[2012 DCBB] The Dreamer and the Mystic - Chapter Three
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.
Dean collapses onto the soft bed with a loud exhale, groaning as he deflates against the linen sheets, and he wonders just how in the world he managed to get himself into such a treacherous situation. Worse yet, he wonders why he’s even debating whether or not to step up to the challenge. The choice should be easy; a simple no and that was that. It wasn't worth losing his life just because he was just too stubborn to back down.
You will never again be graced with his smile.
“Goddammit.” He turns onto his side and hugs a pillow, pretending that it is one of the shapely women he has slept with in numerous taverns in an indistinguishable blur of towns.
It should be easy, but it isn’t.
Dean is past the point of trying to understand why he continues to act the way he does; he has decided to just go wherever the river takes him, but if he allows it, the river will drag him to the maw of the behemoth. It is not his intention to fight. None of it should have happened. Everything should have been easy, he repeats once again, but sometimes, the rewards for the hardest of tasks are the best to ever be received.
Sleep edges around his mind. He shuts his eyes and breathes in deep and even, trying to calm his tense muscles for a restful night. Tomorrow would prove an agonizingly long day, most likely his last, and he needs to be sharp and focused for-
Dean stiffens.
Normal sleep does not give you the sensation of swimming in a sea of warm honey, or hot hands sliding against sweat-slicked skin. His limbs feel heavy, pleasant, but heavy, and he does not like it at all. For a moment he panics that someone may have poisoned him, that he’s only just beginning to react to the effects, but then the touch shifts into something familiar. The scent of soft, muted flowers on tender skin makes his stomach flip in excitement, because he knows this.
Although he cannot hear it, he can feel the words whispered against his neck, a soft ‘sleep now, Dean’ that has him gasping for air.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
The twenty-fourth day of January holds a grand variety of noteworthy meanings, both frivolous and momentous, and is intricately entwined in the life of a young boy by the name of Dean Winchester. Only, he is no longer a boy, but a young man destined for greatness and majesty. Every eye that rests upon him, every well-mannered smile and courteous nod in greeting, is a reminder of his importance upon the Northern Kingdom of Eldosia. He is respected, feared, revered, and admired among his people.
Now, if only everything were true, instead of just the very factual points mentioned.
Dean Winchester, son of John and Mary, is indeed a young prince and, as the eldest of two sons, heir of the Eldosian throne. But the tale of such magnificence ends there, much to his dismay. With lanky limbs, too-big eyes, and a chronic lack of manners, he’s the last thing one would picture as the crème de la crème. Instead, he is mostly described as being nothing but rude to those who aren’t his immediate family; spoiled, capricious and unsociable-though not unfriendly. He is good and kind to those he deems worthy, but those grow fewer by day. However, he is willful and brave with reckless abandon, as only a child could be, though he is no longer a child. It is his eighteenth birthday, and King John is determined to show his kingdom just how much of a man his son has been carved out to be.
“You’re kidding, right?” Dean drops the crisp parchment on the dinner table, ears red as he tries to hold back his lividness. “Isn’t this supposed to, oh I don’t know, be a positive a thing? You’re making me sound like a twelve-year-old with an attitude problem.”
His mother’s idea of a birthday speech is unorthodox for nobility. Bring out all of the negative things in a not-so-discreet fashion, and then try to cover it up with the soon-to-be (but still non-existent) positives. Left up to him, Dean would cancel the celebration altogether, but John is hearing none of it. The kingdom had to know this, the kingdom had to know that, Alastair suggested it would be a ‘hmm, most exhilarating idea, sire’, and, as always, being future king usually meant that one had to sit their bony little ass down and do as they’re told.
“I find it to be quite charming. Don’t you think so, Sam?” Mary asks, as she takes the discarded parchment and reads it through once more.
“Totally. It’s not like Mom’s lying or anything,” Sam says with a smug smirk.
“Shut up, Sam.”
The little shit.
Dean loves his younger brother to death and beyond, but there are times such as these, in which Dean wishes he can throw him in the town well overnight. He is sure it would prove useless, though, since he would most likely end up diving in himself in order to rescue him ten seconds later. Two princes fall down a well-like the beginning of a bad joke.
Mary smiles at her boys with the adoration only a mother can muster. “All right then. Why don’t we just forget about the whole speech crap, hm? Let’s just call that an early birthday gift.” Crumpling up the sheet, she makes a show of throwing it over her shoulder when the servants make their way in with lunch. “Oh! Sorry!” She hurries out of her seat and picks up the discarded parchment, placing it politely in one of her servant’s hands. “Do me the favor?” The manservant nods and leaves through the unobtrusive entrance in the dark corner of the wall.
Most of the time, namely always, Dean is exceptionally proud of calling Mary his mother. She is easily the best, most caring and gentle person he knows. She may not be of royal blood, having been nothing more than a hunter’s daughter while growing up, but she is the most noble of them all. It was so easy to see what King John had seen in her when he took her as his wife.
Returning to the table, she tucks a handkerchief in her dress’ neckline. She is only refined when she wants to be. “Now, Dean, has your father already showed you your gift?”
Dean starts as if only just remembering the best present ever, when in truth he had been thinking about it every ten seconds. Even if it is just at a subconscious level. He turns his excitement to Sam, who had not been there to witness the gift first hand due to lessons, and unleashes a flurry of hand motions that Dean somehow figures would be enough to convey his excitement. “Dude, you should have seen her! Dad got me this really nice horse-well, a filly, since she’s not old enough to ride still, and Dad says that I have to take care of her until she becomes a good, trusty horse. Anyways, she’s perfect. Easily the best gift so far.”
Sam, who had been awed, purses his lips. “I want a horse, too.”
“When you’re older, honey.”
The turkey leg on Dean’s plate is too hot to be devoured immediately, so he lets it sit while he drinks some of his water. Both mead and wine were still out of the question for both princes within castle walls, but that wasn’t to say he had never had a taste before. Mostly the bottles had been snatched from Bobby’s secret stash behind messy, yet conveniently-stacked books in the library the old man spent most of his time in.
Dean belches. Mary glares daggers at him while Sam laughs hysterically. “Young man, if you do that in front of your guests, so help me God-”
“I won’t, I won’t!” he assures around a laugh while scratching at his chin, and he’s disappointed at how smooth the skin feels in that area. Part of him hoped he’d be able to sprout at least some scruff before the party, just to show off to the other guys. And Cassie. Cassie would undoubtedly be impressed by facial hair. “I promise I’ll behave.” It was a lie, and he knows that Mary knows, but she doesn’t call him out on it.
“When you’re king, you can change that law,” Sam says, poking at something leafy that has Dean twisting his nose in disgust. “In fact, that should be the very first one. All men will be allowed to belch because it is what men do best.”
“I like the sound of that,” comes another voice.
Dean and Sam immediately get to their feet, opposite to Mary who rests her chin on a dainty hand, her golden curls bouncing along her shoulders as she smiles in greeting. “Don’t encourage them, John. Those are your kingdom’s future leaders. Wouldn’t want them meddling in the natural order of things, would you?” The king, dressed in the casual attire of a man fresh from a hunt, bends down to kiss his wife.
“Ew, gross. Old people kissing,” Sam whines, still standing by his seat.
“Give it a few years, Sammy, and you’ll see what it’s all about.” Dean gives him a grin to accompany his words.
“You’re just as gross as they are.”
