Chaos With Better Lighting [3/7]
Dean has heard the expression "It was like time stopped" before, and he's always thought that it was a really stupid expression. He doesn't go for all of that poetic shit; he goes for the literal stuff, and literally? Time. Doesn't. Stop.
Except now, as he's staring at the figure in front of him-gangly, floppy brown hair, looks like he's going to end up tall once he gets out of that awkward-colt phase-he is fairly certain that time has, indeed, stopped. Because every little fiber of him is focused on taking in his brother, from whom he's been separated twelve years.
The courtyard seems very silent, although maybe that's just the blood rushing in his head. Which would just be stupid, because excuse me, Dean Winchester does not get struck silent. No. He shakes his head, forcing himself to clear his mind. Somehow, he finds it in him to say, "Yeah. Dean. That's me… Sam?"
The kid across from him nods, and suddenly it's like they're actors in a play who have been told to lurch forward at exactly the same moment into a perfectly choreographed embrace, because that's kind of what happens. Sam feels sharp and boney beneath the brick-red tunic that he wears, but there's enough strength in his grasp for Dean to imagine him being muscular one day. He's nothing like the baby that Dean once carried from a burning castle, but at the same time, he is, because he's Dean's brother and that's all that matters.
"It's been so long," Sam mutters into his shirt. Dean isn't sure, but he thinks that he might be crying. Which, okay, he can kind of forgive at the moment, because he's tearing up just a bit.
It's a few hours/days/maybe about a minute before time begins again. Which it does with a gruff, "Someone wanna tell me what's going on here?" that comes from a faceless speaker somewhere behind Dean.
He and Sam let go and step back in unison. They're both blushing red as the rotten tomatoes Dean frequently snuck into Michael's chambers, and Dean is suddenly acutely aware of how many people are watching them. From the corner of his eye, he notes how Castiel seems to be smiling faintly, and how Balthazar looks mildly amused. The other people around, his classmates for the next year, have all quickly turned around, so he can't read they're expressions. He's pretty sure that they're silently judging him, though, and so he glares at their turned backs.
"Not too often we have tearful reunions around here," the same gruff voice says, and Dean realizes who it is that's speaking: a balding man wearing a wrinkled suit; Dean had originally taken him to be the courier of one of the other students. Before he can try to figure out who he is, or why that voice sounds so familiar, the man continues. "I'm going to go 'head and guess that you," and he nods at Sam, "are Sam of Winchester, and you," at Dean, "are Dean."
"Good guess," Dean says, nodding at the man. "'Fraid you have the advantage on me, though."
The old man cracks a grin, which makes his face look several years younger. A memory tingles in the back of Dean's head, some long-forgotten day in the Winchester castle before the fire. A man with his father in the great dining hall, laughing boisterously with him, a man who swung Dean up and sat him on his lap, and let him really be part of the conversation.
"Bobby?" Dean says, right at the same time that the man says, "Bobby Singer. Headmaster of the grand ol' school you boys are heading into."
"Holy shit." Dean shakes his head. "It's been a really long time, hasn't it?"
"No kidding." Bobby looks at him for a moment longer, and then his mouth curls up again in that same smile. "Good to see you, kid. And you too, Sam." He tilts his head at Sam, who's looking pretty confused at the moment. It doesn't surprise Dean that he doesn't remember Uncle Bobby, their father's best friend growing up. "Now, I ain't one to play favorites from my students, but if you boys want to come down to my office tomorrow night, I think we've got a hell of a lot of catching up to do."
"I'll be there," Dean says, and Sam quickly follows up with his assent, although he probably doesn't even know who exactly he's going with. He's daring, Dean figures. That's good. He wants his younger brother to be kick-ass.
Bobby nods at both of them. "Tomorrow it is." And then, before either of them can respond, he steps up into the courtyard's approximate center and yells, "All right, listen up! High time we start into the castle. Drivers, accompany your carriages into the barn. You'll be provided with arrangements down there. Students, follow me; you can eat and then get your rooming assignments. Questions?"
There are none, and so the gruff old headmaster turns on his heel, tossing a quick, "Follow me!" back at the crowd of royal youngsters.
Dean turns to Sam and raises an eyebrow. "Guess we should follow him, then."
Singer's Finishing School has a rather…decrepit look about it, for lack of a better term. Castiel notes the gray webs that adorn the high corners of the walls, the dust that seems to coat the cobbled floors as they walk inside the entrance hall. It isn't entirely unpleasant; no, Castiel can bring himself to get used to just about anything. Zachariah's castle was always just a convenience to him; if anything, it was too rich for Castiel's tastes. Singer's has a much more Earthly style of décor: namely in that it really doesn't look like much, but at the same time, Castiel gets the impression that it is entirely serviceable. In any case, it's far nicer than the "Welcum to Earth" sign implied, so he isn't going to complain.
He trails after Dean as they head to the dining hall; he doesn't see anyone else that he knows, and he doesn't think that Dean minds, anyway. Castiel doesn't interrupt the low flood of conversation that's occurring between him and his newly-met brother. Sam Winchester, Heir to Hell. They're quick to make up for lost time, he notes. It doesn't seem like the animosity between Michael and Lucifer has bothered them at all.
The dining hall is right off of the entrance hall, and is a large, circular room. One table stretches its length; the teachers must either dine at the table, or else take supper on their own. Castiel is somewhat surprised at this. He has expected a more… formal education; Zachariah had always made it sound as though Singer's were a deeply serious place, one filled entirely with learning, with no riffraff to be had whatsoever. Perhaps the man who spoke to Dean, who identified himself as the headmaster despite his casual appearance, has made some changes since Zach was a student.
