Chapter Text
On the desk, in amongst the thick cream sheets of orders that Dean had received from his higher-ups, there was a letter. Its appearance was unexpected—he’d sent a note back to Sam only the day before. Even with the military’s fairly swift postage times these days, he doubted that his words had even made it out of the country yet, let alone been responded to.
And there was no one else left to be sending Dean letters.
So, who was this?
The direction on the front of the folded paper informed him that the letter was from Castiel Shurley. It was a single page for minimal postage, sealed simply, and bore many creases from its undoubtedly rough journey across the Spanish fields to Dean’s hand. He held it for a moment, squinting down at it, unsure why his brother’s old college friend—who he had never met and only heard of in passing—would be writing to him while he was away at war. It could hardly be a party invitation.
The Right Honorable The Earl of Winchester,
I write to you on the advice of, or indeed the insistence of, your brother, The Right Honorable Samuel Winchester. I was disinclined to reach out to you without a proper introduction, but Mr. Winchester was quite determined that you would not hold me to any fault for such a lapse in manners.
Covered in mud up to his knees, scented like a horse’s arse, and face filthy to the point of misrecognition, Dean snorted. Indeed, his brother was quite right. Dean didn’t often stand on ceremony unless he was forced to.
Working open the buttons of his muddy jacket with one hand, Dean continued to read the mysterious missive.
Firstly, of course, I must offer my condolences on the passing of your father. I met him only once, back when Mr. Winchester and I were at Cambridge together, but he seemed greatly proud of you both.
Well, if only that were true. Dean’s father had been immensely proud of his intelligent, educated youngest, Samuel Winchester. Once, yes, he had been proud of Dean, too—he’d spoken animatedly of his pride when Dean had gone off on his Grand Tour. But upon Dean’s return, he’d been sullied in his father’s eyes forever.
“The water is warmed, my lord,” young Alfie said, poking his head through the part in the heavy canvas that was giving Dean some brief reprieve from the stench of the battlefield beyond. “As much as it can be, anyway.”
“Thank you,” Dean said with some relief. He stood, taking his small pile of correspondence with him from his tent. He wouldn’t get much other time to read it, so he might as well take the already-muddy missive with him to wash up.
Mr. Winchester informs me that as the eldest brother you have inherited the Winchester title, and with it Winchester Hall, now that the previous Earl of Winchester has passed.
Dean sighed. His new correspondent wasn’t wrong. With his father’s passing, Dean’s courtesy title of Viscount Winchester, already a burden, was now obsolete. Now he was Earl Winchester, and with the change came every responsibility that Dean had loitered on the continent avoiding.
I hope you will forgive me, once again, for being so forward, but Mr. Winchester has also mentioned that in disposition you find yourself better suited to war than to land management.
Dean prickled and grumbled to himself as he sank into the lukewarm water that Alfie—Dean’s personal orderly ever since he’d enlisted—had managed to prepare for him, leaving his muddy clothes in a careless pile on the floor. Castiel wasn’t incorrect by any means, but Dean was going to have to have words with his brother.
It is with that in mind that I am writing to you, humbling myself, to offer my services under your brother’s recommendation.
I will be upfront with you, my lord: My family has, as you have likely heard, fallen upon hard times. My father, the Duke of Devonshire, had gambling debts far in excess of what we had been led to believe during his lifetime, and due to various scandals entwined with our family name, creditors no longer give us gracious terms. It is in the aftermath of this financial fall that I am seeking employment.
Mr. Winchester, always a good friend and advocate of mine at Cambridge, believes that the help of a dedicated Estate Steward may be of great value to you, as your previous retired upon your father’s passing. If you would, as Mr. Winchester suspects, prefer to remain on the continent until a more reasonable time for your return, then I will offer myself in service to maintain the Winchester estates until you are able to travel home.
Dean sat up, causing a wave of water to sploosh loudly over the edge of the slightly rusted bathtub and splash across the hastily planked floor of the officer’s toilette tent. Some gentlemen may have been mildly offended at their younger brother for many things, in this case—the awkward introduction, the presumption, the meddling. But Dean...No, Dean felt that he had never owed his brother more.
With another great whoosh of water, Dean sprang from the tub in delight.
