[2012 DCBB] The Dreamer and the Mystic - Chapter Seven
Title: The Dreamer and the Mystic
Author: bellanovaskies
Artist: littlestshipper
Genre: Fairytale, Romance
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel, Mary/John, implied Dean/Cassie, Sam/Ruby and Sam/Jessica
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 110,000
Warnings: Violence, language, strong sexual content, and scenes of graphic torture.
Summary: When Dean Winchester’s eighteenth birthday arrived, he was expected to choose his Queen-To-Be; instead he found himself falling for a mysterious stranger with eyes like stars. Eleven years later, accompanied by his brother and their father’s knights, Dean journeys into ancient lands that have long since faded into legend and lore, to once again find the eyes that had bewitched him. Castiel's tribe may be a force to be reckoned with, but nothing can prepare Dean to face his own father, and confess his love for a less-than-human being.
The bed is still warm when Dean wakes, but there’s one less body in it. He groans in protest, sitting up, relieved when he spots Castiel standing at the foot of his bed, his back to him. The fact that he’s fully dressed in armor only sinks in after a while.
Lightning illuminates the still dark room, and Dean decides that the unending storm can’t possibly be normal. After raging nonstop for well over a week and giving no indication of stopping, he thinks the crops the kingdom are most likely lost. The waves are growing more aggressive as the hours go by, slamming themselves ferociously against the side of the castle.
When Dean turns his sights away from the window, he spots Castiel looking at him. Dean’s back stiffens at the look on his face, dread already settling in his chest at the closed expression. There’s a certain heaviness between his blue eyes that makes all of Castiel’s previous frowns pale in comparison.
“I swear I didn’t do anything,” Dean says jokingly, placing his hands above his head in a gesture of surrender.
Castiel doesn’t smile, he doesn’t even lighten up, just sags his shoulders and crosses the room for his sword with the same solemn expression. Kicking back the sheets, Dean goes to grab him and demand to know what’s eating him, but stops when he crosses the window. “What the-” Along the horizon, in stark contrast to the dark background, is a line of ebony figures.
Rod’im’s army is nowhere near as massive as Eldosia’s, but the level of intimidation makes up for the lack of men. Their soldiers are mounted on their gargantuan horses, sitting deathly still atop the cliff, waiting for the signal to charge. Wings are nothing but blotches of white against their backs. “You got them to come,” says Dean, awe transparent in his voice. “Why are they in position?” He turns back to Castiel. “Did John-
“The king is dead, Dean.” Castiel’s voice is hard but compassionate. He slides his misericorde into the scabbard and holds on to the leather strap, willing his breathing to calm for when Dean finally bursts.
The play of emotions on Dean’s face is heartbreaking, Castiel decides. From the grief to the outrage, each small twitch of the eyebrow and tremor of his shoulder, translates to an abysmal pit of despair. In spite of the clashing feelings, Dean remains carefully somber. His face has gone deathly pale as he takes several steadying breaths.
“Was it him?”
Castiel nods, not needing to ask who Dean means. “Exiled or not, my people have never been murderers. The theory of Alastair being Nephilim must be erroneous.”
“No, it’s not,” Dean says, his voice cold like steel as he moves across the wooden floor. Wrenching his wardrobe doors open, he pulls out his armor. “I don’t know what his problem is-revenge or some shit-but he’s definitely Nephilim.” He clumsily dresses himself, pushing Castiel away whenever he tries to help.
“Dean-”
“I’m fine, Cas.”
“You are not fine,” says Castiel, voice terse as he jerks Dean by the shoulder to face him. “You are wroth. I understand that. But you need to focus on the problem at hand. One wrong move and the kingdom is lost, Dean.”
“Don’t you think I know that?!” Dean shoves him away, and he knows Castiel moves only because Dean wants him to. “Right now, the only thing I have is my anger. That slime desecrated my home. I’ll personally see to it that he rots in Hell.” He doesn’t bother with chainmail or heavy metal, only takes the trouble of tying his jerkin and greaves, protecting only that which needs protecting in the heat of battle.
The look Castiel gives him sets Mary’s death-glares to shame. “You look nice, though. The armor contrasts nicely with the whole wing thing.”
“Dean,” Castiel begins, heaving a strained sigh. “I know your default defense system is to repress all prodigious emotion, but I would appreciate if you would stop being an intractable child for one day.”
“Don’t push me.”
“If you don’t cooperate, then I will be forced to do so.”
“I’d like to see you try, Feathers.”
The door creaks open, but neither looks away from each other’s face.
“Sorry to interrupt the domestic dispute but, uh, we’ve got a rogue warlock here.” Gabriel pops his head in, tuts at them with a dramatic shake of his head.
Castiel is the first to look away, signaling Gabriel to step inside. He ignores Dean’s protest about inviting random people into his bedroom. “Deano,” he greets. “The crowd’s getting uneasy.” Walking up to the window and sticking his hand out to catch a bit a rain, Gabriel’s face falls. “We need our general.”
“I understand,” Castiel says. “But I don’t appreciate going in blind. I need to know why he is doing this, his motivation. Tactics are nothing if you don’t know how the enemy thinks.”
“Wait,” Dean interrupts, grabbing Castiel by the forearm. It would have proven an easier task if it weren’t for the armor. “You’re their general? You never bothered mentioning this... why, exactly?”
“It never came up,” he offers as an explanation and shrugs, turning his attention back to Gabriel, who is in turn smiling smugly at him. “What is it?”
“Balthazar got an earful. Common sense, once you really think about it.” He holds up a finger. “Kill the king,” and then he lifts another one, “you gain control of his army.”
“Eldosia’s knights won’t ride into battle without a commander,” Dean counters, crossing his arms.
“No, but they’ll listen to the next best thing. Rumors are King John of the House of Winchester is down with the Fever, so he’s relaying orders to Alastair, who in turn lets his guppies know the latest.”
“What about Michael? Is he here, too? Is he fighting?”
“He pulled back after the first battle,” Castiel says, sounding genuinely annoyed. “Yes, a lot has happened during the last nine days.”
“Naturally.” Dean mutters to himself and heads for the door, determined to fling himself into action. He makes sure that both Castiel and Gabriel are behind him. “You two want to enlighten me on what else went down?”
“Not much else is of import. Casualties have been mutual thus far. Most of the villagers have taken to staying indoors, as was advised. We’ve refrained from a second confrontation until we have convened with you.”
“And what? You expect me to fight for your side?”
“I’m yet to question your choices, your Highness,” says Castiel, eyes steady on the tapestry several meters away. Dean looks at him for the briefest moment, before looking forward again with a scoff. He entwines their fingers together, palm to palm, as they march on down the hall.
The looks they get from the servants and lords are plenty, most of them shocked and a handful disgusted. Dean thinks about the sight they must make: two grown men-an aboriginal general-slash-prince with massive black wings, and a hunter prince who carries their kingdom’s coat of arms emblazoned on his armor-marching into battle, holding hands.
“You two make quite the pair,” says Gabriel from behind them, grinning from ear to ear.
Castiel squeezes Dean’s fingers. “We’re aware.”
They cross the hallways and pass the Great Hall, and Dean doesn’t mention when Castiel tugs him a little faster once they reach the throne. Dean only releases his hand when he steps forward to push open the doors, stepping out into the pouring rain. Gathered in the front courtyard, Eldosia’s legions turn to look at him.
Dean marches down the stairs, head held high.
Rain sluices him, but he ignores it. Exiled or not, every knight present lowers his head in awe-inspired respect; the regal set of his shoulders is a sight too powerful to mock. Dean tries not to let the simmering wave of emotion bubble over the edge.
“Your Majesty,” Balthazar says, emerging from the crowd and falling into stride with him. “What’s the plan of action?”
“We take the kingdom back.” Crossing the bailey and into the lower part of the village, he sees the faces staring from windows and creaking doors. All of them are fearful, and dirty from a hard day’s work. Dean feels a surge of rage at the thought of Alastair endangering all of their lives for the sake of revenge. “We take Eldosia back.”
“Then you have my sword,” Balthazar says with a determined nod.
“And ours.” They turn at the sound of Garth’s voice, noticing the small group of knights that have begun to follow, all of them from Dean’s journey. “Ain’t that right, guys?” The knights erupt into a chorus of assertive cheering. Garth laughs, crossing his arms smugly as he stands before Balthazar, awaiting his approval.
“You’re insane, the lot of you.” But Balthazar is smiling proudly at his men. Courage isn’t something that is taught through training, and what defines a good knight is not just his skill in wielding a sword and arrow, but the heart of him. He turns to Dean and Castiel, who look on, fondness in their expressions. “Right. Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”
Rain begins to fall harder, darkening the world around them as they march across the rocky terrain outside of the kingdom. The jagged edges of rock are difficult to walk on, making them slip and trip as they walk uphill, towards the extensive line of Nephilim that stand unflinching, awaiting orders.
