Chapter Text
Dean has been waiting for this moment his entire life. Ever since the birth of Crown Prince Castiel Novak when Dean was three years old, he knew he wanted to marry him one day. Now is his chance; today is the day Prince Castiel Novak will choose his potential bride or groom, and Dean is certain it will be him.
He adjusts his tie in the mirror as a nervous sweat beads on his brow. His dad made him buy a new suit, saying it's too important of an occasion to not look his best, but he knows what his dad wants. The Novaks are rich, obviously, and John Winchester seems to think this marriage is all about money, and as such, Dean needs to look like he has any.
He has to admit, he looks nice, and even if Sammy likes to tease him, he knows the kid’s happy for him. So, he gives himself one more glance over, and turns away from the mirror—there’s no way Castiel will turn him down.
“Oh, honey you look wonderful!” His mom gushes as he steps into the tiny kitchen where she’s cooking beet soup for the fifth time this week—after twenty-four years, he’s slowly getting used to the smell but his nose still wrinkles when he wraps his arms around her.
“Thanks,” he says, his cheeks flushing as he tugs at his lapels. “We, uh… need to leave.”
She nods, still smiling that proud, motherly smile as she brushes her hands over his shoulders. “Just smile like you know your worth and everyone else will too.” She pinches his cheeks, her grin turning sly after a moment. “It wouldn’t hurt to bat those eyelashes a few times, too.”
“Mom,” he groans, blushing hotter as he throws his head back. She just laughs, patting his cheek before turning back to the stove, and Dean feels nerves trickle into his stomach.
“Good luck, sweetheart,” she says, just as his dad walks in with Sammy trailing close behind.
“Let’s get going,” John grunts as he kisses Mary goodbye. Luckily, the castle isn’t too far from Dean’s home, and even more lucky is that Prince Novak’s birthday is in the fall, so the ceremony shouldn’t get too hot or cold. Damn, the man really is perfect.
It’s not long before Dean finds himself waiting in a crowd of hundreds of eligible suitors, and for the first time, he starts to worry that he’s not good enough, smart enough, nice enough, whatever enough, to marry the likes of Prince Castiel.
The square where they are gathered is loud—people gush over dresses and suits, discussing what they might say to the Prince, and generally chatting about their nerves and excitement. Dean’s eyes scan wildly for anyone he knows, bumping and jostling to make his way through the square, but before he can find a friend, they’re silenced by a horn.
Almost as a collective unit, they turn to face the balcony where all eight members of the royal family will emerge. Both the king and queen, and their six children, ranging in age from twenty-one to seven, with Castiel being the eldest of the brood and, therefore, the heir to the throne.
Dean holds his breath as the five younger siblings line up beside their parents. Castiel will be last, and Dean just knows he’ll take his breath away.
There’s a collective gasp as a tall, dark-haired figure appears, dressed in lavish robes and a glittering crown—his sharp blue eyes pierce the onlookers and, yes, Dean is breathless. For a full minute, nobody speaks—not even a sound is heard amongst the crowd of both villagers and suitors—then, seemingly all at once, the square erupts into cheers.
Dean doesn’t join them as his heart thunders against his rib cage, too busy watching color filter into Castiel’s cheeks at all the attention. Dean finds it entirely too endearing, but he wonders if Castiel had any say in this, or if it’s being forced upon him.
He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though, as a magistrate steps forward, a scroll in hand, and introduces Castiel.
“Prince Castiel Charles James Novak, son of King Charles Peter Francis Novak the third, and Queen Naomi Jane Florence Novak, Rulers of the great nation of Amarellino. Today, on the eighteenth of September, Prince Novak will declare his suitors, one of which will be his future companion and, upon the unfortunate death of his father, will ascend the throne to rule. Do you accept this honor, your highness?” The magistrate dips his head after he says his piece, and takes a step back as Castiel answers.
“I do,” he declares, his deep, rumbling voice carrying over the square. The crowd erupts again, before promptly settling as the magistrate continues on.
“From this crowd of suitors, eleven have been chosen to meet the Prince and have a chance at his hand. He has carefully sifted through the applications, so trust that this is not something that is being taken lightly.” Castiel nods and Dean gets the feeling that he’s not the type of man to let someone else decide such matters for him. “Prince Novak will now read out the names of his suitors.”