Castiel snags a seat next to Dean as they take their places upon the long wooden bench. Dean finally takes notice of him. He grins widely, seemingly more energized even than he was when he flaunted his insubordination before Michael. "Cas! I was wondering where you'd gone off to. Castiel, this is my brother, Sam." He nods at the gangly young man sitting next to him, who smiles at Castiel with just a hint of reservation. "Sam, this is Castiel. He's from Heaven, but he's supposed to marry Dick Roman. He's going to be my roommate."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sam." Castiel extends his hand to Sam, hoping that the gesture isn't too informal. Sam technically outranks him, seeing as he's set to own a whole land, while Castiel is supposed to go off and be the husband of some foreign lord. But Sam shakes it with a firm, confident grip, and so Castiel figures that he's okay.
"Good to meet you, Castiel. You're getting married to Dick Roman?" Sam raises his eyebrows, sipping from the stein of ice-cold water that's set at every place, alongside slightly tarnished silverware and cream-colored cloth napkins. "No offense, but I'm sorry to hear that."
He hasn't known either of the Winchesters for long, but it seems that they have a common talent for saying exactly what they mean, regardless of whether or not it is strictly appropriate to do so. "I suppose I am, too." Castiel makes the snap decision to venture something more personal and adds, "I only learned of it a day ago. I haven't really had time to contemplate it."
"You only learned a day ago?" Dean raises his eyebrow, swinging from his stein like it's beer that he's drinking, not vaguely-clouded water. "That sucks. So you're just being happy and single or with Balthazar or whatever, and suddenly Zachariah tells you that you're getting married?" He shakes his head. "That guy's a real douchebag."
Before Castiel can figure out whether or not he should agree and be honest, or politely defend Zach, as is proper to do, Dean has turned back to his brother. "Zachariah, man. Let me tell you what a douche he is…"
And Dean is off, telling some story that involves talks of destiny and outright bribery to Sam, who's nodding along and looking genuinely interested. Castiel sits back and observes the crowd, perfectly happy to be on the outside of Dean and his brother. It would probably be unwise to form a close relationship, anyway, seeing as he'll soon be off to marry Dick Roman. Castiel resolves to retain a courteous but proper distance between himself and the two Winchester boys.
The meal that's brought out is… a surprise, to say the least. Growing up as he did, Castiel has always eaten foods of the more luxuriant sort. He's well aware of how the constant supply of good meat, fresh vegetables, and rich creams didn't necessarily reflect the status of lives everywhere else.
Still, the… thing on his plate is rather strange. A disc-shaped object sitting on a plain white bun. Castiel assumes that it's some form of meat, since it smells like that, and more or less looks the part. Except for how no meat is naturally sliced like that. He picks it up hesitantly, warily looking at it from all angles.
Dean, however, holds no such reservations. "They give us burgers here? Shit, I love this place already." He picks up the foodstuff and takes a giant bite out of it. A small stream of oil is squeezed out of it, and it makes a slick golden trail as it goes down Dean's chin. He doesn't seem to care. "I had to bribe Michael's cooks to even make me these. So much better than all the quail's eggs and liver paste and all the other rich crap he kept forcing on me."
The words aren't directed particularly to Castiel; if anything, they were probably said for the benefit of his brother. But Castiel decides that if Dean can do it, than there's no reason why Castiel should be so suspicious. He leans forward, takes a bite, and-
Oh, God, that tastes good. All juicy with the amazingly rich flavor of beef that's been mixed with just the right, delicate combination of herbs, and then shaped into a fat patty and fried up. Castiel thinks his eyes roll back in his head. Never had he tasted anything like this back in Heaven; it must be some form of Earth delicacy.
He notices Dean looking at him, grinning, and feels a blush creep up over his cheeks. Swallowing, he says, a touch defensively, "It is very good."
"No kidding." Dean shakes his head, licking his lips in a way that's almost salacious. "You never tried that before?"
Before he can explain to Dean Zachariah's low opinion on Earthly food, there's the sound of a spoon clinking against thick glass. The hall falls silent, and all eyes turn to the head of the table. Bobby Singer, head of the school, and apparently an old acquaintance of Dean's, is standing there.
"Glad to have your attention," he says gruffly. "Those of you who don't know, I'm Robert Singer, head of the house here. You can call me Bobby, or Mr. Singer; whatever suits your fancy. I ain't one for giving speeches, so I'll just say this: a Singer's education will get you what you put into it. You want to learn about being a decent ruler, you've come to the right place. You want to get drunk at the tavern down the street and come in late to classes every day, then you're damn well welcome to do so. Just don't expect me to cry when you're denied graduation."
He gives them a minute to let that rather… blunt piece of advice sink in. Castiel thinks that he seems like a rather pragmatic man overall; rather down to Earth, as the expression goes. It's a quality that he respects. "When you're done with your grub, you can come up here to get yer schedules and your rooming arrangements. Small class this year means that a lot of you will be bumping into the same people over and over again, or else, you've got a lot of one-on-one time with our esteemed staff. Try to make friends; you're not gonna be happy campers if you hate your classmates. Rooms are on the top floor, right up that staircase that you saw in the grand hall; classes are all over. You'll find 'em eventually." Bobby Singer pauses, his gaze sweeping the length of the dining area. Castiel feels like he's being sized up, and automatically sits up straighter. "And that's all for now. Get back to eating."
And maybe it would take longer under circumstances, but because they're a crowd of mostly teenage boys, no one bothers to spend too long contemplating his words. The hall is filled almost instantly with the sound of people devouring burgers.
