[2012 DCBB] The Dreamer and the Mystic - Chapter Three (Continued)

[bellanovaskies]

Dean heaves a sigh. It is his eighteenth birthday and King John had requested for it to be celebrated grandly. He wished for all of the kingdoms to know that his eldest son had just taken the turn into manhood; which translated to ‘bring all of the gifts you can manage in order to be in my good graces’.

The glow of the candles is accompanied by the large moon, and together they illuminate the ballroom and throw it into a dim twilight. Music begins to play from somewhere in the courtyard, drifting in through the open doors and drowning out most of the senseless chatter. Dean doesn’t understand most of the things that are being discussed, although he should, but lessons were too boring to remain awake, so he ignores the people around him. Only a select few garner his attention for a matter of moments, as they actually stop to greet and congratulate him, and then he’s off again.

He spends the slow-passing evening by the food table, picking a piece of each pie the servants continue to bring. The pie is delicious, easily the best he’s ever tasted. From here, he can see couples dancing, including his parents, who seem to have reconciled for the time being. Mary looks pleased, while John looks like someone’s holding a rotten egg beneath his nose, but there is nothing strange or out of place about that.

Sam bumps into Dean when he runs by, following a group of his friends as they speak in hushed voices. One of them, a girl, giggles as she hides behind the table. “What the hell are you brats doing?” Dean asks, disinterestedly. He’s currently too busy grinning at a young blonde woman who keeps giving him coy smiles.

“We’re following someone,” the girl whispers, and Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Following someone? Who?”

“This really strange lady,” Sam clarifies, speaking normally as he snatches the plate from Dean’s hands with a laugh. “Madison says she’s a ghost,” he says mockingly. Madison punches his shoulder. “Ouch! Tell her it’s stupid, Dean.”

“Why do you think she’s a ghost?” he asks instead, honestly intrigued by whatever it is they mean. Then again, at that point, a party held by wild mangy dogs would be more interesting than his current surroundings.

In a kingdom run by hunters, the supernatural usually means serious business. Madison’s family isn’t of noble blood, but she knows enough to be able to protect herself for as long as need be, until the Winchesters intervened. It is quite a feat for a twelve year-old girl.

Sam groans, not believing that Dean would rather pay attention to some girl than his own brother.

“Because she floats,” Madison says simply.

“She... floats?”

“Mhmm. And it’s like nobody sees her. She just floats around the room, doesn’t talk, doesn’t eat... and she’s dressed weird.”

“Weird, how?”

“She’s wearing a long cloak with a hood, and when you think you’re gonna see her face, turns out she’s wearing a white mask. It’s really pretty, though. And her cloak has stars on it, so that’s pretty, too,” Madison concludes.

Dean frowns as he scans the surroundings, but sees nothing of the sort. He figures he would have noticed if anything was out of the ordinary, but everything seems as bland and boring as always. No ghost, and no mysterious lady. He writes it off as them playing pretend, and returns to his pie... which is no longer there. Cussing at Sam, he grabs a clean plate and serves himself another piece. “Okay, then. If anyone sees the evil ghost, you come tell me right away. I’ll teach it who’s boss.”

“Does that mean you’ll keep me safe?” The first of Mary’s rules vanishes from the list swimming in his head, because decorum is the farthest thing in his mind whenever Cassie is near. Because, despite what his parents fight about, Dean really does like her.

Long fingers wrap around Dean’s elbow, pulling his attention away from the tiny group of miscreants as they continue their stakeout from the food table. He turns and huffs out a clumsy guffaw, which quickly turns into a snort as he tries to cover it up. Cassie laughs, and there is no way to keep the heat from spreading across his cheeks, down his neck and up to his ears.

“Cas-ahem,” he clears his throat once he remembers himself, and brings up his mask a little too late, slapping himself in the process. “Damm-my Lady,” he grits out, trying to cover up the swear. Five seconds in, and everything is already a disaster. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Your Highness,” she says with refined bow. “Are you enjoying the evening?” Her dark eyes are wide with barely-contained mirth, delicate features are framed by long, tightly-curled hair, and her skin a lovely brown.

Dean nods, lips pressed into a thin line when he finds that he cannot think of anything smart to say other than ‘hello’, which he already covered. “Yes, I am. Food is good. You should try the pie.”

Cassie turns to spare the table a glance, her long curls bobbing with the movement. “Well, don’t mind if I do.”

Being the perfect gentleman that he is, somewhat, Dean reaches for a plate and fork after setting aside his own. Serving a piece of the pie he considers to be the best, Sam tugs sharply at his arm when he’s about to hand it over to Cassie. There’s a smear of apple and sugar on his sleeve now, and Dean swats him away with an agitated huff.

“Dean, she’s right there.”

“Good to know, kid. Go get her,” he replies absently, too enraptured in the way Cassie’s lips wrap around the fork with a dreamy hum.

“Gross,” Sam says, and takes his leave in order to chase his ghost.

“What was all that about?” Cassie asks, while coyly breaking off a piece of the pie, pushing it around her plate. But she doesn’t eat it, and Dean notices. “Your baby brother chasing ghosts, too?”

“Ever since Dad told him about the family business he’s been obsessed with it. Not that he can do much, still. He’s roughly half the size of a longsword.”

Her smile is bright as she sets down her plate. “Give him a few years and I bet he’ll have to bend down to speak to you.”

Dean scoffs, feeling more than a little disappointed by the fact that she didn’t like the pie and was only trying to be polite about it. “Doubt it. Even if he does, he’s still the little one, which means I’ll kick his ass if I have-oomph.” He slaps a hand over his mouth and smiles sheepishly.

Cassie giggles, blushing at his brazen vocabulary. “I’m sure you’ll be able to do that when the time comes, sir.”

Straightening up with a nonchalant smile, his crown slips, and he cusses, not caring what she thinks about him this time around. It’s not supposed to be this hard. John always tells him that he’s a natural when it comes to the ladies, but by the way he keeps tripping up, Dean is starting to doubt it. He can feel his mood spoil considerably, his insecurities getting the better of him once again.