Castiel nods again, thanking the magistrate as he takes a step forward, papers in hand. “It is an honor to speak before you today, on the day of my twenty-first birthday.” He smiles, but it’s stiff, and Dean can’t help but feel his discomfort. “Today, I will meet my future companion, which is a gift in itself. Now, I will read the names.”
“God, I hope he picks me,” a young girl—probably no older than eighteen or nineteen—says right beside Dean. She’s pretty enough, though she sneers at Dean when she catches him looking, almost as if to say do you really think he’ll choose you? Dean turns back to face the balcony. In all honesty, now that he’s here and seeing all these people, he doesn’t think so. What’s so special about him, after all?
“Hannah Becket, Sarah Blake, and Charlie Bradbury,” Castiel says, and a group of girls erupts into squeals a few feet away. “Balthazar Salazar, Joanna Harvelle and Lily Sunder.” A cheer goes up behind Dean and his heart swoops. Only five more. “April Kelly.” Castiel actually glances up at the noise this girl makes. “Meg Masters, Michael Haven, and Kelly Kline.” He reads the names in quick succession before pausing as he reads the last one.
Dean’s throat tightens as disappointment settles in his gut. He always thought he and Castiel would be good together, but now he’ll never know because, really, what are the odds that the last name will be his?
For the second time today, the crowd seems to collectively hold their breath. Dean can’t be sure, and it probably doesn't happen, but he almost thinks Castiel looks right at him before reading the name aloud.
“The final suitor is…” he pauses, reading the name again as one side of his mouth twitches upward. “Dean Winchester.”
The crowd goes wild.
Before Dean knows what’s happening, hands grab at his arms and force him to move. He doesn’t struggle, too shocked by the chaos around him to fight as the crowd goes nuts. They shout and cheer, and reporters try to shove their microphones in Dean's face, and then words are being spoken into his ear.
“Keep your head down, Mr. Winchester. We’re taking you into the palace.” Dean does as he’s told, keeping his chin tucked and his eyes lowered as blinding camera flashes sear his retinas. He blinks away the spots in his vision in time to see the grand, ornate front doors of the palace open to let him in, the gold and gems sparkling in the light of the fading sun as he stumbles up the steps.
He’s never had the opportunity to enter the palace before—his family was never one of the ones offered the privilege of meeting the royal family. He'd come close once when his class had the privilege of taking a field trip to the palace in the fourth grade. Dean doesn't remember it, and he has long ago decided that he must not have been there. Castiel was given leave from his private tutoring to meet them on the front steps and greet them one by one. He rememebers hearing whispers of a student reaching out to shake the prince's hand, and of Castiel accepting, but he has no actual memory of it. As far as he knows, it never happened.
His eyes roam the cavernous entrance hall, its domed ceilings reaching high into the sky with the most beautiful frescoes painted there that Dean has ever witnessed. His shoes and the shoes of the other ten suitors echo on the marble floors as they’re led down hallway after hallway, passing paintings and statues and grand sitting rooms as they navigate the maze that is Novak Palace. How does anyone find their way around this place?
Dean looks over at one of the men leading him on and notices the Novak crest emblazoned on his uniform—so they’re guards, then. Or soldiers, but they definitely work for the Novaks.
“Where are we going?” he asks, not really expecting an answer since the man’s face is set in an impassive, stony mask, but he does answer, though he doesn’t look at Dean as he speaks.
“To your rooms.” That’s it. Dean doesn’t ask any more questions, deciding to save them for later as nervousness swells inside him. He’d be lying if he said he’s not overwhelmed by all this. None of them really know what’s to come, or what to expect from it all—the most information they received for signing up was that their families will be compensated for their time away and Prince Novak will have ten weeks to choose a lifetime companion.
Suitors peel off from the group with their guards one by one until Dean is the only one left walking down the hall. He’s surprised when they reach the end and turn the corner, but when a set of double doors is opened in front of him, he’s anything but disappointed.
The room is beautiful, to say the least. Dean's never seen such splendor in his life, with its cream and gold accents and extravagant furniture. The bed looks like heaven, with its thick pillows piled high against the headboard, especially when compared to his own bed, with its threadbare blanket and too-short frame. It’ll be nice to sleep in a bed where his feet don’t hang off the end.
