The King's Hunters 3/4
Previous
The New Normal
John was used to being shaken awake just after dawn. He wasn’t used to opening his eye and seeing a 7 year old someday-King of England shaking his arm and vibrating with impatient joy. “... what?”
“It’s D-D-D-D-D-... D-Dean’s b-b...”
“Dean’s been hurt?”
Bertie huffed. “No! It’s his b-b-b-birthday!”
John huffed in return. “Is that all?” Then he realized what he’d said and winced. “Sorry-I don’t wake up easy.”
“S-S-S-Sam’s making c-c... c-c-coffee,” Bertie offered contritely.
“And Dean’s... asleep, still?”
Bertie nodded
John nods too. “Okay, Highness-you head on and let me get up.”
Bertie nodded again and scurried off.
John felt like a complete heel. How could he have forgotten! Granted, he had more important things but-He cut that thought off quickly. Nothing was more important than his boys. Nothing. He did everything he did for them.
And today Dean turned 16. He was old enough now to drive, to have his own gun, to....
Then John remembered where-when-they were, and his heart sank. He’d planned to give Dean the Impala today, along with a beautiful pearl-handled M1911 that would suit him perfectly. But it was 1903... neither of those gifts existed yet. And John hadn’t remembered to get anything else.
“Come on,” Sam said to John from the doorway. “Let’s wake him.”
John sighed heavily and got up. “Believe it or not, Sammy, I actually did have plans for today. They just... kind of got torpedoed by our being stuck here.”
“Like what?”
“Like giving Dean the car.”
Sam winced. “But we’re here.”
“We weren’t supposed to be,” John muttered.
“But. we. are.”
“I’m aware of that, thank you.”
Sam held up his hand. “I know what my present to Dean is going to be.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
Sam took a deep breath. “From this moment on, for today, I’m not going to fight with you.”
John blinked a couple of times, then sighed and hugged Sam briefly. “I’ll try to make it easier for you, then. And that’ll be mine.”
Sam clung to him for a moment. “Let’s go give him that present, then.”
“Deal.”
Dean looked up to see the pair come into the nursery. “What is it?”
“Happy birthday, Dean,” father and son said-in perfect unison.
Dean’s response was an instant widening of the eyes and a gasped, “Christo!”
John snorted. “Son, how the hell you figure anything’s getting in here, as well as this place is warded?”
“You and Sammy are gettin’ along-figured you must be possessed.”
“That’s the surprise,” Sam replied. “One day only-no fights, guaranteed. Christa patriarcha la supo defender.”
Suddenly his father had an armful of shaking sixteen-year-old.
John rubbed Dean’s back. “Wish I could give you something more, Champ.”
“You can,” he whispered.
“How?”
Dean pulled back. “Work to make this permanent.” He looked at Sam. “Both of you.”
“I’ll try,” John promised.
“Sammy?”
Sam looked at John warily, then down at the floor as he scuffed at it with his shoe for a moment. Then he sighed and nodded. “I’ll try.”
Dean nodded. “Good. You do realize something, don’t you, Sammy?”
Sam looked up. “What?”
“I’m not leaving. I’ve been hired, I’m a member of the king’s household. And as my brother-so are you.” He took a deep breath. “So what we once knew as ‘normal’-it’s gone.”
“G-g-g-g-good,” Bertie said firmly.
Three heads spun to face him. They had forgotten the prince was there!
“B-b-b-birthdays are f-for celebrating,” Bertie continued matter-of-factly. “So l-l-let’s celeb-b-brate.”
Dean nodded, but his attention was back on Sam. He needed to make sure Sam understood - and was okay.
Sam had one of those expressions that couldn’t decide what it wanted to be, but his mouth kept trying to curl upward into a smile. Seeing that, Dean broke into one of his own. Sam gave in and smiled back. And so did John.
“So!” Dean clapped his hands together. “It’s my birthday! So where’s the pie?”
Everyone laughed, and Bertie grabbed Dean’s hand and pulled him to the table.
The weeks turned into months, and Bertie and Sam both thrived under Dean’s teaching. John came and went, taking hunts and continuing to search libraries for the counter-spell that would take them back to the 1990s. He never found it, but he did find an unexpected new position-Prince George’s Hunter.
He stared at the prince for a long time before he found his voice. “... you want... to make me... what?”
“As Prince of Wales, I am naturally concerned with the safety of my people,” Prince George replied. “We have the Yard and the Army for the usual sorts of threats, but should word of supernatural threats reach me, I should like very much to have one man ready to hand on whom I can rely.”
His jaw slammed open. “... but... where did I mess up?”