Like a Heaven sent distraction, Dean finally sees her.

He wonders if she’s been there all along, standing by an ornately decorated beam, surrounded by people completely ignorant of her presence. The ghost lady wears a rich, blue, velvet cloak that billows splendidly around her, and is indeed embroidered with golden stars. The hood is pulled low over her face. She does stand out, Dean finally acknowledges, but it isn’t until she moves away that he fully grasps what it was that Sam and Madison were arguing over.

Dean understands what they meant by ‘floating’. The grace with which she moves is something that no words can properly express. There is something intense surrounding her, like invisible lightning, making her seem bigger, in a way. He finds that he can’t really describe it at all.

“What is it that you’re looking at?” Cassie asks curiously, looking over Dean’s shoulder.

“I think that’s Sam’s ghost.”

“Where?”

“Right there. The lady in blue.”

“Oh. Wow.” She sounds genuinely awed and Dean is glad to hear it. “She doesn’t look like a ghost,” she indicates with a hint of amusement in her tone. “Well, aren’t you going to intervene?” Her eyes sparkle as she winks at him. “You said you’d protect me.”

“R-Right, of course.”

Clearing his throat, and ramming his crown down so hard that it nearly covers his eyes, Dean squares off his shoulders and walks towards the cloaked woman with every ounce of presence he has. He brushes off several of the people who try to approach him with polite smiles and urgent excuses.

The woman is looking attentively at the tapestries, gloved fingers grazing the worn thread reverently when Dean finally approaches her. He hesitates, looks over his shoulder to where Cassie is signaling him to continue, and clears his throat.

The hand stiltedly pulls away before falling back into the dark cloak, but she Is otherwise still.

“Uh, excuse me,” Dean starts, but goes silent again when she turns, and he’s met with eyes so blue he really does think her a ghost. “Oh.”

She gives a gracious bow. No, not she, he, Dean realizes belatedly, and it’s suddenly difficult to swallow. “Good evening, your Highness.” With a voice that deep, it’s hard not to stare. The white mask he wears is trimmed with black feathers, contrasting nicely with the blue of both his eyes and cloak.

Dean tries not to stare, but it is a hard thing to achieve. The ambience around the man is nearly palpable now, and sets the hairs along his arms on end. He may not be a ghost, but Dean is willing to bet that he is not human either. Remembering himself, Dean bows his head quickly, but charmingly. “Have we met?”

He wants to ask what he is doing at his birthday celebration. Is he a spy? Some sort of witch who has come to curse him like the stories Mary told him and Sam? Or maybe he is a demon searching to devour the souls of young children.

The man shakes his head before lowering it in a way Dean can only describe as shy.

“Um,” the man begins but stops to let out a breath. He shifts his shoulders and stands a little straighter, raising his chin, and Dean can see his Adam’s apple bob. There’s something nice about it, like how Dean does the same exact thing when he tries to make himself look like the prince he is supposed to be. “No. No, we haven’t.” The man sounds defeated.

Amusement bubbles in Dean’s stomach at that. “You sound kind of disappointed there, buddy. And hey, who wouldn’t be? I am me, after all,” he tries for grandeur, but he knows it fails. The man’s smile is sympathetic, and Dean bristles. “Who are you?”

The man looks around and shakes his head. “I can’t tell you.”

Dean shuffles his feet, not expecting the answer. “Why not?”

“I’ve been ordered not to.”

“Are you a spy?”

“No.”

Dean thinks that he shouldn’t believe him. The right thing to do would be to call the guards, tell the king that there is an intruder and have him hanged. As prince and heir to the throne, he has the authority to do so. But he doesn’t want to. Dean is a prince, but he will forever be a miscreant first, royalty second. Instead, he moves in and pats the stranger’s shoulder.Dean guides him out to the empty balcony, and closes the glass doors behind him.

The moonlight bounces off the man’s mask, and it is then that Dean remembers his own. He throws the repulsive thing down the precipice; fashion statements be damned.

“Okay, stranger. Why are you here then? Or, you can’t tell me that either?” He props himself up on the stone rail, legs swinging freely as he keeps his eyes on the man, who leans against it.

The stranger considers the question for a moment. "Perhaps I could tell you the reason I'm here, but only if you can keep it a secret."

Dean always did love a good mystery. “You’re not a bad guy, are you?”

“I’m not." The man smiles again, but this time it is wide and bright. Dean wants to blame the mask, or the fact that Sam and Madison had thought the stranger was a woman, but Dean thinks that his smile is beautiful. The man continues, "My... brother, wants you and I to become acquainted.” The word ‘brother’ doesn’t sound too genuine.

Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Dean removes his crown and sets it by his side. “Is there a reason for that? That’s... really strange.” The man shrugs.

The conversation ends for a few minutes. The two of them look around them, taking in the sight of people mingling on the opposite side of the door. Some dance and others are talking, but no one interrupts them, and Dean feels terribly grateful for that.

“Dad got me a horse,” Dean says suddenly, desperate to fill the awkward silence with anything. “Do you wanna go see her?”

The man looks around nervously for a moment, before nodding hesitantly. “Is it wise for you to leave? What if his Majesty requires your presence?”

Slipping off the baluster and stretching until his back clicks into place, Dean tucks the crown beneath his arm and makes his way to a hidden stairwell. “Who cares? I do what I want,” and he knows he sounds spoiled, but he really doesn’t care. He briefly looks over his shoulder to make sure that the stranger, and no one else, is following him.

Eldosia’s castle rests on a cliffside that slips into the ocean, carved out of the stones themselves. Dean doesn’t remember how long it took for it to be finished. His teacher once mentioned that it took seven generations, ending with his father, but the buildings looked far too new to be that old. Dean really didn’t care, anyway. The castle was already there, standing like a heavenly guard over the sea. It’s nice every time summer arrives; the breeze crisp and cool against the sun. But now, in the middle of winter, Dean is shivering.