He wanders in a little further, feeling the squishy carpet under his shoes as he turns in a circle. There’s a fireplace on the wall to his left, opposite the bed, with a seating area around it, and Dean wants to sink down onto the cushions immediately.
He holds off, though, because right in front of him is a wall of windows, with French doors that lead out into the most beautiful garden he’s ever seen.
Without even noticing that he’s moving, he finds himself in front of the windows, his breaths clouding the glass as his eyes roam over the gated garden with its array of flowers of every color, and the small waterfall that flows into a pond in the far corner.
He looks over his shoulder, his mouth opening to ask if he’s allowed to go out, but finds his room empty and the door closed. He hesitates for a moment, his hand on the door handle, before deciding no one'll know if he just takes a quick peek.
Slowly, as his heart pounds, Dean presses the handle down and pushes the door open on smooth, silent hinges before out into the grass. The cool breeze brushes his cheeks and he breathes it in, the scent of pollen and freshwater suffusing his senses as he closes the door behind him with a soft click.
He’s still in his suit, but he doesn’t worry too much about that as he grazes his fingertip over a petal of the closest rose, feeling its silky texture before moving away with a smile. The garden is fairly small, enclosed with a wrought-iron fence and hedges that hide it from outside eyes, and, as Dean looks at the stone wall of the palace, he notices that his is the only room with access, though there are windows above that look down on it.
Dean stands in the middle of a grassy patch, his hands in his pockets with his head tipped back, looking up at the various windows and wondering where they lead. He’s sure some of them are the residences, but probably only for the servants—the royal family is probably on the uppermost floor where Dean can see the shapes of private balconies and steps that lead to the roof far above. Dean's heard rumors of a colony of bees up there that Prince Castiel tends to in his spare time.
He’s lost in thought, not really looking at any window in particular when something catches his eye. Every window is covered by thick curtains, not a sliver of the room beyond visible from the outside, except one. There’s someone watching him, and he holds their eyes for a while. He’s too far away to be able to tell their color, but they pierce into him all the same. He can’t look away—stuck in place as he watches the curtain ripple in the other person’s hand.
He doesn’t know how long they watch each other but, eventually, the glass doors open in front of him and he drops his head to look at the tiny woman staring back at him, her dark eyes expecting something of him he isn't aware of. Dean glances up at the window once more, but finds the curtain back in place, shifting like it's just been dropped there.
With a heavy sigh, he steps inside and offers the woman a small smile. She's a servant, judging by her plain, beige pants and matching button-up, neatly pressed, and perfectly fitted. It goes well with her sleek bun and subtle makeup.
She doesn’t smile back, though, giving him a pointed look before turning down the hallway to the right of the door that Dean hadn't bothered checking out after seeing the garden.
“Come, come!” she shouts when Dean doesn’t follow right away, and he jumps, before hurrying to follow after her, and finds her in a closet the size of his entire house. She stares daggers through him when he steps inside. “On the pedestal, come on!”
Dean does as he's told, too nervous to do anything, but he's not entirely sure what he did to piss her off. Surely no one's this prickly all the time, right? She searches through the rows and rows of hanging shirts and folded pants, muttering under her breath, and Dean can’t hear what she’s saying, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on that as she turns back around and starts to undress him.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He takes a stumbling step back, his hands going up to ward her off as he trips over the edge of the pedestal and almost lands flat on his ass. “What are you doing?”
She huffs, visibly reaching the end of her patience as she drops her hands to her hips and glares, her Amarellinian accent getting thicker as her annoyance mounts. “I have twenty minutes, Mr. Winchester! You need to be dinner ready in just twenty minutes! I am good, but I’m afraid I am not a miracle worker, so get on the pedestal and let me do my job!”