“Your brother’s right,” John offers to Sam with a nod.
It is after he sits that the boys take their seats again, finally digging into their lunch like a pack of boars after a bad summer. John leans in to speak conspiratorially with Mary, who in turn nods, and then chuckles, before sobering up with a tight frown. She shakes her head and John sighs, sitting back and holding out his goblet as a servant hurries out to fill it for him. He doesn’t bother thanking them for the trouble.
Dean watches warily, his stomach doing tight flops with the fear of an argument. It seems like all his parents do nowadays is argue over things. He doesn’t bother listening to them any more, due to the dreaded emotions it drags up. Despite what happens, Dean loves his father, and respects him with borderline fear. He is a great man, someone to look up to, but Dean will not stand for him raising his voice to Mary, and he sometimes wishes he could do something, anything, about it, instead of turning a blind eye. They are a happy family, as Dean tells Sam every night. They are happy and strong, because they are Winchesters, and Winchesters can weather anything.
“You can’t force him, John,” Mary says at one point, stopping herself from continuing the line of thought. Their eyes remain locked, challenging, Dean figures, and even if neither of his parents are looking at him, he knows that he’s the subject being discussed.
Confirming the suspicion, John orders them to leave the room. “Take your meals with you.”
Sam looks pale as Dean grabs his forearm and pulls him from his seat. “Come on, Sammy. We can eat out on the chapel roof and then I’ll take you to see Sabbath, okay?”
“Sabbath?”
“S’what I named my horse...”
Stepping into the corridor, Dean whispers orders for Sam to meet him in the chapel in five minutes. As he presses himself against the wall, Mary and John begin arguing again.
“Mary...” John begins plaintively, but she is having none of it.
“When you said you were hosting a party for Dean, we agreed that it would strictly be a birthday celebration, not an ‘eligible bachelor’ ball.”
“That’s not what this is about.”
“Yes, it is.” Dean hears her stop and take a breath. “You can’t force this on him, not now. He’s too young.”
“Need I remind you that I was his age when I met you? It’s time he became a man. I’m not asking for much.” There’s a soft thud, most likely the sound of a chalice meeting wood. “You’re right, a ball of this standing shouldn’t be considered for something so important, but I’m not suggesting he choose a wife tonight.”
The silence that follows is so intense that Dean begins to feel sick. “Are you saying that you want my son to take a woman to bed as some rite of passage?” Another pregnant silence follows before, “I cannot believe you.”
“Dean is a young man and he is of age.”
“While under my care, my son will be raised as I see fit. I know him, John, I spend my days with him while you’re either away or just too tired to be a father. If anyone here knows what he is and isn’t ready for, it’s me. It is a fact that he is not ready for this kind of thing, and I will not encourage him to become some debauched individual just because you wish to shout to the world his virility.”
“There is nothing wrong with my son engaging in said practice. You can take your womanly morals elsewhere, but I won’t have Dean picking flowers and embroidering tapestries because you think he ‘isn’t ready’.”
“My son can pick all of the flowers he pleases and he will still be my son, and I will still be proud of him. And so should you.”
A chair scrapes harshly against the stone floor, and Dean takes that as his cue. After gripping his plate for a brief second, he abandons it on the first table he finds.
The view from the chapel roof is undoubtedly Dean’s favorite. Looking out over the ocean fills him with a sort of awe that is difficult to find elsewhere. Dean is sure that the peace was attributed to the sharp wind, deafening him for long moments, whipping his short hair and cutting coolly onto his cheeks. It numbs him to the outside world, leaving him alone on his own sacred island where no one can reach him.
Waves crash against the outer wall, the smell of salt pungent in his nose despite the many years he’s been exposed to it. He licks his lips, enjoying the sharp taste that comes from away from them. A seagull swoops down to catch a fish.
“Are they fighting again?” Sam is sitting on the ledge, struggling to keep his hair from flying into his mouth with every bite he tries to take from his turkey leg.
“Nah. They’re just talking about adult stuff. Trust me, you are not missing a damn a thing,” Dean assures him with a dismissive wave, plopping down to sit by his brother, legs dangling over the ledge as well. It is just past noon, the sun high in the sky, but it is unsurprisingly cool for early in the year.
“I don’t like it when they argue.” Sam, always the perceptive one, reads between the lines. “It’s always stupid stuff, too. Who cares what color fabric they use on the horses?” He states it as an example, and Dean finds himself agreeing. Mary and John had not spoken to each other for three days. “They’re things that can be so easily decided. And even if they weren’t, sit down and sort it out. Arguing and fighting about it will get you nothing but a headache.”
“That’s why they’re the rulers and you’re not.” As far as poor jokes went, that one takes the cake. Not for the first time, Dean finds himself thinking that Sam is so much better suited for the throne than he.
“Jerk,” says Sam, but there’s humor in it. Fondness rolling around the word, and Dean can’t help but smile.
“Bitch,” Dean returns with equal fondness hidden behind a cough.
At fourteen, Sam is the most intelligent student in Eldosia. A five-time chess champion-yes, he had indeed been playing since the age of nine-and the best strategist for mock battles in years. Dean can’t help but feel proud of him, amazed by his superior intellect and rationality. His calm and poise in difficult situations is something even their father envies. Anger issues aside, Sam is the heir any kingdom would declare war to have. If only he had been born four years earlier.
Regretfully, the House of Winchester is stuck with Dean as king-to-be. He is smart, of course, but he much prefers brawn over brains. He knows the human body down to every bone that holds it together. A fact that proves priceless in far-off battles, with no healer for miles around to tend to John’s men.
While Sam could explain to anyone how the stars travelled the sky over the year, and what they truly are, despite what ancient legend told them to be, Dean can use the very same stars to navigate his way across the kingdoms and never be wrong.
They each have their area of expertise. They are young, and different, but they are brothers, and inseparable. The four kingdoms are their playground, and nothing could change that.
“How’s it feel to be an adult? You’re not gonna be like dad, are you?”
“Feels the same as being seventeen. And sixteen, and fifteen...” Dean doesn’t want to dwell on Sam’s words.
John is his father; a brave man who has given so much for his land. It doesn’t sit well with Dean that his brother holds him in low esteem. When Sam grew, Dean knew the clashes between him and their father were going to be harsh and violent, and it was best to delay those arguments. Dean grimaces at the thought that, despite Sam’s judicious and meditative attitude, John always brings out the worst of him.
Sam sets the plate to the side. “But now you got your own horse.”
“But I still have a curfew. Though something tells me that’s not gonna last much longer.”
“Probably, since you’re a man, now.”
Dean fiddles with his shirt, turning to look off to his left where stone paths turn to grassland, and then to rolling hills that seem to go on forever. The world is still in shades of brown and gold, and even white, if you rode the path for a day or two, but it is still beautiful. It’s home, and the thought alone is enough to fill Dean's heart with ease, a low simmer of wariness remaining.
Sensing Dean’s discomfort on the subject, Sam saves him the headache of replying. “I heard there are dullahans riding towards the east.”
Snorting, and more than a little grateful, Dean punches Sam’s shoulder. “There’s no such thing, Sammy.”
“Are so! I heard Alastair talking to Dad about them. They want to send out searchers to see if the parameters are still in place.”
“Alastair’s a liar. Besides, I’m sure Dad’s not gonna let fairies invade us.”
