Sam is eight again and he has just woken up from a nightmare. “I won’t say it again.”
The eerie stillness is close to making Dean want to scream just to disrupt it. But then, “Strong words from a child who, if not for us, was about to be devoured by Hounds.” The rider removes the hood of his cloak, but Dean is left nowhere near relieved. “You are far from your domain, young princes of the North, and have no authority in these lands.” The rider, a man still in his youth but hardened by rough winters, smiles. It’s a charming one, but Dean is reminded of a wolf closing in on its prey. “I suggest you be careful with that mouth of yours, brat.”
“I’m quaking in my boots,” Dean bites out sarcastically.
The rider continues to smile down at them, thin lips pressed into a thin line.
Dean nearly jumps out of his skin when a jaw snaps beside his ear, the acrid smell of decay making him gag that morning’s roasted rabbit. With a snap of the rider’s fingers, the Hound recoils again, leaving Dean, quite literally this time around, quaking in his boots.
“Mind your tone,” says the rider, stepping close enough to look down at the both of them.
His eyes are green, Dean notices, but they hold a hint of blue that swirls into a color he has never seen before. He wants to believe that it is the moonlight playing tricks on him, making them shine silver for a brief moment, but something in the back of his mind tells him that it isn’t the moonlight at all.
“Who the hell are you?” Sam finally asks, having regained his voice after the initial shock of everything that has just happened. He crawls closer to Dean, but keeps his eyes on the man looking down at them. “H-How are you controlling them? Those... those things, whatever they are.”
The rider considers them for a long moment, his cloak softly drifting in the non-existent breeze. Neither brother asks how he does it, or if such a thing is even possible. “I have many names, much of which are older than this Earth.” He opens his mouth, and both Dean and Sam wince, slamming their palms against their ears.
It’s like the roar of a million lions and the cry of a thousand eagles; a child’s whimper and a mother’s agonized scream. It’s the scorching boom out of a dragon’s throat and the explosion of an uncountable amount of stars in the night sky. It’s a soft breeze and the drowning pull of the ocean. It’s nothing and everything poured into a single word neither of them can understand.
When he closes his mouth, the rider gives them a more muted smile. “But please, call me Michael. I insist.”
Dean can feel the blood draining from his face. “W-Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mike. I’m Dean.” He aims for poisonous nonchalance, but in truth it only comes out as a squeak.
“I know who you are. In truth, we hoped to witness a better spectacle than this. For a hunter prince, you are quite lacking. But you,” Michael turns to Sam with a nod, “you are a man of your craft. You fought well, Sam. It would have been a shame to see you mauled by Hellhounds, and so I interfered.”
“Lacking.” Dean snorts under his breath. “S’not what the ladies tell me.”
“Hellhounds?” Sam chokes out, ignoring his brother and looking frantically to his sides, short of breath and tensing for another attack.
“Yes.” Michael turns on his heels and returns to his horse without another word.
They both watch in confused silence as he mounts it, and breaks into an easy gallop to the line of motionless riders. He weaves around them, his lips not moving, but they all nod in unison, and it is the creepiest thing Dean has ever seen. All but Michael and three of his riders advance towards Dean and his men, each one moving with the same fluid and unworldly grace.
“Who the hell are these people?” Sam asks after finally snapping out of his stupor. He turns Dean onto his back and examines his leg, frowning at the blood still gushing from the wound. It was going to need stitches, but he figures it’s better to not mention it.
“I think I have an idea,” Dean croaks, groaning in pain as Sam moves his leg up to slip a strand of fabric underneath it, preparing a makeshift bandage. “That guy, Michael, he’s way up in the chain of command. Viceroy or something, I think.”
Sam apologizes in his mind as he tugs both ends of the fabric tightly, making Dean grunt and whine all at once. It won’t hold long, but it will stop the blood loss for the time being. “What makes you so sure?”
“What he said, that language, I’ve heard it before. A long time ago. That should go a little tighter.” Sam nods and re-ties the knot. The grunt is louder, this time accompanied by a sharp curse. “Heh. There we go.”