Dean swallows hard, wary as he steps back up. He watches her with wide, nervous attention, but she just gets to work, and he doesn’t stop her this time as she strips him out of his jacket and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
He blushes from his toes to the roots of his hair when she reaches for his belt buckle. “I-I can, uh… You can just leave me the clothes to—”
“No, Mr. Winchester. ‘Susie Samson must dress Mr. Winchester, herself!’ This is what the Crown Prince has ordered, and you are not to argue. Step out of the pants,” she says when she gets them to his ankles, and he does as he’s told. When she looks at him in his ratty underwear, she tsks, and humiliation floods hot and prickling through his veins, but it’s nothing compared to the utter mortification he feels when she tugs them down, exposing him in the middle of the room before telling him to step out of those, too.
Dean closes his eyes as a sick knot twists in his gut, and he has to force his hands to stay at his sides, clenching them into tight fists as his knees shake and he shivers.
Susie works quickly, though, and she seems utterly unconcerned with his nudity as she bends to hold a pair of clean, perfectly white underwear at his feet, telling him to, “Step in!”
He breathes a sigh of relief when he’s covered, and can’t help liking how the underwear feels against his skin. After his heart rate has calmed down a bit, he takes the opportunity to look around at the rows and rows of clothing. Expensive, wonderfully extravagant, and—as he finds out soon enough—perfectly tailored for him. He’s baffled as to how they could possibly have his measurements since not even he has his measurements.
Susie tucks his shirt in and knots his tie—attaching cufflinks to his sleeves and fixing his collar—all while muttering about not having enough time to give him a wash, and Dean can’t even express just how glad he is that there’s no washing.
She steps back, looking over him with a critical eye in his burgundy suit and tie, white button-down shirt, and golden cufflinks and tie clip combo. He looks damn good if he says so himself, but Susie sighs and shakes her head.
“Good thing your face is so pretty. I don’t know if I could have pulled it off if you were ugly as a goat.” She turns him to face the mirror head-on and fixes his hair, her short, thin fingers rearranging strands into some semblance of what she deems, “Acceptable enough for the Crown Prince.”
As she’s ushering him out of the closet—or, dressing room as Susie calls it—Dean stops her, making sure to look her in the eyes as he speaks, his smile bright and genuine. “Thank you.”
She stops, looking far more taken aback than he expects her to, before turning away, muttering about getting him to dinner before he’s late, but Dean still catches her blush, and his smile grows.
She leaves him with the guards waiting outside his door, and they lead him through the maze of hallways to a long dining hall, with a table in the middle that spans the length of the room and easily forty chairs around it. The ten other suitors are already in their seats and Dean deflates when he finds that the last two place settings are the one at the head of the table, presumably for Castiel, and one six seats away beside the one he thinks is named Hannah, and diagonal from the other man—Balthazar. Lily and Meg are laughing from the seats on either side of the one reserved for Castiel, flipping their hair and glancing at the others with so much disdain, it’s almost palpable.
Dean takes his seat, smiling at Hannah when she looks over at him and breathes a sigh of relief when her lips tilt up at the corners in her own version of a smile.
He glances around the hall, taking in the lavish drapery and large paintings on every wall. The decor is beautiful and perfectly suited to a palace, but what Dean finds most shocking are the cameras.
There are at least six cameramen milling around the room, setting up stands and coming around the table to clip mics on everyone. He was never told anything about cameras! But, as they soon find out, the whole process will be filmed and televised for the entire nation to watch.
“It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity,” the director says. There’s a microphone attached to his ear and he moves around the room in such a flurry that it puts Dean on edge. Meg and Lily preen under the attention, Hannah seems resigned to it, and Balthazar is completely oblivious as he tosses back the expensive wine in front of him. Dean doesn't even bother looking at the others; they've got to be much the same.
Dean watches Balthazar for a moment, just waiting for him to snatch the bottle from the waiter's hand, but he doesn’t, and Dean can honestly say he’s a little disappointed. Dean sits in silence as they wait for Castiel to arrive, and he can’t help the excitement that floods him at the thought of finally getting to speak with Prince Novak about his amazing work with underprivileged children, or the charities he runs to preserve the environment. The man does so many amazing things, and Dean wants to discuss them all.
But, to his immense disappointment, when Castiel shows up to dinner, he barely speaks. Meg doesn’t shut up almost the entire time, and Castiel seems fascinated by what she has to say, much to Lily’s annoyance, so Dean speaks with Hannah, instead, since she’s closest to him.