Shaking his head, Sam sighs. “You believe in ghosts and demons, but not fairies? How is that possible, Dean?”
“I’m not saying I don’t believe in fairies. I’m saying that I don’t believe in headless horsemen riding around, terrorizing people, any more than I believe you’re able to ‘woo’ Jessica.” That one earns him a punch to the rib, making him double over with a groan. “You little-h-heh-ass!” Regaining his breath, Dean launches for him.
Too wrapped up in the scuffle, neither of them hear the approaching footsteps. Dean has Sam in a headlock when a voice interrupts them, “Young masters,” making Dean trip and keel over, squishing the shorter Winchester against the stone floor. Sam deflates with a painful sound, and Dean would have laughed if not for the decrepit excuse of an advisor John keeps by his side standing a few meters away. “Savage little beasts.”
“Dilapidated old man,” Dean counters, getting to his feet and fixing his shirt sleeves, before turning to help Sam. “What do you want?”
“Your, uhm, ever lovely mother calls.” Alastair stops, heaves a breath, and Dean has a hard time trying to avoid retching up his lunch. “Time to get you out of those filthy tatters and make you look presentable for the masses. For whatever that is worth.” He steps closer, standing a hair’s breadth from Dean, looking down at him with cloying dishonesty. “And I do not lie, since I am a professional, unlike you, you little cur.”
“You call me that again, and father will hear about it,” he says challengingly. Dean squares off his shoulders, straightening himself up to seem imposing. “You miserable quim.”
“Oh, yes.” Alastair laughs, a heavy croak that makes Sam shiver by Dean’s side. His voice alone is grating, like something pulled from the nightmares one forgets upon waking. It is a dark sound, and if a voice could be touched, it is oily enough to choke. He drags out the words like a snake’s hiss. “I always appreciate a good lashing. Does the body wonders you youngsters are still too infantile to understand.”
Dean’s stomach twists in disgust. “Come on, Sam. Let’s get away from this creep.” He takes Sam by the hand, and he notices the lack of reluctance to the touch. He pulls him to the spiral staircase that rests along the chapel’s walls. Alastair doesn’t follow, but Dean can still feel his slimy stare on his back.
Once out of earshot, crossing the lower bailey, Sam lets out a loud breath. “I hate that guy,” he grumbles, squeezing Dean’s fingers instead of letting them go. Alastair had been the guest in far too many nightmares in their youth.
“Let’s forget about it and get ready for tonight, okay? I could go for a snack.” It’s a lie, and Sam knows it. If there is one thing the king’s advisor is good at, it is the killing of appetites.
“I just wanna see Mom.”
Dean swallows tightly, and nods. “Yeah, okay. I’ll take you to her.”
Alastair’s presence is something that puzzles Dean on a daily basis. Whenever the man crosses the gardens or saunters into the dungeons, the prince will cringe and fret about the reasons why John would possibly keep him around. The man is nothing but smog, poison to the air they breathe. His lies are many and blatantly tainted, but his strategies went unmatched, Dean figures, and that is what makes him an important affiliate. Alastair’s ability to forecast a battle, and foretell the outcome of it, is nothing but natural. No human can possibly be right every single time.
They find Mary waiting at the entrance of the ballroom, looking crestfallen, and Dean immediately goes to hug her. Sam does the same, but neither one questions what is wrong. Dean is pretty sure he knows, pulling her tighter against him. “I need to breathe, you know,” she says, sounding like her usually bright self.
Pulling away, Dean scratches at the back of his neck. “Sorry.”
Mary cups his face lovingly, and uses her free hand to card it through Sam’s too-long hair. “Look at you two.” She laughs out a sigh that’s almost nostalgic. “It’s like I don’t have babies anymore.”
“That’s not true, Mom. Sam will always be a baby.” For the second time that day, Dean finds himself with an elbow in the ribs.
“The tailors have brought your clothing.” Which means that it is time to change. She grins at them with the same manic glee all mothers consider their children with, when said children are about to be tortured.
“But it’s still early,” Sam all but whines, sounding much younger that he really is.
“He’s right,” Dean ventures, but immediately shuts up when Mary gives him a look.
"Do you have a problem with what I just said?" There is a collective shaking of heads that makes her grin widen impossibly. “Didn’t think so.”
Turning her back to them, Mary heads for the Great Hall. In step behind her, Dean and Sam exchange exasperated looks. “Don’t you roll your eyes at me,” she throws casually over her shoulder.
Sam has the grace to look as if he’s been slapped. “How does she do that?” he says quietly into Dean’s shoulder, which is as far as he can reach. His brother only shrugs.
“I think it’s a special power only mothers have,” he offers as a plausible explanation.
“I have eyes on the back of my head,” Mary says with a hint of amusement.
They wouldn’t be surprised if such a thing were actually true.
The castle is busy with dozens of people bustling about. Some tend to flowers, displaying them in pompous bouquets across the hall. Others are dusting and mounting candles, all of them recently carved into the shape of animals. Dean is genuinely intrigued by the craftsmanship.
Sunlight filters through wall-high windows; the curtains pulled back to let in the crisp winter breeze. The overwhelming mixture of perfume and flowers makes Sam sneeze.
Mary leads the way as she climbs the staircase, only stopping when a servant girl asks whether lavender or peach would be a better color for the ceremonial kerchiefs. “Lavender. It’ll match my dress.” Never mind that lavender matched nothing with the color scheme.
Dean chuckles. Trust his mother to rebel in the smallest of ways. It is easy to see where he got that personality trait from.
The top of the stairs turns off in the shape of a T, and they take a left, in the direction of their personal chambers. The flow of people becomes scarcer the deeper they go. Only a few young ladies are allowed in the wing to begin with, all of them which Dean knew and rather fancied.
Lisa, for one, had been Dean’s very first crush. She is much older than him, but Dean nods in acceptance of the fact. He likes girls with experience. Never bothering to actually approach her, he courtly bows his head as she walks by and says, “Good afternoon, milady.” Sam snickers from somewhere over his shoulder, but Mary’s footsteps are too far away for her to hear and chastise him.
Dean’s shoulders sag when Lisa laughs; her long, straight hair swaying as she bows in return. It isn’t a ‘oh my, aren’t you charming?’ laugh, more like a ‘you may call on me when you’re old enough to not shake in your armor’. “Good afternoon, your Highness,” she says, and leaves without giving him a second glance.
Not for the first time, Dean finds himself thinking just how in the world John expects him to become a man tonight, when he can’t even sway a maidservant.
“Brighten up, Dean. Someone’s bound to see you for who you truly are. No, wait, strike that. Yeah, you’re pretty much busted,” says Sam through muffled laughter, before meeting face-to-face with a freshly dusted tapestry and the stone wall behind it.
“Man, I can’t wait until you’re old enough to court girls. I’m gonna make your life a living hell.”
Sam snorts, running past Dean and shoving his shoulder when his bedroom door comes into view. “I live with you; how much worse can it get?”
“Real funny, wiseass.”
Mary is standing by Dean’s door, having a word with someone neither son can see. Sam heads in, pressing a kiss to Mary’s cheek that makes her giggle. Dean groans once he steps inside.
There’s a young man about his age, wearing nothing more than his underwear, stepping down from a wooden stool. Another man, this one much older, plump, is displaying layers of clothing across Dean’s bed with great care. There’s velvet and leather, and some cotton and wool to fend off the oncoming night chill. A newly-polished crown is set on a small pillow by their side.