“You gonna tell me how you got here? Can you give me anything at all?” Dean asks, as they make their way into the courtyard, past a small crowd and into the quieter parts of the castle. “Don’t take it personal, or anything, I just don’t want to get murdered while I play the nice guy.”

“By horse,” the stranger says simply.

Dean waits for him to say something else, but when it is obvious that he is not going to, Dean laughs. “Well, I’m sure you didn’t take a boat.”

The man stares at him as they walk, and says, “Why would I?”

“What? Dude, it was... You know, forget I mentioned it.”

They keep close to the curtain wall, navigating through the shadows and out of sight of the guards, who are too drunk to notice them no matter how loudly Dean’s teeth were chattering in the cold. Passing into the lower bailey, across the chapel and the well, Dean signals the stranger-Blue, Dean decides to call him, because of his eyes-to stop.

The stables are just within eyesight through the darkness, just beneath the moonlight, but there’s a flurry of sound coming from the side of a tower. They straighten up against the wall and slowly move along.

The stranger stops because he sees no cover for them to reach the stables undetected, but Dean stops for completely different reasons. Pressing a finger to his lips, telling him to be quiet, Dean tugs his cloak in a silent order for him duck down. Seeing no other alternative, Blue does.
From the darkness comes a gasp, quickly followed by the sound of rustling and a moan.

A woman’s legs are wrapped around a man’s hips, hands scrambling across his back as she cries out a nondescript name. The man is grunting, snapping his hips forward, pushing her higher against the wall as he continues his erratic thrusting.

Dean gives Blue an impish grin, jerking his head to creep closer to the action. Blue’s already wide eyes widen further, a brief look of panic visible even through the mask as he frantically shakes his head. The prince rolls his eyes.

The woman is panting now, whimpering against the onslaught. She keens when her partner mutters something gruffly, out of breath and choked, and the sound of it makes heat pool in Dean’s lower half.

with their visit to the stable now forgotten, Dean inches closer to get a better view in the moonlight. He can see the man’s ass flexing with surprising clarity, and the woman’s heels as they scramble for purchase. Dean can’t help licking his lips, feeling dry.

The woman’s cries reach a crescendo, and Dean’s breathing is more than a little uneven, but his blood runs cold when the lady’s eyes fall directly on him.

She gasps, and so does he.

“Shit, run!” Dean grumbles in a panic, shoving Blue off in the same direction in which they had come. He can hear the yells and cursing following close behind, but Dean cannot make them out over his breathless and more-than-a-little-hysterical laughter. Blue is keeping a close stride, hurriedly moving, not caring who saw them at this point as they run across the bailey, the dark cloak swirling behind him.

In a split-second decision, Dean grabs Blue by the wrist and wrenches him in the opposite direction of the stairwell they had used, and into a much darker corner of the castle. He ducks through a tiny wooden door, and into a small room filled with bows, arrows, swords and other weapons. Lifting yet another, tinier door, he shoves Blue through it.

Candles flicker when the trap door snaps shut, and Dean leans against the wall to breathe. They’re back inside the castle, at least. It is surprisingly hot, and the smells that waft around them makes them both twist their noses. “Kitchens,” Dean pants out, “We’re near the kitchens.”

“Your Highness?” Dean snaps his head to the side and he feels his stomach drop sickeningly. His father’s manservant is looking right at them, confused and weary. “Is everything alright?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine,” he says nervously. A nervousness that turns into sheer panic when John’s voice booms from somewhere deep in the hallway. “Oh, fuck, no.” Without saying another word, Dean unceremoniously grabs Blue by the cloak and breaks into a run again.

Eighteen years’ worth of sneaking both out and in means that Dean knows every little escape route that is hidden within the stone walls. He takes sharp turns and sneaks along tunnels, climbing unused staircases and taking long-deserted halls until, finally, he reaches his personal chambers. Delighted by the fact that Blue is still close on his heels, he pulls open the large wooden door and ushers him inside before bolting it shut behind him.

Lungs burning, Dean slides onto the floor, his knees too shaky to continue standing. His panting gives way to uncontrolled laughter, especially by the way Blue keeps staring at him like he has just stolen Camelot’s Holy Grail. The prince clutches his chest, choking out a cough that molds itself into another breathy laugh.

“I think you’ve misplaced your crown,” the stranger finally says, looking orange in the flickering candlelight, seemingly unperturbed from the endless running.

Dean should be worried, but he is sincerely not. His body is too busy zinging with pleasant exhaustion, his heart pounding and blood rushing in his ears in a way that it is too intoxicating for him to properly think. “Someone’ll find it and bring it back. And if they don’t, I have plenty more where that one came from.” Wiping the sweat from his brow, Dean’s laughter dies down when he notices Blue curiously staring at him, his shoulders set and body stiffer than it had been before. “What is it?”

The stranger looks away and clears his throat.

Raising his eyebrows, Dean looks down and... oh.

Dean tries to be discreet, pulling the cape to cover his lap, but even then his erection is difficult to hide. He clears his throat.

What of it? Dean thinks to himself. It is nothing to be ashamed of, truly. He has gotten both an eye and earful; it was a perfectly normal reaction for someone his age. Besides, there is something undoubtedly exhilarating about running until you collapse, and he finds it hard not to be aroused by it. Or by the combination of both. The idea of an unexpected adventure had gotten his blood going, and adding a stranger into the mix-well, it was no easy thing to avoid.

Dean licks his lips, hissing out a breath as if to steady himself. “Aren’t you… a little… y-you know…heh?”

The man’s jaw clenches, then flexes, but otherwise doesn’t move. He seems to be debating something, and by the looks of it, something big. Dean’s muscles give, whether out of relief or bemused, he isn’t quite sure, when Blue finally nods.

“Well this is awkward.”

