[2012 DCBB] The Dreamer and the Mystic - Interlude
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.
Dawn is breaking over the horizon, settling the tower into a darkness so thick that the candlelight is drowned out in its nothingness. It flickers and wanes, a small trail of smoke spiraling from the crackling snap of orange.
The chambers smell of salt and a crisp seaside morning. Coldness settles in old bones as knuckles crack and pop, teeth chatter lightly and feet pad across worn wooden floors. There’s humming and muted chuckles, all delighted and elated.
“Isn’t a glorious day?” Alastair declares to the non-existent crowds in his lone tower, swirling the contents of a silver bowl. He takes the roaring of the crashing waves as an answer and hums his agreement. “There ought to be more days like today. But, oh, what is this? Hmm, one is yet to pass.”
Skeletal fingers dip inside the mixture of heated seawater swirling the zinnia, chestnuts, strawberry blossoms, wallflower, and foxglove. Their scent is strong, making him sniff back a sneeze. “Young love, impetuous love, stupid love.”
Reflected upon the water, he can see Eldosia’s eldest nestled against the Nephilim’s youngest. Wrapped in sheets of white and blue, whispering in hushed voices promises of safety and devotion, words never to be spoken aloud once they begin the journey homeward.
“Trapped within a spider’s web that Emgarurn deftly weaves, the one day Athumer eats, guides and tenderly speaks to leaves,” Alastair recites, tucking the bowl beneath his arms and walking up to one of the many shelves that stand against the wall. He picks a jar of dried clematis and sprinkles it freely into his water. The blooms are rare, but he won’t be needing them again after the deed is done.
“Your empire is built on lies, little Michael, lies far more profound than my own. Your prince marches through your gates at noon, and your last hope is sorrowfully dashed. Now that you are a dying breed, you seek what I was once offered.” He dabs a finger on his tongue, tasting the caustic acidity. “Not enough salt.”
Moving across the room, he reaches for the sugar instead. Mary is ill, and it has been left to him to brew an elixir that will extinguish her cold. From nuts and bark, Alastair compounds his most potent medicine. He bears Mary no ill will, therefore he will legitimately wish her well. The same can be said of John. But there are things that are well out of his power. Not many, but still a few. Decisions have been made for the greater good. Whose greater good is a question that is entirely up for debate.
He pours his concoction into a vial and sets it on his desk while he pulls on his cloak. Dropping it into a pocket, he steps out into the hall. It’s still early, but he can hear Mary’s coughs, how they’re carried within echoes that bounce against cool stone. The castle still sleeps, lost in dreamless slumber, unaware of the great news that is about to arrive. Moving past three corners, four corridors and a statue of a lion, Alastair knocks on a door.
“Milady,” he calls, staring boredly at the bland wood.
“Come in.” It’s feeble and pathetic, but he opens the door and steps inside with a warm, twisted smile.
“Good morning, your Majesty. How are we feeling?”
“Ugh, terrible. It feels like there’s a loose cat rattling inside my chest,” Mary says with an aborted laugh that turns into a rough cough. She sits up, patting her chest with a closed fist, and clears her throat. “Didn’t catch a wink of sleep.”
“You should have called, milady. I could have brought up a sleeper.”
“Those are never any good. I’d be drowsy for the rest of the day. What I need is something to rip this thing right out of me.”
Alastair moves to her bedside with a gaunt grin. “Nothing so extreme, but this will tame that cough for a few hours.” He removes the stopper and offers the small glass. “I also believe that a dose of good news will help aid your healing.”
Mary pinches her nose and quickly tips back the vial, as if drinking a shot of liquor. “Not sure if you’re being sarcastic or...”
“While my tone is permanently set on sarcasm, milady, I am not speaking in jest.”
“Well? Out with it.” She brings the bedsheet a little higher, covering her bosom. The man never means any ill will, but his presence enough is like entertaining Death. “I don’t have all day.”
Alastair offers a gracious nod accompanied by a smile, but it’s a dead thing that doesn’t reach his eyes. His graying beard crinkles. “I have received news that your sons are well, and will ride out at noon for Eldosia.”
Mary sits up, illness forgotten as she lets the vial roll away to her lap. There’s a split second of doubt that slowly blooms into a delighted grin as blinding as her golden curls. “Are you certain? My God, does John know? We have to convene the court and-oh,” she says with a gasp, placing her fingers to her temple when the room spins.
“Please, rest,” Alastair orders, placing a hand on her shoulder and gently pushing her back. “I will relay the news to the king myself. Once you feel well enough to get about, I’ll assemble-”
“What about the girl? Is she with them?” Her smile doesn’t waver even while she coughs, wiping away the joyful tears that now form at the corner of her eyes. “Dean must be so happy.” There’s a lilt, almost like a song, at the end of her words.
Walking over to the window and pulling the thick curtains back, Alastair basks in the rising sun. His smile is cruel as he looks out onto the village; seizes the strong points along with those areas which will prove an advantage when the time comes. “He is indeed, milady. Forgive if it sounds a little, um, forward of me. But change will ride in with the young prince. Big change. Significant change.”
“I know,” Mary says, and there’s confidence in her voice despite the tiredness that’s set in it. “My son will be a good king, a different one. The kingdom needs change, and who better than Dean with his atrocious attitude problems.”
Alastair’s fingers stop drumming against the edge of the window. He slowly turns to her, and the smile she wears transforms into a knowing one. “I’m sure his journey has taught him a thing or two about proper attitudes. Dean is a brilliant young man, though stubborn, but sometimes his stubbornness can be one of his greatest attributes,” Alastair says.
“Oh, I know.” And the words mean far more than Alastair hopes they do.
Sometimes it is hard to remember that it doesn’t matter how feeble and gentle Mary looks, because she is among the kingdom’s most cunning minds. She offers him a gracious nod. “You are a smart man, Alastair,” she says, absently twirling the end of a strand of hair. “But your arrogance betrays you. You have a tendency to underestimate the world around you.”
“Milady?” He wrings his hands, his smile still the falsely warm thing it always is. “One must not dabble in things they do not understand. Still, one does dabble in it and might just end up getting burned. And what a shame that would be. With all due respect, your Highness, what is your end?”
Mary sighs, canting her head to the side. “Like I’d tell you.”
“Oh, ho. Feisty.”
“You tell our king that his sons return. One more word, and I’ll make certain that you don’t set foot within my kingdom again.” The corner of her eyes crinkle, growing more pronounced as her smile widens. The hardness behind the big pools of blue makes Alastair raise an interested eyebrow. “Did you really think I’d be that stupid?”
“Do you really think you know the truth, Mary?”
“No, but I don’t have to. My son chose that woman for a reason, and I’ll see to it that they are happy and safe, despite her inhumanity. You may have an agenda, you may have been the one to urged John to grant Dean his permission to look for her, but I’m only going to say this once: you go as far as I allow you to. No, I don’t know your reasons yet, but if you hurt my son, I swear by my parents’ grave that it will be the last thing you do.” She finishes with a coughing fit, but it does little to lessen the gravity behind her words.
“Witch.” A single word, laced with all of the malice between Earth and Hell. It’s sharp; viscous with the smog of his voice.
“How mature are we, really, when we’re driven to name calling? I’m just smart. No need to be offended by that,” she says, and winks at him with the same smugness that is reminiscent of Dean Winchester. “Your little prophecy can kiss my ass.”
“And what will you do, when the king sets eyes upon your son and a beast? Might I ask, will you stand by your son’s side and declare that you knew all along? Or are you going to fake ignorance and act utterly horrified by the revelation?” He takes the vial from Mary’s lap and slips it back into his pocket. Coldness creeps into his voice, twisting with joyful cruelty. “Tell me, your Highness. What will John think when he learns that his son has been bedding a man all of this time?”
Alastair already expects the several reactions the new bit of information will trigger: grief, anger, disbelief. What he isn’t expecting is the moment Mary’s face switches from shocked to amused, and the laugh she lets out.
Mary burrows herself deeper in her bed, stretching out beneath the covers like a child after a long and satisfying day. “Easy question. It’s almost a waste of breath to answer it.” She pulls her arms up and over her head, lifting her hair to rest over her pillow as she stares up at the ceiling. “Better yet, I’ll give you a new answer.” Clearing her throat, she offers, “Should we stick with the traditional white for both bridegrooms, or should we mix it up a bit?”
“You will be hanged for such words,” Alastair says, theatrically scandalized.
“Then so be it. I will stand by Dean’s side until the very end. And if it were Sam, I would do so as well. For, you see, after you dig through all of your magic and witchcraft, there is one more power that will always reign supreme.”
“Oh, let me guess,” Alastair says, obviously bored with the conversation. “The power of love?”
“A mother’s love is something to be reckoned with, Alastair,” she says through her coughing. Groaning, she takes a deep breath and continues. “Worse yet would be a queen mother. And far worse, a queen mother who happens to be the kingdom’s best hunter.”
Alastair sets his jaw, flexing it thoughtfully as he considers her. “Well, would you look at that, a strong woman. Such a rarity.”