“Alfie! Bring me a quill!”
“And a towel, my Lord?” the young servant offered politely, only the barest of twinkles in his eyes.
“A towel, and paper! And my seal!” Dean’s chest was lighter than it had been in the weeks since news of his father’s passing had reached him. He wouldn’t have to abandon his men, just to pick up the weight of a title he’d long dreaded.
Dean was a man of action, not words.
As a Viscount, his title had been merely a courtesy of his father’s rank, so he’d not been called to stand in the houses of parliament. But if he returned to England, without the excuse of war, he’d no doubt be called to stand. It would be expected. Here on the continent, pushing Bonaparte across his own lands—here he didn’t have to worry about any of that. Here, he could earn the respect of his peers and countrymen, not be handed a flimsy imitation of it.
Yes, Dean was very glad that his brother knew him so well.
***
Dear Lord Winchester,
I am pleased to report that the estate is not in as poor a shape as you feared. Your father’s previous steward may not have been very attentive, but the rest of the household staff—under Mrs. Harvelle’s watchful eye—have kept Winchester Hall well, regardless.
There are certain improvements that I believe would benefit the estate…
Wincing at the ache in his shoulders after a long day’s riding, Dean settled himself into the chair before the desk in his room. The French country lord’s manor that his regiment had commandeered was small and quaint but certainly felt luxurious after days on the road. Alfie had just departed for the evening, leaving Dean in his breeches and undershirt to relax with a drink and tend to his correspondence.
In just a few short months Castiel had already proven himself to be a great asset to Dean’s staff. Dean had soon found himself developing an appreciation for Castiel’s good business sense and fine manners, and was extremely grateful that his estate was in such good hands.
He only wished that he could know the man himself better—from his letters, Dean found that he could detect the occasional flash of dry wit that delighted him, and while Castiel never strayed far from topic, Dean could already tell that he was a deeply passionate man about the things he held in regard. While a steward could hardly be called a servant, ranking far above any other person in the Winchester household, Dean struggled to know how to connect with a man who was in his employ, despite wanting to. His father, after all, had called his steward a friend for many years. Was it such a bad thing to hope for the same?
And now, here in southern France, each day more desolate than the last, his men weary and dwindling, Dean could certainly use a friend.
Already, his steward’s letters were a light in the darkness of war. He needed that, he wanted more of it—hopefully Castiel could understand that.
With a burst of bravery, Dean dipped his quill and pulled a sheet of paper toward him.
Dear Castiel,
Thank you for the updates on the house and grounds. I am glad that you are settling in well, the role seems to suit you. Please, tell me more about each of the projects that you mentioned—the beehives, especially, which you seemed particularly enthusiastic about. Take as many sheets as you like, I will cover the costs.
If you wouldn’t mind it, I would also enjoy hearing more about you, Castiel. Out here on the battlefields there is little to raise my spirits as the months go on. Please, tell me about yourself? I find that I look forward to your letters, and wiser men than me have said that a man can never have too many friends.
Dean paused to bite his lip, suddenly doubtful again, wondering if he was being too bold. He wouldn’t want Castiel to feel obligated, simply because Dean paid his wages and provided the large cottage on the outskirts of the estate that Castiel now resided in. Hastily, Dean added a few more lines.
Please, do not feel obligated in any way to humor me, if you would rather not. I realize that asking you to cross such a line of propriety is unusual. If you would rather continue as we are, then so be it. I would not hold such professionalism against you.
Satisfied and hopeful, Dean returned his quill to its well and began to fold the paper, tucking in the ends and dabbing wax onto the flap. He pressed his seal into it. The clear impression of the Winchester family crest hardened instantly, and Dean called out for Alfie to come and collect it.
All he could do was wait.
***
My Lord,
I hope you are well. As the months continue to go by, more and more concerning tales reach us of the conditions overseas. I wish there was something I could do to ease your time away, but until Bonaparte relents, all I can do is help Winchester Hall to flourish in your stead.
Yesterday, I resolved a minor dispute between two of the grange tenants over the ownership of a pig. The main thing to take from the occurrence is that under my tenure, Winchester Hall will certainly never be a home to swine. The things I stepped in do not bear mentioning on good paper. The disagreement is now concluded, however, and otherwise it has been a quiet week, here.