“And you weren’t going to mention it? The odds of these things not being human is pretty high up there, Dean. The grimoire doesn’t say a single thing about human-like creatures that speak in other tongues.”
“There’s demons.”
“Yeah, but these things aren’t demons. You’ve heard them speak before, this was something else-something massive. Hell, I can’t even remember what it sounded like.” Sam’s words are rushed, near panicking again, but his face is turned down into an accusatory frown.
Dean smiles sheepishly. “It’s a long story. But it’ll tell you this much, Sammy: we’re here.”
Sam blinks at him owlishly, before taking a look around. The riders have dismounted their horses and are now scouring the field. He notices, much to his relief, that they are tending to their knights. He can see Balthazar chatting up one of the hooded figures like it was child's play. “Where are we?” Dean gives him a pointed nod. “Oh... oh!”
The knowledge of Dean’s obsession is limited to Sam. He knows of the lady with eyes like sapphire that had left his brother reeling. Never had there been a time in which Dean had seemed so smitten with someone. There had been Cassie, a young woman belonging to the Southern Kingdom, but the starry-eyed proclamations of love ended within a couple of hours.
At first, when Dean had disappeared for the evening, Sam had thought it was with her. Later on he had seen Cassie being courted by another man, and seeming happy. Curiosity had gotten the best of him, as it always has, and he wandered along the stone halls of the castle until he reached Dean’s chambers. It went without saying that Sam did not need to see his brother completely naked as he crawled up his velvet sheets. The sounds of pleasured moans chased Sam as he ran down the hall, desperate to never witness such a thing again. He never mentioned it to anyone.
Dean has always been promiscuous. He never shies away from taking what he wants when he wants, but the ferocity with which he speaks of that woman is something to be reckoned with. Sam remembers when they left the palace three months ago, the fierce determination in Dean’s eyes as he stared down their father, stating that, yes, he would find her. That he would have no one but her.
It was when they reached the first village that Dean had confided in him that she belonged to no kingdom; that he truly had no idea where to even start his search. It had been more than a decade since he had last laid eyes on her. Sam was left feeling uneasy with the thought of a woman without even a village, but it was Dean. There is little Sam wouldn’t do for his brother.
“Wait,” Sam says, interrupting his own thought process. “You could have mentioned it. Don’t you think that ‘speaks a spooky language you’ve probably never heard before’ would give us at least a hint as what to look for?” There is little Sam wouldn’t do for his brother, but there was plenty of times in which he could just slap him for his idiocy. “Dammit, Dean.”
“Look, I’m not really sure. It sounds like it, but there’s no way of really knowing. This could be it, or maybe we just stumbled into a tribe of cannibalistic warriors. But what are the odds that they have a guy named Michael, too, huh?”
Sam fights the urge to punch him. “Dean, that was eleven years ago. Michael looks younger than us.”
He does have a point. “So... tribe of cannibalistic warriors?” Before Sam can retort, or reopen the wound on Dean’s leg, another voice interrupts them.
“Cool it, pretty boys. We aren’t cannibals. In fact, Inias over there only eats leaves and grapes.” One of the riders drops to his knees to inspect Dean’s leg, surprising the both of them. “Besides, Michael’s baby bro said we can’t eat you. Yet.” The man grins at them, mischievous, sarcastic and bright all at once. He stands up and wipes his hands against the cloth. “You’ll live.”
It takes Sam several moments to process what it is that he’s seeing, and when he does he’s left breathless for the umpteenth time that evening. “Are those... What... You have...”
“Wings,” Dean’s kind enough to finish for him. “He’s got wings.” True enough, the rider is tiny as he stands across Sam’s gargantuan build, but the size of the appendages neatly folded against his back make up for the disadvantage.
“Dude’s got wings,” Sam repeats.
The man spreads out his arms and barks out a laugh, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Maybe not the biggest, but their performance goes unmatched. If you know what I mean.” He claps his hands together before raising his right hand and making a beckoning motion. “The name’s Gabriel. Just change that last supernova in Michael’s name and you’ve got mine. Don’t bother asking, those tiny brains of yours won’t be able to understand. Here we go.”