“Your petty insults and threats mean little to me. You’ll need another way to get to this family, witch.”
There’s a moment of silence before Alastair laughs, loud and sickeningly as he throws his head back. “He who was righteous no longer is; a human in love will take his place. One more promise, another door, if rejected, Heaven’s Gates open nevermore.”
“Dean is a righteous man,” Mary says, nodding and with a shrug. She has read the prophecy before, and therefore knows what is at stake. “Do what you must, but he’ll triumph against any traitorous plot you can conjure.”
“I’m sure he will, milady. Truth be told, I’d be disappointed if he didn’t. Have a good day, your Highness. And please, get well soon.” Seething under his deceptively calm facade, Alastair takes his leave, quietly shutting the door behind him.
Mary knows, and that fact alone throws a wrench into his carefully devised plan. It’s a delicate situation that must be handled with the most meticulous care if it is to succeed. She was right, he had underestimated her greatly, as well as her knack of disobeying John’s direct orders.
Walking down the hall, Alastair takes a right.
He is known for his patience in the grand scheme of things, but now is the time to act. With another contender in play, Alastair is forced to think on his feet. He entertains the thought of poisoning her, making it all look accidental. After all, no one would truly know of the high levels of mercury in the fish fillet she’d be served at dinner. But no, that won’t do. It just isn’t his style. Besides, death would be too obvious.
Clearing his throat, he stops in front of a far grander door, with its golden bolts and polished iron. He knocks.
Death would garner too much attention. Torture is out of the question. Alastair doesn’t have much to work with in the given situation, but he has just enough to cause the mayhem he needs, the next best thing. He wishes the king and queen no ill will, but the tables have turned.
The door is opened by a terribly thin guard, but a booming voice comes from deep inside. “What is it?”
Alastair smiles. It is Mary’s word against his. The king’s advisor versus the king’s ill and feeble wife. A clear win no matter how one slices it, and it’s almost unfair. If only he cared for such things. “I’ve got magnificent news, sire.”
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
A week has elapsed since their departure, and Castiel is positively fed up with Dean’s attitude. All had been roses and Dean-scented-pillows when they were back in Rod’im, and even throughout those bittersweet years when the prince was but a memory. But spending a few hours with a person is nothing like spending an entire day with them. Castiel is beginning to think that maybe it was all just a big mistake.
After the first three nights sleeping beneath the stars, they had finally come across a small village where they had stopped to replenish their stock. With food, water, fresh clothing and weapons in check, they spent the night in a small tavern, celebrating their journey homeward.
Castiel had found it all distasteful. The loudness and rowdiness, the constant stench of perspiration all around him, the drinks that had been pushed in front of him. Worst yet had been Dean allowing his hands to wander over a young woman, kissing her cheek and whispering in her ear. Castiel does not wish to think about what could have happened had Sam and Balthazar not interfered in the nick of time.
Later that evening, before bed, Castiel had requested a separate room.
Two nights later find him here, in the middle of nowhere with a group of eleven riders, all of them bickering and laughing, and poking fun at his wings. At one point, Dean yells at them for it, but only broods when Castiel ignores his attempt at chivalry. He rides ahead now, silent and pensive as he leads the way across the desert landscape.
Castiel dislikes the arid weather, the dryness that sets into his mouth and makes his skin itch. During the day it’s far too hot, but when night falls, he’s left shivering in his tunic and trousers. Dean’s question finally makes sense, and he finds himself wondering why Rod’im’s climate is always the same. Warm and comfortable, like a well-mannered dream. He hates that it isn’t home.
There isn’t even a confidant he can count on, as most of his friends had stayed in the city. Only Balthazar remains, but Castiel understands that their friendship now takes a backseat to his brother’s duties. Balthazar is Captain above all else, and Castiel is only someone for him to look after while the prince is busy.
Castiel sighs, feeling dejected and alone amongst the group.
“He’s a bit rough around the edges, but give him some time,” Sam says, pulling up to ride by Castiel’s side. “It’s been a while since he’s been exclusive.”
“I understand.”
“You’re okay, right? Any homesickness, maybe?”
“Sam, I’ve lived in Rod’im for the past thirty-three years. Would you truly expect otherwise?” There’s humor in his tone, despite the sadness he feels settling in his bones. “But yes, I’m fine. Somewhat tired is all. Maybe a little hungry.” Sam gives him a long contemplative look before he chuckles. “What?”
“Nothing. You’re just a lot more expressive, now. I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Try.”
“Well, kind of like... Back there, in the city, you permanently looked like you were trying to translate your words from another language into English. It looked like you were always concentrating on something. But now... it’s just weird,” Sam says, casting a look back at Balthazar and the rest of his men.
“What’s weird?” Castiel prompts, displeased about being unable to understand what he means.
“Now you talk with your whole face. Your eyebrows move, you roll your eyes, your mouth quirks around the edges, you tip your head to the sides... Like you’re human now. You know, if it weren’t for those massive things,” Sam says, and waves in the general direction of Castiel’s back.
Castiel isn’t sure about how to reply to that, so he says the first thing he can think of, “Thank you, Sam.”
“I think that’s why Dean is throwing another bitch-fit.”
“Because I can express more emotion than I previously could? Why would that upset him?”
“We Winchesters don’t like dealing with disappointment,” Sam confesses, slinking into himself shyly. “We can put up with anything that comes our way, but we hate disappointing the ones who matter, the ones we love. And it was really obvious that you were jealous when he tried to... you know, that, with that girl.”
Shaking his head, the sides of Castiel’s mouth tilt up in a miniature smile. “I don’t mind. As long as Dean is happy.”
“You don’t mean that,” Sam snaps, kicking Castiel’s leg gently. “You do care, and it did bother you, and it should. Because Dean was being a dick, and he deserved to sleep alone. He needs to learn that things are different now, for the both of you. And he needs to stop being a dick all the time.”
Castiel chuckles at this, tilting his head in a physical form of ‘you have a point’. “You’re a lot easier to talk to than your brother, Sam. I think you should know that.”
“I also like to think that I’m the more charming one,” Sam says, dramatically flipping his hair in the nonexistent breeze, making Castiel laugh when it falls into his mouth. “Well that backfired.”
“Your hair is quite long. Is there any reason for that?” Being naturally curious, Castiel can’t stop himself from wondering. Where Dean is always well kept and properly trimmed, Sam is shaggier, with his long hair and pronounced beard. “It makes you look far older.”
Sam shrugs, running a hand through his hair to lighten it up. “I guess I just like it this way?”
“That, or he likes being a big girl,” Dean says, speaking up once they’ve caught up with him.
“Facial hair isn’t something that’s incredibly common in women,” Castiel says, suddenly solemn and staring straight ahead.
“You should have seen our aunt.” Dean tries to joke, but only gets the cold shoulder. He turns to Sam with an exasperated look, but only gets a barely contained grin in return. “What?”
“Nothing,” Sam says quickly. “I think you’ve upset him.”
“How many times do I have to say that I’m sorry?!”
“You don’t mean it,” Castiel says, urging his horse to step ahead of both brothers.
“Do too! Sam, tell him I mean it.”
“I dunno, Dean. I mean, Jezebel over there looked pretty damn comfortable all snug against you.”
“You’re not helping.”
“It’s your own fault. Now go apologize to him. Properly.”
“I’m not apologizing again. Him being a stubborn ass? Not my fault.”
“Takes one to know one,” Sam says, roughly shoving at Dean’s shoulder. “It’s a long way home, and I don’t feel like being subjected to your constant tension. Why not just get it over and done with?”
“I’ve tried, Sam,” Dean says, stretching out his words with irritation. “There’s no getting through to him.”
“I can hear every word you’re saying, Dean,” Castiel says over his shoulder. He’s a fair distance away, and Sam can only whistle.
“Now, that’s impressive.” He turns back to Dean, who is glaring daggers at Castiel’s back. “Stop acting like a kid. When you mean it, when you show him that you really mean it, I’m sure he’ll come around. In the meantime, keep being a dick and he’ll be one right back.”
“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Dean complains, whining as his shoulders slump.
“Remember Jessica? Yeah. Call it payback.”
“Bitch.”
“Jerk.”
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
It takes them another day to reach the next village, this one familiar. Dean recalls it from the first month after they had set off from Eldosia. Small and quiet, a fishing village allied with the Western Kingdom. The townsfolk are nice and welcoming, their hospitality unrivalled, and Dean’s sure Castiel will enjoy his stay.
At midday, they all shed their outer layers, armor and weapons, leaving them in their rented rooms as they head down for a hearty lunch. There’s no music, no rowdy atmosphere with inebriated guests, and no whores out to make an honest shilling. It’s stuffy, however, and Dean watches as Castiel takes his ham outside to eat in Sam’s company.
“We’re still two weeks away from home,” says Balthazar, who is leaning against the counter by Dean’s side. He orders a lager. “From here on out, there are no more villages. Whatever supplies we carry can’t be perishable. As for the water...” he trails off, taking a swig of his drink.