“I thought you said our clothing was done,” Dean immediately complains. He hates having strangers inside his chamber, even when they have been working for his family since before he had been conceived.
“Just working on some minor details. Last minute alterations, your Highness. Want to make sure you look absolutely adorable for tonight,” the plump man says with an honest to God giggle. Dean takes a step back, gawking as the man and his assistant make their way out of the room.
“Did he just...? Mom-” He idly notices Sam complaining about his clothing in the background, but ignores him. “Where do you even get these people?”
“For what it’s worth, he’s a really nice man,” Mary offers offhandedly, reaching for the clothing Sam is holding up with contempt. “What? I think it’ll look flattering on you,” she says to her youngest. Unfolding the pale gray shirt, she holds it up against Sam’s shoulders to measure its length before nodding approvingly. “Perfect.”
“Mom, it’s hideous,” Sam complains, but disrobes without being told to.
Dean crosses his room, letting his mother and brother do their thing, and takes to leaning against his window. Looking down, he notices the people hurrying about like tiny ants, all of them carrying one thing or another and looking for the place they have to be. There’s a small group roping off the forest’s border, and marking the tree barks with a red substance Dean doesn’t recognize. He notices the musicians, gets a whiff of the food that is carried by the wind, and laughs when a man accidentally gets a tablecloth wrapped around his legs and falls over.
If the atmosphere felt festive before, now it was too obvious to ignore.
“Your arm goes through there, Sam, not your head,” Mary grunts, manhandling Sam into his undershirt.
Dean snorts. He’s not sure why Mary’s dressing them when it isn’t even her job, and he’s much less sure as to why she’s dressing Sam in his room. “Why are you dressing Sam in my room?”
“Honey, do me a favor and bring me your brother’s boots,” she says instead, gracelessly avoiding his question.
He may not have Sam’s smarts, but he knows when something is wrong. Dutifully reaching for the shined boots, Dean shoves them at Sam’s chest when Mary pulls away to get the second shirt. A thought is nagging at the back of his mind, and he cannot help but give his mother a quick look, wondering if anything else had been said after he left the dining room earlier.
“I asked why-”
“Dean,” she warns, shutting her eyes and taking a deep breath. “Please.”
“Mom?” Sam takes a hold of her wrists when she moves closer to slip the shirt over his head. Even through her smile, the tightness around her eyes is far too noticeable. “Is everything okay?”
Mary nods, her face refusing to fall, and continues to dress him. “Everything’s fine, sweetie,” she says warmly. Her hand comes to rest on top of Sam’s head, tugging gently at the soft hair there and knocking their foreheads together. “Everything’s all right.”
Dean’s standing stiffly by her side. He wants to argue with her, ask her to tell him what is bothering her, but he stays quiet. She was clear about them not asking, so he doesn’t, because he is a better man. “I love you, Mom,” he says, and it sounds vulnerable even to his own ears.
The look Mary gives him is one of the most heartbreaking things he has ever witnessed. It’s as if she is looking at him for the first time in a very long time, and her eyes crinkle when she smiles, like she might smile at a small child. She places her available hand against Dean’s cheek once more. “Come on, you two. Why the long faces?” Her strength, Dean thinks, is something to be admired.
The minutes tick by, all of them spent in a mess of clothing and impromptu pie breaks, courtesy of the cook. As they work, the winter chill begins to set in. The sky turns a pale gray, a promise of snow just a few hours off, and the sun begins its descent. The smell of warm apple still lingers around him deliciously, and he can feel his fingertips tingle with the pleasure of the gooey filling sprawling across his taste buds.
Sam leaves, fully dressed, shortly after.
Dean is not sure where time went, but he is too busy struggling with another, far more important, issue. An issue that has him standing at the middle of the room, with his mother drawing the strings at the top of his shirt closed. He feels like a doll getting prettied up for a ball, and grimaces when he concludes that, yes, that’s exactly what he is.
“Gosh, this is so stupid,” Dean whines, his voice sharp but embarrassingly cracked even for his own ears and he flinches, causing the crown to slip down his face for the third time in less than twenty minutes. “Mother!”
“Be quiet, Dean. You’ll scare away all the girls,” Mary chastises with the same brilliant smile she always wears. She fixes his sleeves then moves to properly adjust his jerkin, tying the strings before slipping the buckles into place. “You look absolutely stunning, darling.”
“Really?” He fixes his crown and wills it with all his might to stay in place. “Don’t I look silly? Sammy says I look silly.” And it is true. His brother frequently mentions that he’s seen swords fatter and far more imposing than Dean. “What if the girls make fun of me?”
“No one is going to make fun of you, dear. I promise.”
Taking the velvet cape that’s strewn over Dean’s bed, she swiftly ties it beneath the collar of his white shirt and places the thick strand of fur John specifically had made for the occasion over it. She slips the old amulet beneath his jerkin, safely out of sight. The amount of times she had argued with him to get rid of the thing had all fallen on deaf ears. Ever since Bobby gave it to him, mentioning that it was some sort of symbol of protection, Dean has never taken it off.
“Here we go,” Mary says sweetly, pressing her nose to his. “All done.” Taking a step back, she admires her son, who puffs out his chest in order to make himself look bigger. Mary chuckles and pushes him out the door.
"Hey Mom, do you know if Cassie will be here tonight?" he asks, aiming for a casual tone. He tries to work on his strut as he pads down the thick carpeted hallways.
They stop when a servant girl brings them two masks on a silver tray. Mary takes them both and offers the deep red one with golden swirls to Dean, who holds it to his face clumsily before furrowing his eyebrows in repulsion. It smells of rotten berries.
“Cassie? Theron’s daughter?”
“Yeah, she was here this morning. We went for a walk around the gardens after Dad and I came back from visiting Sabbath. She said she likes me,” he states with a shrug, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, though he is really just trying to sound indifferent about it.
Frowning, Mary looks like she is turning the thought over in her head. “Of course,” she finally says, and her tone is far too quiet for Dean to be perfectly at ease. “Do you like her?”
He nods sharply without wasting a moment. He has lost count of the amount of times he has tried to appease both his parents today, and he is not sure how far he can take the charade. “She’s really pretty, and sweet.” And it isn’t a lie. “And she can ride a horse like a guy,” he adds, because it is too important to leave out. “Why do we have to wear these again?”
“It’s a fashion statement, sweetheart. All of the other kingdoms are using them.”
“So? We’re not like the other kingdoms.”
“That’s very true,” she concedes with a smile, knocking her mask against his crown and making it slip yet again.
They come to a stop when they reach the top of the staircase, the sound of a fairly large crowd making Dean twitch nervously as he fidgets with his belt. He looks up at Mary with a crooked, yet stunning smile. “I know,” he says before she can even get the chance to open her mouth. “Be polite, don’t yell at people, show some decorum in the presence of the ladies and, most importantly, don’t belch.”
“It’s good to see you have paid attention to your lessons.” Framing his face, she swipes her thumbs across freckled cheeks, and presses a kiss to his forehead.
“Mom, stop that. I’m not a kid anymore, it’s embarrassing,” but he leans in and kisses her cheek despite that.
Mary chuckles, deep and musical. “You know what else young men don’t do? Whine.” He rolls his eyes. “And I love you, too. Now, go mingle.”
She watches her son stumble down the staircase, two steps at a time while awkwardly trying to hold up his crown.