Prince George chuckled. “You haven’t. I’ve encountered hunters a time or two before. You’re not a priest, yet you knew the Roman exorcism and spotted the demon in my sons’ nanny in next to no time. We royals aren’t all as simple as you Americans think, you know.”
“Americans seem to be,” John breathed.
“That’s not true, either. Your sons certainly aren’t, and that intelligence had to come from somewhere. And though we’ve not talked much, I’ve no doubt you’re as clever as they.”
“Yes, but I would still be fooling Americans.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt you’d be fooling quite a lot of people. Most people choose to see what they want to see, what they expect to see.” Prince George paused. “The King of England doesn’t have that luxury. Nor does the Prince of Wales.”
“Your father... knows?”
“No, not at the moment. Unless I place you on the payroll, neither he nor Parliament need learn of it. I was speaking generally. Though be advised, Father is likely to see through you if you present yourself as anything other than Dean’s father.”
John nodded.
“Good. I’m sure the lads will be glad to have you here on a more permanent basis.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” John muttered even as he bowed to take his leave.
Dean looked up as John walked into the nursery. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey.”
“What’d Prince George want?”
John took a breath-and told him the truth.
Dean blinked a couple of times. “You... you mean you’re... you’re not leaving?” He sounded young suddenly, as if he’d heard something he’d seldom dared hope.
“By order of the Prince of Wales.”
Dean whooped. “Sammy!”
Sam raced out.
“Now, I will be going on hunts still... small ones....”
Dean ignored John’s caveat. “Dad’s STAYING!”
Sam’s jaw dropped. “He IS?”
“Bertie’s dad’s orders!”
Sam raced across the room to hug his father-then froze, staring up at him. He was still uncertain how he would be seen.
John stared back for a moment, then held out his arms.
That was all it took. With a single sob, Sam ran into his arms.
The strength of the hug surprised John, causing him to flounder a moment before cradling the back of Sam’s head in his hand. “Aw, Sammy....”
“I’m your son,” Sam whispered. “That’s all. Not what those asses told you.”
John didn’t say anything for fear of spoiling the moment. He just tightened his grip and hoped Sam understood.
Dean scanned his face, looking for what he was thinking.
John wasn’t sure what to think or say, though his eyes felt suspiciously prickly. Finally, though, he cleared his throat to try to get rid of the lump that was sitting there and said, “Guess this means I gotta brush up on my manners, huh?”
Dean nodded. He wasn’t sure what his father thought of Sammy, and until he knew-he was reserving judgment, though he was elated that his father was there.
“Hey, Sammy.”
Sam looked up at him.
“What say we go teach Bertie how to play baseball?”
“He’s left-handed,” Dean said. “Don’t switch him.”
John nodded once in understanding, then looked back at Sam. “Well, kiddo? You think your old man can still pitch?”
“My old man never could.”
John raised an eyebrow.
“Dean always pitched. He said you couldn’t.”
John raised both eyebrows at Dean, who shrugged, and said, “Well, let’s go find out, huh?”
Sam finally gave him a ghost of a smile. “Okay.”
Whenever John would chafe and feel he had to go after that which killed his wife, the brothers and the Royals would suddenly find ways for him to be busy until he could snap out of it. And life went on like this for nearly eight years.
Then Dean went to a morning meeting with the Prince and Princess-and came into Bertie’s apartments pale as a sheet.
“D-D-D-Dean?” Bertie asked. “W-wh-what’s wrong?”
“Bertie....we are to go see your parents. They wouldn’t tell me why-but I can guess.”
Bertie paled, too. “W-w-w-what?”
Dean looked over at his brother-who had turned 19 only days before and gotten permission from his tutor at Oxford to come home for his birthday-and said, “It’s 1910.”
Sam shook his head slowly, then froze, his eyes going wide.
Bertie looked from one brother to the other several times in alarm but couldn’t say anything.
“Come on, Bertie,” Dean said. “Put your shoes on-we need to go.”
Bertie let out a tiny whimper and went to put his shoes on.
Sam stood. “I’ll get Father.”
“Sure thing, College Boy,” Dean teased, needing to lighten the mood somehow. Sam had absorbed far more educated-British mannerisms and speech patterns than Dean had in their time at Sandringham, and the trend had become even more pronounced now that he was studying at Oxford.
Sam smiled despite the tense atmosphere and knocked on his father’s doors. “Father....”
“How many times do I hafta ask you not to call me that, Sammy?” John grumbled, setting down the gun he was cleaning.
“Dad... it’s 1910-and we’ve been Summoned.”
John frowned. “It’s 19-” Then he broke off with a curse and grabbed his jacket.