Dean only nods, picking at his pork. “We’ve weathered worse with less.”
“But we’re used to it,” Balthazar says.
“He’ll have to deal like the rest of us.”
“Ah. Lover’s spat, I see.” Balthazar laughs around the ledge of his pint. “You should try fucking it out. Works all the time.”
Dean takes his plate and walks outside, leaving Balthazar alone at the counter. It’s rude, not that he cares, but he isn’t in the mood for any of his captain’s debauchery. Pushing the door open with his hips, he takes a look around.
The village is teeming with life. Several kids bump into him as he tries to make his way to a mounting stool near Sabbath, where he sits to finish up his lunch. His eyes take in the men who are rolling up the shutters of their kiosks, selling fish and other seafood. One man is carrying two pails of water, pushing a door open with his foot. The sign above reads ‘Brown and Sons Blacksmith Shop’. A young couple, likely recently married, walk down the dirt path, chatting in hushed voices. Farther down the road, he spots a woman sweeping the porch of her tiny home.
It’s a nice place, Dean thinks. The people seem content in their own little world, where the only thing that matters is what kind of fish to put on the table at dinnertime. It’s calm, like the entire world is at peace, and Dean finds himself envying the villagers more with each thing each new thing he notices.
He takes a forkful of now-cold pork into his mouth and hums. The smoke clings to the thick skin, and the meat just breaks away with a tender poke of his fork. “That’s pretty good," he mutters to himself. Shoving the corn to the side, he breaks away a piece of meat with his fingers and shoves it into his mouth.
Out the corner of his eye, Dean sees a little boy half-hiding behind a post, staring at him. When he looks up, the boy hides from sight completely, making him chuckle. As much as he likes kids (which is a complete lie; he’d much rather deal with horses for the rest of his life), he’s far too hungry to play hide-and-go-seek. Dean had outgrown the game the moment Sam declared he was too old for it.
The boy pops his head out again, watching Dean intently, and it’s only then that he finally gets it. Shaking his head, Dean drops the piece of pork back onto his plate and grabs the roll of bread instead. He holds it out, looking in the direction of the little boy. “I’m not gonna bite, kid.” Hesitantly, the boy steps forward and takes the bread.
From behind the same post, a little girl peeks out, and runs for the boy when he offers her half of his bread. Most likely siblings, judging by the shock of yellow hair and rich brown eyes that they share. “Thank you, mister,” the girl says to Dean, before grabbing her probably-brother by the forearm and dragging him away.
Dean snorts, waving them off before returning to his plate.
“Uh...” he says dumbly, gawking at the dozen or so grimy kids now standing in a single file in front of him. Looking down at his plate, he frowns. Deciding that it is nowhere near enough to feed them all, Dean stands up. “Wait here. And don’t touch my plate.”
They all exchange nervous looks, but when he steps back out with Balthazar and more than a dozen plates in tow, a chorus of cheers erupts loud enough to startle most of the adults in the surrounding area. Dean nearly trips when they tackle him, and Balthazar has to bark out, “All right! Single line, right this instant!” Which they dutifully obey.
“At least they’re well-behaved,” says Dean, taking his seat on the stool once more, and handing out the plates of foods one by one. “If there’s anyone else you know, share,” he commands, and the kids all nod and run off, for the exception of a small group that huddles around his feet.
Balthazar gives him a look that could probably mean anything, but Dean gives him the finger, just to be safe.
“Heart of gold,” says Sam, who is eating an apple he’s just purchased from a farmer’s market. He pats Dean on the shoulder and ruffles his hair. “If only you didn’t act like an ogre the rest of the time.”
“Screw you,” Dean bites out, taking a drink from his mead. “They were hungry. How the hell do you expect me to sit here and stuff my face when I could have done just that?” He shrugs, and colors when he spots Castiel looking at him from a few meters away.
Sam doesn’t say a thing, only pats him on the shoulder again.
Dean decides to spend the rest of the day grooming and pampering Sabbath, and he even orders new shoes for her. He scarcely sees Sam throughout the day, as Sam is mostly showing Castiel around, whenever they aren’t sitting lazily in the grassier areas of the village and exchanging stories. It twists his stomach, just how much he misses Castiel even though he’s right there, looking brighter and a lot more comfortable now that he’s not melting on top of a horse.
Dean smiles fondly, rubbing methodic circles along Sabbath’s shoulders. He has secured her in for the night at the stable, and she snorts her thanks when he presses his forehead to hers. With oats, fresh hay, and water, she’s as comfortable as can be. “Goodnight, baby.”
Most of the villagers have picked themselves off the busy streets by now, and shut themselves behind the faded stone walls of their homes with their families. It isn’t quiet, now that the insects and frogs have woken up to keep the cold air company, along with the headache-inducing racket coming from the tavern.
Heading off the cobblestoned streets, Dean idly wanders along the pond he visited earlier, thinking about his nights at Rod’im’s secret lake garden. The small puddle of murky water that he’s standing in front of now is nothing like the unending slice of paradise Castiel had granted him access to, but it is peaceful and calm, attributes he isn’t quite fond of, but settles for. He sits on the grassy bank and takes the downtime to think. If thinking is even the correct term for it.
There isn’t much left to think about, Dean concedes soberly. By now, he has long since crossed the point of no return, way past hesitating and second-guessing himself. His family, the kingdom, Castiel. It’s imminent. Dean is ready for whatever punishment his father will inflict on him.
Dean hums a laugh when a hand gently cards through his hair, a kiss pressing on his temple with the faint scratch of stubble. The left side of his body immediately warms as Castiel molds against it, and places his head on Dean’s shoulder. His body feels soft and warm, relaxed where he’s draped over Dean like fine silk, and Dean suddenly feels unable to withstand not touching him.
“I’m sorry,” says Dean, and it’s both an apology and a request for permission.
“I know.”
“I was being a jerk. Old habits and crap.” He stops to lick his lips, and presses them to Castiel’s forehead. “Still hasn’t sunk in. No longer having to look around for a good lay, you know? I’ll admit, I’m gonna miss hunting around, and sweet-talking my way into girls’...” Dean trails off, staring long and hard at the undisturbed surface of the water.
Dean breaks away only to look down at Castiel, seeing him smiling fondly where his head is still resting on his shoulder. Dean notices the lack of that ethereal glow he never even noticed before, and he’s even shivering, pulling himself closer to Dean’s side. Not for the first time, Dean worries about the effects being away from home will have on Castiel. He’s still the serene and rugged man he was back in Rod’im, but he looks real now. Far rougher around the edges, less pale, more virile and solid, and Dean finds that he’s perfectly okay with that.
“Bullshit,” Dean says, and can’t help but laugh when Castiel does a double-take. “I’m not missing any of that. I’ve had my run, and what a run that was, let me tell you.” He cups Castiel’s cheek, angling him up for a short kiss. “You’re here now. S’what I’ve always been looking for, Cas. I finally found you. That’s it.”
“Dean,” Castiel begins, but is quickly interrupted by another kiss.
“Sex is great, too. So who am I to complain?” he says, trying to save the unforgivably soppy moment.
“But there’s more than just good sex.” There isn’t even a hint of hesitation in Castiel’s voice. He’s certain that Dean feels more than just lust, more than a desire to pursue an adventure driven by forbidden passions. “There’s more.”
Dean’s fingers trace a feather on Castiel’s wing, tugging at it softly to get it into place. He nods, and it’s a shy little movement that’s almost lost when Castiel leans in to kiss him soundly. “Yeah,” Dean says, and lets himself fall back with Castiel in tow. “There’s always more.”
They kiss. A slow tangle of tongues and the sometimes awkward click of teeth, but it’s better than anything Dean has ever experienced before. He’s sure the thigh that nudges between his legs is unintentional, but the opinion shifts when Castiel begins to rub one of his nipples through Dean’s shirt. Dean laughs breathily, and wraps his arms around Castiel, careful with his wings, to pull him on top of him.
“I like it when we make love,” Castiel admits, coyly pressing the tip of his tongue to Dean’s lower lip, before beating a hasty retreat. “It feels like flying through circles of lightning-”
“Can you fly?” Dean asks all of a sudden, like he’s only just made the connection between Castiel’s wings and flying. His eyes are wide with wonder, catching the moonlight, and still laughs when Castiel shakes his head. “Then why wings?”
“Purely aesthetic, I think. However, earlier generations were able to hone the ability.” He opens out the black wings, arching them high enough to brush against a neighboring tree. “I really wish I could, though. It must be a wonderful experience.”
Dean finds it hard to swallow around the knot in his throat, finding Castiel’s forlorn tone heartbreaking. “If it makes you feel better, I can’t fly either.”
Castiel snorts, a harsh and strange noise that comes from his nose, but he shakes his head and smiles. “You’re a good man, Dean. I’m glad you proved Michael wrong.”
“Why, ‘cause I can’t fly?”
They bump their foreheads together and smile. “I saw you today,” Castiel says, and softly touches Dean’s cheek. “What you did, it was very noble of you.”