“How so?” And damn if Blue’s voice isn’t a lovely thing to hear. It must be wrong, because deep and rumbling shouldn’t sound lovely to him at all, but it is. His voice resonates deep in his stomach, and Dean likes it.

“Because, I don’t know?” He does know, though, and he is just too embarrassed to voice it. Not only are they complete strangers, but they are both men.

It is also too thrilling to pass up.

Bobby had explained to him, a very long time ago, that you only live once, and that life is short. When unexpected and strange things occur, there is always a reason for it. He had told Dean to embrace and welcome everything. Keep a wary and keen eye, but never be afraid to meddle. When Dean had asked why, Bobby had shrugged and said, ‘Because you’re a Winchester, boy. It’s in your nature to get in trouble.’ And Bobby had been right.

Dean was a man, now. John had told him so when he took him out to meet Sabbath just that morning. He had explained the ‘birds and the bees’, and had said that it was normal to feel a strange kind of happy inside his trousers. At first, the prince had wondered why his father had sounded so embarrassed about it, but once Dean understood what it was he was referring to, they both cleared their throats and pretended that the conversation had never happened.

Right. He was a man. Getting to his feet and proudly puffing out his chest, Dean allows the cape to fall away and tries not to flinch when Blue looks directly at it.

“Your Highness?”

“Dean,” the prince says bashfully. “Just call me Dean.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment, Dean only looking away when Blue swipes a tongue over his thick lips. “Castiel.”

“Huh?”

“My name is Castiel,” he says. “When I was asked to speak with you, they never told me that we would end up here.” His tone is sheepish as he fiddles with his cloak. “I’m not sure… about what I should do.”

“Roll with it,” Dean clarifies with authority, unwilling to let Castiel back down. “I promise I’ll treat you good.” When his eyes widen, Dean stutters, “W-What is it?”

“We’re not…”

“You mean, you weren’t talking about… that?” Once again, his urgency to rush to conclusions leaves him feeling off balance. “I thought-”

“I was ordered to draw your attention, but to not become familiar,” Castiel explains, and he sounds disillusioned.

“That’s stupid,” Dean says. “Who ordered you?”

Castiel hesitates and looks over his shoulder. “Michael,” he says simply, like the name will clarify all of the questions now swimming in Dean’s head.

“And, who is Michael?”

“My big brother.”

Dean flashes him a grin and steps closer, a hand coming up to grip at Castiel’s forearm kindly. “Do you always listen to big brother?”

He nods. “Of course. He says that it’s important that I know who you are, but he didn’t say why.” Castiel licks his lips again, eyes slowly trailing across Dean’s face now that they are at close proximity. “He didn’t say anything about being unable to…” he trails off, his eyes dropping to the front of Dean’s pants.

“Probably because people don’t fuck on the first day they meet. Much less the first hour. Unless you’re a prostitute,” Dean explains rationally, though there is nothing rational about the situation at hand.

“I am no such thing,” Castiel says indignantly, and Dean chuckles.

“Never said you were.”

They fall quiet, Dean kicking idly at the foot of his bed while Castiel casts awkward glances at the dresser. The dizzying force is fading, but it is nowhere near gone. Dean is still uncomfortably hard, and had it not been for Castiel, he would have already taken care of it. Much to his surprise, though, it is Castiel who finally breaks the ice.

“Are we going to-?”

“If you want to,” Dean rushes out, blushing though he is sure Castiel cannot notice in the faint candlelight.

Sucking in a breath, Castiel nods and inches closer, his body heat rolling across Dean’s front. “Do you know what you’re doing, your-Dean?”

Dean laughs casually, shrugging a little too hard. “Of course I do, I have sex all the time.” Which is a lie, but Castiel does not have to know that.

Leaning in, the prince stops, suddenly too nervous to decide what he is going to do first. He has pictured himself doing it countless of times at night, touching himself each time, but this is different. It is different, and it is scary and exciting all at once. Sighing against Castiel’s lips, Dean hooks a finger beneath the lip of the mask and pulls it up and off, dragging the hood with it.

Men aren’t beautiful. They aren’t supposed to be, and yet Dean suddenly finds it very hard to breathe.

Castiel’s eyes are the color of midnight in the dark chamber. His cheekbones are high, his eyes round and big like a child’s, and his mouth is shapely and soft looking. His jaw is oddly shaped, too masculine in contrast to the otherwise gentle features of his face. His hair is a dark mop over his head, sticking up in all places like he has been nervously running his fingers through it.

He is very handsome, Dean decides. And then, he is completely overrun by the urge to kiss him, and that he does.

Their lips meet awkwardly, noses bumping as they finally decide what to do with them, and Dean feels like kicking himself. He has kissed girls before, and yet it feels like his very first time. Castiel’s lips are as soft as they look, and Dean tips his head to kiss him better, lips unmoving.

When he pulls away, he finds that Castiel is staring at him in shock. Dean chuckles. “You’re supposed to close your eyes, you know.”

“Why?”

Dean wonders about it before simply saying, “It’s the rules.”

This time, it is Castiel who presses their mouths together. He is hesitant, but once Dean brushes his lips, he catches on and repeats the motion. It is dry and awkward, but Dean can’t stop shivering every time Castiel pulls away, opens his mouth briefly, before overlapping them and dragging his lips closed in a soft suck. Dean’s never been kissed like that, and part of him wonders if other people even did it like that.

They are still standing at arm’s reach, slowly kissing as time goes by, or until Dean is struck by a genius thought and finally decides to slide his tongue across Castiel’s lips. castiel gasps in surprise, opening his eyes and blinking them owlishly, refusing to look away from Dean’s pouty lips. “That…”

“You like that?” Dean whispers gruffly, and before he knows it, Castiel is on him again. This time, he forgets that there is such a thing as lips and focuses entirely on Dean’s tongue. If at first it had been dry, now it was just messy, but Dean finds the wet noises amazing and he pulls them closer.