Castiel is done with his, as well as with the crunchy, fried rings of onions that was served with them, quicker than anyone else. For a moment he contemplates staying down here and just observing his classmates, perhaps listen in a bit more to what Dean has to say to his brother, but then he chastises himself. He's not supposed to care about Dean. He's supposed to further his education, get married, and be good and obedient.
Still, for the sake of comradeship, he turns to Dean and says, hoping that he isn't interrupting some emotional moment between him and Sam, "Dean, I believe I've finished with my meal. I am going to go and find our rooms, and get myself settled in."
"Okay, Cas." Dean smiles, looking genuinely happy to be talking to him, and for some reason, Castiel's heart jumps in his chest, and he thinks absurdly that keeping himself apathetic is going to be easier said than done. "If we get bunk beds, I want the top."
For a moment, Castiel thinks that he misheard him, and he said that he wanted to-never mind. He realizes his mistake in time to avoid looking too much like a slack-jawed village idiot. "I'll be sure to respect that," he assures him. "Prince Sam, it was nice to meet you."
"Just call me Sam. And it was good to meet you too, Cas." The heir to Hell smiles at him, which isn't something that Castiel ever expected would be happening. Nor did he ever expect that he would acquire the nickname Cas, but okay. He'll just go along with that. He's only going to be here for a year, after all, and then it's off to Purgatory-by-the-Sea to be married.
He just as to get out of here while going along with everything that Zachariah expects of him. Without blushing every time that he sees his roommate. And without caring too much about Dean, or his seemingly-kind brother.
It's probably easier said than done, but Castiel is decidedly not one to back down from a challenge.
Dean and Sam talk long after they're done eating. Actually, it doesn't escape Sam's notice that they're still sitting together, heads bent close to grasp the other's every word, long after everyone else is done eating, too. In fact, they're the last two people sitting at the long dining table, including the teachers. Neither of them is bothered by this.
"You know, you boys got to get on up to your rooms." They both start at the voice; Bobby Singer apparently moves with more stealth than one would expect for a man of his years. However many years that might be. Sam isn't sure; Bobby is still a mystery to him, one of the many things buried under all of the other memories that he's acquired since he was four years old. He places two pieces of parchment in front of Sam and Dean. A quick glance down tells Sam that he's looking at his schedule. "It's past midnight."
"Is it? Damn." Dean stands, looking regretful; Sam follows suit. "Sure doesn't feel like it."
"You're gonna feel it when you get up at first bell tomorrow," Bobby replies, in a way that's not entirely unkind. "Run on up to bed. There's gonna be plenty of time for you to get caught up later."
"I guess so." Dean nods at the man. "Thanks, Un-thanks, Mr. Singer."
"Bobby to you. Both of you." He inclines his chin at Sam, who repeats the gesture, although he really doesn't know why. "We'll talk at length tomorrow, got that?"
"Sure do. G'night, Bobby. C'mon, Sammy" Dean encircles Sam's wrist and pulls him along. It's a protective sort of gesture that would usually incite his independent teenage ire, but coming from the older brother that he's been missing for over a decade, it's kind of nice. So is the nickname, even though it would normally piss him off something good. "Where are you staying? Near me and Cas?"
It turns out that there isn't really any option other than "Near Dean and Cas," because all of the rooms are off of one hallway that isn't particularly long. Dean hovers near him as he approaches the closed door. "You going to be okay? You're sure the guy you're rooming with isn't an ass or something?"
"Well, he's not the bad kind of ass." Sam, in all of his grand luck, had pulled Andy as a roommate. His clothes are absolutely going to reek in a fortnight. "He just kind of…smokes a lot."
Dean snorts as they stand outside the tall wooden door with the number 66 upon it in shiny brass letters (Sam's not sure how the numbering works here, considering that 66 is smack between 58 and 83). "He gives you any trouble, you just let me know, all right?"
"Okay," Sam agrees, and it's surprisingly easy to do that: to accept that Dean is someone who is entirely willing to care and to protect him, and as much as Sam normally fights The Man in order for him to maintain proper independence, it's okay now because Dean is his brother. That's what brothers do.
Sam's knuckles have barely left the heavy wood when the door swings inwards. He almost falls into the room, although chances are that the grinning, blond figure behind it would catch him. "Sam! Good to see you, man." Andy pulls him forward into an exceedingly uncomfortable one-armed Man Hug. "I can't believe we're roomies!"
"Yeah, it's pretty… unexpected." Sam manages to wriggle his way out. He throws a pleading glance to Dean, who looks a bit more…amused than he does protective. A thought occurs to Sam, and he asks Andy, "Hey, is your brother here? I thought you'd be rooming with him."
"Ansem? He's here all right, but man, I am not boarding with him." Andy shakes his head vehemently. "He'd kill me in my sleep just so he could get full rights to the throne."
Okay, that's probably true. A and A come from one of Hell's older families, one of the kingdoms that was going strong down there before the exiled Lucifer united them all. The competition between the two brothers for full rule of the throne would probably be legendary, if Andy weren't perfectly happy to just hand it over to Ansem and go flying off on his merry, high way.
"Hey, who's this?" Andy peers out the door, a dopey grin on his face. "We having a three-way arrangement? 'Cause there's only two beds here."
Dean steps forward, peering past Andy. "I'm Dean."
"No way!" Andy steps back, letting them see how Sam's room has already begun to descend into a pile of illicit tools for smoking illicit things. "Sam's brother? Holy shit!"
"Yeah." Dean nods. From the way that he's smirking, Sam gets the idea that he likes Andy. "Good to meet you, Andy."