“Well, yeah, I guess. It’s not like I ended poverty or anything.”
“One small act of kindness at a time, Dean. You are a good man with a heart of gold and a soul made of pure light.” Castiel’s eyes shine as he speaks, overwhelmed with emotions Dean is still too scared to name. “One day, you will be a great king.” Pressing his mouth to Dean’s, he takes a moment to whisper against it, “And I’m honored to call you mine.”
Dean’s hands clutch Castiel’s back as he rolls them over, gently easing the wings to Castiel’s sides so as to not hurt them. He looks beautiful with his face randomly touched by moonlight, framed by blue grass. Dean searches his face, looks for anything that doesn’t belong and finds himself shaking his head in disbelief. “I took you away from your family.”
“It was my choice.”
“I’m selfish. I’m rude, and arrogant, and...”
“You’re a prince; a noble-hearted one. Tell me, Dean, what else have you obtained that your heart has sought after? Is it selfish to chase after one thing when all your life, all you’ve ever done, has been fight to defend your people and give your all?” Castiel’s words are fervent when he grabs Dean’s collar, forcing him to look him in the eye. “I’m just as guilty as you are, if so.”
“Aren’t you scared?” Dean’s question is hushed, and he hates that he’s lingering in thoughts he swore he’d never worry over again. “Eldosia isn’t exactly known for its tolerance of the supernatural.”
Castiel just looks at him, tranquil and adoring. “Your father’s wrath troubles me, yes.” He shakes his head. “But I will not let fear dictate my life. You cannot jump if you fear the fall.”
“But what if...”
“Let’s not think about this,” Castiel says, and flips them over again. This time, he sits on Dean’s lap and grinds down against his crotch. “Let us instead make the best of the time we have.”
Dean is about to speak, but is kissed into silence.
The gyration of Castiel’s hips is slow and unrelenting, pressing down only when he moves forward, making sure that Dean can feel his erection through his trousers. They keep their hands to themselves, keeping only to the sinuous drive of their hips, the occasional bump of their cocks separated by layers of clothing.
Dean’s head rolls from side to side as he fights the urge to buck up, to get more of that pressure. The pace is far too slow, everything is too light, but Castiel’s presence alone is enough to leave him reeling. Sharp arousal pools in his lower half, and his thighs cramp up with the need to thrust, but Castiel is pinning him down with a single stare. “Jesus Christ, Cas-”
Castiel presses himself down against Dean’s groin with light jumping motions that leave the prince panting for more. “The next time,” Castiel begins, and takes hold of Dean’s wrists, “you entertain the thought of bringing anyone to your bed, I want you to remember this.” He pins them easily over Dean’s head with a single hand. Dean tries to break free, but his hold is strong.
“Cas-”
“I want you to remember how effortlessly I can please you, Dean.”
Maybe it’s a threat, Dean wonders, but he can’t think beyond how much he wants Castiel to fuck him. He’s nothing but pure, sinful and cool authority. Dean wants everything the man has to offer and more. “Oh really?” he challenges, and is thrilled when Castiel’s eyes darken.
The first time was shy and messy, the second was desperate and passionate, but now Dean wants it rough. He wants to rip out the last of his hesitation, dismantle his insecurities, and what better way than giving Castiel those reins? Dean wants to lay back and not think as Castiel ravishes him, bites and scratches him, makes him fly open at the seams and still beg for more. The thought of surrendering, abandoning all control-it takes Dean higher than he’s ever been. The thought that Castiel can very well break him, snap him so easily in half, makes Dean whimper pathetically against Castiel’s mouth.
But he won’t do it. It’s in his touch, on his fingertips and lips. Castiel will never harm Dean, not deliberately, and that knowledge is far more powerful than any lewd fantasy Dean can muster.
Coming back to himself, Dean realizes that Castiel's one hand is entwined with both of his, that Castiel is just hovering over him, and that his pace is now erratic and forceful. Dean helps him, finally thrusting up to meet him when their foreheads touch. “Come on, Cas. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
Castiel shudders and freezes, gasping his orgasm against Dean’s mouth, which Dean takes advantage of and slips his tongue inside his mouth. He comes when Castiel orders him to, a soft whisper against his ear that gets him off like nothing has ever been able to do.
“I’ll, heh,” Dean starts, struggling to speak around his panting. “I’ll make sure to remember that.” They kiss once more before rolling onto their sides with hushed laughter. “We should probably get inside. Get cleaned up before bed.”
“I don’t want to move,” Castiel growls, and he sounds sleepy enough for Dean to consider it adorable. He brings a wing down over them, and nuzzles Dean’s neck. “Can’t we just sleep here?”
“You’re shivering.”
“I suppose I am. The temperature here is very different.”
Dean looks down at him, his hands now petting absently at Castiel’s shoulder. “How come? I mean, I noticed it before. In Rod’im, one moment it’s below zero and the next it’s a freaking oven.”
“I think it has something to do with the concentration of power over the city.”
“Really? Like, all that mojo just vaporizes the air?”
“No idea, but it sounded plausible.”
There’s a moment of silence before Dean says, “Did you just make a joke?” There isn’t a reply, and the even rising and falling of Castiel’s chest against his side is a quiet indication that he is already fast asleep. Dean sighs, long and elated, and presses a kiss to the mop of dark hair. “Don’t ever change, Cas.”
He wonders just how he's meant to drag Castiel’s ass back to the room without waking him.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
“You really need to knock that off,” Sam declares loudly, nudging his horse to go faster, putting as much distance between them as possible.
“Quit whining,” Dean bites back.
“Your Highness, I insist-we all do-that you stop it right this instant. We won’t be able to stomach this any longer,” Balthazar says, looking far too disgusted.
“We’re doing nothing wrong,” Castiel adds, raising his chin high but blurts out a laugh when Dean kicks his leg.
“See? This is exactly what I’m talking about!” Huffing, Sam urges his horse to break into a hurried trot, his face turning even redder under the noon sun. “If I have to witness another second of you two making faces at each other, I’ll gouge my eyes out.”
Balthazar laughs, keeping a steady pace with Castiel. “If you haven’t already, I don’t think you will,” he yells, and grins when Dean gives him the finger.
Sam, poor little Sam. He’d been unfortunate enough to walk in on Dean and Castiel going at it, on the morning they had been set on riding out from the small fishing village. He had stopped by Dean’s room to bring him down for breakfast, only to find it empty. Sam will always regret walking into Castiel’s room, however. Castiel is fast, but he had not been fast enough to cover themselves with his wings when Dean was too busy thrusting into him on the bedroom floor.
That had been the first of many such incidents.
The youngest Winchester is convinced that his brother is doing it out of spite, because having sex against a tree in hearing range from camp just isn’t something most considerate people do. Or on a haystack in a stable. Or behind a tavern in broad daylight. But Sam is convinced that finding them with their pants down isn’t the worst part; worse yet are the quiet smiles and tender touches. The chaste kisses are the absolute worst, and Sam is secretly glad about Dean falling off Sabbath when he attempts to kiss Castiel while riding.
It has been two weeks of absolute, heart-shaped, dewy-eyed hell.
Castiel casts Dean a look which borders more on mischief than actual confusion or worry. “I think Sam disapproves.”
“Sam can go suck a lemon,” Dean says, but refrains from any unnecessary touching now that Balthazar is glaring daggers at him.
The day is hot, like all the other days, and Castiel has shed most of his ornamental clothing, opting instead to wear a simple shirt, plain trousers and a pair of Dean’s boots. Balthazar mentions that he could very well be mistaken for one of the Eldosian knights, but Castiel only shrugs happily.
He looks happy, Balthazar mentions to one of their knights. As does Dean.
After the initial scuffle and shocked whispers about their future king being in love with another man, never mind a Nephilim, the men had grown fond of the idea. Mostly because they have grown fond of Castiel. It’s hard not to be taken in by the too-big blue eyes and the softness around them, the small wrinkles that crease his face whenever he smiles or laughs.
Eldosia’s knights are enamored with the prince’s betrothed. But no one will ever admit it.
Garth, one of the newest additions to the party, once commented offhandedly that Castiel was “quite the looker”. After being on the receiving end of Dean Winchester’s wrath, the subject of all things Castiel were dropped.
Balthazar, who has now fallen behind to exchange a brief word with one of his men, considers the pair. He thinks back to that night eleven years ago, to the promise a younger Castiel made, and can’t help but smile at the fondness that blooms in his heart.
Castiel got his wish, and he is happy.
“That’s just disgusting. I wasn’t even like that with my lady,” one of the knights, Christian, mentions to Balthazar. “Of all the gorgeous women, Winchester has to go for that.”
“Don’t be a prick,” Balthazar says, but there’s no real anger in it, just the instinctual reprimand. “You’re just jealous because you aren’t getting any.” Christian scowls and falls behind.
Castiel and Dean are happy, and Balthazar can’t help but feel the same for them. But the hard truth lingers above all their heads.
Come evening the next day, they will be at Eldosia’s gates, and Balthazar all but dreads their reception.