He learns that she comes from their neighboring kingdom, here only for the political alliance the king hopes to forge with a wedding. Dean is a little shocked by the information since they were all led to believe they were hand-picked by Castiel, himself. Then again, maybe she is, just not for love.
“Do you miss your home?” Dean asks after she tells him she hasn’t been in her kingdom for the better part of the year, touring from country to country in search of a royal husband.
With a delicate sigh, she sets down her cutlery and looks around the room before meeting his eyes. “Yes, but this is my duty.” Her voice is stiff and regal, and he can’t believe he didn’t see it before—how her status practically bleeds into the room. It’s not nearly as overt as Castiel’s, but he can see it in how she holds herself—in how she speaks in the most restrained and diplomatic way—and he can’t help but think she’s perfect for Castiel.
He doesn’t know what to say to that, though, so he starts to ramble. “I miss my family, too. I don’t live too far from here, but my family's always been really close, you know? It’ll be difficult being away from them for any amount of time.”
Hannah stares at him for a moment, her mouth open the tiniest crack like she doesn’t know what to say. Then she smiles and it’s real this time. Not overly warm, but genuine all the same as his shoulders lose some of their tension. “Do you have a large family?”
“Not really, no. Just me, my mom and dad, and my snot-nosed little brother.” He grins just talking about Sam, feeling a fondness that's not at all unfamiliar to him. “He’s fourteen, but he’s growing like a weed. No doubt he’ll be taller than me in no time.”
“Oh, I find that hard to believe,” she says, covering her mouth with a delicate hand as she laughs.
Dean raises an eyebrow as he takes a bite of his steak—which is cooked to fucking perfection. “You’ll just have to meet him. He’s lanky as hell but he’s going to be tall.”
“I’d like that,” Hannah says, dipping her chin in a nod before she turns back to her meal. Dean feels a certain kind of warmth flood him as he does the same. He didn’t think he’d find friends here because of his social status and the competitive aspect of the whole thing, but it’s nice to know someone's willing to talk to him.
The night carries on in quiet conversation and copious amounts of alcohol as the cameras record every second of every angle possible—it’ll be a wonder if they can manage to not have another camera in every shot—Dean mostly talks with Hannah and attempts to engage Balthazar in conversation, but the man is so far gone, there’s no talking to him in any intelligent manner. Dean decides to only have the one glass of wine—his tolerance is pretty high, but this is potent stuff and he doesn’t want to make a fool out of himself on the first night.
After dinner, Castiel stands and they all fall silent under his steady gaze. He meets each of their eyes in turn, never lingering too long, and Dean gets the sense that this is a practiced move. He smiles a little at the thought.
“Thank you all for accepting my invitation to dinner. I am aware that this is quite a bit to take in, and that being away from your families for any amount of time can be difficult,” he gives Hannah a meaningful look as he says this, and she dips her head. “But I am grateful and humbled at the thought that you should want to get to know me enough to do so.” Dean can’t be sure, but he thinks Castiel’s eyes linger on him for just a moment longer than the others, and he can’t help but think back to his staring contest in the garden.
“It’s a pleasure to meet such a dashing fellow,” Balthazar slurs as he tips his chair back on its legs. He sloshes a bit of wine on the hardwood and Dean can’t help but notice the twitch at the corner of Castiel’s eye. He covers his smirk with a hand over his mouth. “Am I right?” Balthazar looks at the rest of them, his grin wide and sloppy.
“Oh, yes!” Meg says, eyeing Castiel as he stands in front of her, dressed to the nines like the prince he is. “Very handsome,” she murmurs, then reaches out a hand to stroke his arm.
There’s a collective gasp from everyone in the room as Castiel flinches away, and Meg doesn’t seem to realize her transgression until a royal guard steps between them, glaring at Meg but speaking to the group.
“Might I remind you all that, though you are here to court Prince Novak, he is still the Crown Prince and you are, under no circumstances, allowed to lay a hand on him.”
The tension in the room is palpable as the guard stares Meg down. She blinks a few times as if shocked by the reaction but decides not to say anything as she looks back at her plate. Castiel clears his throat and steps back to his seat, adjusting his suit jacket before continuing his speech.
“We will be moving to the sitting room across the hall for coffee and dessert, please join me there in a few minutes. Now, if you will all excuse me…” He turns away, visibly shaken, and leaves the room with two guards following close behind.