Dean heaves a sigh of relief when he spots Sabbath trudging up to his line of view unscathed. She huffs, stomping the ground beneath as she lowers her head for Gabriel to pat.
With Sam’s help, Dean manages to sit up and properly take in his surroundings. There’s an interesting mix of red, silver and black, his knights and the unknown riders mingling as their wounds are seen to. He can hear the hushed chatter and the occasional chuckle. Suddenly they don’t seem as threatening as they did at first, but when Dean looks back to Michael and the other three riders standing still as night, he makes note not to trust them.
“You okay?” he asks Sam, who looks pale and more than a little nauseous against the moonlight. He isn’t hurt except for a small scratch on his cheek, but there’s plenty of blood on his armor.
Sam nods. “Yeah, I’m good. How you feeling?”
“Actually...” Dean moves his leg. “Pretty damn good.” His tone is bewildered as he gets up, aided by Sam, but manages to stand on his own. The gash on his leg doesn’t hurt. Not even a faint throbbing. The wound is still there, bleeding, but he can’t feel the pain. “What the hell?”
“Like it? It’s my spiffy little trick,” Gabriel chirps from where he’s still combing Sabbath’s mane. “You might want to get that checked once we get back, though. It isn’t permanent, but it’ll let you ride.”
“Ride?” Sam turns when his own horse nudges his back. He turns to her with a smile and pats her. “Ride where?”
“Back to our place, duh. Or do you plan on sleeping here for the night?”
Dean’s back stiffens at the suggestion. “Like hell I’m following you people.” No matter which way he slices it, those creatures may look human, but not only could they deafen them with a single word, they could control hell beasts with a lone thought. Hunter instinct overrides whatever desire he has to find that one person. Then again, Castiel is one of them isn’t he?
Like blowing out a candle, Gabriel’s smile falls away into a tight expression filled with distaste. It shakes them both just how easily his demeanor shifted. “Look, contrary to popular belief, we can’t keep these lands clean. The moment we leave, those things will be picking your bones from their teeth for months. Now I’m all for a man-on-dog fight, but our little brother has been waiting for this moment for the past ten years, give or take a century. So this is how it’s going to play out.” The feathers along the arch of Gabriel’s wings bristle. “You two are going to get on your horses and you’re going to come with.” He speaks slowly, accentuating each word with a twirl of his hand. “If you don’t-especially you, Dean-I will personally tie you to my horse and drag you there. Understood?”
“Now listen here, you dick-” Dean is interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. For a moment he figures it to be Sam, but Balthazar steps in quickly, pulling him away from Gabriel with a grimace. “Hey, I’m talking here.”
“Excuse us,” Balthazar says with a smile meant to be diplomatic, and tugs both Dean and Sam to the side. Useless really, chances were the riders’ hearing was as good as a hawk’s. “Are you stupid?” He directs his question at Dean. “Have you any idea what you are up against? And you just flaunt your little smug attitude and petty threats?”
Balthazar is one of the best knights under John’s reign. He is cunning and more than a little sly, his trousers as loose as his tongue, but an able captain. He has a knack for getting on Dean’s nerves and poking fun at him, completely ignoring the fact that he is to be his next ruler. Dean couldn’t care less for titles, but there are times when he wishes he can just threaten Balthazar with the gallows.
“You just expect us to go in blind?” Dean asks, more than a little too loud. “I’m not buying anything these people are selling. If anything happens to us, Dad is going to raze every village from the North all the way to the South. This is going to get bloody pretty damn fast.”
“Exactly!” Balthazar exclaims, “if we don’t agree, that is exactly what is going to happen. Would you want that? Chances are, if they turn on us, we can see them. We’ll have the advantage contrary to these-”
“What did he mean by his brother is waiting for you?” Sam is also the master of interrupting people, much to Balthazar’s exasperation.