Castiel gasps and moans around Dean’s tongue when their bodies finally press flush against each other, and Dean accidentally bucks his hips to alleviate the pressure in his front, causing Castiel to moan again. And, like a final raindrop touching Dean's rippling surface, that moan breaks the dam.

Dean moves in hesitantly, thumb and forefinger caressing the sapphire brooch that holds Castiel’s cloak in place. They press their foreheads together, panting. “May I?”

“Yes. Yes, Dean…”

His free hand runs along the fabric over Castiel’s arm, drinking in the rich feel of it as it slides smoothly against his fingers. Sealing their mouths in a kiss, he unhooks the brooch, and the cloak falls away with a quiet rustle to pool on the ground. It surprises Dean to note that Castiel's feet are bare.

Dean’s cape is next, after Castiel roughly shoves off the strip of animal fur with distaste, making Dean laugh throatily. The he huffs, frustrated by the half dozen layers Dean is wearing, but sighs in victory when he finally has him shirtless.

Men also don’t have delicate hands, Dean muses, tipping his head back when Castiel’s hands slide up his chest to tangle his fingers in the hair behind his neck, then pulling him down for another searing kiss. Using it as a distraction, lips still suckling at Dean’s, Castiel trails his hands all the way down to hook on the hem of Dean’s trousers.

Sucking Castiel’s bottom lip into his mouth, Dean removes the white tunic Castiel has been wearing underneath his cloak, muttering in complaint when he has to break their mouths apart to pull it over his head. Dean is quick to map Castiel’s back, dragging blunt nails across smooth, warm skin, until he starts to fondle the firm buttocks over his trousers. He huffs out a chuckle, wondering if Castiel is a rider, and is not at all surprised when Castiel laughs back, pulling away from the kiss to rest his head on Dean’s shoulder, purring like a cat.

Silently pulling him towards the bed, Dean pushes Castiel onto his back, and he scrambles gracelessly to drop himself into the middle. Dean climbs up as well, and stretches his body across Castiel to kiss him. And they kiss, and kiss, and kiss some more.

Castiel arches, trying to find the same pressure as before, but he fails and begins to get frustrated. Dean pulls away, seeing how the man below him squirms. He lets out what would be a wicked chuckle, were it not for the desperation in his voice.

Dean hesitates, suddenly unsure of what to do. John’s voice echoes in his head-‘You’re a man, now, son’-but what kind of man is he when he is enjoying the company another one? He feels ashamed at the thought that he is letting his father down, but then Bobby’s voice reminds him that it is okay to venture into the unknown, as long as he kept a sharp eye.

Whatever residual hesitation Dean has flees when Castiel leans up to steal a tender kiss. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, Dean.” It is a whisper spoken against his lips, but the sadness that is threatening to slip into it snaps Dean to attention, and he pushes Castiel back down.

He lowers himself to press a kiss against Castiel’s stomach, his open palm massaging the bulge between castiel’s legs as he does so, making him hiss and whimper and twitch. He moves his fingers to undo Castiel’s trousers. “You’ll like this, I promise,” Dean says, though he doesn’t know what he is referring to. Like what? Dean doesn’t know the first thing about sex, other than you had to be naked for it, so that he did.

Dean swallows hard as he undress Castiel fully, leaving him nude across his bed, covered in nothing but a thin sheen of sweat. Castiel’s cock arches up to rest against his hipbone, and Dean feels a swell of panic surge through him. Delaying whatever it is that’s supposed to happen next, he tugs off the last of his own clothing, and then… he just kneels there between Castiel’s legs.

Castiel is looking up at him expectantly, even through half-lidded eyes. “Dean?”

“Huh?”

He shimmies his hips, but Dean only continues to stare unabashed. “I thought you said-”

“I know what I’m doing, okay?” Dean bites defensively, and instead of recoiling, he watches in amazement as Castiel’s cock twitches.

He is struck by the thought that, yes, Castiel is indeed a guy, which means that it should not be all that different from what he usually does with himself. Sucking in a breath, Dean moves across the bed to kneel in between Castiel’s legs, who politely spreads them to properly accommodate him. Dean brings his palm up to lick it until it is wet enough, and once he deems it so, he jerkily grabs Castiel’s cock.

It is surprisingly similar to what he does when he is alone but he finds that there is a completely new range of motions he can do. Beneath him, Castiel’s face freezes up in shocked surprise before it melts into a pleasure so profound, his eyes roll to the back of his skull. Dean uses his free hand to touch himself, and feels ridiculously proud that he’s successfully pleasuring them both.

Dean is knocked off his center when Castiel sharply tugs him down for a kiss, and it is like fire rockets have gone off inside of them when their penises accidentally bump against each other in the flurry of movement. They both gasp and groan, hips stuttering unsurely and the pleasure builds, leaving them breathless.

In another stroke of genius, Dean straightens up again and hooks Castiel’s legs over his hips. Much like the lady had done in the dark corner of the wall. Tugging him down, much closer to his body, he moves his hips, their cocks rubbing side by side. Even though Castiel moans, Dean is a little put off by the roughness of it, so he takes a moment to dampen his hands with his saliva and slicken them both.

It feels hot, like someone is holding a flame to his stomach. As he burns, sinuous hands travel soothingly down his back. The pleasure builds in a way that Dean can almost touch it with his bare hands, so he does touch.

Castiel has both their cocks trapped against his stomach with both his hands. He bucks up, panting erratically, desperately urging Dean to move faster. But the prince takes his time. He slides his hands along Castiel’s flanks, tickling him before rubbing absently at a peaked nipple. Castiel jerks.

Dean's lingering thought resurfaces: there is something about Castiel that doesn't feel human. The feeling tingles inside him as he rakes his nails across the inside of the other man's thighs. Castiel’s body spasms, head snapping back violently when he cries out something unintelligible, and Dean is too preoccupied being amazed by the hot wetness now splattered on Castiel’s stomach to really notice the light pop that sounds in his ears.

Suddenly, he can only see black.

