Chapter Text
The only way romantic could be used when talking about Castiel was if one added “not at all, really,” or “strewth, quite the reverse,” immediately afterwards. Dull, dutiful and devoid of humor, prince consort Castiel could accidentally kill romance just by glancing in its direction.
This made him the odd man out, unfortunately. The rest of the known world was enjoying a post-war renaissance full of romanticism. Growing numbers were entering the ranks of the literate, sole domain of scholars and clergymen not that long ago. That newfangled printing press invention disseminated all kinds of books far and wide, and many of them were romances. People loved them, they shaped the way the kingdom of Lawrence remembered its very own tragic romance: the story of King Dean and Lisa Braeden.
Though the real events were less than a decade old, there were already many versions of the story running around like mice in the cellar. Castiel was pretty sure he’d heard them all by now.
Lisa Braeden was born into a family of well-to-do merchants. At seventeen, her father’s affairs having thrived, she’d been introduced at the small court, a knockoff version of the grand court where the royal ladies were introduced with more pomp and prestige. There she’d come into contact with prince Dean, and the rest was the stuff of fairy tales.
Lisa had been one of this new wave of literate young women who, rather than mastering etiquette and household management, studied the philosophies, poetry, and read books from abroad detailing strange and almost certainly immoral ways of bending your body to achieve inner peace. It had made her different than court-bred ladies, interesting, and Prince Dean… well, the Winchesters were odd ducks as far as royalty went, their line only half a century old - rank novices, as king Michael had it - and Dean had his own particularities. A soldier-prince of nineteen, he’d been hardened in years of battle against their northern foe, and he knew what he wanted. Lisa had been very beautiful, vivacious, a free spirit. Dean was smitten and they were betrothed that very night, having fallen in love at first sight (Castiel could not conceive of this happening in real life, but then, as has been cited, he was not a romantic.)
What happened next depended on who was telling the story, there were a lot of different interpretations.
Though he welcomed her to the castle on his son’s behalf, some said king John had disapproved of a commoner aspiring to be queen. Once Dean was off to war again, John had made her life miserable by demanding impossible feats: hosting a dinner without a purse, weaving gold from straw and such. Tasks that a spirited but relatively inexperienced lass couldn’t possibly master, not without the benefit of dancing singing magical mice or some other sort of phenomena that Dame Ellen’s meticulous housekeeping forbade. More rational storytellers painted the tale with a darker gloss. By her very existence, Lisa was robbing Dean and their war-torn kingdom of a marriage alliance with another country when they needed it most. Even with John’s support, her reception amongst the nobility would have been chilly, and perhaps even dangerous. It wouldn’t be the first time in history that an inconvenient fiancée had been removed from the political chessboard through calumny, hostility or a drop of poison. Whatever the reason, Lisa abruptly renounced the betrothal and disappeared into the night.
The story’s hundred variations meant nobody actually knew the truth. Dean might, but he never talked about it. Given free reign, speculation went off in all directions, each more fantastical, dramatic or romantic than the next. Castiel - who, it bears repeating, wasn’t a romantic - suspected that John had merely tried to prepare the young and inexperienced woman to the task that being the liege consort of a large realm entailed, and yes, managing the responsibilities of a castle, overseeing the finances, navigating the dangerous viper pit of politics, keeping up appearances, supporting the future king while not taking up more of his time than he could spare, yes, all that could feel crushing to a young woman and ‘lively spirit’. God’s tears, even Castiel, born and raised to it, found it tiresome at times, and he was about as lively as limestone. It was easy to imagine how Lisa had chafed under the charge.
His Majesty King John the First of Lawrence fell in the war against Prince Azazel that following year. Dean was crowned on the battlefield, and then the warrior king, assisted by his brother, gathered his armies. A year of staggered campaigns brought Dean’s long-term strategies to fruition, positioning the two Winchesters to where they could finally crush the invaders and execute Azazel, avenging their father. But when Dean returned to his kingdom, ragged after years of war, he found plenty of problems waiting but no signs of Lisa. Dean searched high and low. Insert romantic machinations imagined by scullery maids and dowager duchesses alike. Where the silly legend of the lost slipper came from, Castiel had no clue; he’d found some of Lisa’s footwear in an out-of-the-way closet in the Consort wing one day, her shoe size was perfectly normal and could fit three quarters of the female population of the kingdom, so surely- oh, right, not a romantic.