You told me that you had loved to ride and hunt in the woodlands beyond the Hall, so I have taken to riding through them whenever I have to collect rents from the tenants beyond, rather than taking the road. Every time I pass that way, I feel like I discover something new. I’m sure you know all the best-hidden spots—perhaps when you return to Winchester, we could ride together and you could show me all the secrets you knew as a boy?
Dean couldn’t help but smile at the friendly, hopeful tone of Castiel’s latest. There was so much unspoken, there—that Dean would safely return to England, that he would be of sound body and mind when he did, that Castiel would remain at Winchester Hall, and that they would be friends.
Folding the letter carefully, Dean slipped it into his jacket pocket. He knew he would reread it many times before the day was done—he always did.
Increasingly, Castiel’s letters were a light—perhaps the only light—in the endless, dark and dreary days of war.
With each week that passed, the death toll rose.
Dean became hardened not just to the endless riding across country, but to the iron crack of gunfire and the smell of festering wounds, to the sight of haggard faces and empty seats around the campfire that no one mentioned, the lumps in their throats too sore and raw to speak around.
The faces that were missing were much worse than the ones he still saw, as haunted as they were. Some of his men—some of his friends—would never be the same again.
Dean was used to it all. And he hated that he was.
He hated what war made him—what it eventually made so many men. That he could look at maps and orders and see only numbers, only ranks and positions, because giving them faces, giving them names , that was how he ended up in his tent alone, biting his fist through nightmares and tears that he couldn’t allow the people who relied on him to see.
He told Castiel. In his letters, he told him everything he was afraid of.
And Castiel continued to write, continued to treat Dean as if he was still worthy.
It wasn’t much, their strange, epistolary friendship, perhaps. But increasingly, it was all Dean had.
***
Dear Dean,
There is little news here that pertains to exact locations, but I suppose by now you are near Paris. People say that this is Napoleon’s last year, that he won’t recover from Elba. I hope that it’s true, for your sake.
But I know you’d rather talk of other things.
Sam paid me a visit the other day; he is well, and his wife is as much of a delight as you claimed. Law and London life seems to suit him wonderfully. I took him around the estate, of course, and showed him all of the projects that you have encouraged in the past months…
Stretching his aching legs out in front of the small fire between the tents, Dean did his best to push down a strange pang of jealousy. He wasn’t at all mad that Sam had seen the additions to Winchester Hall and its lands before he had; Dean had always been close to his brother. In fact, he’d already received a letter from Sam with much the same news, excitedly telling him about Castiel’s excellent management. No, Dean was jealous that Sam got to spend time with Castiel, when he could not.
It was a small and silly realization.
All across the continent, up from Spain and well into France now, Dean had passed letters back and forth with his steward—with his friend. It had taken some time, and some gentle cajoling, to persuade Castiel to use his name, rather than his title. But by now, at least, Dean would certainly call them friends.
If Dean occasionally wondered what Castiel looked like, what he sounded like, if he smiled when he walked through the woodlands Dean had grown up hunting in...those were secret thoughts for him alone.
Dean read Castiel’s letter over and over in the firelight, making small talk with a couple of other officers who held in hand missives of their own. One from a wife, one from a girl the man hoped to make so upon his return. None of them, of course, from their steward. One did not, as a rule, reread letters from their staff with such tender affection, Dean realized.
No matter how much he wished he could meet his friend, though, Dean had a duty to his men here. He could no more leave them to fight on without him and skip off back to England than he could assure them Boney was almost done, and they’d be home in a month. He just wasn’t that type of officer; that was why his men respected him.
Instead, he folded the letter up tight, and tucked it back into the inside pocket of his jacket. It would be safe there, close to his heart, until he could return it to the leather pouch back in his tent, with all of the others Castiel had sent him over the many months that they’d known each other.
***
Dear Dean,
The new cottage garden is well underway, overseen by Mrs. Harvelle and Miss. Jo. It’s coming along nicely. I hope you don’t mind the second sheet of paper, but I couldn’t resist sending you a few sketches of how it looks set against the back of the house. I’m not much of an artist, but it’s the best I can do for now.
