[fic] Triskele - Part II (a)
Dean's eyes glanced back and forth, to and fro, forwards, backwards, and up and down. This was sensory overload, and it was not appreciated. Nothing looked the same, the bed was soft but on second thought was completely uncomfortable, and something about the whistle in the wind and the voices passing by outside the room's door was super unsettling. The desire for the Morning Regimen became more and more of a serious need the more he saw this chick's teeth (Dear Lord they were worse than the saloon girl's) and hair (matted, knotted, greasy blonde curls ew ew ew), and there was a nasty scent in the air that he had no need to know the source of.
Questions formed themselves like rapid-fire, his stomach starting to turn in unpleasantness. They gathered in his tightening throat, vying for first release and though he opened his mouth several times to allow one through, all that came out was some kind of uttered hybrid of screaming and sobbing. (Maybe less of a sob, and more of a Man Yell.) The girl was taken by surprise, because clearly this was not the reaction she'd been expecting from the man she had clearly spent the night with.
Dean rolled off of the bed quickly with nothing to cover himself up. He cursed loudly when his toe curled painfully under his foot, and it shocked the girl further. Enough, apparently, to get her out of the bed and rushing into her clothes. (She'd be pretty hot if not for the … y'know. Nasty teeth, nasty hair, and super dirty and oily skin. I'll have Hygiene for 500, Alex. What is a shower?)
It couldn't have been more than 30 seconds later when Sam threw the door open. Never before had Dean been so happy to see his brother while buck-naked, but it was pretty amusing how flustered he got when he saw the girl wrestling her way into her clothes. She saw her way out soon enough, letting Dean relax some and Sam to release the breath he'd been holding. It was silent between them, both still trying to sort things out in their heads (not very effective, as they were lost as all Hell).
Sam threw a quick glance around the room and once he'd spotted whatever he was looking for, he stepped quickly towards it. It was a trunk-a large, and very heavy-looking trunk. Stopping in front of it and kneeling down, Sam grunted out, "You need clothes." Dean saw him side-eye a loosed article of clothing nearby him with a shudder. "Clean ones."
"Hey, I didn't fall asleep here or bang that chick. That is not mine!" He sent the piece of clothing a glower of his own, and then directed it towards Sam. It took a moment before he actually looked at him, and when he did, his eyes widened. "Dude, what are you wearing?"
Sam huffed through his nose, not really answering in words, but Dean was seriously trying to figure this out. Sam was…. Well, it looked like he'd just stepped off of the set of The Tudors. (Then again, the room he was in may have been the set.) His lips pulled back apprehensively, and he swallowed. Hard. "Tell me we're in a dream, Sam."
"We're in a dream, Dean," Sam answered faithfully. He emerged from the trunk with a pile of fabric crushed in his arm.
"Oh, good. But I get this really funny feeling that we're not."
"Because we're not in a dream. (Here, put these on.) We're in western Yorkshire, England, and the year is 1586. And I'm pretty sure that Beira's the one who sent us here."
"Then where's Cas? Is he here?"
Sam shrugged.
"Son of a bitch." Dean ran a hand down his face, and spared an unamused glance at the clothes Sam had dropped on the mattress. He stared at them for a moment or two, then at Sam's back. (Sam had taken a seat on the opposite side of the bed.) Dean's eyebrows furrowed when he looked back to the garments, utterly confused as to how, exactly, put them on. "Uh…" he began. "Boxers or briefs?"
Sam chuckled darkly. "Neither. You put on the pants, then the poofy pants. Commando."
And that was how the following twenty minutes of Dean's Not-Too-Thorough Elizabethan apparel lessons began. It took Sam a decent amount of convincing to get Dean into his new clothes, but Dean had decided … maybe it wasn't too bad.
"Kinda look like Charles Brandon, huh?" he'd joked after catching himself in the mirror. Dean smiled wide, almost proudly, and showcased the outfit. Sam had given Dean a skeptical look that Dean wasn't too sure he liked.
It certainly wasn't his preferred choice of jeans and loose shirt, but he could also smell the rich wafting off of the clothing. (And feel it-that jacket part of it all was really uncomfortable.) The ruffs at the neck and wrists were probably the most off-setting thing of the outfit, but the little details did stand out. Silver and gold threads caught the light from the window, shining in the mirror's reflection. A faint pattern decorated the jacket's sleeves and wings, and the vest-whatcha-ma-jig underneath fit his form pretty well. The pants? Well, he supposed that as long as he didn't resemble MC Hammer, he could live with it. They could have been poofier. The garters on his legs holding up the pants were a little awkward, too, and his hat (because Sam for some reason insisted he wear one) had a string of gems above the brim, and a few short feathers coming off the side. Honestly, it was a little on the campy side for his tastes, but at least the boots were nice.
They eventually faced the fact that they couldn't keep holed in there forever, but walking out of the chamber was almost a whole new adventure. Despite the bright sunshine illuminating the corridors through the windows, the halls still seemed a little on the dark side. The people walking through them were dressed somewhat similarly to Dean and Sam, the ladies wearing extremely uncomfortable-looking dresses. Suddenly, Dean felt the glamor of the movies die down. He'd been lied to, because apparently no one in 1586 knew what a bath or shower was. The word 'hygiene' must have yet to have entered the English language.
"Sam, what's going on?" Dean asked. A group of ladies just down the hall were sending him a few flutters of eyelashes, and more yellowed, rotting smiles. His stomach gave another turn. "I don't like this, Sam."
"I already told you." Sam shot a few nervous, tentative smiles and grins to those who glanced and nodded his way. "Yorkshire, 1586. Elizabeth I is Queen. Catholics and Protestants hate each other, and Mary Stuart is imprisoned at Chartley."
"Once again, how do you know this?"
"Two parts paying attention in school, and 5 parts figuring out how to get info from my servant. Now, I'm pretty much just figuring it out as I go."
"You have a servant-you have a servant? How come I don't have a servant?"
"You do, you're looking at some of them," Sam informed, passing a small group of men. "But you don't exactly keep your escapades a secret. They usually know when and when not to attend to you. According to what I've managed to overhear."
Dean paused, it was really more like a trip in time, then shrugged before continuing on down the hall. "That's about to end, if none of these chicks know how to brush their teeth." He shuddered, turning the corner with Sam.
"Apparently, this is one of your properties? Lawrence Hall."
"Oh, that's a kicker."
"You will also be addressed as Lord Smyth."
"What about you?"
"Just … Sam. Lord Samuel Winchester."
"How come you get to keep your name?!"
Sam was quiet for a moment, first making sure they were going the right way. (If he did actually know.) "Primogeniture."
"Come again?"
"Primogeniture. Basically, first son gets everything when they're born, including titles. You're the Earl of Smyth, far as I can tell."