Dean takes a moment to admire their armor despite the gray curtain of rain in front of his eyes. The armor is nowhere near as embellished as Castiel’s own, but the ivory tone that makes it sparkle like marble is impressive all on its own. Slim, not as bulky as his knights’, which most likely grants them more agility and flexibility. Most impressive of all, was the fact that women had been allowed to take up arms alongside the men. He makes a mental note of that, and stores it away.
Uriel, Dean recognizes, brings Sabbath to him, and he takes her with a grateful nod.
One of the riders steps forward and hands Castiel his helmet. “Your orders, General?” Anna says with a grin, waving at Dean.
“We stand back; wait until they make their first move. We’re facing hunters. They may be human but do not underestimate them or it will cost you dearly.” Castiel falls quiet, and Dean watches as he walks along the line of horses. The riders nod in unison, and Anna falls back into line.
It really is no wonder just why the Nephilim have lasted so long upon the Earth. With just a thought, Castiel is relaying to them his strategy, carefully picking out the enemy’s weak points and where they can focus their strongest attack. Dean watches, awed, as Castiel comes to a stop and faces his soldiers, raises a hand and opens his wings. The soldiers all cry out in unison, a sound so loud and booming that Dean has to slap his hands over his ears to keep from going mad. When it finally goes quiet, he looks up and sees Castiel looking over his shoulder, back at Eldosia.
“That’s freaking rad,” Garth says from somewhere behind Dean, and despite the eye roll it triggers, Dean has to agree.
Dean has long-since stopped seeing Castiel as the flimsy kid he met eleven years ago, but now, seeing him in a suit of armor reminiscent of that he sees every Sunday at church, with an army at his back, waiting for his word to charge into battle.
As Castiel puts on his ivory-colored helmet, his eyes a piercing blue even through the rain, Dean feels his faith lodge right back into place. Religious or not, he had never been a true believer of God or his angels, but the sight before his eyes assures that he might just have been wrong all along. Prophecies and mystical nonsense aside, Castiel is a Godsend.
“Dean,” he says, and Dean startles, having been too wrapped up in his thoughts to notice him approach. “I need you to go back to the castle.”
“And miss the action? Whoa, hey, I’m sticking with you guys.”
Castiel adamantly shakes his head. “Without our hive mind, we won’t be able to operate at our best. The odds that Alastair will find a way to dampen our communication and power are high. We’ve proved this already.”
Dean looks off to the side and huffs agitatedly. He’s quiet for a long moment before he says, “What can I do about that?”
“Get him off the map,” Balthazar says. He’s already on his horse, and so are the rest of his men. “That is our intention isn’t it?”
“This battle is intended as a distraction. I’ve already given the order to harm, not kill. We’ll keep the knights busy while you infiltrate the castle and defeat Alastair. You’ve only got one shot at this, Dean. If you lose, your kingdom is lost and my people are extinct.”
“No pressure,” groans Dean bitterly, but nods in agreement. “Any advice and how to kill one of you guys?”
Castiel looks out over his soldiers in silent question, but shakes his head after a moment. “He lacks his wings, therefore he is weaker. We know nothing more of him, and I fear I can’t prepare you enough.”
“Not even you guys are immortal, right? A sword aimed just right can kill you,” Dean says, and he feels wrong doing so. The look Castiel gives him is calming, however.
“It should be enough. The problem will be getting close enough to do it.”
“I’ll get Sammy. We can tag-team him, distract him while I move in for the kill.”
“Be careful,” Castiel says, and it leaves him in rush. He’s holding back, trying to be strong in the face of battle, and Dean can’t help but kiss him right then, rough and passionate. They’re both soaked, the torrential rain makes it harder to breathe, and it’s awkward to get their mouths to slot just right due to Castiel’s helmet.
“You too.” Dean bumps their foreheads together, feeling the cool steel against his skin. “Here.” He hands Sabbath’s reins to Castiel and lifts a hand to still whatever protest is about to come. “She’ll take you to where you need to be, and she’ll kick ass if she has to,” he says, patting the horse’s shoulder lovingly. “You’ll take care of him. Right, baby?” She snickers, bumping her head into him.
Castiel’s smile reaches his eyes as he takes her. “I’m certain she will.”
Dean turns to Balthazar then, shakes his hand with a firm grip. “Good luck,” Dean says, and lifts a hand to salute Eldosia’s men. They all yell out a battle cry, cheering him on.
“Godspeed, your Majesty,” Balthazar replies, and rides off to join the front line, his men riding close behind.
With one last kiss pressed to Dean’s lips, Castiel easily mounts Sabbath, guiding her to stand at the very front of the line.
Dean looks at them all, this massive wall of power and grace, and he can’t help but feel overwhelmed by it. This is the pivotal point where it all changes. Running a hand along his face to shake off the excess water, he swiftly climbs down the rocky terrain and breaks into a sprint.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
When Dean takes the same path he had taken that night with Castiel, through trap doors and dark corridors, he finds that already the army is moving. It’s impossible to distinguish between the thundering of hooves and the constant rumble of thunder. The voices already cry out for King John’s death, of how his sudden illness has claimed the life of the world’s most righteous man.
At this point the castle is desolate, only Mary’s servants linger like ghosts as they carry black dresses for her to grieve in. The guards have all been assembled and are already charging out of the city limits, and every footstep Dean takes echoes dully around him. He grips Chevrolet’s hilt, ready for anything or anyone to jump out at him.
He’s surprised when he finds Alastair standing alone in the throne room, hands clasped behind his back as he admires the throne with a solemn demeanor. The man rocks back and forth, from the balls of his feet to his heels, humming quietly to himself.
Dean tenses. As easy as it may seem, he won’t be able to sneak up on him. Nothing is ever that easy, and Alastair is far too cunning to fall for it. Dean’s stomach twists as fear ignites in him, but he steadies himself where he’s hiding behind a column. Slowly unsheathing his sword, he holds it tightly to his chest, like one of the decorative suits of armor along the castle hallways.
“It’s not the throne I want, Dean, really. Do you honestly think me so vainglorious? You can have it once I’m done. Rule over your precious city with an empty chair.”
Dean slumps, ice falling harshly into his stomach. “You killed my father.”
“A real shame, I’ll admit. Made a name for himself with the fight he put up. But all war has its casualties.” Alastair turns around to find Dean facing him. “Why do you fight me, Dean? All I want is your wellbeing.”
“Wellbeing my ass. That’s Castiel’s people you’re going to kill. Your people. Have you no heart at all?”
“My heart,” Alastair begins, descending the steps ever so slowly. “My heart was taken away, diced and fed to hounds when Michael destroyed the only thing I had upon this forsaken reality. My heart rests in the fields of a place very, very far from here.”
Dean readies his stance, holding Chevrolet upright. “Spare me the sob story.”
“But don’t you want to hear the real prophecy? Don’t want to know what your father’s blood was spilled for? You can at least garner some closure for this failed attempt at a distraction.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Alastair tuts. “The real fight, the one that matters, is going to happen out there. We’re going home! Only, we’re not. Do you want to know why?” He stops a few meters away from Dean and taps a finger to his own chin. “Because, dozens of times, countless times, I’ve led my people to the Gates. I had asked and prayed, and found permission to lead them into Paradise. Peace and brightly colored unicorns! But Michael, oh, Big Brother Michael and his misguided righteous beliefs destroyed it all.
“We are the seeds of the Fallen. Our progenitors fell from the skies and gave life to our race. Beings of stardust and grace, one-of-a-kind creatures meant to walk the Earth as giants. But Michael, with his daddy issues, forbade us time after time. He murdered, slaughtered those who rallied with me for a chance. Look at him now!” Alastair’s ghastly voice booms around the empty throne room. He holds his arms high above his head, signaling to the painted arches above.
“When the last of our kind-their precious saint-sheds blood in name of a righteous man, the man he loves-the Gates will open one last time to grant redemption to the Old Father’s cursed children, and passage into the lands of Rest. That is the prophecy. That is what Michael wants. He deserves a ribbon for trying, don’t you think?”
Dean’s face is pale, the blood and feeling having rushed out of it as he stares harshly at him. “That’s it? This is a competition?”
“Oh, no, no, no. Nope. This is a-nni-hi-la-tion,” he says stiltedly, making sure to accentuate every syllable with gusto. “Let him think that’s he’s close to achieving his goal. Let him think that the last of his kind are toeing the line of deliverance. And then, oh yes, and then, I’ll sit back and watch as each little cockroach falls over dead. Including your little buttercup.”