It took Dean a year to find her living in poverty and seclusion. Lisa… and her child. Dean had married her the next week, declared Benjamin to be his blood and heir, and they lived happily for six months. But then Queen Lisa passed, one of the last victims of the plague that was burning out at the time, a final brutal bequest of the war.
Her picture hung in the portrait room alongside other kings, queens and consorts. She’d been a beautiful woman with a strong light in her eyes and an intriguing smile.
Castiel’s portrait was commissioned by the court on his first year anniversary, the day he’d been married to Dean twice as long as Lisa had, as it were. It hung alongside Dean’s over the mantle in the main hall, as was proper for reigning sovereigns. Dean told him the painting was ‘real good, Cas, an awesome likeness’. Castiel thought the man in the portrait looked dull, dowdy and tired, so Dean was probably right.
Ah yes, Castiel, Dean’s second marriage after five years as a widower. Castiel was so much the opposite of Lisa Braeden that in his darker moments, he suspected some evil art was at work.
To his advantage, Castiel was not an obscure commoner unprepared for the task. He was the third son of the late King Charles of Eden, and he’d been raised for this kind of duty all his life. In marrying him, Dean had built a strong backing for his reign. Castiel’s older brother Michael had worked hard at this alliance between their kingdoms, Castiel was only part and parcel of it. Not the best part, as Michael occasionally reminded him.
Castiel was not in line for the throne himself due to Eden’s Salic Laws of succession; they not only barred women from reigning, but also the few men in each generation who turned out to be angels; with a soul born for purity and chastity… or in some cases such as Castiel, a temperament that simply did not, shall we say, cleave to the female of the species. It was a delicate matter that noble families shrouded in silence once upon a time, but this had led to that messy incident back in the Carolinian era when a royal marriage went spectacularly awry because of it, and a century of warfare ensued. Since then it was openly admitted, if somewhat grudgingly at times, and angels were still used in political marriages; to a man in rare cases, but more particularly to princesses of a certain type themselves. Once the requisite heirs were dutifully, if reluctantly, produced, the blessed spouses could live on in harmony and chastity. Publicly, that is. In private, it was understood they could follow whatever proclivities they aspired to, if any, as long as they kept it discreet. It was considered political and polite, a mark of the civility and stellar blood of the royal lines of the continents (detractors and anti-monarchists declared that, angel or otherwise, the whole lot of them were sodomites and eunuchs after generations of inbreeding, but Michael’s guards soon found them and ended their calumnies.)
But to differ again from the fertile, fair and female Lisa, Castiel had suffered a severe swelling disease right after his turn into manhood that, despite copious bleeding, had burned out the fire in his seed. A great physicker of repute had demonstrated this to Charles and Michael by showing how the excess of cold black bile in Castiel’s blood could extinguish a large yellow candle, so it was obviously true. His predominant humor now beholden to cold, dark earth rather than manly fire, he would never be able to father children on an otherwise disinterested princess, which was just about the only thing a prince of his sort could be said to be good at, as Michael so aptly put it, and Castiel had failed even at that.
Everyone, including Castiel, had been surprised when Dean suggested the marriage. But it was more grist for the romance mill. Ben’s legitimacy was never all that certain, born out of wedlock as he was. In fact it was quite likely he was not the king's child, Dean himself had confided to Castiel after their marriage. But it didn’t matter, he loved the boy as much as any man ever loved his son. Though he’d been persuaded to marry for political reasons, he'd gone to such lengths as wedding a man to ensure no further heirs would ever contest the throne. Lisa's rights as queen mother would forever be respected in his bloodline and in his heart.
So be it.
The ways Castiel differed from Lisa went on and on. She was petite and loved to dance and play the angélique; he was tall and had no sense of rhythm. She was fiery; he was cold and composed. She loved to ride and hunt; Castiel was too busy with his duties. She had been heartrendingly young; Castiel was older than Dean by five years. She’d been honest, brave and bright, while Castiel was way too at home with petty politics. Somebody had to be, it wasn’t Dean’s forte.
Lisa had been so free and proud, she’d left Dean during the war, whether due to John’s interference or other reasons. Whereas if it’d been Castiel in her place all those years ago, there was nothing King John or anyone could have said or done or threatened him with - nothing! - that would have made him leave Dean. Ever.
That was the crux of it, wasn’t it. The final way he and Lisa diverged. Dean had loved Lisa Braeden passionately, even though to Castiel’s eyes her love didn’t seem to be that steady in return. Whereas Castiel, despite knowing full well what a political marriage entailed, had let himself fall in love with his husband like an idiot.