"That…" Dean began. "Okay. Wow. You have way too much time to know these things." He turned away, continuing the walk down the corridor towards the building's entrance. "You need a hobby, Sam."
Sam never said anything in response, but as they came closer to the giant set of doors of the Hall, he smiled. Dean ignored it, more intrigued by the fact that as he and Sam approached the doors, butlers or servants or whatever began opening them. They stepped out of the Hall, and Dean had to admit-this whole being an earl (and rich) thing seemed to really have its perks. It was pretty awesome.
There was a large expanse of grassy field all around the hall, and forest surrounding that. Some gardens were strewn about, consisting of flowers, or vegetables. Peeking around, there was a stable a bit in the back, and what might have been a barn. Returning to the front, he paid closer attention to a gate, and the gravel road leading from the forest and up to the front of the hall. He saw movement in front of the gate, two … guards? …opening it to allow someone in. He kind of wished he'd known that company would be arriving, but hey. He didn't even know he'd be there.
Taking a note from the movies and what he'd seen the nobility do in them, he stood back atop the small flight of stairs, standing up straight. Sam stood next to him, a bit more relaxed, but with a grin on his face.
"D'you know who that is?" Dean asked.
Sam rocked back-and-forth just a little bit, still chuckling to himself. "I do, actually."
"You wanna let me in on that little secret?"
While Sam figured out whatever it was he was figuring out - really, it was just a simple yes or no answer - Dean turned his head to the front once more. Coaches, four of them, were travelling forwards, each pulled by 2 horses.
"Mom and Dad are coming to visit."
Dean couldn't pinpoint when exactly it happened, but the smile that stretched across his face was pretty instantaneous. He tried to hide it as best he could, but it wasn't going anywhere. His hands, held together behind him, tightened their grip on each other in excitement, but he couldn't shake the feeling of unease and uncertainty about his parents having been thrown back with him. Where did his responsibility fall with that? It would be awesome to see them, really awesome, but it was a very unexpected surprise.
Soon enough, the first of the coaches pulled around and once the doorman opened the door, out stepped a familiar man. When he glanced up to Dean, Dean knew that this was as close as it was ever going to get to being with his family again, and all of his concern flew out the window.
John Winchester nodded congenially up to Dean and Sam, then turned to help the next person out. An older, but still stunningly beautiful, Mary stepped down, and following her was a younger woman with a familiar face: Jessica Moore. Shocked, Dean turned to face Sam; Sam was even more shocked, if his eyebrows disappearing under the brim of his hat was anything to go by. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and he couldn't decide who he wanted to stare at, or what was going on. All Dean could do was give a hidden shrug and grin.
"Sam!"
Dean turned back just in time to see Jess finish climbing up the stairs, and grinned widely at him. She turned to Dean with a smile, and gave him a small curtsey. A little (a lot) out of his element, Dean nodded his head to her, and she turned back to Sam.
"I'm so happy you're home! The Lord and Lady Wynncester informed me that my parents would be arriving tomorrow morning. I have the best news!"
"Uh." Sam swallowed again, smiling. "Y-yeah, sure, sounds great. Um … what news?"
Jess smiled wide. Thankfully her teeth weren't as bad as certain others'. Sam must have been worried, too, if the relief on his face was any indication. "It's a surprise, Sam."
Jess continued on, leading herself and Sam inside. Dean, meanwhile, decided to watch his parents as they appropriated the luggage amongst the servants. (He still couldn't believe he was rich and could have those.) His father appeared as scruffy as usual, but it was a fancier kind of scruff that probably had something to do with the cape positioned over one of his shoulders. His mom, though? She was just as beautiful as she had always been, and looked gorgeous in her dress. Dean never recognized he was smiling, nor that he had walked to them until he was hugging them.
"How are you, Dean?" Mary asked. Her gloved hand rested on the side of his face, her eyes roving about and checking him over. "It's so good to see you, it's been so long. How was Wales?" She smiled.
"W-wales?" Dean asked. Clearly not the first thing he expected to be asked from his dead mother. Then it clicked, among the thousands of other thoughts and questions swimming about in his head. "Oh! Right. Wales." Yeah, he totally remembered Wales. "It was a blast! It was so … exciting, and I got back, had a few cold ones with Sammy."
Mary regarded him with a quizzical gaze, but followed with a nod. "I'm glad, but Dean, I have a question for you."
Dean only barely recognized her prompt somewhere in the back of his mind, her voice closer to an echo. He couldn't stop staring at her now that he'd actually caught her eyes. It was unbelievable that she was here, and real, and he could touch her, and. He didn't even know.
"Dean?"
The sound snapped Dean back to the present (or past?), and he refocused his gaze. He smiled with a, "Sorry, what?" but Mary kept her own voice down. She shook her head.
"It's not too pressing right now, we can talk about it later, all right? How about I give you Castiel, and we can all meet at dinner?"
Dean was in the middle of nodding in agreement, when he realized what Mary had said. "Castiel? You got Cas with you?!" he asked quickly, looking around. Just beyond Mary's shoulder he saw Cas standing there with John, both talking as another servant was grabbing a piece of luggage. Dean let out a breath of relief, though he was a bit miffed at Cas' inability to make himself known. It wasn't like Dean was worried, or anything.
"Of course, Dean. I thought you knew he came to stay with us while you and Sam were in Wales."
Dean gave her a hurried nod. "Right, right. Still kinda waking up, too."
Mary gave him one of those I'm-your-mom-so-I'm-amused-but-sometimes-I-wonder-why-you-are-the-way-you-are grins. "Just don't fall and hurt yourself, all right?" she warned him.
Again Dean nodded, and this time he stepped around Mary to meet Cas. Right behind them, Dean clapped a hand on both John's and Castiel's shoulders, grabbing their attentions. John smiled and grabbed Dean's hand in a firm shake with a strong, "Hello." (Dean belatedly realized he'd straightened his back just a little.) Cas grinned, nodding his own greeting. Dean read his face carefully, trying to discern if this was his Cas, or a fake Cas.
John finally released Dean's hand, smiling. "How are you, Son? How was Wales?"
Dean didn't move his eyes from Cas for more than a brief glance to John. "Great, it was great." What he'd been doing in Wales he had no idea, but Dean desperately hoped it really had been an enjoyable trip. "Sam will have to tell you all about it over dinner." And Dean would have to make sure to speak with him before said dinner. Or Cas-the frantic shifting of his eyes told Dean that yeah, this was his Cas.
"Lord Smyth," he said. The words sounded funny coming from Castiel. "It's nice to see you again after these long three months," he said pointedly. "Not to say that my time with the Lord and Lady Wynncester was in any way bad."