"No kidding, man." Andy extends his hand, and they exchange a vigorous shake. "Wow. I'm gonna be really nice to Sam now."
"Good." Dean drops his hand and steps away. He claps Sam's shoulder as he says, "So I'm gonna go and make sure that Cas hasn't gotten himself into too much trouble, but if you need anything, I'm right down the hall. Okay?"
"Okay," Sam replies. He takes one last breath of more-or-less fresh air before he steps into the dorm room that's to be his home for the next year. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Of course you will." Dean grins at him a final time, and then turns to go down the hallway. "Good night, Sammy."
And Sam smiles and says, "Night, Dean."
Dean opens the door to his own room as quietly as he can, figuring that Castiel will probably be sleeping by now. One glance inside proves him correct: Castiel lies sprawled on the bed to the right, asleep on his back with his mouth open just so.
It's a small, rectangular room, probably a fifth of the size of Dean's personal chamber back in Heaven. Two beds flank the sides, with a series of shelves above each. There's one closet for the two of them at the foot of Dean's bed, and one desk, with a window right above it. It's small, but Dean thinks he can deal. The only thing that disappoints him is the unfortunate lack of bunk beds.
He sits down on his own mattress, covered with starchy white sheets. His limbs suddenly feel heavy and tired. It's hard to imagine that only hours before he was with Michael, doing everything short of flipping him off.
Dean collapses into bed. He doesn't have time to reflect on his new school, his not-unattractive roommate, or, most importantly, his newly-reunited little brother before he's asleep, dreaming the best goddamn dreams that he's had in a long time.
Castiel is up bright and early the next morning. Prince Dean (for, Castiel figures, if he wants to keep a proper distance, he ought to think of his roommate as his true title, by a familiar name) is still sleeping, and Castiel hasn't the heart to wake him, so he just grabs his clothes and slips out to the communal bathing chamber to rinse his mouth and change into a proper tunic.
He's set by the time that the cooks are laying out breakfast and the first bells are just ringing. He doesn't bother with the dining room, though; bypasses it to go out to the courtyard, where Balthazar is preparing to leave.
It's a clear, crisp day outside. The air smells vaguely of dew and decaying leaves, and the last trails of orange and yellow are just fading from the sky, leaving nothing but clear blue behind. Balthazar is in the center of the yard, putting the finishing touches on the harnesses of the team before he departs for Heaven.
"Cassie!" he calls, turning around as he wipes his oil-slicked hands on his dark pants. "Don't you look cheerful this morning."
Castiel orders himself to remain calm and reserved. Just as he was taught; a proper princely manner. He nods at his stable boy née lover. "Balthazar."
"Oh, please." He rolls his eyes and leans against one of the old geldings that pull the carriage. "Don't tell me you're going all stoic again."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Castiel crosses his arms defensively and glares. Balthazar and the geldings both stare back impassively. One horse gives a disdainful-sounding snort.
"Of course you do. You get like this every time you're struck with the idea that you're not acting like Michael or Zachariah or any of the other old windbags in Heaven want you to." Balthazar rolls his eyes again, and then crosses the short distance between them. He places his dirty hands on Castiel's shoulders and looks straight into his eyes. "Castiel, for once, fuck properness like you fuck me, okay? Don't be all miserable and pass it off as your part of your noble, martyred façade of emotionlessness in the name of Heaven. Be happy. Be eager, be excited, be pissy-just don't act like you're some sort of bizarre machine built to carry out all Heaven's will."
"I'm a prince-"
"You're a person. And for once, you don't have one of your higher-ups staring over your shoulders, telling you everything that you're doing wrong." He unexpectedly leans in and kisses Castiel, a rough, tongue-filled gesture. When he pulls away, he's as serious as Castiel has ever seen him before. "You are going to go out there, and you're not going to act like you're just another dick. You're going to be the Castiel that I know and love, all right? Who's a bit irritable, who doesn't really get people, and who's totally crushing on that hot piece of ass that he's rooming with."
Castiel's face flares up with the heat of a thousand suns. "You are speaking of the High Prince's heir-"
"I know. I'm surprised that he's so attractive, too. It sounds like a rather stodgy position." Balthazar puts a hand on his shoulder, kisses him once more, and then steps back and hops up onto the carriage. "Seriously, Cas. So you're some low-rank prince of Heaven. That doesn't define you. Just forget all of that Dick Roman marriage stuff, forget all of the castles, and have a good time. For me, if not for you, okay?"
"You're incorrigible," Castiel mutters. His lips still tingle from the kiss, and his annoyance is mixed with a sense of bleak loss that seems inappropriate beneath the brightness of the day. "Will you write?"
"Oh, I don't know. I expect you'll be rather busy with your wooing of Dean." Balthazar pauses to look back at his blank expression, and then he rolls his eyes and says, "Of course I'll write, Castiel. Have a little faith in me."
Castiel smiles. "I do. Goodbye, Balthazar."
"Goodbye, Cassie." He purses his lips and blows him a kiss, and then, with a flick of the reins, he and the horses are trotting back off to Heaven, leaving Castiel alone in the courtyard, not entirely sure what to do with himself.
In the end, he goes into the cafeteria, slips in next to a Dean who's talking animatedly about muffins, and gives him and his brother a wry smile. He gets a, "Morning, Cas!" from each of them, and just like that, he's seamlessly accepted into their conversation.
As it turns out, there isn't much variety to their classmates. Dean thinks that this is probably because there's about eleven or so of them in total, and they apparently all have identical schedules. Which makes sense, because the teachers around here seem like they want to spend the majority of their time drinking, not teaching classes of two stuck-up students at a time.