Tapping the tip of his sword against the carpet, Dean smirks. “You forget that you’re talking about humans? There’s no way in hell we can take down something of the Nephilim’s status.”
“Tsk, Dean. Dean, oh Dean. This is your problem. Always underestimating yourself and those around you. You’re right, however, but your father’s men have my full support. I’ll see to it that your kingdom rises victorious. See? Deep down inside, I’m a good person. Shades of gray and all.”
It’s dirty, Dean thinks, and he hates just how deeply Alastair has embedded himself into his people’s lives. From the outside, it seems like he’s putting the kingdom’s best interest before him. Had it been anyone else, they could have probably voted to canonize him for being a martyr. Now, Dean understands how he’s been able to stay as John’s advisor and still be able to carry on his wicked plan for so long. “That’s pretty clever for an old guy.”
“Thank you, your Highness. You flatter me.”
“But, uh, that’s why I’m here. This is the part where I kick your ass, you bite it, everyone goes home and I get to go on my honeymoon.”
Alastair chuckles, sickly and nasal. “Now that’s the spirit.”
He’s fast, and it’s all Dean can think before he’s walking backwards, the fist that connected with his eye making him see bursts of white. Dean ducks the next fist, and the next, and when the fourth one comes he dashes to his left, making Alastair’s fist collide with the stone column. The masonry crumbles beneath the force.
With a bark of laughter, Alastair draws out his sword. “Let’s see how well you can manage a sword, eh?” He swipes at Dean’s middle, a sloppy attack, but Dean knows better than to give him leeway. “Very nice, I like your formation. Sharp and quick on your feet.”
Unlike his previous duels, Dean is in constant movement with Alastair. Swipe for swipe, clang for clang. A low vertical stroke deflected by a parry, a stab avoided by quick footwork. Dean is supple in his movements, sure attitude and a cool head, and he feels like he has the upper hand until Alastair knocks him off his feet with a foot to the knee. Dean rolls away in time to avoid getting diced.
“Did I ever tell you about Lilith?”
Dean groans as he flexes his wrist, the claymore making smooth circling movements as he moves it so. “Don’t really care.”
“But you should.” Alastair lunges forward, ripping the side of Dean’s jerkin with a cackle. “She and your little angel have a lot of in common.” Swinging his blade, Alastair whacks the edge against Dean’s left side instead. It isn’t meant to harm, just to demonstrate the fact that he’s only humoring him with the fight. “She was such a brilliant practitioner. A mystic that took it much farther than I ever did.” Resting the sword over his shoulder, he regards Dean with amusement. “It’s like history repeats itself.”
“I’m nothing like you,” Dean spits out through his panting, attacking Alastair again but stumbling when he’s shoved out of the way.
“You are, Dean. More than you think. Tell me what you’re fighting for.” He swipes his sword, slicing into the back of Dean’s trousers, but light enough to only make a thin line of blood bubble from the back of his thigh. “First you fought for love. Then, you fought out of anger. And now, what drives you? Is it revenge? Revenge for what I did to you? Revenge for what I did to your daddy?”
Dean takes the blade, turning its point towards his own heart - then shifts it, Alistair is right behind him. With a sharp stab, Dean plunges the sword under his own arm, the metal finding its target at the bottom of Alastair’s abdomen, drawing blood. But Alastair only wipes it away with a bored sigh. “Cheap move, your Highness.”
“Don’t you ever fucking shut up?”
“Only if you make me.”
Quickly getting back to his feet, Dean goes in to attack once more, his steps precise and measured. His heart is racing with the force of a dozen horses, getting his blood pumping as he moves with swift agility across the floor, parrying and breaking, pushing Alastair backward until his back meets the massive doors. Dean spins his entire body to catch momentum, and in Alastair’s attempt to parry, he stumbles back, crashing the doors open and sending both men into the torrential rain.
It is unequivocal carnage.
Dean has no time to properly take in the damage, but the initial glance leaves little to be imagined. He feels himself go weak at the knees, terror wrapping itself around his body like a poisonous snake, constricting him enough to immobilize, but not kill. Not yet. The bite is coming soon, and Dean can already feel the sharp end of fangs grazing the skin above his veins.
Alastair grants him a moment, stepping back as the sword drags on the stone floor. “Fate will always take its course. I’m afraid that, this time, it has decided to humor me.”
The mountain of bodies looks obscenely clean, the rain washing away the traces of blood and gore. Swords still stand, their ends embedded into the ground. There is empty armor and limbless bodies of people he knows, people he’s shared meals with, people he’s ridden with and defended his home with. Worse yet is the sea of feathers that cover them like a mockery of blankets. White stained with red and black, and Dean feels a part of him die when his eyes fall over a blotch of black feathers.
“A promise is a promise,” Alastair whispers, coming to stand behind Dean. “Your kingdom is now free. Rule it as you see fit.”
Dean walks to the steps, standing at the very top as he looks over the ruins. The rain still doesn’t seize. He sees it however, the shift among the hill of useless armor. He squeezes his eyes shut, face contorting with emotion, no longer able to fight back the tears.
Castiel rises from the rubble, helmet gone and breastplate dented, his wings nothing but torn muscle and exposed bones. But they are white. They are a white so blinding, it is as if Dean is looking into the sun itself, the brightness of it burning his eyes. Never mind the blood stains, never mind how broken they are; Castiel is alive.
Casting him a cryptic smile, Dean turns around to face Alastair, who is too busy singing his victory to the stormy heavens. “It’s not over yet, you son of a bitch.”
“Oh?” Alastair considers him with a skeletal grin. “Are we missing the encore?”
Filling his lungs with damp air, Dean raises his arms to his sides.
“Oh,” Alastair says, mellowly drawing the sound out. “How romantic. Meet him in the afterlife then?” Without delaying, he raises his sword.
“You know something? Even in that hell, strapped to that rack while you carved at me, I dreamed. I dreamed of peace. Of home. And I dreamed of him. Because he saw me when no one else did, despite your fake prophecies. Maybe you fell this far down because of what they did to you, but I will never be like you.”
“But why?” Alastair asks, nudging the tip of his sword harder over Dean’s heart. “Why are you so devoted to a love that is not real? Hm? We brought you two together. We bound you two for our purposes. How can you look me in the eye, lay your life on the line, for something that’s destroyed all you have? For a monster?”
Dean smiles wide, and shrugs. “Because there’s so much more than that.”
Alastair finally catches sight of Castiel, who is now running towards them. Pulling his sword back, a hand grasping tightly at Dean’s shoulder, Alastair readies himself to plunge the blade into Dean.
Castiel bellows out Dean’s name, and before Alastair can move another inch, Dean moves at lightning speed, bringing up Chevrolet to interrupt the death stroke. Their swords clash again, and again, before they meet once more above their heads. Dean pushes them down to meet the ground and deftly maneuvers the grip, shoving the forte against Alastair’s neck hard enough to draw blood. Seeing Alastair’s shocked set of his eyes, Dean slashes the sword away, making blood squirt and gush freely from the wound. He staggers back and is caught by Castiel, who steadies him with a hand to his back.
Desperately clawing at his throat, Alastair gargles and chokes, stilling when another blade exits the front of his chest. His body drops to the floor with a dull thump when the blade pulls out, revealing a bloody Sam, drenched and matted with mud standing behind him. He lets his sword clatter onto the floor. “Dean,” he croaks brokenly, and runs into his big brother’s arms.
Dean holds him through it, squeezing tight, ignoring the fact that he has to step on his toes to do so. “I’m here, Sammy. We’re okay. It’s over. We’re okay.” Before he can even stop himself, he’s sobbing into his shoulder.
Lightning clashes, Castiel looks up and squints, listening to voices only he can hear. He nods somberly, and steps away from the brothers.
“Cas?” Sam is the first to notice, and Dean immediately turns around.
They watch in silence as Castiel weaves through a labyrinth of bodies and rubble, arms extended as the shreds of his wings lift high above his head. Clouds swirl like a maelstrom as he faces skyward, its core alive with flashes of lightening and rolling thunder. The air itself becomes charged, prickling their skin as they cling to each other’s shirts.
“Castiel!” Dean calls for him, but a flash of lightening, brighter than he’s ever seen before, renders them blind for a brief second. When his eyes can once again adjust, he finds nothing but an empty field. “CAS!”
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
Castiel finds himself naked, standing in a crystalline, unmoving stream that winds in an eternal path, vanishing at the very end into the same void of blackness around him. There is nothing but the stream that reaches to his hips, its water a temperature he cannot decipher, its content both solid and liquid.