John left with Mary, the last of the luggage joining behind them as more servants came around to take care of the coaches and horses. Dean and Cas shared a look, then followed after.
With more of a gruff than usual, Dean couldn't help but comment, "Ya look great, Cas. The hat's a nice touch."
Castiel grabbed the hat's brim, and pulled it off to study it. "It's called a flat cap." He turned the hat in his hands, inspecting it before running a finger along the expanse of feathers on its side. "Your mother is also wearing a flat cap, though mine is a bit poofier, as you can see." He situated the hat once more on his head, nodding his thanks to the doorman as they entered the hall. "Miss Jessica is wearing a French hood, and the Lord Wynncester a toque." He paused. "It was customary in these times to wear a hat."
"Thanks for the fashion history lesson. I think." Dean checked down the halls searching for any clue as to where he was going. "But I need to know what I was doing in Wales."
"Well, you are the one who commented on my hat."
Dean sighed, eyes closing. So he had. "Wales, Cas!"
"Hunting, mostly," said Cas quickly. "For game, not monsters. According to a letter your dad received, you only managed small game and brought the pelts home. They're gifts for your parents, waiting in an empty bedroom here at Lawrence Hall."
"Uh-huh. What else, O omniscient one?"
"I am not omniscient. I merely know these things from alternate-you's letters."
Cas managed to say no more, having been cut off by Sam grabbing at both his and Dean's arms, and pulling them into a nearby room. They stumbled to a halt, Cas managing to regain his balance, and Dean grabbing on to the arm of a chair. The room was, thankfully, empty, and had a fire crackling merrily away. It might have been a study-slash-living room, only with tapestries hung up here-and-there.
"The Lord and Lady Wynncester and my fiancée, Miss Jessica Moore, are settling in their rooms before dinner." Sam paced hurriedly about, and even though he managed to at last take a seat, his leg was still jumping. "What is going on?"
"I thought it was obvious. The Cailleach sent us here."
"Yeah, we got that part figured out," Dean muttered, brushing off his front. "I think what Sam and me wanna know is why they're here."
Cas shrugged. "It's still simple. It's an alternate historical universe. Things are as real as they can be, but with some changes made to accommodate your new circumstances. You can relax, I don't think you'll have to worry about screwing up the past as you have undoubtedly tried several times before."
The only thing any of them heard in the next moments was the fire; background noise as they continued to wonder on. Cas had taken a seat, the toe of his shoe playing with the edge of a rug, and Sam had gotten up to pace again before resting his arms on the back of his chair. He stared off at a wall, his eyes tracing along the stone and brick, while Dean walked about the room slowly while rubbing at the stubble he'd not been able to shave off.
"Hey, Cas," he began. It wasn't long before Castiel trained his eyes on Dean, the blue flashing as fire licked out of its hearth just briefly. Dean stopped himself from gaping and staring too much, and finally moved his attention away. "You still an angel here?"
"I am, but only a little bit."
"Little bit?" Dean parroted. "What do you mean, 'a little bit'?"
"Just … a little bit. I can still zap, but not terribly far, and my power can only affect things nearby." He eyed his feet, and left the rug alone. "I become tired more easily, from even the smallest of tasks."
"Great!" Dean clapped his hands together. "This keeps looking better and better."
"What," Sam interrupted, "would be a small task for you?"
This time Cas decided watching the ceiling would be more entertaining, but his thought-process was clear on his face. "I suppose healing minor wounds and skeletal fractures."
"Small, he says," Dean snorted.
Sam shot a, Dean, please, face over to him before continuing. "I know this is really outta left-field, but do you think that … maybe you could zap us some toothbrushes and toothpaste into existence?"
The request was a bit of a surprise, if Cas' face was any indicator. "I suppose I could. I can only really work with what I have, but yes. I can do that."
Before anything could be said, Cas had disappeared with a faint whoosh to return no later than it had taken him to find, plant, and work some mojo on the hydrangeas.
"Brushes made of oak and horsehair (don't worry, both are pure and bacteria-free) and powdered fluorite. Just add water." He held out the two brushes in one hand, and in the other he held a large, drawstring bag which carried, presumably, the fluorite. "I can't do much on the flavor, but make sure you don't swallow the fluorite. I'll purify the water later."
Dean stepped forward to take the bag and brushes, then stared at them curiously. "You sure these'll do the job?" He'd never known such a mundane task was such a luxury.
Castiel shrugged. "I don't see why not. They're not nearly as long-lasting as those with nylon bristles, but I can always give you more. Though the fluorite should last."
Dean stashed it in the corner with the brushes. Facing Cas and Sam, Dean was struck for possibly the first time with the depth of this issue. More than where he was, or what year it was. More even than why his family was there, and why Jess was there. It was the giant one.
"Well what the Hell do we do now?"
***
Over the next several days, Dean learned some stuff he really had no issue not knowing before. (Unless on the off-chance he ended up on an episode of Jeopardy, but that was about as likely as Sam failing an entrance exam.) For example, apparently dinner started at eleven-o-clock in the morning, and lasted for an average of 3 hours. Supper was at six in the evening, and, in Dean's opinion, just wasn't enough to last a full-grown man through the night. Granted, he had to wake up early, at the ass-crack of dawn, because that's how nobles worked, he guessed. (Or maybe it was just his family; it wouldn't surprise him.) Church was a mandatory thing, baths were rare; shaving should have been considered an Olympic event, and his bathroom was a chamber pot under his bed.
He had learned other things, too. He learned that despite being a full-grown man over 30 years old, he literally could not dress himself. He had a servant to help him; a servant that had insisted he wear a corset for a finer figure; a servant he threatened to end the service of if they ever again suggested he wear a corset. He learned to despise doublets; they were tight. The jerkin wasn't too bad, comfort-wise, but still helped constrict him further. He guessed the hosen were made of nice and expensive material, but … they were still so … poofy. The only thing that calmed him down about this was the fact that Sam and Castiel also wore them, as did his father, so he wasn't exactly the odd one out. When it came to shoes, he always chose boots, and when it came to hats, he never chose a toque. Flat caps were fine with him.
Clothing aside, there were more important matters, such as Sam's betrothal to Jess. Jess' parents had arrived before supper on the first night, and Jess's news was John and Mary's wedding gift to her and Sam: Stanford Manor, in Cambridgeshire (wherever that was). Dean had asked Sam about it later that first evening, but Sam refused to talk about it, and Cas knew just about as much as Dean did.
But yet even these couple days later, with these discoveries, none of them could answer Dean's question. Sam was busy in the Lawrence Hall library, reading tome after tome for some kind of information. Jess would join him sometimes and read from her Bible by the fire, but Sam would often invite Castiel in as well. (Cas and not Dean, because Cas was far better versed in Latin than Sam and Dean combined.) Yet, no book they could find would help.