At least he wasn’t so much of a ninnyhammer as to expect his feelings to be returned, not when he had to stand next to queen Lisa in everyone’s memories. He still had his duties, they kept him busy enough most days to bury the unwelcome ache in his heart. As Dean’s royal consort and seneschal, he managed the crown’s lands and castles, making them comfortable for their liege. After one year, Dean had declared himself positively floored by how much Castiel had turned the wartime fortress around and made it feel like a home, an ‘awesome place to live’. Dean’s vocabulary had been cultivated on a battlefield, not by tutors. Castiel didn’t mind, and it was a king’s privilege to talk any way he wanted to.
Dean's down-to-earth style, his bravery, his easy smile, it all made him very popular in castle, court and countryside. As consort, Castiel’s role was to be decorative rather than popular, and that, unfortunately, was quite beyond his abilities. Being a man was a further black mark against him in many eyes, whatever political games the noble houses chose to play with their ‘angels’. So Castiel stayed far back in Dean’s shadow, a discrete power behind the throne. Dean led, Castiel quietly made sure everything followed. His duties were all over the place, from managing the revenue and expenses of the royal lands and household, to appeasing the temperamental cook, Crowley, the best chef on the continent despite his foibles. Castiel had been lucky to snatch him from the elderly duchess of Keys and keep him, even though every crowned head on the continent would cheerfully poison Castiel to obtain him. Some said Crowley had made a deal with Ol’ Nick for his talents, but if his temperament and diva extravagances were anything to go by, Castiel considered Crowley himself to be the devil, no deals needed or wanted.
But it was worth any and all efforts to make Dean’s life and rule easier; to make him truly shine amongst his peers.
That would have to be Castiel’s pride and fulfilment. When the burden chafed, he’d remind himself he could be a peasant living at a feudal lord’s mercy, half starved when winter raged. He’d kept up his habit, adopted years ago in Michael’s court, of going out into the town and beyond the capital to help out in various charitable endeavors. Generosity was the duty of princes, and on his bad days, when his health or spirits were poor, it reminded him of all he had to be thankful for if the only thing he had to lament in his life was that he was in love with a man who didn’t love him.
And if that failed to temper his dark moods, he’d reread all the letters exchanged with his brother Gabriel, exiled for twenty years now in a far northern country where they worshipped pagan gods, and where the rest of the family pretended he was dead. Reminiscing about his life in Michael’s court did wonders for Castiel’s disposition.
~~~ * ~~~
The less said about Castiel’s time in Eden, the better. It wasn’t too bad while his father was alive. Charles - or Chuck as his family affectionately knew him - was decent enough, if somewhat vague and prone to letting his cabinet rule while he piddled with attempts at writing. Life didn’t get truly tiresome until Charles was gone and his eldest son Michael ascended the throne.
Castiel did what he could, but Michael had no need for a well-meaning but ultimately useless brother. At first Castiel had earned his keep, so to speak, by managing the castle and lands, freeing Michael’s time and making himself more valuable in a potential match. Surely no self-respecting woman would wish for such a non-man as spouse (as his brother put it) but that left the other avenue. An old, widowed nobleman from some backwards province with the right inclination and a ton of sons to spare might be kind enough to take Castiel off Michael’s hands, for the sake of the prince’s connections, dowry and the comfort he could bring. It hadn’t been that attractive a prospect (though Castiel kept that thought behind his teeth rather than hear another diatribe on his failures), but even that paltry offer never materialized. Michael married, had children, and his ever-efficient queen Naomi took over many of Castiel’s duties. As the years went by, Castiel became older, more useless, more redundant. Other pointless princes before him had found occupation in the army or the church, but men of his inclination were not welcome there. The army only wanted real men, the church had no need for deviants (so they said, though Gabriel had written some very scurrilous things about both assertions in his letters.) The royal family could have forced the issue and made him a place in either institution, but if Castiel was going to spend his life being shunned and despised anyway, he might as well do it at home.
There were times he thought his best bet would be to leave in the dead of night, sail to the far, far north and make some kind of living with Gabriel. But ultimately Castiel's sense of duty forbade it. Maybe his kingdom didn’t need him, and his family certainly didn’t, but Castiel was born a prince, it was his duty to stand by his land and liege until his death.
Then like lightning out of a clear sky: a marriage proposal. And not by some minor lordling with a plethora of sons, no, a wedding between Castiel and one of the most powerful men on the continent.