He and Castiel are the only representatives of Heaven at Singer's, Dean notes during their first class, when everyone is forced to state their name and title. Hell has a minor showing, with Sam, his roommate Andy and Andy's twin brother Ansem, and then some quiet guy named Jake. Save for Ansem, who glowers at everyone, none of them seem too dickish.
It's Earth that has the majority, though. Which makes sense, considering that it's really just a stretch of fractured kingdoms along the border between Heaven and Hell; they don't even have a high king to rule them all. Which is the main selling point of Michael and Lucifer's argument; apparently he and Sam dueling to the death has some balance on who controls Earth, which apparently will then leading to controlling the world. Dean isn't even touching the logic on that one.
Anyway, the guys from Earth seem like a mixed group. On the one hand, there are two guys named Ash and Garth that are hanging out together. They both seem to be cut from the same cloth as they joke around and laugh a bit too loudly. Dean imagines that they probably drink a lot on the weekends. Still, they seem friendly enough. Not like assholes or anything. He can't say the same for the stocky, well-built pair in the back, Christian and Mark. Dean recalls that he's vaguely related to them, second-cousins once removed or something. They were from his mother's side, and they're probably both either fighting for the throne, or else one of them is being married off. Probably Mark; he's fairly sure he's the little brother. Dean remembers meeting them when he was younger. He doesn't remember liking them.
But yeah, that's pretty much it. There are a couple of others-a pair of friends from Earth who, for some reason, have taken to calling themselves the "Ghostfacers"( God only knows why), and also some hard-to-remember guy whose name Dean thinks starts with an "A." But the only ones that are really interesting him right now are Sam and Castiel. He figures that other friendships would just kind of be a bonus. He isn't super drawn to any of his classmates anyway. Dean's never really been a social butterfly. Comes with growing up in a giant castle with only a bunch of old assholes from company.
"You're gonna be learning swordsmanship with me," says their instructor, a muscular guy with a grizzled face, who only gave his name as Caleb. "Most of you probably have some background in it already. I can tell you now, most of you are going to suck at it."
They're in the training arena now, a large, enclosed hall with looming stone walls and only two small windows to let in light. There are no rubber mats, and it looks like they've got real swords to work with. That, coupled with how it's their first class every day, makes Dean wonder if this isn't how they cull the weak from the strong. The fast from the slow, the lucky from the unlucky. Or maybe Bobby, who presumably made up the schedule, just has a really sick/awesome sense of humor. It's hard to tell.
"Anyone want to challenge me on that?" Caleb asks, glaring at all of them in turn. Dean automatically stands straighter. "C'mon. Got to be some of you who have some pride in your background."
No one answers. Pride is decidedly not a virtue among the lot of them.
Caleb shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Fine. Guess I'm going to have to do this the hard way." He closes his eyes and extends a finger; all of them automatically step back, except for Castiel, who's just been standing ramrod-straight this entire time, barely blinking. Before Dean can be done contemplating that this is the hard way? Really? Caleb is saying, "You! Who was your previous instructor?" and Dean realizes that oh, shit, he's probably going to watch his roommate get torn to pieces on their first day of classes.
Castiel starts at the words, and no, this isn't going to end well. Not at all. "I…" he seems to be realizing only now that everyone else is standing a full foot away. "I didn't have a formal instructor in swordsmanship, Mr. Caleb."
"Just Caleb." He frowns. "Where are you from? Cassiel, is it?"
"Castiel. I am from Heaven, from the Fourth Providence, provided over by the Honorable Lord Zachariah."
"And you were never taught how to use a sword? Pathetic." Caleb shakes his head disbelievingly, walking over to his collection of assorted blades. For something that's probably going to end the pale, wiry, bookish-looking guy in front of Dean, it's actually really impressive. All different lengths, hilt styles, and metals make up the shining weapons. Dean itches to pick one of them up and try it out; back in Heaven, Virgil, the weapon's master, had never let him use the good ones. Dean had to resort to stealing from him more than once, just so that he could use something other than a cheap wooden training sword.
"I was never trained formally, no." Castiel speaks low and quiet, but his words carry the circumference of the arena. "But I worked on it on my own, and I was occasionally assisted by a friend, or by one of the senior members of the estate. I assure you, I can handle one."
"Can you now." Caleb sounds amused. Dean inwardly cringes. "Well, Castiel, what length would you like to try? The shorter ones, I believe, are traditional in Heaven?"
"That's correct." Castiel nods and steps forward, letting the tan leather vest he was wearing over his white shirt fall to the ground, and pushing up his sleeves as it does. "A standard-length Eden dagger, if you have one, is what I trained on."
"Eden, hey?" Caleb bends down and picks up two short, shiny knives. He hands one to Castiel, who automatically tests its weight and length in his palm. "Well, not many people can master these. The short length generally makes it inconvenient to use. Not something I'd recommend for a beginner, but if you think you can, then try to disarm me when I tell you to."
He spreads his legs wide, assuming a defensive position. His eyes are sharp and shrewd. Castiel's, on the other hand, are cool and impassive; if anything, he looks a hint irritated by the fact that he's the one stuck doing this first thing in the morning. Dean resists the urge to squeeze his eyes shut as their instructor smirks, angles his sword, and says, "Okay, Castiel. You can try no-"
"That was awesome!" Dean cheers as the three of them walk out of the arena, Sam on the opposite side of Cas. "Shit, Castiel, I wouldn't've thought that you could fight like that. No offense, but you kinda seem like the bookish type, you know?"