He dips his fingers into the surface, feels the gelatinous substance as is ripples into vivid paintings of constellations and galaxies unlike anything he’s ever seen. His fingers come away dripping glitter that forms tiny stellar explosions as they fall back into the mirror-like surface.
Gliding down the water, feet unmoving, Castiel feels the muscles along his back healing, knitting back into place over bone, feathers birthing once again. The sensation is both burning hot and freezing cold, but it wraps around him like regenerating tendrils of serene calm. He names the conglomerations of stars as he goes, along with planets and clusters of colorful gases and materials unknown to man.
By the time Castiel finally looks up, there are three entities where the stream ends and turns into a red ocean, a roaring volcano and millions upon millions of wind funnels. Every single force of nature, existent and not, molding with every single animal of the human world and beyond. It is the universe and nothing, it is human and godly, it is the end and the beginning. Even Castiel’s highly developed mind, with his ethereal power and understanding of the unseen world, cannot comprehend what it sees within the form of three thin, tall shadows.
“Etana,” the ocean speaks, a language so ancient and pure Castiel winces at the sound. “We have long waited for your arrival.”
“Old Ones,” Castiel says in his native tongue, and he’s aware they will have no trouble understanding him. “I am eternally grateful that you have granted me this blessing.”
“What will you ask for?”
Castiel blinks owlishly, staring up at the shifting horses and wolves and suns. “What will I ask for?”
“That is what we said, yes.”
“I don’t understand. I’ve been told that, once the time arrived, I am to ask for my brothers’ and sisters’ passage. My presence here is attributed to the teachings-”
“Of Emgarurn. Petty dogma set forth by foolish children, I’m afraid. You are a child of prophecy, the last of your kind. You have led a devoted life, virtuous in your innocence and aflame in your passion. One request will be your recompense. Choose wisely.”
“There is no choice,” Castiel says, his tone adamant. Bizarrely, he's aware of the fragrance of strawberries and citrus dancing around him. “I am here to request their passage into Paradise. I desire nothing more.”
“Are you sure, now?”
Castiel stops before can form a full reply, rethinks what he’s about to say. “Will I leave, too?”
“The Passing is meant for all.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Yes. If you accept the Passage, all of your people will return to the land of your forefathers. Your name will be erased from the human world.”
“But what if I wish to stay?”
“Is that your wish?”
It’s a trick question, and he can somehow tell the traces of humor behind the beating of the drums. “Will it be possible for us who chose to stay to do so? While those who wish to move on, find their desired peace?”
The silence is perhaps harder to understand than the rolling cacophony of unearthly vibrations. “Free will.”
“Yes,” Castiel says. “I want my people to have the right to choose their paths.”
“The cost will be far greater than that which you have already sacrificed.” The next phrases Castiel cannot hear, but he understands through course through his blood, like a mother whispering to a child. He cannot help but gasp. “Are you willing?”
Castiel looks down at his fingers, and they swirl like watered paint within the Void. Intangible, but still there, and still real. “Both,” he says, licking his nonexistent lips. “I give both, for one more request.”
The Voices chime, beauty and terror swirling in a glass bowl of agreement. “So be it. May the rest of your natural life treat you kindly.”
And with a barely-audible pop, Castiel is falling.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
Dean wakes up, drenched in sweat and panicking. He wrestles with his sheets, trying to pry them off as he hyperventilates, yelling at the advancing darkness to stay back. It takes both Castiel and Sam to restrain him.
“W-What? What’s going on?” His lungs are desperate for air, causing him to wheeze.
“Dean, calm down. Nothing is going to hurt you,” Castiel says softly, running a hand across Dean’s forehead. “It’s just us.”
Blinking rapidly, Dean sighs loud and long, melting against the bed he’s on. “The hell just happened?”
“You passed out in the field. We had to drag your ass back inside the castle before you drowned.” Sam comes into his line of sight, hovering above him with a smug smile. “Your leg’s a bit wonky, so try and stay off it for a couple of weeks.”
The information takes a moment to set in, and once it does, Dean is desperately clutching at Castiel’s tunic, tugging at it fiercely. “You fucking son of a bitch! You just up and left! Where the fuck did you even go?!”
Castiel chuckles despite being shaken within an inch of his life, feebly gripping at Dean’s wrist. “Would you calm down? I’m here now, aren’t I? I was simply tying some loose ends, is all.”
“Loose ends my ass! I thought you were dead!”
“Dean, you saw me. Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Oh, so now I’m dramatic?” Dean pouts, his lower lip turned up so ridiculously that Sam has to snort. “What’s so freaking funny, huh? And where’s Mom?”
“She’s fine, Dean. She’s trying to get our new men settled in, since the throne is currently hers until you officially take the crown.”
“New men? Crown? The hell you talkin’ about, Sam?”
Castiel taps his cheek to garner his attention. “With Rod’im dissolved, my brothers needed a home. Apparently Eldosia is nice this time of year.” His smile is so bright, Dean can’t help but smile in return.
“Wait. Dissolved?” The question dies away when he truly looks at Castiel, finally noticing what it is that seems off with the picture. “Cas, your wings,” he says, sounding genuinely saddened. “What happened? They were massive and white, and fluffy.” If he sounds drugged, it is probably due to the medicine he had been given while asleep.
Looking over his shoulder, Castiel’s smile turns melancholic. “Small price to pay for a lifetime with you.”
Dean pulls him down sharply, pressing their lips together in a small, modest kiss, for Sam’s sake. “You idiot.” He embraces Castiel, tight and tender. “What the hell am I supposed to grab onto when we have wild and sweaty man sex?”
“Oh, gross, Dean!” Sam yells, grabbing a nearby pillow and slamming it against Dean’s face hard enough to burn.
“It’s perfectly normal, Sammy. When people love each other, they tend to kiss and mhug-” That last bit of the sentence is muffled by the same pillow over his face.
“You are disgusting. Save me the graphic nightmares, jerk.”
Castiel’s laughter is lovely as he watches Dean poking fun at Sam, while Sam continuously hits him with the pillow. It’s childish, but the softness of the moment fills Castiel with a sense of warmth he feels course through his veins. He is welcomed here. This is his home now.
“Yo, pretty boy,” Gabriel’s voice chimes in from the door. “Her Majesty needs help getting Luci to shut up. Apparently, she’s a little troubled that he’s named after the devil, even after I guaranteed her that the only hellish thing about him is his sense of humor.” Two blinks later, he adds, “Deano! Finally decided to join the living, huh? ‘Bout damn time.”
Dean groans, pressing his fingers to his temple. “It’s too damn early for his existence.”
Sam shakes his head. “I’ll go see if Mom needs any help, okay? You two catch up on whatever it is you need catching up on.” He pats Dean’s knee as he gets up, and shuts the door behind him.
The room is quiet, the rain having stopped, though the clouds still linger. Dean is looking at Castiel steadily, eyes soft and shiny from the elixirs he’s most likely been given. “You’re just going to sit there, or...?”
Without need of further prompting, Castiel undresses himself, then turns to help Dean out of his own clothes. He climbs over him, kissing a path up his stomach and chest, before laying himself back down. There is no need for sex, not now. Simply existing, being in each other’s presence, skin to skin, is enough.
“Have you any idea the amount of houses we’re going to have to fund now? We’re talking about a full expansion here, man.” Dean runs his hands down Castiel back, drinking in the smoothness of his skin. He gently squeezes the soft mound of his buttocks, making the man chuckle. “Eldosia’s going to be huge. Not to mention diverse.”
“Not all my siblings will be here, Dean. Most of them crossed over.”
“Crossed over as in, died? Or waltzed into Paradise?”
“They’ve been granted entry into Paradise, yes. I personally saw to that yesterday,” Castiel says, and hums pleasantly when Dean starts to fondle him. “They are at peace.”
“And what? You and Gabriel stood behind? Why?”
“And Balthazar. Along with Anna, Inias, and many others. It may not seem like it, but some of us like it here. I like it here,” he says, and manages to press a kiss to Dean’s chest. “Like I said, my wings were a small price to pay for a lifetime with you. We’ll die of old age, together. Think of the memories we’ll make.”
“Only you can make something as grim as death sound like it’s fascinating,” Dean grumbles affectionately. “So, what now? You’re going to be my queen?”
“Human law states we have to marry first.”
“Oh, now we’re looking into marriage. While we’re at it, we’re going to need a new title for you. ‘Queen’ doesn’t really cut it, being a guy and all.”
“As long as we’re together.”
“Christ, you are so soppy,” Dean whispers. Castiel chuckles when Dean takes his hand, twining their fingers together. “It’s manly when I do it, though.”