A scant three weeks passed between Michael summoning Castiel to his office with a ‘you won’t believe this’, to standing in front of the head of Eden’s church, hand in hand with a virtual stranger. Three weeks would be fast for any wedding not involving a pregnancy and pitchfork-wielding parents; for a royal wedding, it was ludicrous. But king Dean, Castiel would learn, was not the kind to waste time once a decision was made, especially not on ‘fol-de-rol crap’, and Michael had obliged his soon-to-be brother by marriage. Maybe he was afraid Dean might change his mind if given time to think about it.
Castiel and Dean met once during those three weeks for the obligatory bethrothement ceremony where both parties were allowed to look each other over and converse for awhile. It was a time-honored sham to pretend the feelings of those involved mattered in any way. The meeting was so chaperoned by a complement of councilmen and diplomats, it hadn’t given the two much leisure to talk. King Dean looked both grumpy and uncomfortable, Castiel had been his usual dull self; thirty years and numerous tutors couldn’t teach him the art of small talk, and romance, as mentioned, was a closed book to him. His preferred reading materials, political, philosophical and religious treatises, would bore even a scholar to tears.
… Besides, he’d spent the entire hour of the betrothment with his head spinning, unable to believe this wasn’t some fever dream. There was no way a dull, cold fish like himself could be looking at a marriage with this… this young, splendid, powerful king. Had he unwittingly walked into a ring of toadstools and found himself in some fairytale romance by mistake? One of those stories where the suffering princess or angelic prince labored under a dismal disguise, some dirty animal skin maybe, but the monarch from a wonderful far-off land could magically see past this unprepossessing exterior and still fall in love…? It wasn’t as if Castiel had nothing to offer, after all. Sure, he was uninteresting, but he was noble, well-educated, with a strong heart beneath the princely clothes that never seemed to fit quite right. He was serious, steady and true, and he was sure he could somehow make this amazing man happy if he was given the chance...
Whatever romantic fiber tried to take root in Castiel’s being shrivelled up and died on his wedding night.
He’d been tense enough during the send-off. Fortunately Michael’s stiff and proper royal court forbade the bedding ceremony, and even discouraged rowdy advice shouted at the departing newlyweds, but Castiel could still feel every eye on him, particularly his brother’s. The foreboding way Michael said ‘Good night’ almost sounded like ‘Don’t ballock this up.’
The heavy oak door closed behind them, and for the first time Castiel found himself alone with his husband of a few hours. Just him, and Dean, and an ornate white-sheeted wedding bed that, in Castiel’s nervous and exhausted mind, seemed to take up all of the room to the point it must be spilling out over the balcony.
Dean slipped off his crown like one doffed a hat, rubbing at a pressure mark on his brow. “Man, finally. Are your brother’s parties always this boring?”
“Uh...” For thirty years, Michael had been Castiel’s better, his future ruler, his king and his terror. Dean was now Castiel’s new liege, but it would surely take a long time to forget the rigid rules bounding his childhood, or else his honest answer would have been: Oh goodness, yes, I once nearly hung myself with the suet pudding strings just to get the banquet over with faster.
“It’s been a long day, I’m sure that made it feel more tedious,” Castiel said instead, diplomatically. His voice came out more gravely than usual as he fought to keep tension and uncertainty out of it.
“Our procession leaves tomorrow, we’ll be back in Lawrence within the fortnight. We’re less formal over there, hope you won’t mind.” Dean tossed his crown onto a velvet cushioned chair and rubbed the back of his neck, stretched his shoulder. “Deal’s done at least, and a good one for both our kingdoms. Yeah. ‘S a good treaty. You know, solid. We both want it that way.”
“Of course,” Castiel said, while he seriously began to worry about what Dean was going to ask him to do if he thought fit to remind them of their alliance in such a stressed manner. Castiel was an entire novice in the department of what came after weddings, naturally, but he’d heard rumors of the sort of things required of angels like himself that-
“This is going to work whatever you and I do, it’s all in the paperwork, not-... What I’m saying, Cas - do you mind if I call you Cas? Less of a mouthful.”
“That is fine, my liege.”
“Shit, we’re bloody married, call me Dean. What I’m saying, Cas, is that your duties don’t extend to the mattress.”
Castiel required a few moments to figure out what that was supposed to mean. Surely even in the land of Lawrence, it was the chambermaids who tidied and turned down the beds-... oh.
“It’s not like we can have kids, and you’re no maiden that I need to stake a claim to,” added Dean with the diplomacy that Castiel would learn characterized him, and insured that his prince consort would forevermore be the one meeting with the more prickly visiting dignitaries first to smooth the way. “This is just a political thing, so don’t feel like you have to put out just because we’re married.”