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.
Dean collapses onto the soft bed with a loud exhale, groaning as he deflates against the linen sheets, and he wonders just how in the world he managed to get himself into such a treacherous situation. Worse yet, he wonders why he’s even debating whether or not to step up to the challenge. The choice should be easy; a simple no and that was that. It wasn't worth losing his life just because he was just too stubborn to back down.
You will never again be graced with his smile.
“Goddammit.” He turns onto his side and hugs a pillow, pretending that it is one of the shapely women he has slept with in numerous taverns in an indistinguishable blur of towns.
It should be easy, but it isn’t.
Dean is past the point of trying to understand why he continues to act the way he does; he has decided to just go wherever the river takes him, but if he allows it, the river will drag him to the maw of the behemoth. It is not his intention to fight. None of it should have happened. Everything should have been easy, he repeats once again, but sometimes, the rewards for the hardest of tasks are the best to ever be received.
Sleep edges around his mind. He shuts his eyes and breathes in deep and even, trying to calm his tense muscles for a restful night. Tomorrow would prove an agonizingly long day, most likely his last, and he needs to be sharp and focused for-
Dean stiffens.
Normal sleep does not give you the sensation of swimming in a sea of warm honey, or hot hands sliding against sweat-slicked skin. His limbs feel heavy, pleasant, but heavy, and he does not like it at all. For a moment he panics that someone may have poisoned him, that he’s only just beginning to react to the effects, but then the touch shifts into something familiar. The scent of soft, muted flowers on tender skin makes his stomach flip in excitement, because he knows this.
Although he cannot hear it, he can feel the words whispered against his neck, a soft ‘sleep now, Dean’ that has him gasping for air.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
The twenty-fourth day of January holds a grand variety of noteworthy meanings, both frivolous and momentous, and is intricately entwined in the life of a young boy by the name of Dean Winchester. Only, he is no longer a boy, but a young man destined for greatness and majesty. Every eye that rests upon him, every well-mannered smile and courteous nod in greeting, is a reminder of his importance upon the Northern Kingdom of Eldosia. He is respected, feared, revered, and admired among his people.
Now, if only everything were true, instead of just the very factual points mentioned.
Dean Winchester, son of John and Mary, is indeed a young prince and, as the eldest of two sons, heir of the Eldosian throne. But the tale of such magnificence ends there, much to his dismay. With lanky limbs, too-big eyes, and a chronic lack of manners, he’s the last thing one would picture as the crème de la crème. Instead, he is mostly described as being nothing but rude to those who aren’t his immediate family; spoiled, capricious and unsociable-though not unfriendly. He is good and kind to those he deems worthy, but those grow fewer by day. However, he is willful and brave with reckless abandon, as only a child could be, though he is no longer a child. It is his eighteenth birthday, and King John is determined to show his kingdom just how much of a man his son has been carved out to be.
“You’re kidding, right?” Dean drops the crisp parchment on the dinner table, ears red as he tries to hold back his lividness. “Isn’t this supposed to, oh I don’t know, be a positive a thing? You’re making me sound like a twelve-year-old with an attitude problem.”
His mother’s idea of a birthday speech is unorthodox for nobility. Bring out all of the negative things in a not-so-discreet fashion, and then try to cover it up with the soon-to-be (but still non-existent) positives. Left up to him, Dean would cancel the celebration altogether, but John is hearing none of it. The kingdom had to know this, the kingdom had to know that, Alastair suggested it would be a ‘hmm, most exhilarating idea, sire’, and, as always, being future king usually meant that one had to sit their bony little ass down and do as they’re told.
“I find it to be quite charming. Don’t you think so, Sam?” Mary asks, as she takes the discarded parchment and reads it through once more.
“Totally. It’s not like Mom’s lying or anything,” Sam says with a smug smirk.
“Shut up, Sam.”
The little shit.
Dean loves his younger brother to death and beyond, but there are times such as these, in which Dean wishes he can throw him in the town well overnight. He is sure it would prove useless, though, since he would most likely end up diving in himself in order to rescue him ten seconds later. Two princes fall down a well-like the beginning of a bad joke.
Mary smiles at her boys with the adoration only a mother can muster. “All right then. Why don’t we just forget about the whole speech crap, hm? Let’s just call that an early birthday gift.” Crumpling up the sheet, she makes a show of throwing it over her shoulder when the servants make their way in with lunch. “Oh! Sorry!” She hurries out of her seat and picks up the discarded parchment, placing it politely in one of her servant’s hands. “Do me the favor?” The manservant nods and leaves through the unobtrusive entrance in the dark corner of the wall.
Most of the time, namely always, Dean is exceptionally proud of calling Mary his mother. She is easily the best, most caring and gentle person he knows. She may not be of royal blood, having been nothing more than a hunter’s daughter while growing up, but she is the most noble of them all. It was so easy to see what King John had seen in her when he took her as his wife.
Returning to the table, she tucks a handkerchief in her dress’ neckline. She is only refined when she wants to be. “Now, Dean, has your father already showed you your gift?”
Dean starts as if only just remembering the best present ever, when in truth he had been thinking about it every ten seconds. Even if it is just at a subconscious level. He turns his excitement to Sam, who had not been there to witness the gift first hand due to lessons, and unleashes a flurry of hand motions that Dean somehow figures would be enough to convey his excitement. “Dude, you should have seen her! Dad got me this really nice horse-well, a filly, since she’s not old enough to ride still, and Dad says that I have to take care of her until she becomes a good, trusty horse. Anyways, she’s perfect. Easily the best gift so far.”
Sam, who had been awed, purses his lips. “I want a horse, too.”
“When you’re older, honey.”
The turkey leg on Dean’s plate is too hot to be devoured immediately, so he lets it sit while he drinks some of his water. Both mead and wine were still out of the question for both princes within castle walls, but that wasn’t to say he had never had a taste before. Mostly the bottles had been snatched from Bobby’s secret stash behind messy, yet conveniently-stacked books in the library the old man spent most of his time in.
Dean belches. Mary glares daggers at him while Sam laughs hysterically. “Young man, if you do that in front of your guests, so help me God-”
“I won’t, I won’t!” he assures around a laugh while scratching at his chin, and he’s disappointed at how smooth the skin feels in that area. Part of him hoped he’d be able to sprout at least some scruff before the party, just to show off to the other guys. And Cassie. Cassie would undoubtedly be impressed by facial hair. “I promise I’ll behave.” It was a lie, and he knows that Mary knows, but she doesn’t call him out on it.
“When you’re king, you can change that law,” Sam says, poking at something leafy that has Dean twisting his nose in disgust. “In fact, that should be the very first one. All men will be allowed to belch because it is what men do best.”
“I like the sound of that,” comes another voice.
Dean and Sam immediately get to their feet, opposite to Mary who rests her chin on a dainty hand, her golden curls bouncing along her shoulders as she smiles in greeting. “Don’t encourage them, John. Those are your kingdom’s future leaders. Wouldn’t want them meddling in the natural order of things, would you?” The king, dressed in the casual attire of a man fresh from a hunt, bends down to kiss his wife.
“Ew, gross. Old people kissing,” Sam whines, still standing by his seat.
“Give it a few years, Sammy, and you’ll see what it’s all about.” Dean gives him a grin to accompany his words.
“You’re just as gross as they are.”
“Your brother’s right,” John offers to Sam with a nod.