Chapter Six
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.
Dawn is breaking over the horizon, settling the tower into a darkness so thick that the candlelight is drowned out in its nothingness. It flickers and wanes, a small trail of smoke spiraling from the crackling snap of orange.
The chambers smell of salt and a crisp seaside morning. Coldness settles in old bones as knuckles crack and pop, teeth chatter lightly and feet pad across worn wooden floors. There’s humming and muted chuckles, all delighted and elated.
“Isn’t a glorious day?” Alastair declares to the non-existent crowds in his lone tower, swirling the contents of a silver bowl. He takes the roaring of the crashing waves as an answer and hums his agreement. “There ought to be more days like today. But, oh, what is this? Hmm, one is yet to pass.”
Skeletal fingers dip inside the mixture of heated seawater swirling the zinnia, chestnuts, strawberry blossoms, wallflower, and foxglove. Their scent is strong, making him sniff back a sneeze. “Young love, impetuous love, stupid love.”
Reflected upon the water, he can see Eldosia’s eldest nestled against the Nephilim’s youngest. Wrapped in sheets of white and blue, whispering in hushed voices promises of safety and devotion, words never to be spoken aloud once they begin the journey homeward.
“Trapped within a spider’s web that Emgarurn deftly weaves, the one day Athumer eats, guides and tenderly speaks to leaves,” Alastair recites, tucking the bowl beneath his arms and walking up to one of the many shelves that stand against the wall. He picks a jar of dried clematis and sprinkles it freely into his water. The blooms are rare, but he won’t be needing them again after the deed is done.
“Your empire is built on lies, little Michael, lies far more profound than my own. Your prince marches through your gates at noon, and your last hope is sorrowfully dashed. Now that you are a dying breed, you seek what I was once offered.” He dabs a finger on his tongue, tasting the caustic acidity. “Not enough salt.”
Moving across the room, he reaches for the sugar instead. Mary is ill, and it has been left to him to brew an elixir that will extinguish her cold. From nuts and bark, Alastair compounds his most potent medicine. He bears Mary no ill will, therefore he will legitimately wish her well. The same can be said of John. But there are things that are well out of his power. Not many, but still a few. Decisions have been made for the greater good. Whose greater good is a question that is entirely up for debate.
He pours his concoction into a vial and sets it on his desk while he pulls on his cloak. Dropping it into a pocket, he steps out into the hall. It’s still early, but he can hear Mary’s coughs, how they’re carried within echoes that bounce against cool stone. The castle still sleeps, lost in dreamless slumber, unaware of the great news that is about to arrive. Moving past three corners, four corridors and a statue of a lion, Alastair knocks on a door.
“Milady,” he calls, staring boredly at the bland wood.
“Come in.” It’s feeble and pathetic, but he opens the door and steps inside with a warm, twisted smile.
“Good morning, your Majesty. How are we feeling?”
“Ugh, terrible. It feels like there’s a loose cat rattling inside my chest,” Mary says with an aborted laugh that turns into a rough cough. She sits up, patting her chest with a closed fist, and clears her throat. “Didn’t catch a wink of sleep.”
“You should have called, milady. I could have brought up a sleeper.”
“Those are never any good. I’d be drowsy for the rest of the day. What I need is something to rip this thing right out of me.”
Alastair moves to her bedside with a gaunt grin. “Nothing so extreme, but this will tame that cough for a few hours.” He removes the stopper and offers the small glass. “I also believe that a dose of good news will help aid your healing.”
Mary pinches her nose and quickly tips back the vial, as if drinking a shot of liquor. “Not sure if you’re being sarcastic or...”
“While my tone is permanently set on sarcasm, milady, I am not speaking in jest.”
“Well? Out with it.” She brings the bedsheet a little higher, covering her bosom. The man never means any ill will, but his presence enough is like entertaining Death. “I don’t have all day.”
Alastair offers a gracious nod accompanied by a smile, but it’s a dead thing that doesn’t reach his eyes. His graying beard crinkles. “I have received news that your sons are well, and will ride out at noon for Eldosia.”
Mary sits up, illness forgotten as she lets the vial roll away to her lap. There’s a split second of doubt that slowly blooms into a delighted grin as blinding as her golden curls. “Are you certain? My God, does John know? We have to convene the court and-oh,” she says with a gasp, placing her fingers to her temple when the room spins.
“Please, rest,” Alastair orders, placing a hand on her shoulder and gently pushing her back. “I will relay the news to the king myself. Once you feel well enough to get about, I’ll assemble-”
“What about the girl? Is she with them?” Her smile doesn’t waver even while she coughs, wiping away the joyful tears that now form at the corner of her eyes. “Dean must be so happy.” There’s a lilt, almost like a song, at the end of her words.
Walking over to the window and pulling the thick curtains back, Alastair basks in the rising sun. His smile is cruel as he looks out onto the village; seizes the strong points along with those areas which will prove an advantage when the time comes. “He is indeed, milady. Forgive if it sounds a little, um, forward of me. But change will ride in with the young prince. Big change. Significant change.”
“I know,” Mary says, and there’s confidence in her voice despite the tiredness that’s set in it. “My son will be a good king, a different one. The kingdom needs change, and who better than Dean with his atrocious attitude problems.”
Alastair’s fingers stop drumming against the edge of the window. He slowly turns to her, and the smile she wears transforms into a knowing one. “I’m sure his journey has taught him a thing or two about proper attitudes. Dean is a brilliant young man, though stubborn, but sometimes his stubbornness can be one of his greatest attributes,” Alastair says.
“Oh, I know.” And the words mean far more than Alastair hopes they do.
Sometimes it is hard to remember that it doesn’t matter how feeble and gentle Mary looks, because she is among the kingdom’s most cunning minds. She offers him a gracious nod. “You are a smart man, Alastair,” she says, absently twirling the end of a strand of hair. “But your arrogance betrays you. You have a tendency to underestimate the world around you.”
“Milady?” He wrings his hands, his smile still the falsely warm thing it always is. “One must not dabble in things they do not understand. Still, one does dabble in it and might just end up getting burned. And what a shame that would be. With all due respect, your Highness, what is your end?”
Mary sighs, canting her head to the side. “Like I’d tell you.”
“Oh, ho. Feisty.”
“You tell our king that his sons return. One more word, and I’ll make certain that you don’t set foot within my kingdom again.” The corner of her eyes crinkle, growing more pronounced as her smile widens. The hardness behind the big pools of blue makes Alastair raise an interested eyebrow. “Did you really think I’d be that stupid?”
“Do you really think you know the truth, Mary?”
“No, but I don’t have to. My son chose that woman for a reason, and I’ll see to it that they are happy and safe, despite her inhumanity. You may have an agenda, you may have been the one to urged John to grant Dean his permission to look for her, but I’m only going to say this once: you go as far as I allow you to. No, I don’t know your reasons yet, but if you hurt my son, I swear by my parents’ grave that it will be the last thing you do.” She finishes with a coughing fit, but it does little to lessen the gravity behind her words.
“Witch.” A single word, laced with all of the malice between Earth and Hell. It’s sharp; viscous with the smog of his voice.
“How mature are we, really, when we’re driven to name calling? I’m just smart. No need to be offended by that,” she says, and winks at him with the same smugness that is reminiscent of Dean Winchester. “Your little prophecy can kiss my ass.”
“And what will you do, when the king sets eyes upon your son and a beast? Might I ask, will you stand by your son’s side and declare that you knew all along? Or are you going to fake ignorance and act utterly horrified by the revelation?” He takes the vial from Mary’s lap and slips it back into his pocket. Coldness creeps into his voice, twisting with joyful cruelty. “Tell me, your Highness. What will John think when he learns that his son has been bedding a man all of this time?”
Alastair already expects the several reactions the new bit of information will trigger: grief, anger, disbelief. What he isn’t expecting is the moment Mary’s face switches from shocked to amused, and the laugh she lets out.
Mary burrows herself deeper in her bed, stretching out beneath the covers like a child after a long and satisfying day. “Easy question. It’s almost a waste of breath to answer it.” She pulls her arms up and over her head, lifting her hair to rest over her pillow as she stares up at the ceiling. “Better yet, I’ll give you a new answer.” Clearing her throat, she offers, “Should we stick with the traditional white for both bridegrooms, or should we mix it up a bit?”
“You will be hanged for such words,” Alastair says, theatrically scandalized.
“Then so be it. I will stand by Dean’s side until the very end. And if it were Sam, I would do so as well. For, you see, after you dig through all of your magic and witchcraft, there is one more power that will always reign supreme.”
“Oh, let me guess,” Alastair says, obviously bored with the conversation. “The power of love?”
“A mother’s love is something to be reckoned with, Alastair,” she says through her coughing. Groaning, she takes a deep breath and continues. “Worse yet would be a queen mother. And far worse, a queen mother who happens to be the kingdom’s best hunter.”
Alastair sets his jaw, flexing it thoughtfully as he considers her. “Well, would you look at that, a strong woman. Such a rarity.”