They all went-Dean with a hand on Bertie’s shoulder the entire time. And soon they were in the throne room-and five-year-old Prince John rested in his mother’s arms as a strange silence permeated the room.
The prince was pacing, hands rubbing together.
Finally, Bertie summoned the courage to stutter out, “F-F-F-F-Father?”
“Son.” He turned to him. “I-” And his head snapped around as a door opened on the other side-and admitted a vicar.
Swallowing hard, the vicar licked his lips and announced, “The... The king is dead.” His eyes turned to Prince George. “Long... Long live the King.”
Bertie forced himself not to sob as he and everyone else in the room bowed to the new King George V.
George reached over to his curtsying wife-palm up.
She rose and placed her hand in his.
“Victoria or Mary?” he whispered for her ears only.
“Mary,” she whispered back. “We’ve no need for a second Victoria so soon.”
He nodded and raised her hand, kissing it. His voice carried. “Long live Her Majesty, Queen Mary.”
Everyone bowed again, except the youngest prince-who still slept peacefully with his head on his mother’s shoulder.
George turned to David next. “Long live His Royal Highness, Edward, Prince of Wales.”
David smirked at the bows.
Then George turned to Bertie. “Long live His Royal Highness, Prince Albert, Duke of York.”
Dean squeezed Bertie’s shoulder before he came and bowed with the others.
Bertie fought hard to keep his composure. He knew Mother wouldn’t want him blubbering-no matter how much he wanted to.
Titles were given to their sister and brothers, and then their father’s hand rubbed the sleeping Prince John-named after Dean’s father-on his back.
“Long live His Royal Highness, Prince John,” George said. But somehow, maybe from the look on Dean’s face as everyone bowed, Bertie knew his poor epileptic baby brother wouldn’t live that long after all.
Somehow, Dean knew things that were going to happen. Bertie still didn’t quite get it, but he knew and he trusted Dean.
Soon-too soon in some respects, not soon enough in others-the gathering dispersed.
Dean sighed. “Now you will instruct me, Bertie... on coronation protocol.”
Bertie nodded. “W-w-w-w-we’ve... got s-s-s-some time... I think. Y-... y-you’ll come, then?”
“If I am allowed, I will be there.”
“I’ll... ... ... see to it.”
Dean smiled at him, proudly.
“D-D-D-Dean, y-you’re my... b-b-best friend. I... I w-w-want you there.”
Dean hugged him. “I’ll do it.”
“Still hanging about with the Americans, B-B-B-Bertie?” David sneered.
“No,” Bertie said. “I’m h-hanging... about with... my f-friends.” There was very little hesitation.
Dean and Sam both stepped in front of Bertie, shielding him from David. “Damn straight,” Dean snarled.
David sneered but passed on.
While the small ego contest was going on across the room, George approached John. “You will be at the coronation, of course.”
“I’m not a British citizen. I’m not certain I-”
“John Winchester,” the new king interrupted, putting a hand on his shoulder. “The King’s Hunter will be at the coronation. And you will be armed.”
John’s frown deepened. “You expecting trouble?”
“No. But to not take advantage of every resource as precaution would be foolish. And I am not a fool.”
John nodded slowly. Then a corner of his mouth turned up a bit. “The King’s Hunter, huh? Has a nice ring to it.”
George squeezed his shoulder. “You are more than my Hunter, John. You are a friend.”
John’s smile broadened. “Thanks, George. I know I’m not always easy to like, but... your friendship means a lot.”
“I know of nobody else foolhardy enough not to hold back when shooting mere clay pigeons, to say nothing of the way you hunt fox.”
John snorted. “There’s a reason they call us Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children.”
George laughed, then turned to his wife, who was walking up. “I take it Little John needs to rest?”
“If he’s to convince Bertie to be his Robin Hood,” May teased, then sobered. “Sister tells me he had another attack last night.”
George turned to John. “You are certain-absolutely certain-that this is nothing spiritual?”
John nodded. “Absolutely. And I don’t know of a cure. I’m sorry.”
George sighed. “Then we ensure his comfort.”
“Best thing you can do,” John agreed.
Mary put a hand on his arm. “We need to handle arrangements, George.”
George nodded. “Excuse us, John.”
“Sire,” John nodded and bowed slightly as they went.
King Edward’s funeral took a lot of planning and resulted in a lot of hoopla, and making the arrangements for the coronation took over a year. Bertie was a good teacher, though, and soon Dean and Sam knew what to do. John was less confident in his own role-what the hell was the King’s Hunter supposed to do, anyway?
George called for John one morning shortly before the day of the coronation.
John bowed slightly as he walked in. “Your Majesty.”
“John. Come here.”
John came closer.
“You will come with me today. We are going to meet with Archbishop Davidson and he will show us coronation protocol.”
John nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“And John... do not let the archbishop intimidate you.”
John raised an eyebrow. “Archbishops never intimidate me.”
“They do me,” George admitted.
“Hell, I guess I just don’t scare easy anymore. Killin’ wendigos will do that to you.”
George frowned. “Wen.....”
“It’s a monster, lives mostly in Ojibwa country. Used to be a man who turned cannibal; lost enough of his humanity to turn man-eating monster.”
George’s nose wrinkled. “Sounds... terrible.”
John nodded. “Yeah, they’re pretty nasty. Not as nasty as vampires, but...”
George shuddered. “Let’s be off.”
John nodded and followed him. Sure enough, he didn’t let the archbishop intimidate him. In fact, Archbishop Davidson was downright friendly once he’d heard John’s surname, since he’d been Bishop of Winchester before being named Archbishop of Canterbury.
And at the coronation, John stood beside George’s chair, quietly armed, and silently on guard. Sam and Dean flanked Bertie, much to David’s displeasure; Dean also had Henry and Georgie to look after, while Sam held hands with little Princess Mary. David stood alone-and unaccountably lonely. And May was clearly trying not to worry about Prince John, who was too ill to attend.
A nurse eased up to May just before her turn to be crowned and whispered that her son was sleeping well. She relaxed and got through the rest of the ceremony without visible jitters.
After the coronation, they went on the balcony to greet their subjects. Dean and Sam stayed hidden. So did John, but he was tense. Not knowing who-or what-was outside in the crowd made it hard for him to relax. There were plenty of guards who could deal with a human threat, sure, and he had made sure the flowers and bunting were wired to the railing with iron and silver wire, but still... he’d feel better when everyone was back inside.
David was the first in, and he walked right by the Winchesters without giving them a second look. Bertie, on the other hand, walked right over to Sam and Dean, tugging at his collar with a shaking hand
Dean hugged the teenager. “You’re doin’ fine.”
“T-t-t-t-t-...” Bertie couldn’t get the thought out and just gave up with a sigh, returning the hug.
A squeeze, and Dean let him go.
“What’s next?” Sam asked.
“Life goes on,” John said.
“I s-s-s-suppose I shall h-... have to g-g-go back to s-school soon,” Bertie said miserably.
“You don’t like it there?” Dean asked, frowning.
“D-D-D-Dartmouth’s... b-better than... Osborne... b-b-but it isn’t home.”
There was the familiar look in Dean’s eyes. He wanted to bring his family home.
“Bertie,” George said gravely, coming up behind his son. “You’ve your duty to do for your country. You’re staying in the Navy, and that’s final.”
“Y-Yes, sir.”
Dean sighed but didn’t say anything.
Sam shrugged. “You never know. The way technology’s changing, something might come up soon that’ll grab your interest.”
Dean’s eyes widened and he started to smile.
Bertie frowned a little, puzzled. “T-t-t-t-tech...”
“Technology,” Dean translated. “Machinery.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, if the Wright brothers can succeed in developing an airplane that has military uses, it could revolutionize naval warfare.”
Bertie’s eyes automatically went to the sky.
“Oh, dear, you’ve given him ideas,” George chuckled, but he didn’t actually seem displeased.
John even was smiling.
Dean’s stomach suddenly growled loudly. He smiled sheepishly. “Uh, sorry, hate to ask this, but when do we eat?”
Laughter rang out at that, and the weird tension dissolved.
And life went on. Dean stayed at Sandringham, tutoring Henry and Georgie when he wasn’t needed to help John. John’s schedule shifted to match the king’s more often than not, and he traveled with George and May to places like India where he might be needed to keep monsters at bay. Bertie stuck with his studies at the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth, as little as he liked them. And Sam thrived in the intellectual climate at Oxford.
Sam continued to come home to Sandringham between terms, however. And shortly before he left for Hilary Term in January of 1912, Dean came into the communications room to find him working the telegraph and smiling. “What’s up?”
“Finalising my tickets,” he smiled at Dean. “My class is heading to New York in April for a trip.”
Dean instantly paled and shook his head. “No, that’s April 10, you’re not-”
“And it’s on a White Star Line ship-top of the line!” When Dean looked ready to pass out, Sam laughed. “Dude, CHILL, okay? I remember my history-it’s April 5th, and it’s the Olympic, not the Titanic!”
Dean swiped at his shoulder. “Don’t DO that to me! Geesh!”
Sam laughed and enjoyed his private joke with his brother for some time. He didn’t realize just how much Dean would continue to fear for his family’s safety throughout the spring.
And not having come into his powers, he had no way of knowing how justified that fear would turn out to be.