“Excuse me, I was talking here.”
“How should I know?” Dean bites back defensively.
“Would you two just lis-”
“Gee, I don’t know, maybe because you probably slept with his sister. For Christ’s sake, Dean, what did you do this time?”
Dean huffs, closing in on Sam’s personal space. He might be shorter than his younger brother, but Dean is not of short stature. The intimidation scheme doesn’t work on Sam, but it sure as hell gives him leverage in an argument. Not that there is an argument to begin with. Dean doesn’t like when his actions are questioned, much less by his little brother who doesn’t know half the story. He feels guilty. “Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does matter!” By this point, they have attracted the attention of everyone around them.
Balthazar, beyond tired and aching all over, throws his arms over his head in exasperation as he turns away. “That’s it, I resign. No one ever bothers to listen to the captain. I don’t get paid enough for this idiocy.”
Sam is puffing out his chest, towering over Dean and demanding answers. He knows for a fact that there’s a lot more that Dean’s not telling him, and he isn’t moving from the spot until he gets the information he wants. “It matters because you’re my brother and I’m not letting you risk your life because some jerk commands you to do something stupid. We’ve been training for this type of situation for years, Dean. But I can’t fall in line if you don’t tell me the truth.”
“Dammit, Sam-”
They’re both ripped apart when a massive beast of a horse decides to stomp its way between them, knocking them both apart abruptly enough to nearly knock them off their feet.
On the opposite side, Dean can hear Sam cussing like a sailor, seething with every right he has. A part of Dean whispers that he should be worried, that he needs to calm Sam down before he says or does something they will both come to regret, but the world around him suddenly goes quiet and still, frozen in a way that only happens in dreams.
The cloak that cascades around the horse is not black, as he had originally thought. The golden stars intricately embroidered onto its hem take him back to a night eleven years ago. He knows that cloth, and intimately. The sight alone triggers the memory of how it had felt slipping through his fingers, warm and smooth as he had removed the brooch and it dropped down in a fluid swoop from the man’s shoulders. No, the cloak was indeed not black, but midnight blue.
Dean’s eyes remain fixed as the rider continues his slow gallop before fully coming to a stop, only half-turning his horse as he waits. Well above his head, a pair of massive black wings drop down, shining blue against the moonlight, their aura alone something so ferocious and almighty that Dean feels himself frozen on the spot with unmarred awe.
To his left, he can hear Sam quieting down; Balthazar is there, whispering something and holding onto his shoulder in a silent warning. But Sam is still agitated, changing his sights from the rider to Dean and back again.
Behind Sam stands Gabriel, his chin held high and his eyes trained on Dean. Dean meets them and Gabriel gives him a single nod.
Dean swears the valley gets quieter, if it were even possible. Not even his knights complained about the pain caused by their injuries, nor did the riders speak soothing words to them. Dean can hear his blood rushing in his ears however, his heart pounding like Sabbath’s hooves against dry earth as she charges in the heat of battle. His palms are sweating against the worn leather of his fingerless gloves, his knees shaking beneath his weight as he finally decides to walk forward.
So maybe it’s more than a little dramatic, the entire valley holding a collective breath. Then again, what does Dean know about him? Now that he thinks further into it, there are a lot of things Dean doesn’t know. Suddenly he fears that it has all been a grave mistake. Maybe he shouldn’t have let his lower brain do the thinking when the stranger had shyly dropped his eyes, looking vulnerable and just begging to be adored. Why does Michael hold him in such high regard? Is he a prince to his people?
But in the flash of a moment, a single look, Dean finds himself filled with mirth. Those insecurities seem so pathetic now with how fast they have vanished. This is it. After so many years of thinking that maybe he’d dreamed that entire evening, there he is.
Dean steps into the horse’s shadow, fully admiring the height and build of the majestic creature, before angling his head upward. There, buried in darkness, he can see the smooth slope of pale cheekbones, unspeakably blue eyes like the afternoon sky and a minute smile.