There were undoubtedly many women and men out there, married off for political reasons, who would have blessed the idea that their husbands wouldn’t want to touch them. But in the two short meetings they’d had, one being before the altar, Castiel had already been intrigued, even drawn to Dean’s raw vitality, his forthrightness, so different from Michael’s cold disposition and cruel tongue. Castiel hadn’t quite known what to expect from his wedding night, but Dean’s declaration made his heart tumble down into his boots. It was known in certain circles that Dean Winchester favored both women and men… as long as the men in question were not Castiel, it seemed. Castiel kept his expression undisturbed, though; Michael’s court at least had taught him how to hide his feelings well.
“As you wish, my liege.”
“Dean.”
“My apologies. Dean.”
“Right. Maybe when we know each other better, who knows, but right now, I’ll just sleep in this here chair.”
“Please don’t say that.” Castiel gave the chair a scandalized look. “You will sleep in the bed.”
"Don't need a bed, I’ve bivouacked outside plenty of times without even a tent, I’m-”
“Please sleep in the bed.”
Too irritated to argue after a long day and a tedious banquet, Dean fixed Castiel with the glare of a king who’d battled for years, commanded armies and made seasoned soldiers quail with one sharp look if they failed to obey his orders.
Castiel, head held at a dutiful tilt, looked back with the steadfastness of a proper well-educated prince who knew full well that kings did not sleep in chairs.
In a move that would presage a lot about their marriage, they ended up in the same bed that night, though when Castiel awoke - early as always, ready for his day’s duties - it was to find Dean squeezed on the outer edge of the mattress, face turned away and one arm trailing on the floor.
Looking at his slumbering spouse’s back, Castiel felt an odd lump form in his throat. It’d have been hard to be married off to a repulsive older man. But neither was it easy, Castiel found, to be the repulsive older man.
True, Dean hadn’t actually said that. But it seemed he was-... not polite, no, but he wouldn’t try to hurt someone’s feelings for all that. A small mercy; Castiel's feelings were not often spared. Michael and Naomi castigated him freely, the courtiers had followed their lead, albeit more subtly and behind his back. Even Chuck, when he lived, had wondered aloud and in Castiel's presence what could possibly be done with someone so lacking in interest that, if he were in one of the king's tales, the author would have killed the angel off promptly at the end of the third stanza. In contrast, ‘this is a political marriage so there’s no need to actually lay together’ was almost refreshing in its honesty and lack of immediate insult, while the tacked on suggestion that Dean might one day change his mind, though unlikely, was at least a palliative to the idea that Dean didn’t want to touch him at all.
There could be no cause for complaints. Castiel had gotten away from Michael and Naomi, and had his own castle to manage, somewhere to fully dedicate his time. And Dean had done him the kindness of letting him know where things stood, so Castiel could fully focus on that.
So he told himself. Thus it was quite beyond him why his feelings refused to take heed of the obvious warning, and instead of hardening to Dean over the first months of their marriage, rushed towards him like a moth to a flame.
Foolish beggarly feelings. But it was hard to care for a man’s every comfort day and night and not feel anything towards him, especially when Castiel’s assistance allowed Dean to flourish into the king he was meant to be, powerful, just and generous. It was easy to admire him, the whole kingdom did. It was easy to love him, quietly, hopelessly, from a distance.
~~~ * ~~~
The first few months of marriage had involved a lot of adjustments, naturally.
Dean didn’t speak much. Well, no, that wasn’t true, Dean talked a lot, rambling anecdotes about harecoped things he’d seen soldiers do, war stories, or the ways he’d prank his brother on the campaign trail years back. But he rarely said anything meaningful, and he didn’t give Castiel any directives or precise ideas of what he expected from his spouse. It left Castiel frantically guessing how to fulfil the duties and desires Dean was not clearly laying out for him.
Their marriage having taken place at the dying end of summer, the first two months of their shared reign had been spent touring the kingdom for the chasse royale: visiting each noble province in turn, meeting with Dean’s vassals to hunt together on their lands. It reinforced the bonds between king and lords, it filled the winter larders of the various fiefdoms, and Dean’s as well when the chasse took them to the king’s woods. Dean was resplendent on a hunt, it was where he poured all the excess energy that had once been brought to bear on war. He went at it for weeks on end, and took Castiel with him.