It is after he sits that the boys take their seats again, finally digging into their lunch like a pack of boars after a bad summer. John leans in to speak conspiratorially with Mary, who in turn nods, and then chuckles, before sobering up with a tight frown. She shakes her head and John sighs, sitting back and holding out his goblet as a servant hurries out to fill it for him. He doesn’t bother thanking them for the trouble.
Dean watches warily, his stomach doing tight flops with the fear of an argument. It seems like all his parents do nowadays is argue over things. He doesn’t bother listening to them any more, due to the dreaded emotions it drags up. Despite what happens, Dean loves his father, and respects him with borderline fear. He is a great man, someone to look up to, but Dean will not stand for him raising his voice to Mary, and he sometimes wishes he could do something, anything, about it, instead of turning a blind eye. They are a happy family, as Dean tells Sam every night. They are happy and strong, because they are Winchesters, and Winchesters can weather anything.
“You can’t force him, John,” Mary says at one point, stopping herself from continuing the line of thought. Their eyes remain locked, challenging, Dean figures, and even if neither of his parents are looking at him, he knows that he’s the subject being discussed.
Confirming the suspicion, John orders them to leave the room. “Take your meals with you.”
Sam looks pale as Dean grabs his forearm and pulls him from his seat. “Come on, Sammy. We can eat out on the chapel roof and then I’ll take you to see Sabbath, okay?”
“Sabbath?”
“S’what I named my horse...”
Stepping into the corridor, Dean whispers orders for Sam to meet him in the chapel in five minutes. As he presses himself against the wall, Mary and John begin arguing again.
“Mary...” John begins plaintively, but she is having none of it.
“When you said you were hosting a party for Dean, we agreed that it would strictly be a birthday celebration, not an ‘eligible bachelor’ ball.”
“That’s not what this is about.”
“Yes, it is.” Dean hears her stop and take a breath. “You can’t force this on him, not now. He’s too young.”
“Need I remind you that I was his age when I met you? It’s time he became a man. I’m not asking for much.” There’s a soft thud, most likely the sound of a chalice meeting wood. “You’re right, a ball of this standing shouldn’t be considered for something so important, but I’m not suggesting he choose a wife tonight.”
The silence that follows is so intense that Dean begins to feel sick. “Are you saying that you want my son to take a woman to bed as some rite of passage?” Another pregnant silence follows before, “I cannot believe you.”
“Dean is a young man and he is of age.”
“While under my care, my son will be raised as I see fit. I know him, John, I spend my days with him while you’re either away or just too tired to be a father. If anyone here knows what he is and isn’t ready for, it’s me. It is a fact that he is not ready for this kind of thing, and I will not encourage him to become some debauched individual just because you wish to shout to the world his virility.”
“There is nothing wrong with my son engaging in said practice. You can take your womanly morals elsewhere, but I won’t have Dean picking flowers and embroidering tapestries because you think he ‘isn’t ready’.”
“My son can pick all of the flowers he pleases and he will still be my son, and I will still be proud of him. And so should you.”
A chair scrapes harshly against the stone floor, and Dean takes that as his cue. After gripping his plate for a brief second, he abandons it on the first table he finds.
The view from the chapel roof is undoubtedly Dean’s favorite. Looking out over the ocean fills him with a sort of awe that is difficult to find elsewhere. Dean is sure that the peace was attributed to the sharp wind, deafening him for long moments, whipping his short hair and cutting coolly onto his cheeks. It numbs him to the outside world, leaving him alone on his own sacred island where no one can reach him.
Waves crash against the outer wall, the smell of salt pungent in his nose despite the many years he’s been exposed to it. He licks his lips, enjoying the sharp taste that comes from away from them. A seagull swoops down to catch a fish.
“Are they fighting again?” Sam is sitting on the ledge, struggling to keep his hair from flying into his mouth with every bite he tries to take from his turkey leg.
“Nah. They’re just talking about adult stuff. Trust me, you are not missing a damn a thing,” Dean assures him with a dismissive wave, plopping down to sit by his brother, legs dangling over the ledge as well. It is just past noon, the sun high in the sky, but it is unsurprisingly cool for early in the year.
“I don’t like it when they argue.” Sam, always the perceptive one, reads between the lines. “It’s always stupid stuff, too. Who cares what color fabric they use on the horses?” He states it as an example, and Dean finds himself agreeing. Mary and John had not spoken to each other for three days. “They’re things that can be so easily decided. And even if they weren’t, sit down and sort it out. Arguing and fighting about it will get you nothing but a headache.”
“That’s why they’re the rulers and you’re not.” As far as poor jokes went, that one takes the cake. Not for the first time, Dean finds himself thinking that Sam is so much better suited for the throne than he.
“Jerk,” says Sam, but there’s humor in it. Fondness rolling around the word, and Dean can’t help but smile.
“Bitch,” Dean returns with equal fondness hidden behind a cough.
At fourteen, Sam is the most intelligent student in Eldosia. A five-time chess champion-yes, he had indeed been playing since the age of nine-and the best strategist for mock battles in years. Dean can’t help but feel proud of him, amazed by his superior intellect and rationality. His calm and poise in difficult situations is something even their father envies. Anger issues aside, Sam is the heir any kingdom would declare war to have. If only he had been born four years earlier.
Regretfully, the House of Winchester is stuck with Dean as king-to-be. He is smart, of course, but he much prefers brawn over brains. He knows the human body down to every bone that holds it together. A fact that proves priceless in far-off battles, with no healer for miles around to tend to John’s men.
While Sam could explain to anyone how the stars travelled the sky over the year, and what they truly are, despite what ancient legend told them to be, Dean can use the very same stars to navigate his way across the kingdoms and never be wrong.
They each have their area of expertise. They are young, and different, but they are brothers, and inseparable. The four kingdoms are their playground, and nothing could change that.
“How’s it feel to be an adult? You’re not gonna be like dad, are you?”
“Feels the same as being seventeen. And sixteen, and fifteen...” Dean doesn’t want to dwell on Sam’s words.
John is his father; a brave man who has given so much for his land. It doesn’t sit well with Dean that his brother holds him in low esteem. When Sam grew, Dean knew the clashes between him and their father were going to be harsh and violent, and it was best to delay those arguments. Dean grimaces at the thought that, despite Sam’s judicious and meditative attitude, John always brings out the worst of him.
Sam sets the plate to the side. “But now you got your own horse.”
“But I still have a curfew. Though something tells me that’s not gonna last much longer.”
“Probably, since you’re a man, now.”
Dean fiddles with his shirt, turning to look off to his left where stone paths turn to grassland, and then to rolling hills that seem to go on forever. The world is still in shades of brown and gold, and even white, if you rode the path for a day or two, but it is still beautiful. It’s home, and the thought alone is enough to fill Dean's heart with ease, a low simmer of wariness remaining.
Sensing Dean’s discomfort on the subject, Sam saves him the headache of replying. “I heard there are dullahans riding towards the east.”
Snorting, and more than a little grateful, Dean punches Sam’s shoulder. “There’s no such thing, Sammy.”
“Are so! I heard Alastair talking to Dad about them. They want to send out searchers to see if the parameters are still in place.”
“Alastair’s a liar. Besides, I’m sure Dad’s not gonna let fairies invade us.”
Shaking his head, Sam sighs. “You believe in ghosts and demons, but not fairies? How is that possible, Dean?”