His heartbeat continues at a steady pace, each beat pronounced. It’s almost calming as he stares unabashedly. The seconds stretch on and they do nothing but gaze into each other’s eyes, trying to catch up on a decade lost. It’s when the horse shuffles in place that the moonlight reflects on something that catches Dean’s attention. Breaking away, his eyes fall to the bronze amulet resting over the dark cloak.
He had kept it. After so many years, something as insignificant as an amulet given to him by a one-night partner destined to never meet again, he had kept it. It had been a small token from Dean; a promise that he’d never forget him. Dean grimaces. He had forgotten how much of a sentimental girl he used to be, but the point is, he had kept it.
Castiel only remembers to speak after Dean breaks away and looks back up again. “Hello, Dean.”
His voice is a rumble that vibrates in Dean’s chest, making him double-take. It shouldn’t surprise him that his voice has changed, but it serves as a reminder that he isn’t looking up at the same awkward teenager he had fooled around with.
After a few false attempts, Dean finally gathers the air he needs to reply. “Castiel.” It’s almost a whisper, but the man hears it, if the widening smile is anything to go by. Dean laughs, a small and nervous sound as he returns it, filling his lungs with the crisp air that’s suddenly floating around him. “It’s been a while.”
Castiel nods, his eyes still fixed on Dean’s green ones with an adoration that is enough to leave Dean weak at the knees. “Far too long.”
Dean brings up a hand to hesitantly touch his fingertips to the back of Castiel’s hand that’s still holding on tightly to the reins. The knot in his stomach clenches as he swipes his tongue to wet his lips. “Yeah.” It’s a breathless word accompanied by a shaky smile. “Yeah. Too damn long.”
The moment is broken by an approaching rider who leans towards Castiel and whispers something Dean can’t hear. It’s nothing hurried or threatening, so Dean figures they’re still in the clear. When Castiel nods, he turns to Dean with the same small smile as before. “My brothers insist you join us for the rest of the evening. You’ll be safe in our village until morning. You may continue on your journey once the sun has ascended.”
“Uh, thanks, but... I kind of came here looking for you.” Dean hesitates, clenching his fists by his side. “Well, you see, there’s this thing and stuff and-”
“We can discuss this once we arrive to the village, Dean. I know why you’re here,” Castiel says in a soft voice, a mellow timbre that could lull a child to sleep. His horse shuffles on the spot, turning around, ready to head off into the forest from which they came. Castiel runs a hand along its mane, willing him to calm down.
Dean crosses his arms in a defensive gesture. “No, you don’t.” He huffs out a laugh. “You don’t know a damn thing.”
Castiel sighs. “Do you expect to waste the next three months of your life out in this field? I can’t protect you here, not the two of you. If you want Michael’s blessing then please, come with us.”
The old Winchester suspicion kicks into high-gear. Dean takes a step back, eyes narrowed at Castiel’s words. Smitten or not, he is still a warrior and a prince above all else. He trusts nothing that insists on dragging him into unknown territory. “Okay, what’s the deal? Gabriel-or what’s his name-said that you’ve been waiting for me for God knows how long. Something tells me that I’m not getting the full story. What the hell does Michael have to do with anything? And no, I’m not moving until I get some pretty serious answers.”
The plan had been simple. Find Castiel, tell him that he was to sit on a throne by his side, get him on a horse and ride back; nothing more and nothing less. Dean had been expecting a brief exchange of goodbyes between him and his townsfolk, perhaps an exchange of diplomatic words between Dean and Castiel’s brothers, but never anything on this scale. These people know things only he, the king and his court had discussed. There are things regarding Castiel that Dean is willing to ignore, but just two minutes in and he is already crossing the line.
The horse beneath Castiel snorts, his legs stomping uneasily as it snickers and turns, antsy. Castiel casts a look out at the field and Dean can see how he holds his wings closer to his back. He’s uneasy, and coming from creatures one can barely hear approaching on beasts twice as big as his knights’, Dean is pretty damn uneasy too.
“What is it?” Dean asks, looking in the same direction Castiel is. He turns to see that Sam is standing by his side, and he’s tense as well. “Sam?”