“Of course, Dean. Whatever you say.”
Epilogue
Author: bellanovaskies
Artist: littlestshipper
Genre: Fairytale, Romance
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel, Mary/John, implied Dean/Cassie, Sam/Ruby and Sam/Jessica
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 110,000
Warnings: Violence, language, strong sexual content, and scenes of graphic torture.
Summary: When Dean Winchester’s eighteenth birthday arrived, he was expected to choose his Queen-To-Be; instead he found himself falling for a mysterious stranger with eyes like stars. Eleven years later, accompanied by his brother and their father’s knights, Dean journeys into ancient lands that have long since faded into legend and lore, to once again find the eyes that had bewitched him. Castiel's tribe may be a force to be reckoned with, but nothing can prepare Dean to face his own father, and confess his love for a less-than-human being.
The bed is still warm when Dean wakes, but there’s one less body in it. He groans in protest, sitting up, relieved when he spots Castiel standing at the foot of his bed, his back to him. The fact that he’s fully dressed in armor only sinks in after a while.
Lightning illuminates the still dark room, and Dean decides that the unending storm can’t possibly be normal. After raging nonstop for well over a week and giving no indication of stopping, he thinks the crops the kingdom are most likely lost. The waves are growing more aggressive as the hours go by, slamming themselves ferociously against the side of the castle.
When Dean turns his sights away from the window, he spots Castiel looking at him. Dean’s back stiffens at the look on his face, dread already settling in his chest at the closed expression. There’s a certain heaviness between his blue eyes that makes all of Castiel’s previous frowns pale in comparison.
“I swear I didn’t do anything,” Dean says jokingly, placing his hands above his head in a gesture of surrender.
Castiel doesn’t smile, he doesn’t even lighten up, just sags his shoulders and crosses the room for his sword with the same solemn expression. Kicking back the sheets, Dean goes to grab him and demand to know what’s eating him, but stops when he crosses the window. “What the-” Along the horizon, in stark contrast to the dark background, is a line of ebony figures.
Rod’im’s army is nowhere near as massive as Eldosia’s, but the level of intimidation makes up for the lack of men. Their soldiers are mounted on their gargantuan horses, sitting deathly still atop the cliff, waiting for the signal to charge. Wings are nothing but blotches of white against their backs. “You got them to come,” says Dean, awe transparent in his voice. “Why are they in position?” He turns back to Castiel. “Did John-
“The king is dead, Dean.” Castiel’s voice is hard but compassionate. He slides his misericorde into the scabbard and holds on to the leather strap, willing his breathing to calm for when Dean finally bursts.
The play of emotions on Dean’s face is heartbreaking, Castiel decides. From the grief to the outrage, each small twitch of the eyebrow and tremor of his shoulder, translates to an abysmal pit of despair. In spite of the clashing feelings, Dean remains carefully somber. His face has gone deathly pale as he takes several steadying breaths.
“Was it him?”
Castiel nods, not needing to ask who Dean means. “Exiled or not, my people have never been murderers. The theory of Alastair being Nephilim must be erroneous.”
“No, it’s not,” Dean says, his voice cold like steel as he moves across the wooden floor. Wrenching his wardrobe doors open, he pulls out his armor. “I don’t know what his problem is-revenge or some shit-but he’s definitely Nephilim.” He clumsily dresses himself, pushing Castiel away whenever he tries to help.
“Dean-”
“I’m fine, Cas.”
“You are not fine,” says Castiel, voice terse as he jerks Dean by the shoulder to face him. “You are wroth. I understand that. But you need to focus on the problem at hand. One wrong move and the kingdom is lost, Dean.”
“Don’t you think I know that?!” Dean shoves him away, and he knows Castiel moves only because Dean wants him to. “Right now, the only thing I have is my anger. That slime desecrated my home. I’ll personally see to it that he rots in Hell.” He doesn’t bother with chainmail or heavy metal, only takes the trouble of tying his jerkin and greaves, protecting only that which needs protecting in the heat of battle.
The look Castiel gives him sets Mary’s death-glares to shame. “You look nice, though. The armor contrasts nicely with the whole wing thing.”
“Dean,” Castiel begins, heaving a strained sigh. “I know your default defense system is to repress all prodigious emotion, but I would appreciate if you would stop being an intractable child for one day.”
“Don’t push me.”
“If you don’t cooperate, then I will be forced to do so.”
“I’d like to see you try, Feathers.”
The door creaks open, but neither looks away from each other’s face.
“Sorry to interrupt the domestic dispute but, uh, we’ve got a rogue warlock here.” Gabriel pops his head in, tuts at them with a dramatic shake of his head.
Castiel is the first to look away, signaling Gabriel to step inside. He ignores Dean’s protest about inviting random people into his bedroom. “Deano,” he greets. “The crowd’s getting uneasy.” Walking up to the window and sticking his hand out to catch a bit a rain, Gabriel’s face falls. “We need our general.”
“I understand,” Castiel says. “But I don’t appreciate going in blind. I need to know why he is doing this, his motivation. Tactics are nothing if you don’t know how the enemy thinks.”
“Wait,” Dean interrupts, grabbing Castiel by the forearm. It would have proven an easier task if it weren’t for the armor. “You’re their general? You never bothered mentioning this... why, exactly?”
“It never came up,” he offers as an explanation and shrugs, turning his attention back to Gabriel, who is in turn smiling smugly at him. “What is it?”
“Balthazar got an earful. Common sense, once you really think about it.” He holds up a finger. “Kill the king,” and then he lifts another one, “you gain control of his army.”
“Eldosia’s knights won’t ride into battle without a commander,” Dean counters, crossing his arms.
“No, but they’ll listen to the next best thing. Rumors are King John of the House of Winchester is down with the Fever, so he’s relaying orders to Alastair, who in turn lets his guppies know the latest.”
“What about Michael? Is he here, too? Is he fighting?”
“He pulled back after the first battle,” Castiel says, sounding genuinely annoyed. “Yes, a lot has happened during the last nine days.”
“Naturally.” Dean mutters to himself and heads for the door, determined to fling himself into action. He makes sure that both Castiel and Gabriel are behind him. “You two want to enlighten me on what else went down?”
“Not much else is of import. Casualties have been mutual thus far. Most of the villagers have taken to staying indoors, as was advised. We’ve refrained from a second confrontation until we have convened with you.”
“And what? You expect me to fight for your side?”
“I’m yet to question your choices, your Highness,” says Castiel, eyes steady on the tapestry several meters away. Dean looks at him for the briefest moment, before looking forward again with a scoff. He entwines their fingers together, palm to palm, as they march on down the hall.
The looks they get from the servants and lords are plenty, most of them shocked and a handful disgusted. Dean thinks about the sight they must make: two grown men-an aboriginal general-slash-prince with massive black wings, and a hunter prince who carries their kingdom’s coat of arms emblazoned on his armor-marching into battle, holding hands.
“You two make quite the pair,” says Gabriel from behind them, grinning from ear to ear.
Castiel squeezes Dean’s fingers. “We’re aware.”
They cross the hallways and pass the Great Hall, and Dean doesn’t mention when Castiel tugs him a little faster once they reach the throne. Dean only releases his hand when he steps forward to push open the doors, stepping out into the pouring rain. Gathered in the front courtyard, Eldosia’s legions turn to look at him.
Dean marches down the stairs, head held high.
Rain sluices him, but he ignores it. Exiled or not, every knight present lowers his head in awe-inspired respect; the regal set of his shoulders is a sight too powerful to mock. Dean tries not to let the simmering wave of emotion bubble over the edge.
“Your Majesty,” Balthazar says, emerging from the crowd and falling into stride with him. “What’s the plan of action?”
“We take the kingdom back.” Crossing the bailey and into the lower part of the village, he sees the faces staring from windows and creaking doors. All of them are fearful, and dirty from a hard day’s work. Dean feels a surge of rage at the thought of Alastair endangering all of their lives for the sake of revenge. “We take Eldosia back.”
“Then you have my sword,” Balthazar says with a determined nod.
“And ours.” They turn at the sound of Garth’s voice, noticing the small group of knights that have begun to follow, all of them from Dean’s journey. “Ain’t that right, guys?” The knights erupt into a chorus of assertive cheering. Garth laughs, crossing his arms smugly as he stands before Balthazar, awaiting his approval.
“You’re insane, the lot of you.” But Balthazar is smiling proudly at his men. Courage isn’t something that is taught through training, and what defines a good knight is not just his skill in wielding a sword and arrow, but the heart of him. He turns to Dean and Castiel, who look on, fondness in their expressions. “Right. Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”
Rain begins to fall harder, darkening the world around them as they march across the rocky terrain outside of the kingdom. The jagged edges of rock are difficult to walk on, making them slip and trip as they walk uphill, towards the extensive line of Nephilim that stand unflinching, awaiting orders.