Next
The New Normal
John was used to being shaken awake just after dawn. He wasn’t used to opening his eye and seeing a 7 year old someday-King of England shaking his arm and vibrating with impatient joy. “... what?”
“It’s D-D-D-D-D-... D-Dean’s b-b...”
“Dean’s been hurt?”
Bertie huffed. “No! It’s his b-b-b-birthday!”
John huffed in return. “Is that all?” Then he realized what he’d said and winced. “Sorry-I don’t wake up easy.”
“S-S-S-Sam’s making c-c... c-c-coffee,” Bertie offered contritely.
“And Dean’s... asleep, still?”
Bertie nodded
John nods too. “Okay, Highness-you head on and let me get up.”
Bertie nodded again and scurried off.
John felt like a complete heel. How could he have forgotten! Granted, he had more important things but-He cut that thought off quickly. Nothing was more important than his boys. Nothing. He did everything he did for them.
And today Dean turned 16. He was old enough now to drive, to have his own gun, to....
Then John remembered where-when-they were, and his heart sank. He’d planned to give Dean the Impala today, along with a beautiful pearl-handled M1911 that would suit him perfectly. But it was 1903... neither of those gifts existed yet. And John hadn’t remembered to get anything else.
“Come on,” Sam said to John from the doorway. “Let’s wake him.”
John sighed heavily and got up. “Believe it or not, Sammy, I actually did have plans for today. They just... kind of got torpedoed by our being stuck here.”
“Like what?”
“Like giving Dean the car.”
Sam winced. “But we’re here.”
“We weren’t supposed to be,” John muttered.
“But. we. are.”
“I’m aware of that, thank you.”
Sam held up his hand. “I know what my present to Dean is going to be.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
Sam took a deep breath. “From this moment on, for today, I’m not going to fight with you.”
John blinked a couple of times, then sighed and hugged Sam briefly. “I’ll try to make it easier for you, then. And that’ll be mine.”
Sam clung to him for a moment. “Let’s go give him that present, then.”
“Deal.”
Dean looked up to see the pair come into the nursery. “What is it?”
“Happy birthday, Dean,” father and son said-in perfect unison.
Dean’s response was an instant widening of the eyes and a gasped, “Christo!”
John snorted. “Son, how the hell you figure anything’s getting in here, as well as this place is warded?”
“You and Sammy are gettin’ along-figured you must be possessed.”
“That’s the surprise,” Sam replied. “One day only-no fights, guaranteed. Christa patriarcha la supo defender.”
Suddenly his father had an armful of shaking sixteen-year-old.
John rubbed Dean’s back. “Wish I could give you something more, Champ.”
“You can,” he whispered.
“How?”
Dean pulled back. “Work to make this permanent.” He looked at Sam. “Both of you.”
“I’ll try,” John promised.
“Sammy?”
Sam looked at John warily, then down at the floor as he scuffed at it with his shoe for a moment. Then he sighed and nodded. “I’ll try.”
Dean nodded. “Good. You do realize something, don’t you, Sammy?”
Sam looked up. “What?”
“I’m not leaving. I’ve been hired, I’m a member of the king’s household. And as my brother-so are you.” He took a deep breath. “So what we once knew as ‘normal’-it’s gone.”
“G-g-g-g-good,” Bertie said firmly.
Three heads spun to face him. They had forgotten the prince was there!
“B-b-b-birthdays are f-for celebrating,” Bertie continued matter-of-factly. “So l-l-let’s celeb-b-brate.”
Dean nodded, but his attention was back on Sam. He needed to make sure Sam understood - and was okay.
Sam had one of those expressions that couldn’t decide what it wanted to be, but his mouth kept trying to curl upward into a smile. Seeing that, Dean broke into one of his own. Sam gave in and smiled back. And so did John.
“So!” Dean clapped his hands together. “It’s my birthday! So where’s the pie?”
Everyone laughed, and Bertie grabbed Dean’s hand and pulled him to the table.
The weeks turned into months, and Bertie and Sam both thrived under Dean’s teaching. John came and went, taking hunts and continuing to search libraries for the counter-spell that would take them back to the 1990s. He never found it, but he did find an unexpected new position-Prince George’s Hunter.
He stared at the prince for a long time before he found his voice. “... you want... to make me... what?”
“As Prince of Wales, I am naturally concerned with the safety of my people,” Prince George replied. “We have the Yard and the Army for the usual sorts of threats, but should word of supernatural threats reach me, I should like very much to have one man ready to hand on whom I can rely.”
His jaw slammed open. “... but... where did I mess up?”