He hears the rustle of fabric and Dean’s pace stutters, thinking that there is someone in the room with them, but it is then that he realizes there are feathers spread all over his bed. Only, they are not feathers, but wings that droop from Castiel’s back and onto the floor, seemingly limp from his orgasm.

Dean’s first instinct is to reach for his sword, but the soft whimper that falls from Castiel’s lips only spurs him on, and he is unable to stop, even with the realization that the man before him is truly inhuman. Instead, he does the only thing he can do. Dean shoves his hands into the messy feathers and grabs onto them, snapping his hips repeatedly. Castiel chokes out a growl that is so drowned in ecstasy that straight away, Dean feels pressure build even more fiercely behind his balls.

There is a knock on the door, and Castiel freezes, looking up at Dean with panicked eyes-but the prince only kisses him senseless as his release mounts, so close to it now. He groans loudly into Castiel’s mouth before biting down on his lip. They both know for a fact that whoever is standing outside the door has heard them.

Dean slows his movement but doesn’t stop, watching as he paints Castiel’s skin in the dim light. It is obscene, but Dean can feel heat still stirring in his gut. Sighing against Castiel’s mouth, he kisses him again, roughly grabbing handfuls of feathers and gently tugging at them, making him mewl, panting and writhing underneath him. His limbs feel shaky as he continues to hang over him, pressing open-mouthed kisses along his cheeks, temples and forehead.

When he finally manages to pull away, Dean drags his fingertips across Castiel’s body until he’s kneeling again. He swears he hears footsteps, but he is distracted by his lover’s body. It is only then that he notices how nicely his waist is curved, and swells at the hips before they narrow down into a sharp vee. His body is almost womanly, and Dean wonders if he somehow cheated at one point.

Castiel shakily sits up and runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, bringing him down for yet another kiss, arching up his body to press lightly to his. As remarkable as the encounter has been, Dean is content with simply touching his mouth to Castiel’s. It is soft and warm, and makes his stomach flutter in a way he has never experienced before. He is not sure about what they are supposed to do now, but Dean is perfectly content with breathing each other’s air.

And it would have lasted longer, were it not for the distant footsteps quickly approaching Dean’s chamber. The sound would have been ignored if it had not sounded so clear, but when Dean turns and notices that his door is ajar, his stomach runs cold.

“Dean Winchester!”

Actually, his very soul runs cold.

He doesn’t have time to make fun of the horrified face Castiel is sporting as he grabs the thick sheets and none too gently throws them over his head, but his wings are two obvious mounds that are easy to draw attention to and difficult to explain. “Whatever you do, don’t say a word,” he hisses. In a split second decision, Dean flings himself over Castiel’s body and somehow manages to cover the lower part of his own in the same movement. He is trying to hurriedly stuff the last of the feathers beneath the covers when a fuming John barges in through the chamber door.

Dean’s head shoots up, eyes wide and devoid of any emotion, having slipped out through his feet the moment he had heard his father call out his name. “S-Sir!”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Your mother’s been looking everywhere for you-and what the hell is going on here?” John’s voice has always struck fear into the Winchester boys’ hearts, but now it rings like a death sentence over Dean’s head.

“I-uh, well, heh, you see, um....” Unable to swallow in order to get the words out, Dean jerks his head in the general direction of the large lump beneath the covers.

There is a God, Dean thinks, because just then, the ire in John’s face melts into something Dean can’t really name. He takes a quick step back, fumbling with the latch of the door as he steps out again. “I am so very sorry to interrupt. Please, do continue!” Dean grins awkwardly when the king makes a hand gesture that means ‘I’m so proud of you, son’, and slams the door as he leaves. Dean can already hear him giving Mary a discourse on how much of a man their eldest was, and he feels sick just thinking about it.

For being skinny, Castiel is surprisingly strong, a fact proven when he shoves Dean off of him like he weighs nothing, heaving a breath after having had his face shoved into a pillow for a good minute. “I do not appreciate being treated like a stuffed animal,” he says venomously, but the thought vanishes when Dean tackles him down again, devouring his mouth without prelude.

Something foreign simmers in the pit of Dean’s stomach, and he can only voice it through laughter, which he does. He guffaws as he pulls Castiel to him, the young man now chuckling as well as they roll around the sheets messily, mindful of his appendages. “You’ve got wings, dude. You’re practically a walking,” he kisses his mouth, “talking,” suckles on his bottom lip, “stuffed bear.” Castiel jabs him in the ribs.

“Am not,” he defends, bristling indignantly. “Bears do not have wings. And your father seems to be a very frightening person.”

Dean throws a silk sheet into the air, the fabric fanning out and falling over them neatly, hiding them away from prying eyes. “Are you an angel?” he asks, still awed by the wings that don’t really fit in their makeshift niche. “I don’t see a halo. Plus, I don’t think angels do it with humans.”

Castiel huffs out a laugh. He seems hard-pressed to stay annoyed, not when his legs are still shaking, too exhausted to move. “I’m not an angel, Dean. However, my people are their descendants.”

“Descendants of angels, huh?” Castiel nods when Dean leans in to press their noses together. “Sounds cool.”

A loud boom suddenly erupts outside, rattling not only the windows and candelabra, but the two of them. Dean pulls the blankets away hurriedly, an arm tight around Castiel’s shoulders to calm him as another explosion goes off. To his delight, light sparkles outside his window with a crackle, illuminating his chambers briefly before the sparks fall into nothingness.

“What is that?” Castiel squeaks, and Dean cannot help but laugh.

He stumbles out of the bed, nearly tripping over Castiel’s discarded cloak, and leans out of the window. Below, he can see his father’s men lighting fuses. “Come on,” he beckons Castiel. “Get your ass over here.”