“Your petty insults and threats mean little to me. You’ll need another way to get to this family, witch.”
There’s a moment of silence before Alastair laughs, loud and sickeningly as he throws his head back. “He who was righteous no longer is; a human in love will take his place. One more promise, another door, if rejected, Heaven’s Gates open nevermore.”
“Dean is a righteous man,” Mary says, nodding and with a shrug. She has read the prophecy before, and therefore knows what is at stake. “Do what you must, but he’ll triumph against any traitorous plot you can conjure.”
“I’m sure he will, milady. Truth be told, I’d be disappointed if he didn’t. Have a good day, your Highness. And please, get well soon.” Seething under his deceptively calm facade, Alastair takes his leave, quietly shutting the door behind him.
Mary knows, and that fact alone throws a wrench into his carefully devised plan. It’s a delicate situation that must be handled with the most meticulous care if it is to succeed. She was right, he had underestimated her greatly, as well as her knack of disobeying John’s direct orders.
Walking down the hall, Alastair takes a right.
He is known for his patience in the grand scheme of things, but now is the time to act. With another contender in play, Alastair is forced to think on his feet. He entertains the thought of poisoning her, making it all look accidental. After all, no one would truly know of the high levels of mercury in the fish fillet she’d be served at dinner. But no, that won’t do. It just isn’t his style. Besides, death would be too obvious.
Clearing his throat, he stops in front of a far grander door, with its golden bolts and polished iron. He knocks.
Death would garner too much attention. Torture is out of the question. Alastair doesn’t have much to work with in the given situation, but he has just enough to cause the mayhem he needs, the next best thing. He wishes the king and queen no ill will, but the tables have turned.
The door is opened by a terribly thin guard, but a booming voice comes from deep inside. “What is it?”
Alastair smiles. It is Mary’s word against his. The king’s advisor versus the king’s ill and feeble wife. A clear win no matter how one slices it, and it’s almost unfair. If only he cared for such things. “I’ve got magnificent news, sire.”
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
A week has elapsed since their departure, and Castiel is positively fed up with Dean’s attitude. All had been roses and Dean-scented-pillows when they were back in Rod’im, and even throughout those bittersweet years when the prince was but a memory. But spending a few hours with a person is nothing like spending an entire day with them. Castiel is beginning to think that maybe it was all just a big mistake.
After the first three nights sleeping beneath the stars, they had finally come across a small village where they had stopped to replenish their stock. With food, water, fresh clothing and weapons in check, they spent the night in a small tavern, celebrating their journey homeward.
Castiel had found it all distasteful. The loudness and rowdiness, the constant stench of perspiration all around him, the drinks that had been pushed in front of him. Worst yet had been Dean allowing his hands to wander over a young woman, kissing her cheek and whispering in her ear. Castiel does not wish to think about what could have happened had Sam and Balthazar not interfered in the nick of time.
Later that evening, before bed, Castiel had requested a separate room.
Two nights later find him here, in the middle of nowhere with a group of eleven riders, all of them bickering and laughing, and poking fun at his wings. At one point, Dean yells at them for it, but only broods when Castiel ignores his attempt at chivalry. He rides ahead now, silent and pensive as he leads the way across the desert landscape.
Castiel dislikes the arid weather, the dryness that sets into his mouth and makes his skin itch. During the day it’s far too hot, but when night falls, he’s left shivering in his tunic and trousers. Dean’s question finally makes sense, and he finds himself wondering why Rod’im’s climate is always the same. Warm and comfortable, like a well-mannered dream. He hates that it isn’t home.
There isn’t even a confidant he can count on, as most of his friends had stayed in the city. Only Balthazar remains, but Castiel understands that their friendship now takes a backseat to his brother’s duties. Balthazar is Captain above all else, and Castiel is only someone for him to look after while the prince is busy.
Castiel sighs, feeling dejected and alone amongst the group.
“He’s a bit rough around the edges, but give him some time,” Sam says, pulling up to ride by Castiel’s side. “It’s been a while since he’s been exclusive.”
“I understand.”
“You’re okay, right? Any homesickness, maybe?”
“Sam, I’ve lived in Rod’im for the past thirty-three years. Would you truly expect otherwise?” There’s humor in his tone, despite the sadness he feels settling in his bones. “But yes, I’m fine. Somewhat tired is all. Maybe a little hungry.” Sam gives him a long contemplative look before he chuckles. “What?”
“Nothing. You’re just a lot more expressive, now. I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Try.”
“Well, kind of like... Back there, in the city, you permanently looked like you were trying to translate your words from another language into English. It looked like you were always concentrating on something. But now... it’s just weird,” Sam says, casting a look back at Balthazar and the rest of his men.
“What’s weird?” Castiel prompts, displeased about being unable to understand what he means.
“Now you talk with your whole face. Your eyebrows move, you roll your eyes, your mouth quirks around the edges, you tip your head to the sides... Like you’re human now. You know, if it weren’t for those massive things,” Sam says, and waves in the general direction of Castiel’s back.
Castiel isn’t sure about how to reply to that, so he says the first thing he can think of, “Thank you, Sam.”
“I think that’s why Dean is throwing another bitch-fit.”
“Because I can express more emotion than I previously could? Why would that upset him?”
“We Winchesters don’t like dealing with disappointment,” Sam confesses, slinking into himself shyly. “We can put up with anything that comes our way, but we hate disappointing the ones who matter, the ones we love. And it was really obvious that you were jealous when he tried to... you know, that, with that girl.”
Shaking his head, the sides of Castiel’s mouth tilt up in a miniature smile. “I don’t mind. As long as Dean is happy.”
“You don’t mean that,” Sam snaps, kicking Castiel’s leg gently. “You do care, and it did bother you, and it should. Because Dean was being a dick, and he deserved to sleep alone. He needs to learn that things are different now, for the both of you. And he needs to stop being a dick all the time.”
Castiel chuckles at this, tilting his head in a physical form of ‘you have a point’. “You’re a lot easier to talk to than your brother, Sam. I think you should know that.”
“I also like to think that I’m the more charming one,” Sam says, dramatically flipping his hair in the nonexistent breeze, making Castiel laugh when it falls into his mouth. “Well that backfired.”
“Your hair is quite long. Is there any reason for that?” Being naturally curious, Castiel can’t stop himself from wondering. Where Dean is always well kept and properly trimmed, Sam is shaggier, with his long hair and pronounced beard. “It makes you look far older.”
Sam shrugs, running a hand through his hair to lighten it up. “I guess I just like it this way?”
“That, or he likes being a big girl,” Dean says, speaking up once they’ve caught up with him.
“Facial hair isn’t something that’s incredibly common in women,” Castiel says, suddenly solemn and staring straight ahead.
“You should have seen our aunt.” Dean tries to joke, but only gets the cold shoulder. He turns to Sam with an exasperated look, but only gets a barely contained grin in return. “What?”
“Nothing,” Sam says quickly. “I think you’ve upset him.”
“How many times do I have to say that I’m sorry?!”
“You don’t mean it,” Castiel says, urging his horse to step ahead of both brothers.
“Do too! Sam, tell him I mean it.”
“I dunno, Dean. I mean, Jezebel over there looked pretty damn comfortable all snug against you.”
“You’re not helping.”
“It’s your own fault. Now go apologize to him. Properly.”
“I’m not apologizing again. Him being a stubborn ass? Not my fault.”
“Takes one to know one,” Sam says, roughly shoving at Dean’s shoulder. “It’s a long way home, and I don’t feel like being subjected to your constant tension. Why not just get it over and done with?”
“I’ve tried, Sam,” Dean says, stretching out his words with irritation. “There’s no getting through to him.”
“I can hear every word you’re saying, Dean,” Castiel says over his shoulder. He’s a fair distance away, and Sam can only whistle.
“Now, that’s impressive.” He turns back to Dean, who is glaring daggers at Castiel’s back. “Stop acting like a kid. When you mean it, when you show him that you really mean it, I’m sure he’ll come around. In the meantime, keep being a dick and he’ll be one right back.”
“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Dean complains, whining as his shoulders slump.
“Remember Jessica? Yeah. Call it payback.”
“Bitch.”
“Jerk.”
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
It takes them another day to reach the next village, this one familiar. Dean recalls it from the first month after they had set off from Eldosia. Small and quiet, a fishing village allied with the Western Kingdom. The townsfolk are nice and welcoming, their hospitality unrivalled, and Dean’s sure Castiel will enjoy his stay.
At midday, they all shed their outer layers, armor and weapons, leaving them in their rented rooms as they head down for a hearty lunch. There’s no music, no rowdy atmosphere with inebriated guests, and no whores out to make an honest shilling. It’s stuffy, however, and Dean watches as Castiel takes his ham outside to eat in Sam’s company.
“We’re still two weeks away from home,” says Balthazar, who is leaning against the counter by Dean’s side. He orders a lager. “From here on out, there are no more villages. Whatever supplies we carry can’t be perishable. As for the water...” he trails off, taking a swig of his drink.