Prince George chuckled. “You haven’t. I’ve encountered hunters a time or two before. You’re not a priest, yet you knew the Roman exorcism and spotted the demon in my sons’ nanny in next to no time. We royals aren’t all as simple as you Americans think, you know.”
“Americans seem to be,” John breathed.
“That’s not true, either. Your sons certainly aren’t, and that intelligence had to come from somewhere. And though we’ve not talked much, I’ve no doubt you’re as clever as they.”
“Yes, but I would still be fooling Americans.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt you’d be fooling quite a lot of people. Most people choose to see what they want to see, what they expect to see.” Prince George paused. “The King of England doesn’t have that luxury. Nor does the Prince of Wales.”
“Your father... knows?”
“No, not at the moment. Unless I place you on the payroll, neither he nor Parliament need learn of it. I was speaking generally. Though be advised, Father is likely to see through you if you present yourself as anything other than Dean’s father.”
John nodded.
“Good. I’m sure the lads will be glad to have you here on a more permanent basis.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” John muttered even as he bowed to take his leave.
Dean looked up as John walked into the nursery. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey.”
“What’d Prince George want?”
John took a breath-and told him the truth.
Dean blinked a couple of times. “You... you mean you’re... you’re not leaving?” He sounded young suddenly, as if he’d heard something he’d seldom dared hope.
“By order of the Prince of Wales.”
Dean whooped. “Sammy!”
Sam raced out.
“Now, I will be going on hunts still... small ones....”
Dean ignored John’s caveat. “Dad’s STAYING!”
Sam’s jaw dropped. “He IS?”
“Bertie’s dad’s orders!”
Sam raced across the room to hug his father-then froze, staring up at him. He was still uncertain how he would be seen.
John stared back for a moment, then held out his arms.
That was all it took. With a single sob, Sam ran into his arms.
The strength of the hug surprised John, causing him to flounder a moment before cradling the back of Sam’s head in his hand. “Aw, Sammy....”
“I’m your son,” Sam whispered. “That’s all. Not what those asses told you.”
John didn’t say anything for fear of spoiling the moment. He just tightened his grip and hoped Sam understood.
Dean scanned his face, looking for what he was thinking.
John wasn’t sure what to think or say, though his eyes felt suspiciously prickly. Finally, though, he cleared his throat to try to get rid of the lump that was sitting there and said, “Guess this means I gotta brush up on my manners, huh?”
Dean nodded. He wasn’t sure what his father thought of Sammy, and until he knew-he was reserving judgment, though he was elated that his father was there.
“Hey, Sammy.”
Sam looked up at him.
“What say we go teach Bertie how to play baseball?”
“He’s left-handed,” Dean said. “Don’t switch him.”
John nodded once in understanding, then looked back at Sam. “Well, kiddo? You think your old man can still pitch?”
“My old man never could.”
John raised an eyebrow.
“Dean always pitched. He said you couldn’t.”
John raised both eyebrows at Dean, who shrugged, and said, “Well, let’s go find out, huh?”
Sam finally gave him a ghost of a smile. “Okay.”
Whenever John would chafe and feel he had to go after that which killed his wife, the brothers and the Royals would suddenly find ways for him to be busy until he could snap out of it. And life went on like this for nearly eight years.
Then Dean went to a morning meeting with the Prince and Princess-and came into Bertie’s apartments pale as a sheet.
“D-D-D-Dean?” Bertie asked. “W-wh-what’s wrong?”
“Bertie....we are to go see your parents. They wouldn’t tell me why-but I can guess.”
Bertie paled, too. “W-w-w-what?”
Dean looked over at his brother-who had turned 19 only days before and gotten permission from his tutor at Oxford to come home for his birthday-and said, “It’s 1910.”
Sam shook his head slowly, then froze, his eyes going wide.
Bertie looked from one brother to the other several times in alarm but couldn’t say anything.
“Come on, Bertie,” Dean said. “Put your shoes on-we need to go.”
Bertie let out a tiny whimper and went to put his shoes on.
Sam stood. “I’ll get Father.”
“Sure thing, College Boy,” Dean teased, needing to lighten the mood somehow. Sam had absorbed far more educated-British mannerisms and speech patterns than Dean had in their time at Sandringham, and the trend had become even more pronounced now that he was studying at Oxford.
Sam smiled despite the tense atmosphere and knocked on his father’s doors. “Father....”
“How many times do I hafta ask you not to call me that, Sammy?” John grumbled, setting down the gun he was cleaning.
“Dad... it’s 1910-and we’ve been Summoned.”
John frowned. “It’s 19-” Then he broke off with a curse and grabbed his jacket.
They all went-Dean with a hand on Bertie’s shoulder the entire time. And soon they were in the throne room-and five-year-old Prince John rested in his mother’s arms as a strange silence permeated the room.