Dean takes a moment to admire their armor despite the gray curtain of rain in front of his eyes. The armor is nowhere near as embellished as Castiel’s own, but the ivory tone that makes it sparkle like marble is impressive all on its own. Slim, not as bulky as his knights’, which most likely grants them more agility and flexibility. Most impressive of all, was the fact that women had been allowed to take up arms alongside the men. He makes a mental note of that, and stores it away.
Uriel, Dean recognizes, brings Sabbath to him, and he takes her with a grateful nod.
One of the riders steps forward and hands Castiel his helmet. “Your orders, General?” Anna says with a grin, waving at Dean.
“We stand back; wait until they make their first move. We’re facing hunters. They may be human but do not underestimate them or it will cost you dearly.” Castiel falls quiet, and Dean watches as he walks along the line of horses. The riders nod in unison, and Anna falls back into line.
It really is no wonder just why the Nephilim have lasted so long upon the Earth. With just a thought, Castiel is relaying to them his strategy, carefully picking out the enemy’s weak points and where they can focus their strongest attack. Dean watches, awed, as Castiel comes to a stop and faces his soldiers, raises a hand and opens his wings. The soldiers all cry out in unison, a sound so loud and booming that Dean has to slap his hands over his ears to keep from going mad. When it finally goes quiet, he looks up and sees Castiel looking over his shoulder, back at Eldosia.
“That’s freaking rad,” Garth says from somewhere behind Dean, and despite the eye roll it triggers, Dean has to agree.
Dean has long-since stopped seeing Castiel as the flimsy kid he met eleven years ago, but now, seeing him in a suit of armor reminiscent of that he sees every Sunday at church, with an army at his back, waiting for his word to charge into battle.
As Castiel puts on his ivory-colored helmet, his eyes a piercing blue even through the rain, Dean feels his faith lodge right back into place. Religious or not, he had never been a true believer of God or his angels, but the sight before his eyes assures that he might just have been wrong all along. Prophecies and mystical nonsense aside, Castiel is a Godsend.
“Dean,” he says, and Dean startles, having been too wrapped up in his thoughts to notice him approach. “I need you to go back to the castle.”
“And miss the action? Whoa, hey, I’m sticking with you guys.”
Castiel adamantly shakes his head. “Without our hive mind, we won’t be able to operate at our best. The odds that Alastair will find a way to dampen our communication and power are high. We’ve proved this already.”
Dean looks off to the side and huffs agitatedly. He’s quiet for a long moment before he says, “What can I do about that?”
“Get him off the map,” Balthazar says. He’s already on his horse, and so are the rest of his men. “That is our intention isn’t it?”
“This battle is intended as a distraction. I’ve already given the order to harm, not kill. We’ll keep the knights busy while you infiltrate the castle and defeat Alastair. You’ve only got one shot at this, Dean. If you lose, your kingdom is lost and my people are extinct.”
“No pressure,” groans Dean bitterly, but nods in agreement. “Any advice and how to kill one of you guys?”
Castiel looks out over his soldiers in silent question, but shakes his head after a moment. “He lacks his wings, therefore he is weaker. We know nothing more of him, and I fear I can’t prepare you enough.”
“Not even you guys are immortal, right? A sword aimed just right can kill you,” Dean says, and he feels wrong doing so. The look Castiel gives him is calming, however.
“It should be enough. The problem will be getting close enough to do it.”
“I’ll get Sammy. We can tag-team him, distract him while I move in for the kill.”
“Be careful,” Castiel says, and it leaves him in rush. He’s holding back, trying to be strong in the face of battle, and Dean can’t help but kiss him right then, rough and passionate. They’re both soaked, the torrential rain makes it harder to breathe, and it’s awkward to get their mouths to slot just right due to Castiel’s helmet.
“You too.” Dean bumps their foreheads together, feeling the cool steel against his skin. “Here.” He hands Sabbath’s reins to Castiel and lifts a hand to still whatever protest is about to come. “She’ll take you to where you need to be, and she’ll kick ass if she has to,” he says, patting the horse’s shoulder lovingly. “You’ll take care of him. Right, baby?” She snickers, bumping her head into him.
Castiel’s smile reaches his eyes as he takes her. “I’m certain she will.”
Dean turns to Balthazar then, shakes his hand with a firm grip. “Good luck,” Dean says, and lifts a hand to salute Eldosia’s men. They all yell out a battle cry, cheering him on.
“Godspeed, your Majesty,” Balthazar replies, and rides off to join the front line, his men riding close behind.
With one last kiss pressed to Dean’s lips, Castiel easily mounts Sabbath, guiding her to stand at the very front of the line.
Dean looks at them all, this massive wall of power and grace, and he can’t help but feel overwhelmed by it. This is the pivotal point where it all changes. Running a hand along his face to shake off the excess water, he swiftly climbs down the rocky terrain and breaks into a sprint.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
When Dean takes the same path he had taken that night with Castiel, through trap doors and dark corridors, he finds that already the army is moving. It’s impossible to distinguish between the thundering of hooves and the constant rumble of thunder. The voices already cry out for King John’s death, of how his sudden illness has claimed the life of the world’s most righteous man.
At this point the castle is desolate, only Mary’s servants linger like ghosts as they carry black dresses for her to grieve in. The guards have all been assembled and are already charging out of the city limits, and every footstep Dean takes echoes dully around him. He grips Chevrolet’s hilt, ready for anything or anyone to jump out at him.
He’s surprised when he finds Alastair standing alone in the throne room, hands clasped behind his back as he admires the throne with a solemn demeanor. The man rocks back and forth, from the balls of his feet to his heels, humming quietly to himself.
Dean tenses. As easy as it may seem, he won’t be able to sneak up on him. Nothing is ever that easy, and Alastair is far too cunning to fall for it. Dean’s stomach twists as fear ignites in him, but he steadies himself where he’s hiding behind a column. Slowly unsheathing his sword, he holds it tightly to his chest, like one of the decorative suits of armor along the castle hallways.
“It’s not the throne I want, Dean, really. Do you honestly think me so vainglorious? You can have it once I’m done. Rule over your precious city with an empty chair.”
Dean slumps, ice falling harshly into his stomach. “You killed my father.”
“A real shame, I’ll admit. Made a name for himself with the fight he put up. But all war has its casualties.” Alastair turns around to find Dean facing him. “Why do you fight me, Dean? All I want is your wellbeing.”
“Wellbeing my ass. That’s Castiel’s people you’re going to kill. Your people. Have you no heart at all?”
“My heart,” Alastair begins, descending the steps ever so slowly. “My heart was taken away, diced and fed to hounds when Michael destroyed the only thing I had upon this forsaken reality. My heart rests in the fields of a place very, very far from here.”
Dean readies his stance, holding Chevrolet upright. “Spare me the sob story.”
“But don’t you want to hear the real prophecy? Don’t want to know what your father’s blood was spilled for? You can at least garner some closure for this failed attempt at a distraction.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Alastair tuts. “The real fight, the one that matters, is going to happen out there. We’re going home! Only, we’re not. Do you want to know why?” He stops a few meters away from Dean and taps a finger to his own chin. “Because, dozens of times, countless times, I’ve led my people to the Gates. I had asked and prayed, and found permission to lead them into Paradise. Peace and brightly colored unicorns! But Michael, oh, Big Brother Michael and his misguided righteous beliefs destroyed it all.
“We are the seeds of the Fallen. Our progenitors fell from the skies and gave life to our race. Beings of stardust and grace, one-of-a-kind creatures meant to walk the Earth as giants. But Michael, with his daddy issues, forbade us time after time. He murdered, slaughtered those who rallied with me for a chance. Look at him now!” Alastair’s ghastly voice booms around the empty throne room. He holds his arms high above his head, signaling to the painted arches above.
“When the last of our kind-their precious saint-sheds blood in name of a righteous man, the man he loves-the Gates will open one last time to grant redemption to the Old Father’s cursed children, and passage into the lands of Rest. That is the prophecy. That is what Michael wants. He deserves a ribbon for trying, don’t you think?”
Dean’s face is pale, the blood and feeling having rushed out of it as he stares harshly at him. “That’s it? This is a competition?”
“Oh, no, no, no. Nope. This is a-nni-hi-la-tion,” he says stiltedly, making sure to accentuate every syllable with gusto. “Let him think that’s he’s close to achieving his goal. Let him think that the last of his kind are toeing the line of deliverance. And then, oh yes, and then, I’ll sit back and watch as each little cockroach falls over dead. Including your little buttercup.”