Dean only nods, picking at his pork. “We’ve weathered worse with less.”
“But we’re used to it,” Balthazar says.
“He’ll have to deal like the rest of us.”
“Ah. Lover’s spat, I see.” Balthazar laughs around the ledge of his pint. “You should try fucking it out. Works all the time.”
Dean takes his plate and walks outside, leaving Balthazar alone at the counter. It’s rude, not that he cares, but he isn’t in the mood for any of his captain’s debauchery. Pushing the door open with his hips, he takes a look around.
The village is teeming with life. Several kids bump into him as he tries to make his way to a mounting stool near Sabbath, where he sits to finish up his lunch. His eyes take in the men who are rolling up the shutters of their kiosks, selling fish and other seafood. One man is carrying two pails of water, pushing a door open with his foot. The sign above reads ‘Brown and Sons Blacksmith Shop’. A young couple, likely recently married, walk down the dirt path, chatting in hushed voices. Farther down the road, he spots a woman sweeping the porch of her tiny home.
It’s a nice place, Dean thinks. The people seem content in their own little world, where the only thing that matters is what kind of fish to put on the table at dinnertime. It’s calm, like the entire world is at peace, and Dean finds himself envying the villagers more with each thing each new thing he notices.
He takes a forkful of now-cold pork into his mouth and hums. The smoke clings to the thick skin, and the meat just breaks away with a tender poke of his fork. “That’s pretty good," he mutters to himself. Shoving the corn to the side, he breaks away a piece of meat with his fingers and shoves it into his mouth.
Out the corner of his eye, Dean sees a little boy half-hiding behind a post, staring at him. When he looks up, the boy hides from sight completely, making him chuckle. As much as he likes kids (which is a complete lie; he’d much rather deal with horses for the rest of his life), he’s far too hungry to play hide-and-go-seek. Dean had outgrown the game the moment Sam declared he was too old for it.
The boy pops his head out again, watching Dean intently, and it’s only then that he finally gets it. Shaking his head, Dean drops the piece of pork back onto his plate and grabs the roll of bread instead. He holds it out, looking in the direction of the little boy. “I’m not gonna bite, kid.” Hesitantly, the boy steps forward and takes the bread.
From behind the same post, a little girl peeks out, and runs for the boy when he offers her half of his bread. Most likely siblings, judging by the shock of yellow hair and rich brown eyes that they share. “Thank you, mister,” the girl says to Dean, before grabbing her probably-brother by the forearm and dragging him away.
Dean snorts, waving them off before returning to his plate.
“Uh...” he says dumbly, gawking at the dozen or so grimy kids now standing in a single file in front of him. Looking down at his plate, he frowns. Deciding that it is nowhere near enough to feed them all, Dean stands up. “Wait here. And don’t touch my plate.”
They all exchange nervous looks, but when he steps back out with Balthazar and more than a dozen plates in tow, a chorus of cheers erupts loud enough to startle most of the adults in the surrounding area. Dean nearly trips when they tackle him, and Balthazar has to bark out, “All right! Single line, right this instant!” Which they dutifully obey.
“At least they’re well-behaved,” says Dean, taking his seat on the stool once more, and handing out the plates of foods one by one. “If there’s anyone else you know, share,” he commands, and the kids all nod and run off, for the exception of a small group that huddles around his feet.
Balthazar gives him a look that could probably mean anything, but Dean gives him the finger, just to be safe.
“Heart of gold,” says Sam, who is eating an apple he’s just purchased from a farmer’s market. He pats Dean on the shoulder and ruffles his hair. “If only you didn’t act like an ogre the rest of the time.”
“Screw you,” Dean bites out, taking a drink from his mead. “They were hungry. How the hell do you expect me to sit here and stuff my face when I could have done just that?” He shrugs, and colors when he spots Castiel looking at him from a few meters away.
Sam doesn’t say a thing, only pats him on the shoulder again.
Dean decides to spend the rest of the day grooming and pampering Sabbath, and he even orders new shoes for her. He scarcely sees Sam throughout the day, as Sam is mostly showing Castiel around, whenever they aren’t sitting lazily in the grassier areas of the village and exchanging stories. It twists his stomach, just how much he misses Castiel even though he’s right there, looking brighter and a lot more comfortable now that he’s not melting on top of a horse.
Dean smiles fondly, rubbing methodic circles along Sabbath’s shoulders. He has secured her in for the night at the stable, and she snorts her thanks when he presses his forehead to hers. With oats, fresh hay, and water, she’s as comfortable as can be. “Goodnight, baby.”
Most of the villagers have picked themselves off the busy streets by now, and shut themselves behind the faded stone walls of their homes with their families. It isn’t quiet, now that the insects and frogs have woken up to keep the cold air company, along with the headache-inducing racket coming from the tavern.
Heading off the cobblestoned streets, Dean idly wanders along the pond he visited earlier, thinking about his nights at Rod’im’s secret lake garden. The small puddle of murky water that he’s standing in front of now is nothing like the unending slice of paradise Castiel had granted him access to, but it is peaceful and calm, attributes he isn’t quite fond of, but settles for. He sits on the grassy bank and takes the downtime to think. If thinking is even the correct term for it.
There isn’t much left to think about, Dean concedes soberly. By now, he has long since crossed the point of no return, way past hesitating and second-guessing himself. His family, the kingdom, Castiel. It’s imminent. Dean is ready for whatever punishment his father will inflict on him.
Dean hums a laugh when a hand gently cards through his hair, a kiss pressing on his temple with the faint scratch of stubble. The left side of his body immediately warms as Castiel molds against it, and places his head on Dean’s shoulder. His body feels soft and warm, relaxed where he’s draped over Dean like fine silk, and Dean suddenly feels unable to withstand not touching him.
“I’m sorry,” says Dean, and it’s both an apology and a request for permission.
“I know.”
“I was being a jerk. Old habits and crap.” He stops to lick his lips, and presses them to Castiel’s forehead. “Still hasn’t sunk in. No longer having to look around for a good lay, you know? I’ll admit, I’m gonna miss hunting around, and sweet-talking my way into girls’...” Dean trails off, staring long and hard at the undisturbed surface of the water.
Dean breaks away only to look down at Castiel, seeing him smiling fondly where his head is still resting on his shoulder. Dean notices the lack of that ethereal glow he never even noticed before, and he’s even shivering, pulling himself closer to Dean’s side. Not for the first time, Dean worries about the effects being away from home will have on Castiel. He’s still the serene and rugged man he was back in Rod’im, but he looks real now. Far rougher around the edges, less pale, more virile and solid, and Dean finds that he’s perfectly okay with that.
“Bullshit,” Dean says, and can’t help but laugh when Castiel does a double-take. “I’m not missing any of that. I’ve had my run, and what a run that was, let me tell you.” He cups Castiel’s cheek, angling him up for a short kiss. “You’re here now. S’what I’ve always been looking for, Cas. I finally found you. That’s it.”
“Dean,” Castiel begins, but is quickly interrupted by another kiss.
“Sex is great, too. So who am I to complain?” he says, trying to save the unforgivably soppy moment.
“But there’s more than just good sex.” There isn’t even a hint of hesitation in Castiel’s voice. He’s certain that Dean feels more than just lust, more than a desire to pursue an adventure driven by forbidden passions. “There’s more.”
Dean’s fingers trace a feather on Castiel’s wing, tugging at it softly to get it into place. He nods, and it’s a shy little movement that’s almost lost when Castiel leans in to kiss him soundly. “Yeah,” Dean says, and lets himself fall back with Castiel in tow. “There’s always more.”
They kiss. A slow tangle of tongues and the sometimes awkward click of teeth, but it’s better than anything Dean has ever experienced before. He’s sure the thigh that nudges between his legs is unintentional, but the opinion shifts when Castiel begins to rub one of his nipples through Dean’s shirt. Dean laughs breathily, and wraps his arms around Castiel, careful with his wings, to pull him on top of him.
“I like it when we make love,” Castiel admits, coyly pressing the tip of his tongue to Dean’s lower lip, before beating a hasty retreat. “It feels like flying through circles of lightning-”
“Can you fly?” Dean asks all of a sudden, like he’s only just made the connection between Castiel’s wings and flying. His eyes are wide with wonder, catching the moonlight, and still laughs when Castiel shakes his head. “Then why wings?”
“Purely aesthetic, I think. However, earlier generations were able to hone the ability.” He opens out the black wings, arching them high enough to brush against a neighboring tree. “I really wish I could, though. It must be a wonderful experience.”
Dean finds it hard to swallow around the knot in his throat, finding Castiel’s forlorn tone heartbreaking. “If it makes you feel better, I can’t fly either.”
Castiel snorts, a harsh and strange noise that comes from his nose, but he shakes his head and smiles. “You’re a good man, Dean. I’m glad you proved Michael wrong.”
“Why, ‘cause I can’t fly?”
They bump their foreheads together and smile. “I saw you today,” Castiel says, and softly touches Dean’s cheek. “What you did, it was very noble of you.”