Castiel would cheerfully opt for a nice, quiet stint in the dungeon rather than spend days on horseback badgering poor animals in the rain, but he stepped up to meet his liege’s expectations as well as he could. Dean was not only a king but a powerful, physical man; he must prefer his spouse and companion a bit more manly as well. Castiel bolstered himself through the worst of it, feeling rewarded those times Dean dropped a kind word or approving look his way. He hunted tenaciously at Dean’s side throughout the day, and snatched whatever time he could out of the cold early mornings and the humid nights in order to do his other duty, which consisted of setting an entire kingdom to rights in the finer details. Even six years of peace couldn't undo the harm and habits of decades of war; the courtiers of Lawrence were dangerously ambitious, the feudal lords ran slipshod over the bylaws, the army still drained a lot of income and the chancellory was a mess.
Inevitably all that work caught up with him and he fell ill. The court physicker sniffed his urine, held both his hands, bled him, and finally declared that hunting season was over for the prince. Castiel, mortified, spat out the clove and garlic the man had placed in his mouth and dragged himself out of bed, shaking and sweating, to prove the whoreson barber wrong until Dean himself ordered him back to rest.
“But- but I can-” Castiel’s traitorous chest cut him off before Dean could do the honors, wracking him with a paroxysm of coughing.
“Give it a rest, Cas, you can’t go hunting when you’re this sick. You’re nothing but a babe in a surcoat like this, you’ll fall off the horse and break your crown.”
Castiel sunk back down into the bed, shame and failure nipping at him like the hunting hounds waiting outside for their royal master. Dean turned and left without another word, back to his chase with whatever companion could actually keep up with him. Castiel sunk into a deep, sticky, fevered sleep like the useless lump he was.
… In his delirium, he thought he awakened a short time later to find Dean sitting by the side of the bed, sharpening some arrowheads. Which was the gamekeeper's job, so obviously it was a dream. So were the soft words spoken near him a little later… Sir Robert, Dean’s oldest, most loyal knight, marshal of his household retinue, was cursing out the king in the most unlikely of manners for being ‘an idjit’ who’d dragged a prince all over the countryside, to which Dean muttered, “Wasn’t thinking, Bobby. He looked good on horseback. I forgot he’s not a brute like me…”
Winter set in, and Castiel found more ways to fall short of the expectations of what Dean’s consort should be, expectations set by the better, more beloved Lisa, no doubt. Dean loved to tell jokes; Castiel didn’t get them. The few jests Castiel knew also fell flat, either because they were based on some cunning use of a long-dead language or because he always blew the delivery. Dean loved weapons and horses; Castiel could fence and ride quite well but didn’t actually care about the subjects that much, seeing them as merely a means to an end. Dean loved to eat, particularly sweet crust pastries; Castiel had Crowley up his sleeve, he was confident he could provide his husband with such pleasures, but he himself didn’t share them. He was a bit of an ascete, and when he ate complicated dishes, he found his mind chasing down and identifying the various flavors (and accounting for the cost of the ingredients) rather than actually enjoying them.
For his part, Castiel briefly contemplated sharing some of his own few leisure activities with his spouse, but the way Dean looked at the book in Castiel’s hands - as if the tome of poetry in an ancient language was a dead rodent Castiel had found in a trap - discouraged him before he could even open his mouth.
Dean often caroused with his knights and soldiers, drinking until the small hours, always more jovial after a few cups. Castiel recalled one instance in particular; Dean took him aside and started a long rambling speech with a lot of ‘Um’s and ‘Ah’s and ‘Say, Cas, I wonder-’... Whatever he’d been trying to say, Castiel would never know, because he rarely drank, but when he did, he tended to go abruptly to sleep after only a few glasses. He found himself tucked into his bed fully dressed the next day, undoubtedly by a servant, and since then he’d assiduously avoided that kind of revelry out of sheer embarrassment.
Back in Eden, all these failures would have made Castiel’s life untenable, but Lawrence was very different from his homeland, and Dean was chalk and cheese to Michael. He showed amazing patience with Castiel’s shortcomings; in fact he seemed rather puzzled when Castiel termed them such, as if he couldn’t see any shortcomings at all. Though occasionally irritated, more often Dean seemed to be wryly amused by their misunderstandings, much to Castiel’s surprise and faint suspicion. He didn’t think he was being mocked… but something about him seem to entertain Dean anyway. Maybe if Dean tired of him, Castiel could look into nabbing the position of court jester, he thought morosely.