Making his way towards Dean, Castiel stops when another boom shakes the walls, taking a cautionary step back. His eyes are wide with wonder and awe, however, and he finally rushes over to Dean’s side to better look. “What-”

“Fire rockets,” Dean explains, wrapping an arm around Castiel’s waist and pulling him close, pressing a kiss onto his shoulder. He grimaces when he accidentally rubs against the stickiness on his stomach. “Dad had to pull some serious stops to get those.”

“Is it magic?”

Dean laughs. “No way. Dad hates that shit,” he says with a shrug. “It’s gunpowder. The same we use for the cannons. Only, I think they add some other stuff, but I really don’t know what. An ambassador from the East Kingdom brought him some and he totally freaked, so he decided to get some more for today.” He stops to smile at Castiel who still recoils when the explosions go off, but his grin is something to behold. “Guess that’s what he barged in here for.”

Pulling away, Dean reaches for his clothing, only putting on what is absolutely necessary. “We’re going outside,” he says at Castiel’s questioning look. “Get a better view.”

Castiel hesitates, but follows Dean’s lead.

Dean climbs out of his window and onto the wall walk wearing only his braies and shirt, before turning to help Castiel join him. He’s only wearing his tunic, which is long enough to cover down to his thighs, and whenever the sea breeze blows, he uses his wings to cover himself shyly.

The night is cold and clear, loud with the sea of music and the multitude yelling their felicitations to the future king into the wind, but Dean ignores them all. Instead, he settles down on the cold stone floor with his knees to his chest, Castiel by his side, and they watch the display as it lights up the heavens, all in Dean’s name. Dean doesn’t like the attention, but he does like the fire rockets.

He notices Castiel looking at him hesitantly, his shoulders jumping whenever a rocket goes off, and he raises his eyebrows. “What is it?” Dean inquires.

Castiel inches closer to him and whispers, “It’s cold out.”

Dean pretends he doesn’t know what he’s on about, but eventually caves when Castiel’s eyes shine a little too bright. Without saying a word, he gestures him over.

Castiel curls into him, arms around Dean’s chest, face buried into his neck but still able to see the lighted sparks as they explode against the black backdrop, a leg innocently over Dean’s lap. He brings down a wing to shield them both from the cold, and Dean laughs nervously, even while returning the warm embrace. “Where the heck were you even hiding these?”

“I wasn’t. I shadowed them so that others could not perceive them. Or me, for that matter,” Castiel mumbles against his neck. His breath tickles Dean’s skin.

“But my brother saw you, and so did I.”

“Certain people-special people-can see past the illusion. Your brother has a gift.”

“And me?”

“You found me after he explained to you what to look for?” Dean considers it for a moment, before nodding. “In that case, your brother eased you into accepting the improbable.”

“You.”

“Me,” Castiel says with a smile.

“Hm. Do the rest of your people have these?” Dean brings up a hand to caress a silky feather, and is pleased when Castiel shivers against him.

“Yes.”

Unexpectedly, Castiel lifts the wing and extends it to its full length. The moonlight that slides across the feathers make them shine a rich blue, and Dean finds himself wondering what color they truly are. Castiel gives them a shake, making Dean laugh before bringing it down to cover them again, making sure to give the prince’s face a gentle caress. Much to his surprise, and pleasure, Dean holds it there and buries his face into the feathers playfully, leaving behind a kiss that makes Castiel melt.

They lean against the wall and remain silent until long after the fire rockets have stopped, and the crowd has gone quiet. At one point, they hear Dean’s chamber door open, then close, but nobody bothers to disturb them in their little cocoon of feathers. The sound of crashing waves is lulling Castiel off to sleep, but he struggles against it. Instead, he focuses on kissing Dean affectionately, who returns the action with just as much warmth.

There is a barely perceptible whistle which Dean’s intensive training allows him to pick up, but he makes nothing of it until Castiel sits up sharply, throwing him off completely. “Castiel?” The man scrambles to his feet and clumsily tries to climb back into Dean’s room. Had it not been for the prince’s kind push, he would have stayed stuck there, giving the entire kingdom a healthy view of his ass. “What’s the hurry, man?”

“I’m late,” Castiel hisses, stumbling back onto the bed as he tries to slip on his trousers. “I should have left with the rest of the guests. My chaperone will be furious.”

Dean feels his stomach twist unpleasantly. He’s struck with the desire to not let Castiel leave. He is a prince, after all, and what princes want, they take without question. One word, a simple order, and Castiel would be his to have until he died old and wrinkly. Or in a bloody battle, but Dean really doesn’t want to consider that option. In the end, Dean just watches him sadly as he continues to panic, his wings a wild flutter as he tries to get his cloak back on.

“Here, let me,” he finally says, stepping in to tie the soft fabric beneath his collar. He fastens the brooch into place and adjusts the sides so they cascade along Castiel’s body, and he vaguely wonders how he has managed to keep his wings outside of the actual thing. “There we go.” Dean reaches for the discarded mask, but drops it almost instantly, choosing instead to frame Castiel’s face and pull him into an intense kiss.

“Please, don’t be sad,” Castiel whispers against moist lips, pressing yet another desperate kiss to Dean’s mouth. “I will always remember tonight dearly.”

Dean’s smile is a forlorn little thing, but he nods despite himself. Heaving a sigh, he finally gathers the might to place the mask over Castiel’s face, and he cannot put into words just how wrong it feels. A face as beautiful as his does not belong hidden from the world. “As the most bizarre night of your life? Sleeping with a stranger?” He aims for a joke, but Castiel’s smile is sincere.

“I have no regrets, Dean.”

Castiel raises his arms to pull his hood back into place, ready to shroud himself once more, but Dean stops him. He’s stalling, he knows it, and odds are Castiel is about to get in a lot of trouble if he continues to linger, but there is still something missing.

“Here, take this,” Dean says, and removes the bronze amulet from around his neck. “This is, uh, this was a gift from a very good friend. This is Oldath.” Tentatively, Dean places the leather necklace over Castiel’s head. “I don’t know who Oldath is, but that’s what Bobby said.” Clearing his throat, he slips the bronze amulet beneath Castiel’s shirt. “It’s supposed to offer you protection, but I don’t really believe in magic, so... If we don’t meet again, promise you’ll remember me,” Dean says, licking his lips nervously. “Every time you look at it, just, remember me.”