“Well, yeah, I guess. It’s not like I ended poverty or anything.”
“One small act of kindness at a time, Dean. You are a good man with a heart of gold and a soul made of pure light.” Castiel’s eyes shine as he speaks, overwhelmed with emotions Dean is still too scared to name. “One day, you will be a great king.” Pressing his mouth to Dean’s, he takes a moment to whisper against it, “And I’m honored to call you mine.”
Dean’s hands clutch Castiel’s back as he rolls them over, gently easing the wings to Castiel’s sides so as to not hurt them. He looks beautiful with his face randomly touched by moonlight, framed by blue grass. Dean searches his face, looks for anything that doesn’t belong and finds himself shaking his head in disbelief. “I took you away from your family.”
“It was my choice.”
“I’m selfish. I’m rude, and arrogant, and...”
“You’re a prince; a noble-hearted one. Tell me, Dean, what else have you obtained that your heart has sought after? Is it selfish to chase after one thing when all your life, all you’ve ever done, has been fight to defend your people and give your all?” Castiel’s words are fervent when he grabs Dean’s collar, forcing him to look him in the eye. “I’m just as guilty as you are, if so.”
“Aren’t you scared?” Dean’s question is hushed, and he hates that he’s lingering in thoughts he swore he’d never worry over again. “Eldosia isn’t exactly known for its tolerance of the supernatural.”
Castiel just looks at him, tranquil and adoring. “Your father’s wrath troubles me, yes.” He shakes his head. “But I will not let fear dictate my life. You cannot jump if you fear the fall.”
“But what if...”
“Let’s not think about this,” Castiel says, and flips them over again. This time, he sits on Dean’s lap and grinds down against his crotch. “Let us instead make the best of the time we have.”
Dean is about to speak, but is kissed into silence.
The gyration of Castiel’s hips is slow and unrelenting, pressing down only when he moves forward, making sure that Dean can feel his erection through his trousers. They keep their hands to themselves, keeping only to the sinuous drive of their hips, the occasional bump of their cocks separated by layers of clothing.
Dean’s head rolls from side to side as he fights the urge to buck up, to get more of that pressure. The pace is far too slow, everything is too light, but Castiel’s presence alone is enough to leave him reeling. Sharp arousal pools in his lower half, and his thighs cramp up with the need to thrust, but Castiel is pinning him down with a single stare. “Jesus Christ, Cas-”
Castiel presses himself down against Dean’s groin with light jumping motions that leave the prince panting for more. “The next time,” Castiel begins, and takes hold of Dean’s wrists, “you entertain the thought of bringing anyone to your bed, I want you to remember this.” He pins them easily over Dean’s head with a single hand. Dean tries to break free, but his hold is strong.
“Cas-”
“I want you to remember how effortlessly I can please you, Dean.”
Maybe it’s a threat, Dean wonders, but he can’t think beyond how much he wants Castiel to fuck him. He’s nothing but pure, sinful and cool authority. Dean wants everything the man has to offer and more. “Oh really?” he challenges, and is thrilled when Castiel’s eyes darken.
The first time was shy and messy, the second was desperate and passionate, but now Dean wants it rough. He wants to rip out the last of his hesitation, dismantle his insecurities, and what better way than giving Castiel those reins? Dean wants to lay back and not think as Castiel ravishes him, bites and scratches him, makes him fly open at the seams and still beg for more. The thought of surrendering, abandoning all control-it takes Dean higher than he’s ever been. The thought that Castiel can very well break him, snap him so easily in half, makes Dean whimper pathetically against Castiel’s mouth.
But he won’t do it. It’s in his touch, on his fingertips and lips. Castiel will never harm Dean, not deliberately, and that knowledge is far more powerful than any lewd fantasy Dean can muster.
Coming back to himself, Dean realizes that Castiel's one hand is entwined with both of his, that Castiel is just hovering over him, and that his pace is now erratic and forceful. Dean helps him, finally thrusting up to meet him when their foreheads touch. “Come on, Cas. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
Castiel shudders and freezes, gasping his orgasm against Dean’s mouth, which Dean takes advantage of and slips his tongue inside his mouth. He comes when Castiel orders him to, a soft whisper against his ear that gets him off like nothing has ever been able to do.
“I’ll, heh,” Dean starts, struggling to speak around his panting. “I’ll make sure to remember that.” They kiss once more before rolling onto their sides with hushed laughter. “We should probably get inside. Get cleaned up before bed.”
“I don’t want to move,” Castiel growls, and he sounds sleepy enough for Dean to consider it adorable. He brings a wing down over them, and nuzzles Dean’s neck. “Can’t we just sleep here?”
“You’re shivering.”
“I suppose I am. The temperature here is very different.”
Dean looks down at him, his hands now petting absently at Castiel’s shoulder. “How come? I mean, I noticed it before. In Rod’im, one moment it’s below zero and the next it’s a freaking oven.”
“I think it has something to do with the concentration of power over the city.”
“Really? Like, all that mojo just vaporizes the air?”
“No idea, but it sounded plausible.”
There’s a moment of silence before Dean says, “Did you just make a joke?” There isn’t a reply, and the even rising and falling of Castiel’s chest against his side is a quiet indication that he is already fast asleep. Dean sighs, long and elated, and presses a kiss to the mop of dark hair. “Don’t ever change, Cas.”
He wonders just how he's meant to drag Castiel’s ass back to the room without waking him.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
“You really need to knock that off,” Sam declares loudly, nudging his horse to go faster, putting as much distance between them as possible.
“Quit whining,” Dean bites back.
“Your Highness, I insist-we all do-that you stop it right this instant. We won’t be able to stomach this any longer,” Balthazar says, looking far too disgusted.
“We’re doing nothing wrong,” Castiel adds, raising his chin high but blurts out a laugh when Dean kicks his leg.
“See? This is exactly what I’m talking about!” Huffing, Sam urges his horse to break into a hurried trot, his face turning even redder under the noon sun. “If I have to witness another second of you two making faces at each other, I’ll gouge my eyes out.”
Balthazar laughs, keeping a steady pace with Castiel. “If you haven’t already, I don’t think you will,” he yells, and grins when Dean gives him the finger.
Sam, poor little Sam. He’d been unfortunate enough to walk in on Dean and Castiel going at it, on the morning they had been set on riding out from the small fishing village. He had stopped by Dean’s room to bring him down for breakfast, only to find it empty. Sam will always regret walking into Castiel’s room, however. Castiel is fast, but he had not been fast enough to cover themselves with his wings when Dean was too busy thrusting into him on the bedroom floor.
That had been the first of many such incidents.
The youngest Winchester is convinced that his brother is doing it out of spite, because having sex against a tree in hearing range from camp just isn’t something most considerate people do. Or on a haystack in a stable. Or behind a tavern in broad daylight. But Sam is convinced that finding them with their pants down isn’t the worst part; worse yet are the quiet smiles and tender touches. The chaste kisses are the absolute worst, and Sam is secretly glad about Dean falling off Sabbath when he attempts to kiss Castiel while riding.
It has been two weeks of absolute, heart-shaped, dewy-eyed hell.
Castiel casts Dean a look which borders more on mischief than actual confusion or worry. “I think Sam disapproves.”
“Sam can go suck a lemon,” Dean says, but refrains from any unnecessary touching now that Balthazar is glaring daggers at him.
The day is hot, like all the other days, and Castiel has shed most of his ornamental clothing, opting instead to wear a simple shirt, plain trousers and a pair of Dean’s boots. Balthazar mentions that he could very well be mistaken for one of the Eldosian knights, but Castiel only shrugs happily.
He looks happy, Balthazar mentions to one of their knights. As does Dean.
After the initial scuffle and shocked whispers about their future king being in love with another man, never mind a Nephilim, the men had grown fond of the idea. Mostly because they have grown fond of Castiel. It’s hard not to be taken in by the too-big blue eyes and the softness around them, the small wrinkles that crease his face whenever he smiles or laughs.
Eldosia’s knights are enamored with the prince’s betrothed. But no one will ever admit it.
Garth, one of the newest additions to the party, once commented offhandedly that Castiel was “quite the looker”. After being on the receiving end of Dean Winchester’s wrath, the subject of all things Castiel were dropped.
Balthazar, who has now fallen behind to exchange a brief word with one of his men, considers the pair. He thinks back to that night eleven years ago, to the promise a younger Castiel made, and can’t help but smile at the fondness that blooms in his heart.
Castiel got his wish, and he is happy.
“That’s just disgusting. I wasn’t even like that with my lady,” one of the knights, Christian, mentions to Balthazar. “Of all the gorgeous women, Winchester has to go for that.”
“Don’t be a prick,” Balthazar says, but there’s no real anger in it, just the instinctual reprimand. “You’re just jealous because you aren’t getting any.” Christian scowls and falls behind.
Castiel and Dean are happy, and Balthazar can’t help but feel the same for them. But the hard truth lingers above all their heads.
Come evening the next day, they will be at Eldosia’s gates, and Balthazar all but dreads their reception.
Chapter Six