“I’m not saying I don’t believe in fairies. I’m saying that I don’t believe in headless horsemen riding around, terrorizing people, any more than I believe you’re able to ‘woo’ Jessica.” That one earns him a punch to the rib, making him double over with a groan. “You little-h-heh-ass!” Regaining his breath, Dean launches for him.
Too wrapped up in the scuffle, neither of them hear the approaching footsteps. Dean has Sam in a headlock when a voice interrupts them, “Young masters,” making Dean trip and keel over, squishing the shorter Winchester against the stone floor. Sam deflates with a painful sound, and Dean would have laughed if not for the decrepit excuse of an advisor John keeps by his side standing a few meters away. “Savage little beasts.”
“Dilapidated old man,” Dean counters, getting to his feet and fixing his shirt sleeves, before turning to help Sam. “What do you want?”
“Your, uhm, ever lovely mother calls.” Alastair stops, heaves a breath, and Dean has a hard time trying to avoid retching up his lunch. “Time to get you out of those filthy tatters and make you look presentable for the masses. For whatever that is worth.” He steps closer, standing a hair’s breadth from Dean, looking down at him with cloying dishonesty. “And I do not lie, since I am a professional, unlike you, you little cur.”
“You call me that again, and father will hear about it,” he says challengingly. Dean squares off his shoulders, straightening himself up to seem imposing. “You miserable quim.”
“Oh, yes.” Alastair laughs, a heavy croak that makes Sam shiver by Dean’s side. His voice alone is grating, like something pulled from the nightmares one forgets upon waking. It is a dark sound, and if a voice could be touched, it is oily enough to choke. He drags out the words like a snake’s hiss. “I always appreciate a good lashing. Does the body wonders you youngsters are still too infantile to understand.”
Dean’s stomach twists in disgust. “Come on, Sam. Let’s get away from this creep.” He takes Sam by the hand, and he notices the lack of reluctance to the touch. He pulls him to the spiral staircase that rests along the chapel’s walls. Alastair doesn’t follow, but Dean can still feel his slimy stare on his back.
Once out of earshot, crossing the lower bailey, Sam lets out a loud breath. “I hate that guy,” he grumbles, squeezing Dean’s fingers instead of letting them go. Alastair had been the guest in far too many nightmares in their youth.
“Let’s forget about it and get ready for tonight, okay? I could go for a snack.” It’s a lie, and Sam knows it. If there is one thing the king’s advisor is good at, it is the killing of appetites.
“I just wanna see Mom.”
Dean swallows tightly, and nods. “Yeah, okay. I’ll take you to her.”
Alastair’s presence is something that puzzles Dean on a daily basis. Whenever the man crosses the gardens or saunters into the dungeons, the prince will cringe and fret about the reasons why John would possibly keep him around. The man is nothing but smog, poison to the air they breathe. His lies are many and blatantly tainted, but his strategies went unmatched, Dean figures, and that is what makes him an important affiliate. Alastair’s ability to forecast a battle, and foretell the outcome of it, is nothing but natural. No human can possibly be right every single time.
They find Mary waiting at the entrance of the ballroom, looking crestfallen, and Dean immediately goes to hug her. Sam does the same, but neither one questions what is wrong. Dean is pretty sure he knows, pulling her tighter against him. “I need to breathe, you know,” she says, sounding like her usually bright self.
Pulling away, Dean scratches at the back of his neck. “Sorry.”
Mary cups his face lovingly, and uses her free hand to card it through Sam’s too-long hair. “Look at you two.” She laughs out a sigh that’s almost nostalgic. “It’s like I don’t have babies anymore.”
“That’s not true, Mom. Sam will always be a baby.” For the second time that day, Dean finds himself with an elbow in the ribs.
“The tailors have brought your clothing.” Which means that it is time to change. She grins at them with the same manic glee all mothers consider their children with, when said children are about to be tortured.
“But it’s still early,” Sam all but whines, sounding much younger that he really is.
“He’s right,” Dean ventures, but immediately shuts up when Mary gives him a look.
"Do you have a problem with what I just said?" There is a collective shaking of heads that makes her grin widen impossibly. “Didn’t think so.”
Turning her back to them, Mary heads for the Great Hall. In step behind her, Dean and Sam exchange exasperated looks. “Don’t you roll your eyes at me,” she throws casually over her shoulder.
Sam has the grace to look as if he’s been slapped. “How does she do that?” he says quietly into Dean’s shoulder, which is as far as he can reach. His brother only shrugs.
“I think it’s a special power only mothers have,” he offers as a plausible explanation.
“I have eyes on the back of my head,” Mary says with a hint of amusement.
They wouldn’t be surprised if such a thing were actually true.
The castle is busy with dozens of people bustling about. Some tend to flowers, displaying them in pompous bouquets across the hall. Others are dusting and mounting candles, all of them recently carved into the shape of animals. Dean is genuinely intrigued by the craftsmanship.
Sunlight filters through wall-high windows; the curtains pulled back to let in the crisp winter breeze. The overwhelming mixture of perfume and flowers makes Sam sneeze.
Mary leads the way as she climbs the staircase, only stopping when a servant girl asks whether lavender or peach would be a better color for the ceremonial kerchiefs. “Lavender. It’ll match my dress.” Never mind that lavender matched nothing with the color scheme.
Dean chuckles. Trust his mother to rebel in the smallest of ways. It is easy to see where he got that personality trait from.
The top of the stairs turns off in the shape of a T, and they take a left, in the direction of their personal chambers. The flow of people becomes scarcer the deeper they go. Only a few young ladies are allowed in the wing to begin with, all of them which Dean knew and rather fancied.
Lisa, for one, had been Dean’s very first crush. She is much older than him, but Dean nods in acceptance of the fact. He likes girls with experience. Never bothering to actually approach her, he courtly bows his head as she walks by and says, “Good afternoon, milady.” Sam snickers from somewhere over his shoulder, but Mary’s footsteps are too far away for her to hear and chastise him.
Dean’s shoulders sag when Lisa laughs; her long, straight hair swaying as she bows in return. It isn’t a ‘oh my, aren’t you charming?’ laugh, more like a ‘you may call on me when you’re old enough to not shake in your armor’. “Good afternoon, your Highness,” she says, and leaves without giving him a second glance.
Not for the first time, Dean finds himself thinking just how in the world John expects him to become a man tonight, when he can’t even sway a maidservant.
“Brighten up, Dean. Someone’s bound to see you for who you truly are. No, wait, strike that. Yeah, you’re pretty much busted,” says Sam through muffled laughter, before meeting face-to-face with a freshly dusted tapestry and the stone wall behind it.
“Man, I can’t wait until you’re old enough to court girls. I’m gonna make your life a living hell.”
Sam snorts, running past Dean and shoving his shoulder when his bedroom door comes into view. “I live with you; how much worse can it get?”
“Real funny, wiseass.”
Mary is standing by Dean’s door, having a word with someone neither son can see. Sam heads in, pressing a kiss to Mary’s cheek that makes her giggle. Dean groans once he steps inside.
There’s a young man about his age, wearing nothing more than his underwear, stepping down from a wooden stool. Another man, this one much older, plump, is displaying layers of clothing across Dean’s bed with great care. There’s velvet and leather, and some cotton and wool to fend off the oncoming night chill. A newly-polished crown is set on a small pillow by their side.