That evening, Jess had already left, and Sam had fallen asleep on the other side of the room. Mary sat by the fire, working on some kind of craft and she hummed a tune Dean wished he could say he remembered, but he just couldn't put his finger on it. Across from him, Castiel was dissecting a few things in whatever book he had open while Dean stared at his own book without a clue as to what he was trying to read. He wanted to just throw it to the fire, but even he wasn't cruel enough to do that. (Plus Sam would probably skin him alive if he was ever caught.) Dean groaned, opted to ignore his book, and looked out the window to see pitch black. Their only light came from the candles, and the fire, but it was more than enough to catch Cas' eyes widen.
"What is it?" Dean asked him. His eyes flicked to the page, but upside-down, fancy-script Latin (or was it actually English?) did not for easy reading make. Castiel leaned forward and gestured for Dean to do the same. It wouldn't do for Mary to overhear them and be even more confused than she already was. Dean complied, finding that Cas was capable of exuding a fair bit of body heat. Dean's eyes were distracted, though, and looked between Castiel's eyes and lips, until finally settling on the book beneath them.
"It explains, a little, why you're Lord Smyth, why Sam is Lord Winchester, and so on." Cas' voice was a whisper, and Dean found himself having to lean just a bit closer. Meanwhile, Cas turned the page to skim the following text, nodded, then returned to the page Dean had originally seen. "Your father held two titles, and titles given to someone generally include the name of whatever land they own, or manage. Your father is the marquess of Wynncester, spelled like this."
Cas sat back some, grabbing some parchment, a quill, and ink, and scribed the name for Dean to see. "Not that spelling is important in this era, but it is spelled differently," he began, "and yet pronounced the same." Dean had to listen carefully to hear him. Even thinking was too loud. "He was also the earl of the land called Smyth; thusly, the earl of Smyth." He scratched that onto the parchment, right beneath Wynncester.
As Castiel swished through the tail on the Y, Dean noticed that Cas' handwriting was nice. For as rough as Castiel's hands were, they moved gracefully, and it was only accentuated further by the light offered from the table's candles. His fingers moved appropriately along, maybe too appropriately, but it was still a nice thing to watch; like watching an elegant swirl of smoke swim in the air. Smooth, neat, and proportionate, and probably practiced for however many millennia Cas had been able to write.
"As the first-born son, you receive the secondary title of your father, which is why you're the earl of, and addressed as 'Lord', Smyth. Sam, being the younger son of a noble, still receives the title of 'Lord' out of respect, but your family name Winchester at the end. Lord Winchester."
"I guess that makes sense," Dean said. His eyes were still focused on Cas' hand, and he found himself musing the warmth Cas had given off when they'd been huddled. Somehow Dean didn't think that the fireplace's heat was anything compared to what Cas' had been. "But what do they do? An earl, or marquess?" he asked, distracting himself.
"If you asked me to translate military stratagem, protocol, or rank, I could answer that," Castiel sighed out. "Petty politics and titular roles are far different." He paused. "Though similar in some ways."
The following silence pervaded everywhere except for in Dean's head. All kinds of questions fought their way for his attention. Despite the time he'd been there, he still didn't know what his job was as an earl. What progress had been made to get home? When would he have Baby back? Try as he might to think of how to answer those questions, his focus was continually beat down by white noise introducing itself as Cas' lips allowing his quill's tip to rest against them. It shouldn't have looked as-as intriguing, amusing, erotic, insert-adjective-here as it did. Cas' lips alone weren't the silver-screen perfect set; they were drawn, pale, and chapped. But somehow, with the candles' light casting the right shadows, it made them movie-perfect. The contrast between Cas' lips and the quill pulling Dean's attention towards them, and his waning will to look away worried him.
"What exactly are you two searching for?"
Whereas Cas easily turned his head, Dean's surprise forced a faster, snappier movement. Something had definitely cracked - probably not good - and he rubbed, wincing, at his neck beneath the ruff of his doublet. Mary had her embroidery resting in her lap, held in place with gentle hands. Her hands were worn, definitely, but they still seemed every bit as warm, and welcoming, and gentle, and loving as he could ever recall, and more.
"Nothin'," he answered finally. "Just looking for some random information. It's nothing important."
Mary looked at him skeptically, and returned to her work with an, "All right." Dean sighed, wondering how long they would be able to keep everything a secret. They weren't doing an overly marvelous job with it as it was; the situation was fragile and tender, and one wrong move could mean the gallows. He ran a hand through his hair - his hat wasn't too far away from him on the table - and huffed.
"So you never told us what your role is here," he started. His voice returned to the grunted silence to keep Mary from overhearing as he leaned forward once more. "Sam and me are nobles. What're you?" He studied Cas, from the crinkling of his eyes, to the lock of hair curling on his forehead; from the hunch of his shoulders to curves of his knuckles. Battle-ridden as Cas' hands may have been, they, too, seemed no less welcoming than before. Still as socially awkward as ever, but that made it all the more welcoming, didn't it?
Cas never looked up as he turned the pages of his book, skimming them up and down. "From what I gather, I'm your personal chaplain and friend."
"Chaplain?" Dean asked. "Why do I need a chaplain?"
Before he explained, Cas grabbed his quill again, and scribbled something in the book, like he was making a note of it for a test. Man, if only life could have been that simple again. "Again, from what I'm able to gather, your family is Catholic in faith, but are Protestants on paper. Having a chaplain is common among noble Catholic families, but is kept secret as Catholicism isn't the 'true faith'."
Dean ignored Cas' scribbling, and continued on with his question. "What do you do as chaplain, then? Perform secret, illegal masses?"
"No. That's a priest's job. Normally chaplains provide religious aid to castle staff. I'm supposed to provide religious and personal guidance to you. I'm a personal chaplain. I'm all yours."
Dean snorted, mostly to try and distract himself from the awkwardness of it all.
Cas shrugged at the snort, flipping through a few more pages just to scribble some more stuff down. "I don't know what else you want me to say. It's mostly what I already do."
"'S'why I'm snorting," he said, and while he spoke over Cas, he didn't miss Cas' added, "I am your friend."
This time Cas did look up, and Dean realized that the space between them was just a little too little, and did the fires' heat increase in the last few seconds? Backing up would have to wait, though. Something inside was trying to adjust itself; it was warm, a tad uncomfortable, and definitely not something Dean had actually experienced before. Felt hints of it, maybe? While it wasn't all bad, Dean wanted it to stop entirely. It seemed to wiggle around more every time he noticed Cas was still staring at him (but that really shouldn't have been anything new, right?). Whatever it was eventually settled down enough, and Dean let himself sit back and allow himself just a few inches more.