“They’re coming back,” is all Sam manages to say before he looks up at Castiel. Had the situation been any different, Dean would have thought his brother’s expression to be amusing. “You’re... not a woman.”
“Dean, if you don’t trust my brothers, then trust me. I’ll lead you to safety,” Castiel near implores, blue eyes wide and pleading. It’s when Dean’s posture refuses to ease that Castiel’s smile finally falls, his face slipping into a blank mask too similar to Michael’s. He tugs the reins and agilely turns his horse, heading back towards where he had come from without another word.
“Dean-”
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean bites out tersely. He reaches for Sabbath, but a hand on his shoulder stops him.
Balthazar’s face is as sober as Dean’s ever seen it, his lips set in a tight line as he nods at Sam. “Dean, I think it’s best we follow the good people who are kind enough to offer us shelter from those things. Our numbers have been decimated, we can’t afford another ambush.” He’s trying for persuasive, but Balthazar’s sure he is coming up more along the lines of forceful.
“He’s right,” Sam is quick to interject before Dean can refuse. “I don’t think they mean us any harm, especially not with... Castiel... there.” Yeah, Dean figures, Sam is not going to let him live it down now that he knows the truth about the big mystery. “You heard Gabriel. They can’t protect us out here.”
“We don’t need protecting,” says Dean sharply. “We were taken off guard, but now we know what we’re up against.”
“Sir,” Balthazar interrupts snappishly, squaring off his shoulders. “My knights were entrusted to me under the condition that I would keep Princes Sam and Dean Winchester safe during their journey. I do not intend to return to the kingdom empty-handed, and inform King John, ‘Oops, my bad. Your son was too bloody stubborn and got eaten by overgrown dogs’!” Both princes stare at him before Dean turns away, looking sheepish. “So, please, as captain of the Northern Knights, I insist. Get your skinny little asses on your horses and follow me. If your lives are threatened, I will personally interfere, for you have my sword and my honor. But other than that, for Christ’s sake, stop being so prejudicial.”
And with that, Balthazar mounts his horse and says, “Well? We don’t have all night.”
“He’s right, you know,” Sam repeats with a frown. “We’re no safer out in the open, not with most of our men wounded.” Even as a prince himself, Sam always feels inclined to listen to his older brother. But if Dean continues to act like a petulant kid, then he is riding off without him. “There’s no need to be scared, Dean.”
“Who said I was scared? It’s survival.”
“No, it’s called chickening out when it’s time to face the music. You found your woman, er, man, now go get her. Him. Whatever.” Sam bends down and picks up his discarded sword, slides it smoothly into its scabbard and heads for his horse as well. “I did not just waste three months of my life because you suddenly decide to have a crisis. Man up, your Highness.” There’s no venom in Sam’s voice, just light-hearted sarcasm meant to make Dean fight back. He would rather have an angry brother than a sullen one.
Glaring at Sam’s back, Dean grunts out in frustration. This is nothing like he had expected his little reunion to go. Looking off to his right, he spots one of his arrows embedded on the ground, the brown feathers at the end matted in blood. Figuring that he might need it later on, Dean tugs it free and slips it into the quiver on his back. He needs to stock up.
“This is bullshit,” he mutters, shifting his sight from the ground to the caravan of riders now moving into the tree line fifty meters or so away. He can see Castiel’s cloak as he rides by Michael’s side, flanked by the two other riders that had stayed behind when they first arrived.
Sabbath nudges his shoulder, shaking her head and shuffling her feet. Dean pats her lovingly. “What do you say, big girl? Should we waltz to our death?” She huffs. “Thought you’d say that.” Hooking a boot on the stirrup, Dean mounts her with fluid ease. “Let’s go get friendly with the natives.”
The forest isn’t as thick as Dean had expected it to be, having briefly judged it by the dark tree line a few minutes back. It’s easy enough to maneuver through it, all riders moving at a slow pace in a single file. All except Gabriel, who has taken a fancy to poking fun at Balthazar a few horses upfront. They remain the serene creatures they had been upon their arrival.