They sit there in silence for a moment before the director claps his hands, and for once, Dean is thankful for him. “Alright, folks! Let’s get a move on! This stuff needs to be finished and edited by the morning and you all need your beauty sleep.” He winks with a staged smile as they all stand, following the guards to the other room. Dean walks behind Balthazar, watching him stumble and sway, and a few times, he reaches out a hand to steady him so he doesn’t fall into one of the priceless statues littering the room, but they make it to the sitting room in one piece—no vomit or shattered ancient artifacts to speak of.
The sitting room is quite small compared to the dining hall, with couches and chairs like the ones in his room set around a coffee table. There’s a table with little finger desserts and coffee on one table, but as Dean continues to look around the room, his eyes latch onto a table of pure heaven.
Pies. So many pies.
Dean’s mouth waters as he makes a beeline for them, not even caring if it’s considered inappropriate to take more than one slice as he asks the server to load him up with cherry, apple, and pecan. He takes a seat beside Hannah on the largest couch, barely glancing up when she chuckles and digs into the first slice.
“So, you love pie?” Hannah asks, and Dean grins as he shovels another bite of sweet apple pie and perfectly flaky crust into his mouth. He can only nod and, as he watches her eye his plate, he holds it out to her. Her eyes widen when she realizes he’s offering her a bite and she shakes her head. “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly.”
Dean swallows. “Are you sure? I don’t mind. I could get you your own slice of you want?” She chews her bottom lip, thinking about it, before she takes the plate from his hands, not seeming to care about sharing a fork as she looks around, her eyes flicking back and forth, before scooping up a forkful of the pecan pie and taking a bite.
Her big blue eyes widen as she covers her mouth, nodding as she chews and swallows. “Wow, that is wonderful.”
Dean laughs as she hands the plate back, and she seems to relax a bit more. For the first time, Dean notices just how pretty she is in her demure, navy blue silk gown. It’s been a while since he’s noticed another person’s beauty, but—and don’t get him wrong, she is beautiful—Dean’s not interested. She’s nice to talk to, though, and he appreciates having someone kind in this strange place, especially since she seems somewhat familiar with the way these things are run.
He sinks back into the cushions a little more. “So, tell me.” He glances over at her, noticing the way she folds her hands over her knees and straightens her back a little as she looks to the door. He doesn’t bother looking over, but he can hear the guards moving around, so he’s sure Castiel isn’t too far away. “This touching thing, is that something all royals follow?”
She tilts her head, a small frown curving her lips. “No, it’s a ‘first-born’ thing.” She smiles at him, giving him a little bit of side-eye. “I won’t have you hanged for sharing your pie and sitting so close.”
A burst of laughter escapes him when she winks, and he rolls his eyes, but nods. “Good to know.”
She lifts her shoulders in a delicate shrug. “I don’t fully understand it since I’m the fourth of five children, but it was explained to me as having something to do with the purity of touch. The intimacy that comes along with touching another human being is something that shouldn’t be shared between the royals and the commoners.”
Dean frowns, trying not to be too offended by the word ‘commoners’ as he thinks it over. “Okay, so if you were the firstborn, would you have had an event like this?”
Hannah smiles, but it’s almost sad. “No. This kingdom is very large—the largest and wealthiest there is—and so, the marriage of the Crown Prince is one to be concerned with. Not even my sister, who is the Crown Princess, got a ceremony such as this.” Another shrug, but with only one shoulder. “Prince Novak probably asked for this, in all likelihood. I can’t see him just accepting an arranged marriage; he has always been a little defiant.”
“Wait, you know him?”
“Of course,” she says, quirking an eyebrow. “Our families are close, even if our kingdoms’ aren’t. I was tutored with Castiel from a young age.”
Something twists in Dean’s gut, and suddenly he’s not so sure of himself. Everyone here comes from a wealthy—or royal, in Hannah’s case—family, and Dean is just a commoner, barely able to scrape by and keep his family from starving. There’s no way Castiel will choose him over all the wonderful choices he has instead, and Dean could cry with this realization, but then the doors swing open, and Castiel steps in.
His eyes find Dean’s almost immediately.