The following three minutes were silent, unless the sounds of shuffling paper and parchment counted for anything. Cas had finally slammed his book shut, a puff of dust escaping with the resulting wind. "This will tell us nothing." He shoved it to the side with a groan and scraped his chair back as he grabbed his hat.
"You can't leave me to study this alone, you know that," Dean said.
Part I | * | Part II (b)
Questions formed themselves like rapid-fire, his stomach starting to turn in unpleasantness. They gathered in his tightening throat, vying for first release and though he opened his mouth several times to allow one through, all that came out was some kind of uttered hybrid of screaming and sobbing. (Maybe less of a sob, and more of a Man Yell.) The girl was taken by surprise, because clearly this was not the reaction she'd been expecting from the man she had clearly spent the night with.
Dean rolled off of the bed quickly with nothing to cover himself up. He cursed loudly when his toe curled painfully under his foot, and it shocked the girl further. Enough, apparently, to get her out of the bed and rushing into her clothes. (She'd be pretty hot if not for the … y'know. Nasty teeth, nasty hair, and super dirty and oily skin. I'll have Hygiene for 500, Alex. What is a shower?)
It couldn't have been more than 30 seconds later when Sam threw the door open. Never before had Dean been so happy to see his brother while buck-naked, but it was pretty amusing how flustered he got when he saw the girl wrestling her way into her clothes. She saw her way out soon enough, letting Dean relax some and Sam to release the breath he'd been holding. It was silent between them, both still trying to sort things out in their heads (not very effective, as they were lost as all Hell).
Sam threw a quick glance around the room and once he'd spotted whatever he was looking for, he stepped quickly towards it. It was a trunk-a large, and very heavy-looking trunk. Stopping in front of it and kneeling down, Sam grunted out, "You need clothes." Dean saw him side-eye a loosed article of clothing nearby him with a shudder. "Clean ones."
"Hey, I didn't fall asleep here or bang that chick. That is not mine!" He sent the piece of clothing a glower of his own, and then directed it towards Sam. It took a moment before he actually looked at him, and when he did, his eyes widened. "Dude, what are you wearing?"
Sam huffed through his nose, not really answering in words, but Dean was seriously trying to figure this out. Sam was…. Well, it looked like he'd just stepped off of the set of The Tudors. (Then again, the room he was in may have been the set.) His lips pulled back apprehensively, and he swallowed. Hard. "Tell me we're in a dream, Sam."
"We're in a dream, Dean," Sam answered faithfully. He emerged from the trunk with a pile of fabric crushed in his arm.
"Oh, good. But I get this really funny feeling that we're not."
"Because we're not in a dream. (Here, put these on.) We're in western Yorkshire, England, and the year is 1586. And I'm pretty sure that Beira's the one who sent us here."
"Then where's Cas? Is he here?"
Sam shrugged.
"Son of a bitch." Dean ran a hand down his face, and spared an unamused glance at the clothes Sam had dropped on the mattress. He stared at them for a moment or two, then at Sam's back. (Sam had taken a seat on the opposite side of the bed.) Dean's eyebrows furrowed when he looked back to the garments, utterly confused as to how, exactly, put them on. "Uh…" he began. "Boxers or briefs?"
Sam chuckled darkly. "Neither. You put on the pants, then the poofy pants. Commando."
And that was how the following twenty minutes of Dean's Not-Too-Thorough Elizabethan apparel lessons began. It took Sam a decent amount of convincing to get Dean into his new clothes, but Dean had decided … maybe it wasn't too bad.
"Kinda look like Charles Brandon, huh?" he'd joked after catching himself in the mirror. Dean smiled wide, almost proudly, and showcased the outfit. Sam had given Dean a skeptical look that Dean wasn't too sure he liked.
It certainly wasn't his preferred choice of jeans and loose shirt, but he could also smell the rich wafting off of the clothing. (And feel it-that jacket part of it all was really uncomfortable.) The ruffs at the neck and wrists were probably the most off-setting thing of the outfit, but the little details did stand out. Silver and gold threads caught the light from the window, shining in the mirror's reflection. A faint pattern decorated the jacket's sleeves and wings, and the vest-whatcha-ma-jig underneath fit his form pretty well. The pants? Well, he supposed that as long as he didn't resemble MC Hammer, he could live with it. They could have been poofier. The garters on his legs holding up the pants were a little awkward, too, and his hat (because Sam for some reason insisted he wear one) had a string of gems above the brim, and a few short feathers coming off the side. Honestly, it was a little on the campy side for his tastes, but at least the boots were nice.
They eventually faced the fact that they couldn't keep holed in there forever, but walking out of the chamber was almost a whole new adventure. Despite the bright sunshine illuminating the corridors through the windows, the halls still seemed a little on the dark side. The people walking through them were dressed somewhat similarly to Dean and Sam, the ladies wearing extremely uncomfortable-looking dresses. Suddenly, Dean felt the glamor of the movies die down. He'd been lied to, because apparently no one in 1586 knew what a bath or shower was. The word 'hygiene' must have yet to have entered the English language.
"Sam, what's going on?" Dean asked. A group of ladies just down the hall were sending him a few flutters of eyelashes, and more yellowed, rotting smiles. His stomach gave another turn. "I don't like this, Sam."
"I already told you." Sam shot a few nervous, tentative smiles and grins to those who glanced and nodded his way. "Yorkshire, 1586. Elizabeth I is Queen. Catholics and Protestants hate each other, and Mary Stuart is imprisoned at Chartley."
"Once again, how do you know this?"
"Two parts paying attention in school, and 5 parts figuring out how to get info from my servant. Now, I'm pretty much just figuring it out as I go."
"You have a servant-you have a servant? How come I don't have a servant?"
"You do, you're looking at some of them," Sam informed, passing a small group of men. "But you don't exactly keep your escapades a secret. They usually know when and when not to attend to you. According to what I've managed to overhear."
Dean paused, it was really more like a trip in time, then shrugged before continuing on down the hall. "That's about to end, if none of these chicks know how to brush their teeth." He shuddered, turning the corner with Sam.
"Apparently, this is one of your properties? Lawrence Hall."
"Oh, that's a kicker."
"You will also be addressed as Lord Smyth."
"What about you?"
"Just … Sam. Lord Samuel Winchester."
"How come you get to keep your name?!"
Sam was quiet for a moment, first making sure they were going the right way. (If he did actually know.) "Primogeniture."
"Come again?"
"Primogeniture. Basically, first son gets everything when they're born, including titles. You're the Earl of Smyth, far as I can tell."
"That…" Dean began. "Okay. Wow. You have way too much time to know these things." He turned away, continuing the walk down the corridor towards the building's entrance. "You need a hobby, Sam."