Tapping the tip of his sword against the carpet, Dean smirks. “You forget that you’re talking about humans? There’s no way in hell we can take down something of the Nephilim’s status.”
“Tsk, Dean. Dean, oh Dean. This is your problem. Always underestimating yourself and those around you. You’re right, however, but your father’s men have my full support. I’ll see to it that your kingdom rises victorious. See? Deep down inside, I’m a good person. Shades of gray and all.”
It’s dirty, Dean thinks, and he hates just how deeply Alastair has embedded himself into his people’s lives. From the outside, it seems like he’s putting the kingdom’s best interest before him. Had it been anyone else, they could have probably voted to canonize him for being a martyr. Now, Dean understands how he’s been able to stay as John’s advisor and still be able to carry on his wicked plan for so long. “That’s pretty clever for an old guy.”
“Thank you, your Highness. You flatter me.”
“But, uh, that’s why I’m here. This is the part where I kick your ass, you bite it, everyone goes home and I get to go on my honeymoon.”
Alastair chuckles, sickly and nasal. “Now that’s the spirit.”
He’s fast, and it’s all Dean can think before he’s walking backwards, the fist that connected with his eye making him see bursts of white. Dean ducks the next fist, and the next, and when the fourth one comes he dashes to his left, making Alastair’s fist collide with the stone column. The masonry crumbles beneath the force.
With a bark of laughter, Alastair draws out his sword. “Let’s see how well you can manage a sword, eh?” He swipes at Dean’s middle, a sloppy attack, but Dean knows better than to give him leeway. “Very nice, I like your formation. Sharp and quick on your feet.”
Unlike his previous duels, Dean is in constant movement with Alastair. Swipe for swipe, clang for clang. A low vertical stroke deflected by a parry, a stab avoided by quick footwork. Dean is supple in his movements, sure attitude and a cool head, and he feels like he has the upper hand until Alastair knocks him off his feet with a foot to the knee. Dean rolls away in time to avoid getting diced.
“Did I ever tell you about Lilith?”
Dean groans as he flexes his wrist, the claymore making smooth circling movements as he moves it so. “Don’t really care.”
“But you should.” Alastair lunges forward, ripping the side of Dean’s jerkin with a cackle. “She and your little angel have a lot of in common.” Swinging his blade, Alastair whacks the edge against Dean’s left side instead. It isn’t meant to harm, just to demonstrate the fact that he’s only humoring him with the fight. “She was such a brilliant practitioner. A mystic that took it much farther than I ever did.” Resting the sword over his shoulder, he regards Dean with amusement. “It’s like history repeats itself.”
“I’m nothing like you,” Dean spits out through his panting, attacking Alastair again but stumbling when he’s shoved out of the way.
“You are, Dean. More than you think. Tell me what you’re fighting for.” He swipes his sword, slicing into the back of Dean’s trousers, but light enough to only make a thin line of blood bubble from the back of his thigh. “First you fought for love. Then, you fought out of anger. And now, what drives you? Is it revenge? Revenge for what I did to you? Revenge for what I did to your daddy?”
Dean takes the blade, turning its point towards his own heart - then shifts it, Alistair is right behind him. With a sharp stab, Dean plunges the sword under his own arm, the metal finding its target at the bottom of Alastair’s abdomen, drawing blood. But Alastair only wipes it away with a bored sigh. “Cheap move, your Highness.”
“Don’t you ever fucking shut up?”
“Only if you make me.”
Quickly getting back to his feet, Dean goes in to attack once more, his steps precise and measured. His heart is racing with the force of a dozen horses, getting his blood pumping as he moves with swift agility across the floor, parrying and breaking, pushing Alastair backward until his back meets the massive doors. Dean spins his entire body to catch momentum, and in Alastair’s attempt to parry, he stumbles back, crashing the doors open and sending both men into the torrential rain.
It is unequivocal carnage.
Dean has no time to properly take in the damage, but the initial glance leaves little to be imagined. He feels himself go weak at the knees, terror wrapping itself around his body like a poisonous snake, constricting him enough to immobilize, but not kill. Not yet. The bite is coming soon, and Dean can already feel the sharp end of fangs grazing the skin above his veins.
Alastair grants him a moment, stepping back as the sword drags on the stone floor. “Fate will always take its course. I’m afraid that, this time, it has decided to humor me.”
The mountain of bodies looks obscenely clean, the rain washing away the traces of blood and gore. Swords still stand, their ends embedded into the ground. There is empty armor and limbless bodies of people he knows, people he’s shared meals with, people he’s ridden with and defended his home with. Worse yet is the sea of feathers that cover them like a mockery of blankets. White stained with red and black, and Dean feels a part of him die when his eyes fall over a blotch of black feathers.
“A promise is a promise,” Alastair whispers, coming to stand behind Dean. “Your kingdom is now free. Rule it as you see fit.”
Dean walks to the steps, standing at the very top as he looks over the ruins. The rain still doesn’t seize. He sees it however, the shift among the hill of useless armor. He squeezes his eyes shut, face contorting with emotion, no longer able to fight back the tears.
Castiel rises from the rubble, helmet gone and breastplate dented, his wings nothing but torn muscle and exposed bones. But they are white. They are a white so blinding, it is as if Dean is looking into the sun itself, the brightness of it burning his eyes. Never mind the blood stains, never mind how broken they are; Castiel is alive.
Casting him a cryptic smile, Dean turns around to face Alastair, who is too busy singing his victory to the stormy heavens. “It’s not over yet, you son of a bitch.”
“Oh?” Alastair considers him with a skeletal grin. “Are we missing the encore?”
Filling his lungs with damp air, Dean raises his arms to his sides.
“Oh,” Alastair says, mellowly drawing the sound out. “How romantic. Meet him in the afterlife then?” Without delaying, he raises his sword.
“You know something? Even in that hell, strapped to that rack while you carved at me, I dreamed. I dreamed of peace. Of home. And I dreamed of him. Because he saw me when no one else did, despite your fake prophecies. Maybe you fell this far down because of what they did to you, but I will never be like you.”
“But why?” Alastair asks, nudging the tip of his sword harder over Dean’s heart. “Why are you so devoted to a love that is not real? Hm? We brought you two together. We bound you two for our purposes. How can you look me in the eye, lay your life on the line, for something that’s destroyed all you have? For a monster?”
Dean smiles wide, and shrugs. “Because there’s so much more than that.”
Alastair finally catches sight of Castiel, who is now running towards them. Pulling his sword back, a hand grasping tightly at Dean’s shoulder, Alastair readies himself to plunge the blade into Dean.
Castiel bellows out Dean’s name, and before Alastair can move another inch, Dean moves at lightning speed, bringing up Chevrolet to interrupt the death stroke. Their swords clash again, and again, before they meet once more above their heads. Dean pushes them down to meet the ground and deftly maneuvers the grip, shoving the forte against Alastair’s neck hard enough to draw blood. Seeing Alastair’s shocked set of his eyes, Dean slashes the sword away, making blood squirt and gush freely from the wound. He staggers back and is caught by Castiel, who steadies him with a hand to his back.
Desperately clawing at his throat, Alastair gargles and chokes, stilling when another blade exits the front of his chest. His body drops to the floor with a dull thump when the blade pulls out, revealing a bloody Sam, drenched and matted with mud standing behind him. He lets his sword clatter onto the floor. “Dean,” he croaks brokenly, and runs into his big brother’s arms.
Dean holds him through it, squeezing tight, ignoring the fact that he has to step on his toes to do so. “I’m here, Sammy. We’re okay. It’s over. We’re okay.” Before he can even stop himself, he’s sobbing into his shoulder.
Lightning clashes, Castiel looks up and squints, listening to voices only he can hear. He nods somberly, and steps away from the brothers.
“Cas?” Sam is the first to notice, and Dean immediately turns around.
They watch in silence as Castiel weaves through a labyrinth of bodies and rubble, arms extended as the shreds of his wings lift high above his head. Clouds swirl like a maelstrom as he faces skyward, its core alive with flashes of lightening and rolling thunder. The air itself becomes charged, prickling their skin as they cling to each other’s shirts.
“Castiel!” Dean calls for him, but a flash of lightening, brighter than he’s ever seen before, renders them blind for a brief second. When his eyes can once again adjust, he finds nothing but an empty field. “CAS!”
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
Castiel finds himself naked, standing in a crystalline, unmoving stream that winds in an eternal path, vanishing at the very end into the same void of blackness around him. There is nothing but the stream that reaches to his hips, its water a temperature he cannot decipher, its content both solid and liquid.