The business of running the kingdom took up many hours of their lives, they didn’t share their leisures, their pleasures or their beds… It was a sad state of affairs when Castiel took the time to contemplate it, and there was no reason to believe their marriage would ever change.
Yet seven months after they stood together before the altar, it did. Rather significantly.
Castiel had just finished balancing the last of the ledgers. They had a coinmaster in the kingdom, but he dealt with the entire country’s income, while the crown’s petty purse was Castiel’s purview. He would not shirk it, and fortunately he was very good with numbers, even at the end of an exhausting day at the setting of the sun.
Double-checked and signed, he moved the ledger out of the way and fished out the small leather case from its drawer. He would put it on his dressing table as a reminder to wear its contents tomorrow, the day after Bright Day.
Bright Day was a celebration of love and the new spring bursting out beyond the castle walls. Peasants would give bright yellow flowers to their sweethearts, mothers gave their children hard-boiled egg yolks, landowners would give a shiny gold coin or ring to their inamoratas while royalty outdid themselves with the fanciest of lavish gifts. Jewelers made a quarter of their yearly coin on that day alone.
Dean had been embroiled in issues concerning the border these past few weeks, and… well, by that time Castiel had heard every single one of the Lisa Braeden Romantic Stories, and knew he was nothing but a pale replacement, a political pawn, a seneschal Dean had married rather than employed. There was no reason Dean would give him some fancy trinket on Bright Day, and that was fine, they were hardly that kind of couple. But the kingdom could not know that. When marriage between royalty soured, whole nations were at risk, as the Carolinian wars had shown. So Castiel had secretly ordered, two weeks in advance, a solid gold chain of gemmed medallions, the kind of clunky ostentatious piece that Dean would never give him even if he did remember the date. Castiel didn’t like it much himself, but it would certainly draw all eyes on the day after Bright Day; Castiel wouldn’t even have to say anything or lie, everyone would assume it was Dean’s gift, and admire the wealth and generosity of their king. It was a petty matter of appearances, but in Castiel’s experience, the power and prestige of a king and consort revolved around this sort of thing.
He was about to blow out the desk’s candelabra and take his taper to bed when a knock at the door interrupted him. Biting back a weary sigh, he got out of his chair and approached the door with a mask of efficiency covering his tiredness, because Noblesse Oblige, as the folks in the southern kingdom of Louisiane would say.
He expected a servant with a last-minute problem, not his husband. Dean hardly ever visited Castiel’s rooms. When he did, he came through the private rooms that connected their two suites, hammering on the door like he was trying to break it down, yelling something like “Cas? You decent in there?” (Michael would be ten manners of horrified at the carriage of this warrior-king, but Castiel, damn his stupid heart, found it strangely endearing.)
But it was indeed Dean at the door, looking a little out of breath and also somewhat drunk.
“Has the day fully passed?” he snapped.
Castiel stood there blinking like a duncecap before recalling that he’d only heard complines rung on the bells of nearby St Bibiana a short while ago. There was still a dash of light beyond the fortifications so- “No, I suppose not.”
“Blow me down, I actually made it.” Dean came through the door and leaned against it like he was expecting a phalanx of soldiers to burst through behind him. He didn’t look directly at Castiel, just thrust out his hand. “Here, for you.”
“Uh-”
“Just take it.”
After a few moments of inspection, Castiel determined that the object was a ring, though a far cry from the jewelry that qualified as such in court. A thin band of burnished copper snaked up into crude daisy petals around a stone that Castiel thought was a yellow tiger’s eye. It was the ring a poor young gallant would give his intended in the hopes she’d remain faithful while he went off to find his fortune. Castiel could not begin to understand how a king could have this in his possession and his expression must have said as much, because Dean started to rub the back of his neck and mutter.
“Um, had it lying around. It was… uh, it’s just an old thing from, from somewhere. Dad made it one day on a whim, something like that. You don’t have to actually wear it, but I thought you might like something for Bright Day. Thanks for all the care you take of, well, of the castle, place runs like the bloody army. Hell, I’d be happy if the army was half as efficient. I’ve never eaten so good and yet Ellen tells me the finance for petty expenses is halved and she swears you’re an actual angel, producing bread out of rain and sunshine like in the good book, and- oh damn me, Cas, you don’t actually have to wear it,” he burst out as Castiel, numb, slipped the ring on; it was small but still fit over his smallest finger, and could probably be enlarged. “It was a stupid thought, it’s not even a guy’s ring, I just- I didn’t just want to give you one of my hand-me-downs, but I didn’t have time to get anything made, the day snuck up on me.”