Sam never said anything in response, but as they came closer to the giant set of doors of the Hall, he smiled. Dean ignored it, more intrigued by the fact that as he and Sam approached the doors, butlers or servants or whatever began opening them. They stepped out of the Hall, and Dean had to admit-this whole being an earl (and rich) thing seemed to really have its perks. It was pretty awesome.
There was a large expanse of grassy field all around the hall, and forest surrounding that. Some gardens were strewn about, consisting of flowers, or vegetables. Peeking around, there was a stable a bit in the back, and what might have been a barn. Returning to the front, he paid closer attention to a gate, and the gravel road leading from the forest and up to the front of the hall. He saw movement in front of the gate, two … guards? …opening it to allow someone in. He kind of wished he'd known that company would be arriving, but hey. He didn't even know he'd be there.
Taking a note from the movies and what he'd seen the nobility do in them, he stood back atop the small flight of stairs, standing up straight. Sam stood next to him, a bit more relaxed, but with a grin on his face.
"D'you know who that is?" Dean asked.
Sam rocked back-and-forth just a little bit, still chuckling to himself. "I do, actually."
"You wanna let me in on that little secret?"
While Sam figured out whatever it was he was figuring out - really, it was just a simple yes or no answer - Dean turned his head to the front once more. Coaches, four of them, were travelling forwards, each pulled by 2 horses.
"Mom and Dad are coming to visit."
Dean couldn't pinpoint when exactly it happened, but the smile that stretched across his face was pretty instantaneous. He tried to hide it as best he could, but it wasn't going anywhere. His hands, held together behind him, tightened their grip on each other in excitement, but he couldn't shake the feeling of unease and uncertainty about his parents having been thrown back with him. Where did his responsibility fall with that? It would be awesome to see them, really awesome, but it was a very unexpected surprise.
Soon enough, the first of the coaches pulled around and once the doorman opened the door, out stepped a familiar man. When he glanced up to Dean, Dean knew that this was as close as it was ever going to get to being with his family again, and all of his concern flew out the window.
John Winchester nodded congenially up to Dean and Sam, then turned to help the next person out. An older, but still stunningly beautiful, Mary stepped down, and following her was a younger woman with a familiar face: Jessica Moore. Shocked, Dean turned to face Sam; Sam was even more shocked, if his eyebrows disappearing under the brim of his hat was anything to go by. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and he couldn't decide who he wanted to stare at, or what was going on. All Dean could do was give a hidden shrug and grin.
"Sam!"
Dean turned back just in time to see Jess finish climbing up the stairs, and grinned widely at him. She turned to Dean with a smile, and gave him a small curtsey. A little (a lot) out of his element, Dean nodded his head to her, and she turned back to Sam.
"I'm so happy you're home! The Lord and Lady Wynncester informed me that my parents would be arriving tomorrow morning. I have the best news!"
"Uh." Sam swallowed again, smiling. "Y-yeah, sure, sounds great. Um … what news?"
Jess smiled wide. Thankfully her teeth weren't as bad as certain others'. Sam must have been worried, too, if the relief on his face was any indication. "It's a surprise, Sam."
Jess continued on, leading herself and Sam inside. Dean, meanwhile, decided to watch his parents as they appropriated the luggage amongst the servants. (He still couldn't believe he was rich and could have those.) His father appeared as scruffy as usual, but it was a fancier kind of scruff that probably had something to do with the cape positioned over one of his shoulders. His mom, though? She was just as beautiful as she had always been, and looked gorgeous in her dress. Dean never recognized he was smiling, nor that he had walked to them until he was hugging them.
"How are you, Dean?" Mary asked. Her gloved hand rested on the side of his face, her eyes roving about and checking him over. "It's so good to see you, it's been so long. How was Wales?" She smiled.
"W-wales?" Dean asked. Clearly not the first thing he expected to be asked from his dead mother. Then it clicked, among the thousands of other thoughts and questions swimming about in his head. "Oh! Right. Wales." Yeah, he totally remembered Wales. "It was a blast! It was so … exciting, and I got back, had a few cold ones with Sammy."
Mary regarded him with a quizzical gaze, but followed with a nod. "I'm glad, but Dean, I have a question for you."
Dean only barely recognized her prompt somewhere in the back of his mind, her voice closer to an echo. He couldn't stop staring at her now that he'd actually caught her eyes. It was unbelievable that she was here, and real, and he could touch her, and. He didn't even know.
"Dean?"
The sound snapped Dean back to the present (or past?), and he refocused his gaze. He smiled with a, "Sorry, what?" but Mary kept her own voice down. She shook her head.
"It's not too pressing right now, we can talk about it later, all right? How about I give you Castiel, and we can all meet at dinner?"
Dean was in the middle of nodding in agreement, when he realized what Mary had said. "Castiel? You got Cas with you?!" he asked quickly, looking around. Just beyond Mary's shoulder he saw Cas standing there with John, both talking as another servant was grabbing a piece of luggage. Dean let out a breath of relief, though he was a bit miffed at Cas' inability to make himself known. It wasn't like Dean was worried, or anything.
"Of course, Dean. I thought you knew he came to stay with us while you and Sam were in Wales."
Dean gave her a hurried nod. "Right, right. Still kinda waking up, too."
Mary gave him one of those I'm-your-mom-so-I'm-amused-but-sometimes-I-wonder-why-you-are-the-way-you-are grins. "Just don't fall and hurt yourself, all right?" she warned him.
Again Dean nodded, and this time he stepped around Mary to meet Cas. Right behind them, Dean clapped a hand on both John's and Castiel's shoulders, grabbing their attentions. John smiled and grabbed Dean's hand in a firm shake with a strong, "Hello." (Dean belatedly realized he'd straightened his back just a little.) Cas grinned, nodding his own greeting. Dean read his face carefully, trying to discern if this was his Cas, or a fake Cas.
John finally released Dean's hand, smiling. "How are you, Son? How was Wales?"
Dean didn't move his eyes from Cas for more than a brief glance to John. "Great, it was great." What he'd been doing in Wales he had no idea, but Dean desperately hoped it really had been an enjoyable trip. "Sam will have to tell you all about it over dinner." And Dean would have to make sure to speak with him before said dinner. Or Cas-the frantic shifting of his eyes told Dean that yeah, this was his Cas.
"Lord Smyth," he said. The words sounded funny coming from Castiel. "It's nice to see you again after these long three months," he said pointedly. "Not to say that my time with the Lord and Lady Wynncester was in any way bad."
John left with Mary, the last of the luggage joining behind them as more servants came around to take care of the coaches and horses. Dean and Cas shared a look, then followed after.
With more of a gruff than usual, Dean couldn't help but comment, "Ya look great, Cas. The hat's a nice touch."