He dips his fingers into the surface, feels the gelatinous substance as is ripples into vivid paintings of constellations and galaxies unlike anything he’s ever seen. His fingers come away dripping glitter that forms tiny stellar explosions as they fall back into the mirror-like surface.
Gliding down the water, feet unmoving, Castiel feels the muscles along his back healing, knitting back into place over bone, feathers birthing once again. The sensation is both burning hot and freezing cold, but it wraps around him like regenerating tendrils of serene calm. He names the conglomerations of stars as he goes, along with planets and clusters of colorful gases and materials unknown to man.
By the time Castiel finally looks up, there are three entities where the stream ends and turns into a red ocean, a roaring volcano and millions upon millions of wind funnels. Every single force of nature, existent and not, molding with every single animal of the human world and beyond. It is the universe and nothing, it is human and godly, it is the end and the beginning. Even Castiel’s highly developed mind, with his ethereal power and understanding of the unseen world, cannot comprehend what it sees within the form of three thin, tall shadows.
“Etana,” the ocean speaks, a language so ancient and pure Castiel winces at the sound. “We have long waited for your arrival.”
“Old Ones,” Castiel says in his native tongue, and he’s aware they will have no trouble understanding him. “I am eternally grateful that you have granted me this blessing.”
“What will you ask for?”
Castiel blinks owlishly, staring up at the shifting horses and wolves and suns. “What will I ask for?”
“That is what we said, yes.”
“I don’t understand. I’ve been told that, once the time arrived, I am to ask for my brothers’ and sisters’ passage. My presence here is attributed to the teachings-”
“Of Emgarurn. Petty dogma set forth by foolish children, I’m afraid. You are a child of prophecy, the last of your kind. You have led a devoted life, virtuous in your innocence and aflame in your passion. One request will be your recompense. Choose wisely.”
“There is no choice,” Castiel says, his tone adamant. Bizarrely, he's aware of the fragrance of strawberries and citrus dancing around him. “I am here to request their passage into Paradise. I desire nothing more.”
“Are you sure, now?”
Castiel stops before can form a full reply, rethinks what he’s about to say. “Will I leave, too?”
“The Passing is meant for all.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Yes. If you accept the Passage, all of your people will return to the land of your forefathers. Your name will be erased from the human world.”
“But what if I wish to stay?”
“Is that your wish?”
It’s a trick question, and he can somehow tell the traces of humor behind the beating of the drums. “Will it be possible for us who chose to stay to do so? While those who wish to move on, find their desired peace?”
The silence is perhaps harder to understand than the rolling cacophony of unearthly vibrations. “Free will.”
“Yes,” Castiel says. “I want my people to have the right to choose their paths.”
“The cost will be far greater than that which you have already sacrificed.” The next phrases Castiel cannot hear, but he understands through course through his blood, like a mother whispering to a child. He cannot help but gasp. “Are you willing?”
Castiel looks down at his fingers, and they swirl like watered paint within the Void. Intangible, but still there, and still real. “Both,” he says, licking his nonexistent lips. “I give both, for one more request.”
The Voices chime, beauty and terror swirling in a glass bowl of agreement. “So be it. May the rest of your natural life treat you kindly.”
And with a barely-audible pop, Castiel is falling.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
Dean wakes up, drenched in sweat and panicking. He wrestles with his sheets, trying to pry them off as he hyperventilates, yelling at the advancing darkness to stay back. It takes both Castiel and Sam to restrain him.
“W-What? What’s going on?” His lungs are desperate for air, causing him to wheeze.
“Dean, calm down. Nothing is going to hurt you,” Castiel says softly, running a hand across Dean’s forehead. “It’s just us.”
Blinking rapidly, Dean sighs loud and long, melting against the bed he’s on. “The hell just happened?”
“You passed out in the field. We had to drag your ass back inside the castle before you drowned.” Sam comes into his line of sight, hovering above him with a smug smile. “Your leg’s a bit wonky, so try and stay off it for a couple of weeks.”
The information takes a moment to set in, and once it does, Dean is desperately clutching at Castiel’s tunic, tugging at it fiercely. “You fucking son of a bitch! You just up and left! Where the fuck did you even go?!”
Castiel chuckles despite being shaken within an inch of his life, feebly gripping at Dean’s wrist. “Would you calm down? I’m here now, aren’t I? I was simply tying some loose ends, is all.”
“Loose ends my ass! I thought you were dead!”
“Dean, you saw me. Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Oh, so now I’m dramatic?” Dean pouts, his lower lip turned up so ridiculously that Sam has to snort. “What’s so freaking funny, huh? And where’s Mom?”
“She’s fine, Dean. She’s trying to get our new men settled in, since the throne is currently hers until you officially take the crown.”
“New men? Crown? The hell you talkin’ about, Sam?”
Castiel taps his cheek to garner his attention. “With Rod’im dissolved, my brothers needed a home. Apparently Eldosia is nice this time of year.” His smile is so bright, Dean can’t help but smile in return.
“Wait. Dissolved?” The question dies away when he truly looks at Castiel, finally noticing what it is that seems off with the picture. “Cas, your wings,” he says, sounding genuinely saddened. “What happened? They were massive and white, and fluffy.” If he sounds drugged, it is probably due to the medicine he had been given while asleep.
Looking over his shoulder, Castiel’s smile turns melancholic. “Small price to pay for a lifetime with you.”
Dean pulls him down sharply, pressing their lips together in a small, modest kiss, for Sam’s sake. “You idiot.” He embraces Castiel, tight and tender. “What the hell am I supposed to grab onto when we have wild and sweaty man sex?”
“Oh, gross, Dean!” Sam yells, grabbing a nearby pillow and slamming it against Dean’s face hard enough to burn.
“It’s perfectly normal, Sammy. When people love each other, they tend to kiss and mhug-” That last bit of the sentence is muffled by the same pillow over his face.
“You are disgusting. Save me the graphic nightmares, jerk.”
Castiel’s laughter is lovely as he watches Dean poking fun at Sam, while Sam continuously hits him with the pillow. It’s childish, but the softness of the moment fills Castiel with a sense of warmth he feels course through his veins. He is welcomed here. This is his home now.
“Yo, pretty boy,” Gabriel’s voice chimes in from the door. “Her Majesty needs help getting Luci to shut up. Apparently, she’s a little troubled that he’s named after the devil, even after I guaranteed her that the only hellish thing about him is his sense of humor.” Two blinks later, he adds, “Deano! Finally decided to join the living, huh? ‘Bout damn time.”
Dean groans, pressing his fingers to his temple. “It’s too damn early for his existence.”
Sam shakes his head. “I’ll go see if Mom needs any help, okay? You two catch up on whatever it is you need catching up on.” He pats Dean’s knee as he gets up, and shuts the door behind him.
The room is quiet, the rain having stopped, though the clouds still linger. Dean is looking at Castiel steadily, eyes soft and shiny from the elixirs he’s most likely been given. “You’re just going to sit there, or...?”
Without need of further prompting, Castiel undresses himself, then turns to help Dean out of his own clothes. He climbs over him, kissing a path up his stomach and chest, before laying himself back down. There is no need for sex, not now. Simply existing, being in each other’s presence, skin to skin, is enough.
“Have you any idea the amount of houses we’re going to have to fund now? We’re talking about a full expansion here, man.” Dean runs his hands down Castiel back, drinking in the smoothness of his skin. He gently squeezes the soft mound of his buttocks, making the man chuckle. “Eldosia’s going to be huge. Not to mention diverse.”
“Not all my siblings will be here, Dean. Most of them crossed over.”
“Crossed over as in, died? Or waltzed into Paradise?”
“They’ve been granted entry into Paradise, yes. I personally saw to that yesterday,” Castiel says, and hums pleasantly when Dean starts to fondle him. “They are at peace.”
“And what? You and Gabriel stood behind? Why?”
“And Balthazar. Along with Anna, Inias, and many others. It may not seem like it, but some of us like it here. I like it here,” he says, and manages to press a kiss to Dean’s chest. “Like I said, my wings were a small price to pay for a lifetime with you. We’ll die of old age, together. Think of the memories we’ll make.”
“Only you can make something as grim as death sound like it’s fascinating,” Dean grumbles affectionately. “So, what now? You’re going to be my queen?”
“Human law states we have to marry first.”
“Oh, now we’re looking into marriage. While we’re at it, we’re going to need a new title for you. ‘Queen’ doesn’t really cut it, being a guy and all.”
“As long as we’re together.”
“Christ, you are so soppy,” Dean whispers. Castiel chuckles when Dean takes his hand, twining their fingers together. “It’s manly when I do it, though.”
“Of course, Dean. Whatever you say.”
Epilogue