Castiel looks mildly amused at that. "As I said, I practiced on my own so that I could adequately defend myself, if the situation ever arose. Balthazar worked with me to help build up my skills on the offensive. It was merely an application of them against an already unsuspecting opponent."
"Yeah? Still." He shakes his head. "You're good, man."
"Thank you." Castiel looks genuinely pleased as he brushes a sweaty strand of hair from his forehead. "It's a useful skill to have."
"I wish I could do that," Sam says as they walk through a long hall that echoes disconcertingly, and which has a series of exceedingly unsettling gargoyles looking down at them from the top. He usually craves information, but Sam isn't sure that he wants to know the story behind them. "Alistair, Hell's weapons-master, taught me a lot about how to hurt people, but he kinda flopped on the whole defensive thing. I think he just always assumed that I would be the attacker."
"That's unfortunate. If Caleb's training isn't sufficient, perhaps I could tutor you." They're turning into their next classroom now, a large, rectangular room filled with long benches and desks. The three of them can just barely squeeze into one. Cas looks a bit squashed, and Sam and Dean are both spilling out of the ends, but they make it work. Odd, Sam thinks, how they all just met each other yesterday, but they're already willing to do this. There's a comforting sort of familiarity to it, like it's precisely what should be happening. He rather likes it.
"Tutor me?" The weight of Castiel's words are just sinking in now. "Wow. Uh, yeah, that'd be pretty cool, if Caleb's stuff isn't enough. Thanks." Sam cranes his neck around to smile at Castiel. Before Dean can add his comment, though, their teacher walks in, and everyone automatically falls silent.
It's the guy who signed him and Meg in on the first day, Rufus… something. He looks slightly more put together today, although not by much. His suit is still rumpled a bit, and his tie isn't quite straight. But the whole school seems to have that old, worn-in atmosphere, so Sam figures that he fits in right along with it.
"Good morning. Name's Rufus Turner, and I'm going to be instructing you in all of the fine subjects that don't relate to your kingly duty-making sure you've all got some sort of reading skills, that you can all write, add, all that stuff. Laugh all you want," he calls to the snickering pair in the back-Sam gets the idea that it's Garth and that one with the weird hair, Ash, "but you'd be astonished by how many of our kingdoms' future leaders come in who act like they can't tell a two from a three." He shakes his head in disdain. "I'm going to have you all do a benchmark first, but first I'm going to go around and get your names and your titles. Okay?"
The class silently gives their assent, and so Rufus starts the name-telling. Sam lets himself zone out during it, having already memorized the names and the titles of all of his classmates. It wasn't that hard, really; he already knew all of the ones from Hell, and most of the Earth princes didn't have extensive titles. The only one whose name he isn't so sure of is the skinny, dour blond guy in the corner. Something with an "A," he thinks.
Most of Rufus' class is taken up with the benchmark test that he passed out, a basic exam on math, grammar conventions, and history. Sam finishes everything well within the two-hour long class. Hell wasn't a particularly fun place, and he had spent most of his time there reading. This stuff is easy for him. He ends up spending the rest of the period daydreaming about freedom, long days spent catching up with his brother (and Castiel, who seems like a really good person, and who's kickass at sword fighting, at that), and Ruby. Not necessarily in that order.
They have lunch after that, a basic, peasanty sort of soup. Sam likes it. Lucifer's food was always these completely tasteless things arranged into artistic masterpieces; he was the sort who favored presentation over actual edibility. Having something that tastes good is more meaningful to Sam than having meat paste perfectly shaped into a rose garden on his plate.
Culture and History with Bobby Singer comes next, and then Diplomacy and Interkingdom Relations, taught by one Victor Henriksen. They're interesting classes, both of them. Culture deals primarily with, well, the culture in each kingdom; Diplomacy is pretty self-explanatory as well. But they both seem useful, and Sam thinks that he's going to like them.
Their last class starts at 2:00, and is labeled only as "Misc.," with a single instruction telling them to gather in a classroom that's in the very back of the building. It's round and old, with no desks or benches upon the cracked stone floors. A man in a dark coat stands in the center, watching as they file in, and Sam does a double-take when he gets a better look at him.
"Afternoon," Crowley says, as soon as they're all inside. "Glad to see so many young and chipper faces. Name's Crowley. I'll be teaching you the fine art of keeping up appearances, which ranges from how to dress at your coronation, to dealing with damage control after your inevitable affair and/or killing comes to light."
He paces the room as he speaks, looking each of them over head-to-toe. He smirks a bit when he sees Sam there. "Now, I'd ask for your name, but unlike your other teachers, I took the time to go over my class roster, and I already know who each and every one of you are."
Crowley, first/last name unknown. Used to be the biggest black-market man on the corner, and a minor practitioner of the same arts as Azazel. Pretty powerful, from what Lucifer had let on. He had had a tense sort of friendship with the castle, having been in a rather…intimate relationship with Lilith (and oh, God, that was not something that Sam wanted to picture). But he'd disappeared a few years back. Sam had never pegged him for the teaching type, but in retrospect? It makes perfect sense. Crowley is a solo bastard, from a family that didn't easily bow to Lucifer when he came in as a bratty teenager able to unite most of Hell under him with the sole power of charisma (okay, and a fuckton of gold, according to the rumors). Naturally he'd want to have a hand in shaping all of the future leaders.
His first class is spent picking apart their dressings. It's an intensely uncomfortable experience ("Really, Sam? You think that anyone will ever take you seriously as an heir in tan pants and that vest?") but he can't deny that Crowley's snapping observations are right for most of his classmates. They might not all be fit as rulers when they get out of Singer's, but they sure as Hell is hot will be the best-dressed of the group.