If only Sam would be just as quiet and still. “I’m guessing you messed up big time. Castiel seemed pretty....” he trails off.
“Shut up, Sam. I’m too tired to think about it.”
“Wouldn’t blame him, though. Hell, I’d be pissed at you if after waiting-what, eleven years?-you just turn me down because you’re having internal issues. I mean, he did offer you passage into his village. And Michael seemed pretty okay with it, too.”
“I said, shut up, Sam. I’m not saying it twice, dammit,” Dean nudges Sabbath to quicken her pace, leaving his brother behind to better sulk by himself. He doesn’t want to think about how he did mess everything up from the very start.
The blue lights that twinkle around them are enough to make him forget about the argument for the time being, as he tries and fails to put a name to them. They are too big to be fireflies, and he is sure those don’t shine blue. The light flickers in and out like the sun reflected in a mirror, bouncing off the rough surfaces of the tree barks. Even said trees look unreal, Dean decides, as he leans over to better look at them. While most are rough and flaking with age, others are as smooth as crystal and as silver as his armor. Pale violet and green, hues of orange and rose, all swirling together to create a spectacle that even he has to admit is beautiful.
In the near distance he can hear the sound of rolling water over sleek stones, a small stream, and it is calming in a way that he can feel sleep tugging at the edges of his consciousness. Dean blinks, hard, but blackness is trimming his vision quicker than he had expected.
“Dean.”
Dean jumps, making Sabbath protest underneath him. “Wha-I’m awake, I’m up.”
Castiel is riding beside him, blue eyes unwavering as he takes in the sight of Dean’s poorly lit face. “You shouldn’t shut your eyes.”
“I’m tired, man. It’s been a long couple of months.”
“If you fall asleep here, you will never wake up,” says Castiel bleakly, breaking away only to stare at one of the small balls of light now twinkling in front of his nose. He waves it away.
“What are those?” And his question sounds lost as he turns his head back, whistling at his men to garner their attention. Balthazar has already taken charge, and is kicking the half-dozen knights awake rather rudely.
“Guardians of the forest,” Castiel explains while removing his hood, revealing a face much older than Dean remembers. His hair is longer, a single lock sticking to his pale forehead. His cheeks are fuller, the blunt edges of his face hardened with age, and there’s the beginning of scruff reaching all the way down to his neck. Once he had looked beautiful; now, Dean decides, he looks roguishly handsome. “They keep outsiders at bay, and those who enter are lulled into eternal sleep.”
Dean huffs out a laugh. “Guardians, huh? Honestly, if you’re gonna protect an age old forest, wouldn’t you choose to be something a bit more, I don’t know, menacing? I could probably just sneeze these things away.”
“They don’t aim to frighten. They enjoy luring travelers in order to whisk them off to sleep. I’m sure your king has told you the stories.” The bitterness in Castiel’s tone does not go unnoticed.
“So are you going to tell me, or do I have to wait until we arrive?” The weariness Dean is feeling is one thing, but he would never admit to his curiosity getting the best of him. “How’d you know I was coming?”
Pointedly ignoring the last question, Castiel opts to elaborate on the previous subject. “When they sense a possible threat, the Guardians call upon the Beasts to protect their home, which happens to be the pathway to ours.” He offers Dean a small smile. “We were not the ones that summoned them. Contrary to what the kingdoms say, we are not in league with them, nor are we their masters. And, most importantly, we do not keep the Oblitus Ager safe. We protect the travelers, not the land.”
It takes Dean a moment to fully grasp what it is the Castiel is saying. There are plenty of things Dean does not enjoy being told. Information that can alter nearly thirty years of ingrained beliefs is one of them. “These lands aren’t sacred?”
“All land is sacred, don’t misunderstand me. But land is only land, after all. My people can protect you, your brother and your men, but it would be a difficult task in such vast terrain.” Castiel turns to Dean and creases his forehead with worry at his expression. “What is it?”