I hope I can show you the real thing, some day soon.
In my downtime from the estate, I’ve been reading some exciting new novels. Some of them might grip you, I think, so I’ve been putting aside a small pile for you on your return...
They’d been marching for six days straight, headed for Belgium. Dean was tired. He was tired of war, he was tired of losing good men, he was tired of Napoleon, and he was very, very tired of being alone.
Castiel’s letters were his connection, by then, to a life he felt like he barely remembered.
“An artist, is she?” called Laffitte from his spot across the breakfast table.
Dean’s eyes jerked up sharply from his letter, to see the burly Duke’s son gesturing to the pages in Dean’s hand with a warm smile.
“Your mystery letter writer. Sending you little pictures of home, is she?”
“Something like that,” Dean murmured down into his thin oatmeal, tucking Castiel’s letter safely back into his jacket.
Something like that, indeed.
It was several more hours of setting up camp and listening to his superiors’ attempts to motivate the troops before Dean could steal away for a few moments and pick up his quill.
The silver nib attached to the trim goose feather that Dean used to answer his correspondence blacked with a tremulous drip of ink as it hovered, unmoving, above the page. There were things he wanted to say, wanted to ask, but knew that he could not.
It was ridiculous. He could not.
Castiel, it was by then clear to Dean, meant far more to him than a steward, or correspondent, or even than a friend. Dean had long come to terms with his affection for men—indeed, it was his confession of such things that had put paid to his engagement, as a younger man.
No, it was the fact that he had never met this man which was bothering him so much. He was a fool, no matter how he looked at it. So, best that he just not think of it.
Replacing his quill in the ink, Dean pushed away the paper, leaving the letter unwritten.
***
Dear Dean,
It has been many years since I spent as much time in church as I have these past few weeks. The rectory might burn down if I light another candle.
Please, if you are well, I beg you to take a moment to let me know. I don’t ever wish to be a bother to you. I have been both your diligent steward and faithful friend for a long year, but I would never want to be that.
But not hearing from you keeps me awake at night, Dean.
Winchester Hall is fine.
But I am not.
So please, if you can, just a note. That’s all I need.
The thin paper shook in Dean’s hands. How could he have been so selfish? He’d been so caught up in his own thoughts, worried that he could be reading so much more into Castiel’s letters than there was meant to be, that he hadn’t stopped to think what taking so long to reply might mean to Castiel.
What it might make him worry had happened.
Oh, what a poor friend he’d been.
Immediately, Dean excused himself from dinner with the officers and headed back to the small privacy of his tent, chased only by a knowing look from Alfie, his devoted orderly.
As soon as it had truly struck him that Castiel was back in England, waiting for him to return, Dean knew immediately what he was going to do. He was only ashamed that it had taken this long for him to realize it.
Without a desk, out in the field as they were, Dean placed his paper and ink on a thin board. He rested it on his knees as he hastily started to write, as if somehow every second counted—though no matter how fast he was, Castiel wouldn’t get his letter for days.
Cas,
I am so sorry. Please, forgive me for worrying you so.
I am well. In fact, this very day, upon receiving your letter, I have determined that I will speak to my superiors about returning home. As I should have returned when I became Earl, I doubt they will be able to say much against it, though of course, I must stay until there is a suitable replacement to lead my regiment.
Your letters have been a light in the darkness of this war, Cas. You have never been a bother, whether you spoke of business, or bees, or books, or any such thing.
Your words have meant more than I can say.
I hope to be cleared to return home, soon—I look forward to seeing my brother, and Winchester Hall, and all that you have done to it.
Most of all, I look forward to seeing you.
It was all that Dean dared to say, but he hoped it was enough to convey at least some of the profound bond that he had developed with Castiel since he had come to know him.
More than that, he could not say—not only through fear of what Castiel’s reaction would be, or fear of the missive being intercepted by prying eyes, but through fear of sounding like a madman.
What kind of person thought so much of someone they had never met? Who thought every day of a stranger, from first they rose to last they were awake? Someone who they knew intimately, perhaps, but who they wouldn’t be able to pick out of a crowd? A man, bad enough, but a man he could barely describe?
Dean was a fool, no doubt about it.
But a fool who was done with war, at least.