Crowley's class lets out at precisely half-past three. As far as Castiel is concerned, the remainder of the day is for getting homework done, the few assignments that they've been given-Crowley's, to not look like a group of ratty peasants the next they see him; Mr. Singer's, to have a paragraph outlining the key values with which they had been raised.
Dean, however, has highly different values. "Let's get down to the barn," he says eagerly, as soon as they've dumped their bags inside their dorm. "Sam too. Michael promised that he'd be sending his own escorts with my horse; I want to see if she's arrived yet."
Castiel is decidedly not a horse person. Horses are large, loud beasts that defecate as they walk and would soon throw you from their backs as they would nuzzle you with slobbery tongues. The riding lessons that Zachariah forced him into were some of his most miserable days at the castle. Falconry, the partnership between ground-bound beings like him and the masters of the sky, is far more up his alley.
But if Dean enjoys it-well, okay, Castiel will consider making an exception. Even if he can't tell a trot from a canter any more. "Very well. I mean, of course I'd like to go with you." He stands from where he'd taken a brief respite, sitting down on his bed. "You have a mare?"
Dean bounds to the door. He's a bit like an excited puppy, Castiel thinks. Except, he was never a dog person either, and he rather likes Dean. "Yeah. Let's get Sam, and I'll tell you all about her."
As the three of them trod down to Singer's expansive stables (there are riding grounds that stretch from the Heaven border to the very lip of Hell) Dean tells the story of his mare and her impressive heritage. "You probably don't remember Chevy," he says to Sam, looking at his brother with a sideways glance. "First horse I rode on, though. I mean, generally you're not supposed to put a four-year-old kid on the back of a warhorse, but Dad knew what he was doing. Never fell off then, and I've barely hit the ground since."
His eyes acquire a faraway look. For the first time, Castiel sees his serious side, the one that's contemplative and miles deeper than the excitable-puppy-like-front that he's been putting up. "Man, sometimes I wish that was what I could always do. Just take Impala and ride, as far away from Michael and all of his Heavenly prophecy shit as I can get, you know? Just me an' her and the open trails… hunting, maybe. I like hunting."
For a moment, they're silent, Dean's unexpected seriousness blanketing them all. Then Sam says, "You know, that sounds nice. Maybe. I mean, I always kind of just wanted to go and get settles with a wife or something, get a good, decent job that doesn't involve having to rule over every jerk in Hell, but I suppose I could go for riding along the open trails too."
Dean grins and slings an arm around Sam's shoulder. "That's my bro, Sammy. What about you, Cas? What's your secret dream?"
"I don't think I have one," he admits. "I never contemplated doing anything other than what was expected of me. My future has always been whatever Michael chose to arrange for me."
"Don't talk like that." Dean shakes his head as he reaches up his other arm and unexpectedly pulls Cas into a one-armed shoulder sort of hug. "Michael's an ass. You're not. You're saying that you never once thought of, like, going off with Balthazar or something?"
He stumbles as he snorts at the absurdity of that. "Balthazar? Oh, no. It wasn't like that between us. I mean, he was my friend, of course, and I'm not denying that we-that there was a more physical side to our friendship, but we never had that sort of emotional connection. No, I never considered running away with him."
Which wasn't to say that Balthazar hadn't joked about it during many of the cigar-smoke filled aftermaths of their times spent having sex. But all of his ludicrous ideas of stealing a carriage in the middle of the night and going north and out beyond the known Realms of Heaven were made entirely in jest. As seriously as Balthazar had urged him away from Michael, neither of them had held a moment's worth of illusion as to the proper nature of their relationship.
"Still. There's so much more out there than getting hitched to Dick Roman, or whatever other crappy plan Michael might have made for you. Think about it, Cas. If you could escape all that crap, what would you do? What do you want? Because you never know, there's a damn good chance that you might be able to get it. Impala!"
Dean's arms are abruptly taken away from Castiel and Sam's necks. "That's my baby," he says proudly, of a pure black mare with a flowing mane and tail, who stands tall and proud in a paddock not too far ahead of them. "Come on. I'll make the introductions!"
He takes off at the fastest pace appropriate for a place filled with giant, easily-spooked monsters. Castiel trails after him, a short way behind Sam, brooding on his words. What do you want?
Absurdly enough, and because he's a quasi-romantic asshole who somehow manages to get crushes in under a day, Castiel finds himself thinking, I want you. I would follow you and your horse, if you asked me to; I would leave Heaven, Michael, Zachariah, and everyone else, if you just said the word, Dean.
Then, because he has some pride left and actually isn't really into romance (sentimentality makes him extremely uncomfortable) he destroys the thought quicker than he disarmed Caleb that morning. Dean is physically attractive, that's all. It's just a crush on his soft-looking hair, and his tanned skin, and what are probably incredibly tight abs. That's it.
Still, as he sees Dean grin as his mare moves to greet him, he can't help but think that maybe there's something more than that going on. Castiel is getting the sinking feeling that okay, he might be in trouble here.
Impala is as happy to see Dean as ever, and as he strokes the nose that she shoves down in greeting, he does his best to hide his pounding heart, to not show the relief that's coursing through his veins. He hasn't realized how damn much he had missed her, even though it's only been a day since he came here.
She takes instantly to Castiel and to Sam, even though Castiel seems a bit…reserved as she blows a raspberry all over him. He's probably not a horse person, Dean reasons. That's cool. He can fix that.