“I thought you said our clothing was done,” Dean immediately complains. He hates having strangers inside his chamber, even when they have been working for his family since before he had been conceived.
“Just working on some minor details. Last minute alterations, your Highness. Want to make sure you look absolutely adorable for tonight,” the plump man says with an honest to God giggle. Dean takes a step back, gawking as the man and his assistant make their way out of the room.
“Did he just...? Mom-” He idly notices Sam complaining about his clothing in the background, but ignores him. “Where do you even get these people?”
“For what it’s worth, he’s a really nice man,” Mary offers offhandedly, reaching for the clothing Sam is holding up with contempt. “What? I think it’ll look flattering on you,” she says to her youngest. Unfolding the pale gray shirt, she holds it up against Sam’s shoulders to measure its length before nodding approvingly. “Perfect.”
“Mom, it’s hideous,” Sam complains, but disrobes without being told to.
Dean crosses his room, letting his mother and brother do their thing, and takes to leaning against his window. Looking down, he notices the people hurrying about like tiny ants, all of them carrying one thing or another and looking for the place they have to be. There’s a small group roping off the forest’s border, and marking the tree barks with a red substance Dean doesn’t recognize. He notices the musicians, gets a whiff of the food that is carried by the wind, and laughs when a man accidentally gets a tablecloth wrapped around his legs and falls over.
If the atmosphere felt festive before, now it was too obvious to ignore.
“Your arm goes through there, Sam, not your head,” Mary grunts, manhandling Sam into his undershirt.
Dean snorts. He’s not sure why Mary’s dressing them when it isn’t even her job, and he’s much less sure as to why she’s dressing Sam in his room. “Why are you dressing Sam in my room?”
“Honey, do me a favor and bring me your brother’s boots,” she says instead, gracelessly avoiding his question.
He may not have Sam’s smarts, but he knows when something is wrong. Dutifully reaching for the shined boots, Dean shoves them at Sam’s chest when Mary pulls away to get the second shirt. A thought is nagging at the back of his mind, and he cannot help but give his mother a quick look, wondering if anything else had been said after he left the dining room earlier.
“I asked why-”
“Dean,” she warns, shutting her eyes and taking a deep breath. “Please.”
“Mom?” Sam takes a hold of her wrists when she moves closer to slip the shirt over his head. Even through her smile, the tightness around her eyes is far too noticeable. “Is everything okay?”
Mary nods, her face refusing to fall, and continues to dress him. “Everything’s fine, sweetie,” she says warmly. Her hand comes to rest on top of Sam’s head, tugging gently at the soft hair there and knocking their foreheads together. “Everything’s all right.”
Dean’s standing stiffly by her side. He wants to argue with her, ask her to tell him what is bothering her, but he stays quiet. She was clear about them not asking, so he doesn’t, because he is a better man. “I love you, Mom,” he says, and it sounds vulnerable even to his own ears.
The look Mary gives him is one of the most heartbreaking things he has ever witnessed. It’s as if she is looking at him for the first time in a very long time, and her eyes crinkle when she smiles, like she might smile at a small child. She places her available hand against Dean’s cheek once more. “Come on, you two. Why the long faces?” Her strength, Dean thinks, is something to be admired.
The minutes tick by, all of them spent in a mess of clothing and impromptu pie breaks, courtesy of the cook. As they work, the winter chill begins to set in. The sky turns a pale gray, a promise of snow just a few hours off, and the sun begins its descent. The smell of warm apple still lingers around him deliciously, and he can feel his fingertips tingle with the pleasure of the gooey filling sprawling across his taste buds.
Sam leaves, fully dressed, shortly after.
Dean is not sure where time went, but he is too busy struggling with another, far more important, issue. An issue that has him standing at the middle of the room, with his mother drawing the strings at the top of his shirt closed. He feels like a doll getting prettied up for a ball, and grimaces when he concludes that, yes, that’s exactly what he is.
“Gosh, this is so stupid,” Dean whines, his voice sharp but embarrassingly cracked even for his own ears and he flinches, causing the crown to slip down his face for the third time in less than twenty minutes. “Mother!”
“Be quiet, Dean. You’ll scare away all the girls,” Mary chastises with the same brilliant smile she always wears. She fixes his sleeves then moves to properly adjust his jerkin, tying the strings before slipping the buckles into place. “You look absolutely stunning, darling.”
“Really?” He fixes his crown and wills it with all his might to stay in place. “Don’t I look silly? Sammy says I look silly.” And it is true. His brother frequently mentions that he’s seen swords fatter and far more imposing than Dean. “What if the girls make fun of me?”
“No one is going to make fun of you, dear. I promise.”
Taking the velvet cape that’s strewn over Dean’s bed, she swiftly ties it beneath the collar of his white shirt and places the thick strand of fur John specifically had made for the occasion over it. She slips the old amulet beneath his jerkin, safely out of sight. The amount of times she had argued with him to get rid of the thing had all fallen on deaf ears. Ever since Bobby gave it to him, mentioning that it was some sort of symbol of protection, Dean has never taken it off.
“Here we go,” Mary says sweetly, pressing her nose to his. “All done.” Taking a step back, she admires her son, who puffs out his chest in order to make himself look bigger. Mary chuckles and pushes him out the door.
"Hey Mom, do you know if Cassie will be here tonight?" he asks, aiming for a casual tone. He tries to work on his strut as he pads down the thick carpeted hallways.
They stop when a servant girl brings them two masks on a silver tray. Mary takes them both and offers the deep red one with golden swirls to Dean, who holds it to his face clumsily before furrowing his eyebrows in repulsion. It smells of rotten berries.
“Cassie? Theron’s daughter?”
“Yeah, she was here this morning. We went for a walk around the gardens after Dad and I came back from visiting Sabbath. She said she likes me,” he states with a shrug, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, though he is really just trying to sound indifferent about it.
Frowning, Mary looks like she is turning the thought over in her head. “Of course,” she finally says, and her tone is far too quiet for Dean to be perfectly at ease. “Do you like her?”
He nods sharply without wasting a moment. He has lost count of the amount of times he has tried to appease both his parents today, and he is not sure how far he can take the charade. “She’s really pretty, and sweet.” And it isn’t a lie. “And she can ride a horse like a guy,” he adds, because it is too important to leave out. “Why do we have to wear these again?”
“It’s a fashion statement, sweetheart. All of the other kingdoms are using them.”
“So? We’re not like the other kingdoms.”
“That’s very true,” she concedes with a smile, knocking her mask against his crown and making it slip yet again.
They come to a stop when they reach the top of the staircase, the sound of a fairly large crowd making Dean twitch nervously as he fidgets with his belt. He looks up at Mary with a crooked, yet stunning smile. “I know,” he says before she can even get the chance to open her mouth. “Be polite, don’t yell at people, show some decorum in the presence of the ladies and, most importantly, don’t belch.”
“It’s good to see you have paid attention to your lessons.” Framing his face, she swipes her thumbs across freckled cheeks, and presses a kiss to his forehead.
“Mom, stop that. I’m not a kid anymore, it’s embarrassing,” but he leans in and kisses her cheek despite that.
Mary chuckles, deep and musical. “You know what else young men don’t do? Whine.” He rolls his eyes. “And I love you, too. Now, go mingle.”
She watches her son stumble down the staircase, two steps at a time while awkwardly trying to hold up his crown.
Chapter Continued Here