Castiel grabbed the hat's brim, and pulled it off to study it. "It's called a flat cap." He turned the hat in his hands, inspecting it before running a finger along the expanse of feathers on its side. "Your mother is also wearing a flat cap, though mine is a bit poofier, as you can see." He situated the hat once more on his head, nodding his thanks to the doorman as they entered the hall. "Miss Jessica is wearing a French hood, and the Lord Wynncester a toque." He paused. "It was customary in these times to wear a hat."
"Thanks for the fashion history lesson. I think." Dean checked down the halls searching for any clue as to where he was going. "But I need to know what I was doing in Wales."
"Well, you are the one who commented on my hat."
Dean sighed, eyes closing. So he had. "Wales, Cas!"
"Hunting, mostly," said Cas quickly. "For game, not monsters. According to a letter your dad received, you only managed small game and brought the pelts home. They're gifts for your parents, waiting in an empty bedroom here at Lawrence Hall."
"Uh-huh. What else, O omniscient one?"
"I am not omniscient. I merely know these things from alternate-you's letters."
Cas managed to say no more, having been cut off by Sam grabbing at both his and Dean's arms, and pulling them into a nearby room. They stumbled to a halt, Cas managing to regain his balance, and Dean grabbing on to the arm of a chair. The room was, thankfully, empty, and had a fire crackling merrily away. It might have been a study-slash-living room, only with tapestries hung up here-and-there.
"The Lord and Lady Wynncester and my fiancée, Miss Jessica Moore, are settling in their rooms before dinner." Sam paced hurriedly about, and even though he managed to at last take a seat, his leg was still jumping. "What is going on?"
"I thought it was obvious. The Cailleach sent us here."
"Yeah, we got that part figured out," Dean muttered, brushing off his front. "I think what Sam and me wanna know is why they're here."
Cas shrugged. "It's still simple. It's an alternate historical universe. Things are as real as they can be, but with some changes made to accommodate your new circumstances. You can relax, I don't think you'll have to worry about screwing up the past as you have undoubtedly tried several times before."
The only thing any of them heard in the next moments was the fire; background noise as they continued to wonder on. Cas had taken a seat, the toe of his shoe playing with the edge of a rug, and Sam had gotten up to pace again before resting his arms on the back of his chair. He stared off at a wall, his eyes tracing along the stone and brick, while Dean walked about the room slowly while rubbing at the stubble he'd not been able to shave off.
"Hey, Cas," he began. It wasn't long before Castiel trained his eyes on Dean, the blue flashing as fire licked out of its hearth just briefly. Dean stopped himself from gaping and staring too much, and finally moved his attention away. "You still an angel here?"
"I am, but only a little bit."
"Little bit?" Dean parroted. "What do you mean, 'a little bit'?"
"Just … a little bit. I can still zap, but not terribly far, and my power can only affect things nearby." He eyed his feet, and left the rug alone. "I become tired more easily, from even the smallest of tasks."
"Great!" Dean clapped his hands together. "This keeps looking better and better."
"What," Sam interrupted, "would be a small task for you?"
This time Cas decided watching the ceiling would be more entertaining, but his thought-process was clear on his face. "I suppose healing minor wounds and skeletal fractures."
"Small, he says," Dean snorted.
Sam shot a, Dean, please, face over to him before continuing. "I know this is really outta left-field, but do you think that … maybe you could zap us some toothbrushes and toothpaste into existence?"
The request was a bit of a surprise, if Cas' face was any indicator. "I suppose I could. I can only really work with what I have, but yes. I can do that."
Before anything could be said, Cas had disappeared with a faint whoosh to return no later than it had taken him to find, plant, and work some mojo on the hydrangeas.
"Brushes made of oak and horsehair (don't worry, both are pure and bacteria-free) and powdered fluorite. Just add water." He held out the two brushes in one hand, and in the other he held a large, drawstring bag which carried, presumably, the fluorite. "I can't do much on the flavor, but make sure you don't swallow the fluorite. I'll purify the water later."
Dean stepped forward to take the bag and brushes, then stared at them curiously. "You sure these'll do the job?" He'd never known such a mundane task was such a luxury.
Castiel shrugged. "I don't see why not. They're not nearly as long-lasting as those with nylon bristles, but I can always give you more. Though the fluorite should last."
Dean stashed it in the corner with the brushes. Facing Cas and Sam, Dean was struck for possibly the first time with the depth of this issue. More than where he was, or what year it was. More even than why his family was there, and why Jess was there. It was the giant one.
"Well what the Hell do we do now?"
***
Over the next several days, Dean learned some stuff he really had no issue not knowing before. (Unless on the off-chance he ended up on an episode of Jeopardy, but that was about as likely as Sam failing an entrance exam.) For example, apparently dinner started at eleven-o-clock in the morning, and lasted for an average of 3 hours. Supper was at six in the evening, and, in Dean's opinion, just wasn't enough to last a full-grown man through the night. Granted, he had to wake up early, at the ass-crack of dawn, because that's how nobles worked, he guessed. (Or maybe it was just his family; it wouldn't surprise him.) Church was a mandatory thing, baths were rare; shaving should have been considered an Olympic event, and his bathroom was a chamber pot under his bed.
He had learned other things, too. He learned that despite being a full-grown man over 30 years old, he literally could not dress himself. He had a servant to help him; a servant that had insisted he wear a corset for a finer figure; a servant he threatened to end the service of if they ever again suggested he wear a corset. He learned to despise doublets; they were tight. The jerkin wasn't too bad, comfort-wise, but still helped constrict him further. He guessed the hosen were made of nice and expensive material, but … they were still so … poofy. The only thing that calmed him down about this was the fact that Sam and Castiel also wore them, as did his father, so he wasn't exactly the odd one out. When it came to shoes, he always chose boots, and when it came to hats, he never chose a toque. Flat caps were fine with him.
Clothing aside, there were more important matters, such as Sam's betrothal to Jess. Jess' parents had arrived before supper on the first night, and Jess's news was John and Mary's wedding gift to her and Sam: Stanford Manor, in Cambridgeshire (wherever that was). Dean had asked Sam about it later that first evening, but Sam refused to talk about it, and Cas knew just about as much as Dean did.
But yet even these couple days later, with these discoveries, none of them could answer Dean's question. Sam was busy in the Lawrence Hall library, reading tome after tome for some kind of information. Jess would join him sometimes and read from her Bible by the fire, but Sam would often invite Castiel in as well. (Cas and not Dean, because Cas was far better versed in Latin than Sam and Dean combined.) Yet, no book they could find would help.