Castiel looked up from the simple ring. His throat was closed tight with too many emotions, and this- this unsure, somewhat intoxicated and rambling man was so different from the usual hard, assured leader he dealt with.
He would never afterwards know what came over him, because he was used to what Dean Winchester did to him, that fond warmth that burned deep inside, he was used to ignoring it. He had all the intentions of ignoring it then too. Sure, Dean had remembered him on Bright Day, but with such a- a ridiculous paltry thing-
Michael would have remembered to give his queen a gift, shiny, excessive and meaningless. Dean, meanwhile, had grabbed Castiel’s hand as if he intended to take the poor present off, but was instead rubbing his spouse’s inkstained knuckles.
“Ledgers fighting back? Don’t know how you spend all your time working on that shit. I’m serious, Cas, you really don’t have to wear that if you don’t-”
Castiel had every intention of once more ignoring the feelings inside… and instead he pinned Dean back against the door and was kissing him deeply before he could even realize how badly his control had slipped.
Dean was only still for one heartbeat, two at most, then he indicated that he did not mind. Or to be more exact, he grabbed Castiel by the waist, spun him around and up against the door, kissed him like a soldier plundering a church, before hauling him up bodily and carrying him off to the canopied bed in the next room.
The king did not return to the drinking party downstairs, or to his own chambers either, not until dawn.
Castiel had worn the ostentatious chain the next day, because appearances still mattered. But Dean’s gift, poor afterthought that it was, had never left his finger since.
That night, and the many, many nights that followed, clarified a few things. Yes, Dean did indeed have an appetite for men, even, it seemed, for Castiel. And the chaste prince who’d once wondered, as he grew older, if the illness in his youth hadn’t put out all his fire and truly turned him into a sinless angel, found that no, an angel he definitely was not, and he was quite happy in this discovery. His heart was still pining, lonely and confused, but at least he was enjoying the pleasures of the flesh to counter his emotional pain. Enjoying them rather a lot.
What wasn’t quite so clear was how Dean felt about it. But the king was a virile man, and he’d been faithful to his spouse for the months of their marriage so far, despite rumors that he’d been as sanguine and ready for the chase as any hound before their betrothal, so maybe it was a relief that he could find a bed without violating his vows. Castiel almost asked him a few times, but he had his control fully back. And he didn’t need to hear one more paen about Lisa, or anything else that’d break his heart. If this change to their relationship signified anything more, if it was something kind and meaningful, then Dean would surely have told him by now.
~~~ * ~~~
Their portraits hung above the mantel side by side. Sitting by the fire with a blanket over his lap - it was his second winter in Lawrence - Castiel worked through a book when Dean was silent, and listened contentedly when Dean waxed on about a new bow he’d try out next season, or something Sam had written in one of his letters. Castiel still didn’t like hunting and he’d never met Samuel, but it didn’t matter; if it interested his spouse then it interested him, and he could listen to Dean forever.
“S’nice.” Dean stared at the fire. Ben was in bed, the knights were carousing elsewhere for once, everything was quiet. “S’nice to be here, right?”
“Yes.”
“You and I… well, we know what’s what. Get along and all that.” Dean suddenly cleared his throat and shot back his fifth goblet of fortified wine.
Castiel’s gaze dropped to the small ring that was always on his finger. In Lisa’s portrait, the hand ostensibly posed at her brocaded bodice bore a large ruby rose inset in gold, also a gift of Dean’s. Castiel, for his part, wore a prosaic and crude copper daisy, and he would be the first to say it suited him better. A simple daisy and ‘getting along’ were a lot to be thankful for, even if it wasn’t anything like the rose that had come before, nothing like the mighty love described in ringing romances. But Castiel didn’t read those. Despised them. So all he said was “Yes,” and Dean nodded with a hand over his mouth obscuring his expression, eyes fixed on the far side of the hall.
“S’good… S’all good then… Time for bed?” the king added with a side-eye and a hint of a hopeful grin.
Yes…
It was better than nothing, so much more than an unfruitful prince of an eccentric disposition might have expected out of a political marriage, that Castiel at times found himself to be almost, if not quite, content. Buried in duty, invisible when the castle ran well, at the center of the problem when it ran poorly, tired, worn and his heart, foolish thing, still yearning for the unattainable, but yes, overall, he could lay down at the end of most days and call himself content. And he would be so until the end, when he would lay down his duties for good and go to his eternal rest.
Or so he thought until queen Eileen came into his life.