The three of them end up staying out there in the paddocks until it's dinner time, reveling in the joys of being alive and away from their separate tyrannical rulers (although Castiel doesn't say as much, or bother to join in his and Sam's badmouthing of Mike and Lucy, Dean is fairly sure that he's thinking about how awesome it is to be away from Zachariah the Giant Dick). The air is crisp with the scent of autumn, and in the distance, trees grown with more vigor than the spindly shrubs they passed on the way here are blooming in red and gold. Altogether, Dean feels better than he has in a very long time, giddy and just overcome with the idea that for the first time, his dream of getting away from Michael might actually happen.
All too soon, though, he and Sam and Cas have finished supper, and it becomes time for Sam and he to go to visit Bobby Singer, filling the promise that they made before. "Gonna be doing those assignments?" Dean says to Castiel as he prepares to meet the headmaster. He's straightening out his vest, hoping that he looks presentable. "I'll probably do them at breakfast."
Castiel glances at him with dark eyes; he's sitting at the desk, with his papers all sprawled across the surface. "You're not preparing yourself for success here."
Dean snorts. "Don't worry about it, Cas. I've got the charm to back it up." He runs a hand through his hair and decides that he's presentable; he doesn't think that Bobby is going to be looking too closely, anyway. "I'll see you later. Or not; you'll probably be in bed by then."
"Probably," he agrees. "Goodbye, Dean."
"Bye, Cas." Dean steps out into the hallway, almost colliding with Sam. "Ready, Sammy?"
Sam smiles, wide and genuine. For someone raised in Hell, he's quite the optimist. "Yep."
They walk most of the way to Bobby's office in a companionable silence. Dean usually hates silence, mainly because Michael loved it. As far as he's concerned, that alone is enough to completely warrant loathing of it. But when it's between him and Sam, it's okay. It's cool. They have a shit-ton of things to catch up on, but they missed on so many of these quiet, brotherly moments too, that Dean is willing to take whatever he can get.
Bobby's office is opposite the classroom where Crowley systematically insulted each and every one of their appearances. It's a foreboding-looking area, the intimidatingly-tall chestnut door looming up over them, cobwebs stretching in its corners. A grand iron knocker sits in its center; Dean shrugs, picks it up, and lets it fall back down against the dark wood.
The ring of metal-on-wood hasn't yet stopped sounding when the door flies open, and Bobby is standing there. "Took you boys long enough," he says by way of greeting. "Come on in."
The office is small-or maybe it's large; the books that are spilling everywhere make it hard to get the distinction. They look ancient, most of them, like the pages are about to crumble just under the weight of Dean's glance. Two worn chairs lined with plush red velvet are posed before an intimidatingly large desk. Bobby sits on the throne-like seat behind it and gestures for them to sit down; they obey. He takes a swig from a flask posed on his desk; wipes his whiskers when he's done. Dean thinks he caught the whiff of something strong, but he doesn't ask.
"Whiskey," Bobby says anyway. "Good stuff. Not for you; you're too young." He raises an eyebrow. "Course, I'm sure none of you precious flowers would ever think of bringing booze onto my campus, right?"
"Course not," Dean says easily, leaning back against the musty-smelling velvet. "It's good to see you again, Bobby. Have to admit, I'd pretty much forgotten all about you. I never even made the connection between Uncle Bobby and the dude who owns this place."
"Well, we're one and the same." Bobby steeples his fingers, studying them both intently. Dean and Sam are both quiet under his scrutiny until he finally says, "Yeah, I can see John and Mary in you. More of John in you," he adds to Sam. "You've definitely got his face. And you've got your mother's eyes, Dean. But I can see where you two came from, definitely."
"I don't think I know you," Sam finally says. "I mean, I know you're Robert Singer. I know your family's owned this place since before Earth or Heaven was founded. But I don't how you and Dean know, or any of that."
Bobby nods. "I'm not surprised. You were just a babe when the fire happened-cute baby, too." His eyes fucking twinkle, something that Dean had only previously thought was some sort of weird-ass figure of speech. It's certainly unexpected coming from Bobby and the gruff front that he puts up, although Dean does remember how he always used to slip him chocolates and little lemon candies when his parents weren't looking.
"I was your dad's best friend. We grew up, went to Singer's together-him for training to rule over Winchester, me 'cause my parents only trusted their teachers to prepare me for owning the place." Bobby shakes his head as he reminisces. "Best man when your dad got married. Hell, I was there when he met Mary, when she was just a student at Harvelle's. Parents arranged the marriage a year later. Happiest I've ever seen him."
He smiles gently. "They were good people, your mom and dad. Some of the best I've met."
"Yeah, they were." Dean stares at the cold stone floor. He remembers them sometimes, in bits and pieces of his mother's blonde hair and easy laugh, and his father's deep voice and strong arms, lifting him onto the back of Chevy and going for a ride with him.
Damn Azazel, for making that damn prophecy. Damn Michael, for taking him away from Earth. As long as Dean lives, he's never going to get those years back, and he's never going to get his parents back. There's no excuse for that, and there's no way he'll ever forgive the bastards who made that happen.
"I want to get away," he says suddenly, and without knowing why, he's suddenly locked gazes with Bobby, finds himself leaning forward, gripping the hard arms of the chair that he's in. The energy that he's been running on ever since he joined up with Castiel is being channeled into a fine, sharp point: the quill with which he can and will write his own damn destiny. "Can you do that? Send me away from Michael, Heaven, and all that crap?"
Bobby smirks and leans back. "Dean, I wouldn't have called you and your brother down here if I couldn’t."
Chapter Four