Castiel’s eyes shine in the waning candlelight as he nods frantically, visibly swallowing back a wave of emotion. “I promise.”

Dean brings up the hood and straightens the gold embroidery on its hem, before taking him by the hand and heading for the door. “Do you remember the path we took? Through the keep?” At Castiel’s affirmation, he continues, “When you reach the hall leading to the kitchens, there’s a small passageway on the left wall. The door seems bolted, but if you nudge it just right-usually by lifting it by the iron handles and pushing at the same time, but if it doesn’t give, just give it a good kick-it’ll lead you directly to the neighboring forest.” Peeking along the hallway and noticing that it is far too dark to see, Dean takes a single candle holder and hands it to him. “If anyone should see you-”

“They won’t,” Castiel assures, and Dean believes him.

They linger for another second, until Castiel leans in to take one last kiss. It is brief and chaste, and it lingers on their lips long after they have parted. “We will meet again, your Highness,” he says, and lovingly caresses Dean’s cheek with his knuckles before stealing into the dark, leaving behind a tragically besotted prince in the fading glimmer of candles.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________

The dream fades, but the sensations do not.

He struggles to speak, to call out a name, but he’s past the point of understanding if he is truly awake or if he is still dreaming. He can no longer tell if the sensation of hands gliding over his toned thighs is real or imaginary, but damn, does it feel real.

Hot breath tickles along his stomach, making him quiver with a want that leaves him keening for more. It is too light, too scarce and subtle, and he needs more of it. As if in answer to the desperate thought, the feeling of lips wrapped around him is too vivid to be chalked off to a dream, but Dean cannot look down to make sure of it, so he moans.

The touch is like liquid heat. Hands and lips, all of it spreading unevenly across his skin as he bucks, willing it to continue, because he has his sight now, an image. He can’t see them, but he knows they are there, scrutinizing him with a heat that cannot be rivaled. Dean tries to speak again, to call out, but someone’s shushing him; breath blowing hot against the column of his neck.

“I will not go another night without seeing you this way.” It sounds so clear that Dean wants to weep. “Forgive me for intruding in your dreams, Dean. Please, let me see you.” The pressure in his lower half tightens, and he lets an unguarded grunt slip past him into the void as he relinquishes whatever it is that Castiel’s thoughts ask of him.

Dean shoves a hand down his trousers, wrapping it around his length to add to the tightness of Castiel’s mouth. He gives himself a pump, feels the swirl of a tongue against his crown, making his back arch off of the bed.

Sensations entwine all around him, calling from both the waking and the dream world, to and fro. One moment Castiel is there, worshipping him beneath clean sheets, and the next there is nothing other than his hand. It is a suspenseful line that leaves him gasping and huffing.

He swears he can see the twinkling lights of the Guardians, but a blink later reveals nothing more than the blue flames behind Castiel’s eyes as he makes his way up the bed. All slim muscle and glistening skin, powerful arms and legs that frame Dean’s sides as he crawls his way up to taste and claim.

Dean orgasms with a dozen flashes of scenes so lucid he can feel himself falling deeper into a cauldron of warm honey. Castiel rising and falling on his lap, arms and legs wrapped around Dean as his head falls back with a cry. Dean bent over the redwood table of the Great Hall, growling in pleasure. Unclothed limbs damp with sweat and semen. They roll across starlit skies with ebony wings as a canopy, always making love. Ever only making love. Dean thinks he might drown in the honey, but Castiel is there, and he is breathing into his lungs like a lifeline.

“I can’t build a life off sex alone, you know.” Dean is surprised that he has found his voice in the tangle of fantasies. He feels Castiel’s presence pull away, but he follows.

He is sitting on a jetty, feet hanging off its ledge and skimming the undisturbed water beneath. It is peaceful, though the wind doesn’t blow, and the pines that line the distant forest do not move. Castiel is standing by his side, solemn but sated, and presses his hand to Dean’s shoulder. “Why not?”

“Because there’s more to it than that,” Dean says immediately. The haze of a barrier that remains immovable in the waking world is nonexistent there, and Dean finds that he can talk. He has a voice. “There’s more to us than just that.”

Castiel remains silent for a long time, looking off into nothing. “I thought it was the preferred method to demonstrate affection. Am I wrong?”

“No, you’re not wrong. But there’s more.”

“What more is there?”

Dean rolls his shoulders and licks his lips. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly.

“Why did you run with me?” Castiel asks, and he doesn’t need to clarify what it is that he is talking about. “You didn’t know me, and yet you showed me your home. You kissed me and touched me, but you had no idea who I was. Even after you learned, after you saw me for what I was, you didn’t stop. Why?”

A small fish nudges at Dean’s toe and he wiggles his foot, splashing around and agitating the placid surface. “Because there’s more.”

Castiel sighs, visibly perturbed by the litany. “If you say so, Dean.”

“Don’t you think so?” Dean turns him a questioning look, dazed by the mist inside his mind.

Without hesitating, Castiel nods. “I choose to believe so. I only wish you would be able to accept this once awake. I’ve seen mules express more emotion than you.”

Dean is ready to retort, but he is too complacent to do so. He leans into the touch on his shoulder and shuts his eyes, letting Castiel guide him back into his tiny slot in the world of the waking.

The feeling of a warm pillow flat against the back of his head is annoying, so he shifts onto his side with a soft breath, dragging the sheets with him. Dean blinks, blearily taking in the silvery glow being cast over his room, and notices the empty bed next to his. He grumbles as he reaches for the pillow he discarded a second earlier, and melds his body to it with a pleased grunt. This time around, he imagines it is Castiel, all pure and white and soft to the touch, and drifts back into a peaceful, dreamless slumber.

Chapter Four