The prince was pacing, hands rubbing together.
Finally, Bertie summoned the courage to stutter out, “F-F-F-F-Father?”
“Son.” He turned to him. “I-” And his head snapped around as a door opened on the other side-and admitted a vicar.
Swallowing hard, the vicar licked his lips and announced, “The... The king is dead.” His eyes turned to Prince George. “Long... Long live the King.”
Bertie forced himself not to sob as he and everyone else in the room bowed to the new King George V.
George reached over to his curtsying wife-palm up.
She rose and placed her hand in his.
“Victoria or Mary?” he whispered for her ears only.
“Mary,” she whispered back. “We’ve no need for a second Victoria so soon.”
He nodded and raised her hand, kissing it. His voice carried. “Long live Her Majesty, Queen Mary.”
Everyone bowed again, except the youngest prince-who still slept peacefully with his head on his mother’s shoulder.
George turned to David next. “Long live His Royal Highness, Edward, Prince of Wales.”
David smirked at the bows.
Then George turned to Bertie. “Long live His Royal Highness, Prince Albert, Duke of York.”
Dean squeezed Bertie’s shoulder before he came and bowed with the others.
Bertie fought hard to keep his composure. He knew Mother wouldn’t want him blubbering-no matter how much he wanted to.
Titles were given to their sister and brothers, and then their father’s hand rubbed the sleeping Prince John-named after Dean’s father-on his back.
“Long live His Royal Highness, Prince John,” George said. But somehow, maybe from the look on Dean’s face as everyone bowed, Bertie knew his poor epileptic baby brother wouldn’t live that long after all.
Somehow, Dean knew things that were going to happen. Bertie still didn’t quite get it, but he knew and he trusted Dean.
Soon-too soon in some respects, not soon enough in others-the gathering dispersed.
Dean sighed. “Now you will instruct me, Bertie... on coronation protocol.”
Bertie nodded. “W-w-w-w-we’ve... got s-s-s-some time... I think. Y-... y-you’ll come, then?”
“If I am allowed, I will be there.”
“I’ll... ... ... see to it.”
Dean smiled at him, proudly.
“D-D-D-Dean, y-you’re my... b-b-best friend. I... I w-w-want you there.”
Dean hugged him. “I’ll do it.”
“Still hanging about with the Americans, B-B-B-Bertie?” David sneered.
“No,” Bertie said. “I’m h-hanging... about with... my f-friends.” There was very little hesitation.
Dean and Sam both stepped in front of Bertie, shielding him from David. “Damn straight,” Dean snarled.
David sneered but passed on.
While the small ego contest was going on across the room, George approached John. “You will be at the coronation, of course.”
“I’m not a British citizen. I’m not certain I-”
“John Winchester,” the new king interrupted, putting a hand on his shoulder. “The King’s Hunter will be at the coronation. And you will be armed.”
John’s frown deepened. “You expecting trouble?”
“No. But to not take advantage of every resource as precaution would be foolish. And I am not a fool.”
John nodded slowly. Then a corner of his mouth turned up a bit. “The King’s Hunter, huh? Has a nice ring to it.”
George squeezed his shoulder. “You are more than my Hunter, John. You are a friend.”
John’s smile broadened. “Thanks, George. I know I’m not always easy to like, but... your friendship means a lot.”
“I know of nobody else foolhardy enough not to hold back when shooting mere clay pigeons, to say nothing of the way you hunt fox.”
John snorted. “There’s a reason they call us Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children.”
George laughed, then turned to his wife, who was walking up. “I take it Little John needs to rest?”
“If he’s to convince Bertie to be his Robin Hood,” May teased, then sobered. “Sister tells me he had another attack last night.”
George turned to John. “You are certain-absolutely certain-that this is nothing spiritual?”
John nodded. “Absolutely. And I don’t know of a cure. I’m sorry.”
George sighed. “Then we ensure his comfort.”
“Best thing you can do,” John agreed.
Mary put a hand on his arm. “We need to handle arrangements, George.”
George nodded. “Excuse us, John.”
“Sire,” John nodded and bowed slightly as they went.
King Edward’s funeral took a lot of planning and resulted in a lot of hoopla, and making the arrangements for the coronation took over a year. Bertie was a good teacher, though, and soon Dean and Sam knew what to do. John was less confident in his own role-what the hell was the King’s Hunter supposed to do, anyway?
George called for John one morning shortly before the day of the coronation.
John bowed slightly as he walked in. “Your Majesty.”
“John. Come here.”
John came closer.
“You will come with me today. We are going to meet with Archbishop Davidson and he will show us coronation protocol.”
John nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“And John... do not let the archbishop intimidate you.”
John raised an eyebrow. “Archbishops never intimidate me.”
“They do me,” George admitted.
“Hell, I guess I just don’t scare easy anymore. Killin’ wendigos will do that to you.”
George frowned. “Wen.....”
“It’s a monster, lives mostly in Ojibwa country. Used to be a man who turned cannibal; lost enough of his humanity to turn man-eating monster.”
George’s nose wrinkled. “Sounds... terrible.”
John nodded. “Yeah, they’re pretty nasty. Not as nasty as vampires, but...”
George shuddered. “Let’s be off.”
John nodded and followed him. Sure enough, he didn’t let the archbishop intimidate him. In fact, Archbishop Davidson was downright friendly once he’d heard John’s surname, since he’d been Bishop of Winchester before being named Archbishop of Canterbury.
And at the coronation, John stood beside George’s chair, quietly armed, and silently on guard. Sam and Dean flanked Bertie, much to David’s displeasure; Dean also had Henry and Georgie to look after, while Sam held hands with little Princess Mary. David stood alone-and unaccountably lonely. And May was clearly trying not to worry about Prince John, who was too ill to attend.
A nurse eased up to May just before her turn to be crowned and whispered that her son was sleeping well. She relaxed and got through the rest of the ceremony without visible jitters.
After the coronation, they went on the balcony to greet their subjects. Dean and Sam stayed hidden. So did John, but he was tense. Not knowing who-or what-was outside in the crowd made it hard for him to relax. There were plenty of guards who could deal with a human threat, sure, and he had made sure the flowers and bunting were wired to the railing with iron and silver wire, but still... he’d feel better when everyone was back inside.
David was the first in, and he walked right by the Winchesters without giving them a second look. Bertie, on the other hand, walked right over to Sam and Dean, tugging at his collar with a shaking hand
Dean hugged the teenager. “You’re doin’ fine.”
“T-t-t-t-t-...” Bertie couldn’t get the thought out and just gave up with a sigh, returning the hug.
A squeeze, and Dean let him go.
“What’s next?” Sam asked.
“Life goes on,” John said.
“I s-s-s-suppose I shall h-... have to g-g-go back to s-school soon,” Bertie said miserably.
“You don’t like it there?” Dean asked, frowning.
“D-D-D-Dartmouth’s... b-better than... Osborne... b-b-but it isn’t home.”
There was the familiar look in Dean’s eyes. He wanted to bring his family home.
“Bertie,” George said gravely, coming up behind his son. “You’ve your duty to do for your country. You’re staying in the Navy, and that’s final.”
“Y-Yes, sir.”
Dean sighed but didn’t say anything.
Sam shrugged. “You never know. The way technology’s changing, something might come up soon that’ll grab your interest.”
Dean’s eyes widened and he started to smile.
Bertie frowned a little, puzzled. “T-t-t-t-tech...”
“Technology,” Dean translated. “Machinery.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, if the Wright brothers can succeed in developing an airplane that has military uses, it could revolutionize naval warfare.”
Bertie’s eyes automatically went to the sky.
“Oh, dear, you’ve given him ideas,” George chuckled, but he didn’t actually seem displeased.
John even was smiling.
Dean’s stomach suddenly growled loudly. He smiled sheepishly. “Uh, sorry, hate to ask this, but when do we eat?”
Laughter rang out at that, and the weird tension dissolved.
And life went on. Dean stayed at Sandringham, tutoring Henry and Georgie when he wasn’t needed to help John. John’s schedule shifted to match the king’s more often than not, and he traveled with George and May to places like India where he might be needed to keep monsters at bay. Bertie stuck with his studies at the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth, as little as he liked them. And Sam thrived in the intellectual climate at Oxford.
Sam continued to come home to Sandringham between terms, however. And shortly before he left for Hilary Term in January of 1912, Dean came into the communications room to find him working the telegraph and smiling. “What’s up?”
“Finalising my tickets,” he smiled at Dean. “My class is heading to New York in April for a trip.”
Dean instantly paled and shook his head. “No, that’s April 10, you’re not-”
“And it’s on a White Star Line ship-top of the line!” When Dean looked ready to pass out, Sam laughed. “Dude, CHILL, okay? I remember my history-it’s April 5th, and it’s the Olympic, not the Titanic!”
Dean swiped at his shoulder. “Don’t DO that to me! Geesh!”
Sam laughed and enjoyed his private joke with his brother for some time. He didn’t realize just how much Dean would continue to fear for his family’s safety throughout the spring.
And not having come into his powers, he had no way of knowing how justified that fear would turn out to be.
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