Dean frowns. “Kind of feel like an ass, right now. Sorry about that.”
“Heh, look who finally came to terms with the truth,” Gabriel snickers, as he trots past the both of them. “No offense, your royal heiny.”
“Screw you, too,” Dean retorts with a sarcastic grin that leaves Castiel far more confused than he already is. “Your brother’s a dick.”
“Gabriel is best known for his mischievous behavior, I’m afraid. Then again, we all have our faults.”
“Let me guess. Yours is personal boundaries. Or lack of, better said,” Dean says with a knowing smirk, clearly referencing that night. “Am I right or am I right?”
Castiel has the decency to look embarrassed, turning his head to admire the small stream that has now come into view as an excuse to not look at Dean. “Yes, I’ve been told I have a problem with ‘personal space’, as Gabriel puts it.”
“Experienced it first hand, buddy,” Dean says with a smile that is more than a little warm.
The caravan eases down a small cliffside flanked on either side by waterfalls that sparkle a stunning pink, contrasting sharply with the blue-gray of sheer rock. For all of the years both brothers had spent reading through Bobby’s library, nothing could have possibly prepared them for something like it. Not even Sam’s vivid imagination.
They come to a stop a few meters away from a wood-and-stone drawbridge. The sword Michael uses to open it, with several circular patterns as if he were drawing on air, is short but thin, much like Balthazar’s. It is dark in that particular part of the forest, no source of light under the thick canopy of trees, but the blade still gleams. Dean casts Sam a look when the drawbridge opens so quietly that, hadn’t he been looking it, he would have thought it wasn’t moving. Dean figures that it will take less than an hour for those people to get on his nerves with all of the silentness floating around them. A part of him wants to make a witty comment, but the look Gabriel gives him shuts him up before he can muster the energy to do so.
Michael is the first to cross, quickly followed by Castiel and the two other hooded riders that seem to be following him around like lost pups. Or guards, figures Dean after a moment of thought. Part of it begins to make sense as the other riders cross the bridge in a single file. Balthazar escorts the brothers while Gabriel trots close behind them. Rumors of tribes being so well organized in a hierarchical sense all start to ring true in his head, which mostly likely means that, yes, he did sleep with a prince, or at least someone who ranked high enough to be respected as if he were one. The entire situation has just turned into a diplomatic situation that requires Dean to slip on his metaphorical crown if he wants to make it out without having a war declared.
“Oh my God,” Sam whispers from his side, looking up at what could easily be the most marvelous set of structures they’ve ever borne witness to.
It takes Dean a moment to decide that he isn’t dreaming at all. He has seen hundreds of paintings gifted to his father from his land’s most talented artists. The castle walls are littered with thousands of tapestries depicting magnificent sceneries of all colors and places, but what rises before them under a beam of fluorescent moonlight is unlike anything he has seen before.
“Welcome to Rod’im,” one of the riders, a woman with long red hair, says, as she glides past to join a dark skinned rider ahead of them.
“I’ve heard about this place,” Sam says, still breathlessly marveling at the white and silver castle that seems to roll on for miles on top of a hill below the mountain they are currently travelling on. “Rod’im, it literally means ‘paradise’. Dean, this is supposed to be a lost city, I mean, this is the stuff of legends. Hell, not even the stories of Avalon could compare.”
Dean, not really listening to a word Sam is saying, nods. “Know-it-all.”
The village is no village at all, but a massive city neatly nestled on the middle of a flat mountaintop, surrounded by mountains whose peaks are hidden within deep mists. Graceful arches that seem to be made of embroidered stones are the predominant features, being the next thing that catches Dean’s eye. There are pathways that are exposed to the elements, only a canopy of woven leaves drop over them like weeping willows, swaying softly in the crisp, cool breeze. More of the crystalline, pink-colored waterfalls run down the mountains and across the city, falling into an empty void beneath it with an impressive roar. If it is that beautiful during the night, Dean can’t even begin to imagine how astonishing it would be come daylight.
Chapter Continued Here