That evening, Jess had already left, and Sam had fallen asleep on the other side of the room. Mary sat by the fire, working on some kind of craft and she hummed a tune Dean wished he could say he remembered, but he just couldn't put his finger on it. Across from him, Castiel was dissecting a few things in whatever book he had open while Dean stared at his own book without a clue as to what he was trying to read. He wanted to just throw it to the fire, but even he wasn't cruel enough to do that. (Plus Sam would probably skin him alive if he was ever caught.) Dean groaned, opted to ignore his book, and looked out the window to see pitch black. Their only light came from the candles, and the fire, but it was more than enough to catch Cas' eyes widen.
"What is it?" Dean asked him. His eyes flicked to the page, but upside-down, fancy-script Latin (or was it actually English?) did not for easy reading make. Castiel leaned forward and gestured for Dean to do the same. It wouldn't do for Mary to overhear them and be even more confused than she already was. Dean complied, finding that Cas was capable of exuding a fair bit of body heat. Dean's eyes were distracted, though, and looked between Castiel's eyes and lips, until finally settling on the book beneath them.
"It explains, a little, why you're Lord Smyth, why Sam is Lord Winchester, and so on." Cas' voice was a whisper, and Dean found himself having to lean just a bit closer. Meanwhile, Cas turned the page to skim the following text, nodded, then returned to the page Dean had originally seen. "Your father held two titles, and titles given to someone generally include the name of whatever land they own, or manage. Your father is the marquess of Wynncester, spelled like this."
Cas sat back some, grabbing some parchment, a quill, and ink, and scribed the name for Dean to see. "Not that spelling is important in this era, but it is spelled differently," he began, "and yet pronounced the same." Dean had to listen carefully to hear him. Even thinking was too loud. "He was also the earl of the land called Smyth; thusly, the earl of Smyth." He scratched that onto the parchment, right beneath Wynncester.
As Castiel swished through the tail on the Y, Dean noticed that Cas' handwriting was nice. For as rough as Castiel's hands were, they moved gracefully, and it was only accentuated further by the light offered from the table's candles. His fingers moved appropriately along, maybe too appropriately, but it was still a nice thing to watch; like watching an elegant swirl of smoke swim in the air. Smooth, neat, and proportionate, and probably practiced for however many millennia Cas had been able to write.
"As the first-born son, you receive the secondary title of your father, which is why you're the earl of, and addressed as 'Lord', Smyth. Sam, being the younger son of a noble, still receives the title of 'Lord' out of respect, but your family name Winchester at the end. Lord Winchester."
"I guess that makes sense," Dean said. His eyes were still focused on Cas' hand, and he found himself musing the warmth Cas had given off when they'd been huddled. Somehow Dean didn't think that the fireplace's heat was anything compared to what Cas' had been. "But what do they do? An earl, or marquess?" he asked, distracting himself.
"If you asked me to translate military stratagem, protocol, or rank, I could answer that," Castiel sighed out. "Petty politics and titular roles are far different." He paused. "Though similar in some ways."
The following silence pervaded everywhere except for in Dean's head. All kinds of questions fought their way for his attention. Despite the time he'd been there, he still didn't know what his job was as an earl. What progress had been made to get home? When would he have Baby back? Try as he might to think of how to answer those questions, his focus was continually beat down by white noise introducing itself as Cas' lips allowing his quill's tip to rest against them. It shouldn't have looked as-as intriguing, amusing, erotic, insert-adjective-here as it did. Cas' lips alone weren't the silver-screen perfect set; they were drawn, pale, and chapped. But somehow, with the candles' light casting the right shadows, it made them movie-perfect. The contrast between Cas' lips and the quill pulling Dean's attention towards them, and his waning will to look away worried him.
"What exactly are you two searching for?"
Whereas Cas easily turned his head, Dean's surprise forced a faster, snappier movement. Something had definitely cracked - probably not good - and he rubbed, wincing, at his neck beneath the ruff of his doublet. Mary had her embroidery resting in her lap, held in place with gentle hands. Her hands were worn, definitely, but they still seemed every bit as warm, and welcoming, and gentle, and loving as he could ever recall, and more.
"Nothin'," he answered finally. "Just looking for some random information. It's nothing important."
Mary looked at him skeptically, and returned to her work with an, "All right." Dean sighed, wondering how long they would be able to keep everything a secret. They weren't doing an overly marvelous job with it as it was; the situation was fragile and tender, and one wrong move could mean the gallows. He ran a hand through his hair - his hat wasn't too far away from him on the table - and huffed.
"So you never told us what your role is here," he started. His voice returned to the grunted silence to keep Mary from overhearing as he leaned forward once more. "Sam and me are nobles. What're you?" He studied Cas, from the crinkling of his eyes, to the lock of hair curling on his forehead; from the hunch of his shoulders to curves of his knuckles. Battle-ridden as Cas' hands may have been, they, too, seemed no less welcoming than before. Still as socially awkward as ever, but that made it all the more welcoming, didn't it?
Cas never looked up as he turned the pages of his book, skimming them up and down. "From what I gather, I'm your personal chaplain and friend."
"Chaplain?" Dean asked. "Why do I need a chaplain?"
Before he explained, Cas grabbed his quill again, and scribbled something in the book, like he was making a note of it for a test. Man, if only life could have been that simple again. "Again, from what I'm able to gather, your family is Catholic in faith, but are Protestants on paper. Having a chaplain is common among noble Catholic families, but is kept secret as Catholicism isn't the 'true faith'."
Dean ignored Cas' scribbling, and continued on with his question. "What do you do as chaplain, then? Perform secret, illegal masses?"
"No. That's a priest's job. Normally chaplains provide religious aid to castle staff. I'm supposed to provide religious and personal guidance to you. I'm a personal chaplain. I'm all yours."
Dean snorted, mostly to try and distract himself from the awkwardness of it all.
Cas shrugged at the snort, flipping through a few more pages just to scribble some more stuff down. "I don't know what else you want me to say. It's mostly what I already do."
"'S'why I'm snorting," he said, and while he spoke over Cas, he didn't miss Cas' added, "I am your friend."
This time Cas did look up, and Dean realized that the space between them was just a little too little, and did the fires' heat increase in the last few seconds? Backing up would have to wait, though. Something inside was trying to adjust itself; it was warm, a tad uncomfortable, and definitely not something Dean had actually experienced before. Felt hints of it, maybe? While it wasn't all bad, Dean wanted it to stop entirely. It seemed to wiggle around more every time he noticed Cas was still staring at him (but that really shouldn't have been anything new, right?). Whatever it was eventually settled down enough, and Dean let himself sit back and allow himself just a few inches more.
The following three minutes were silent, unless the sounds of shuffling paper and parchment counted for anything. Cas had finally slammed his book shut, a puff of dust escaping with the resulting wind. "This will tell us nothing." He shoved it to the side with a groan and scraped his chair back as he grabbed his hat.
"You can't leave me to study this alone, you know that," Dean said.
Part I | * | Part II (b)