Chapter Text
A red-tailed hawk, like any bird, is in the world, but not of it.
Known for its hunting prowess, speed, and agility - a beautifully crafted killing machine. It moves fluidly through the air, cutting through the sky faster than any human could on land. It’s sharp, and precise. It does what it’s meant to.
It also has a beating heart. A living, breathing body that its soul resides in, keeping it sustained on this mortal plane. One day the body will die, severed from the air by starvation or old age. Rarely hunted by some other animal, never fearing for its life at the hands of another. That’s just how the world works.
~
Brother. Sam swallowed. I swear, if I get out of here alive... Oh, man...
The chances of that seemed unlikely anyway. There was no point promising anything.
Sam took another deep breath and surged himself forward again, belly pressed into the damp clay that surrounded him on all sides. It clamped tight to his shoulders, holding him in the same position he’d started in when he began his scrabble through the underside of the world.
This escape, he was fully aware, would lead to an instant death sentence, should he ever be caught again. Which would hopefully be never.
Then again, whichever way he went right now, it ended in death. If he went back, he was to be hung. Forward - well, forward could mean death too, but he at least had a few more options for how he would go. At the moment, the odds seemed stacked toward suffocation, if he didn’t get out of the wall of clay he was currently digging through with his bare hands.
His blunt nails were straining with the pressure of pulling through the ground. It was almost like swimming. But there was nowhere for the clay to go once he’d scraped it past his head, so it stayed there and squashed to the sides of his tunnel as he squeezed past. His chin was pressed to the bottom, the musty scent of soft earth filling his nostrils. For the last thing he would ever smell, this sure beat the smell of a sewer back in his prison cell. After just a single night spent in prison, the smell was latched into his mind, and he didn’t think he would ever shake it free.
Brother, Sam began again. My life hasn’t been all that long - although it’s been longer than a lot of people’s... I’d have liked to have seen thirty, you know? He sighed out loud, then realised his mistake as his own exhalation pushed right back in his face, air thick and almost empty of oxygen. But... it’s been nice. These twenty-two winters, twenty-two summers. I almost made it to twenty-three. I―
He could barely think any more, his chest was too cramped and there was so little air. He maybe had enough breath for another ten seconds. I just want to say thank you. Thank you for being there for me. Even if you were never real.
And then he stopped thinking. He raked a hand in front of his face, clawing through mud. He didn’t even hear the splat of it this time, his ears had given up. He kicked one foot behind him in a last attempt to move forward. His face hit a soft wall right in front of him, of solid dirt.
He was never getting out of here. He couldn’t breathe in, there was nothing to breathe. He felt himself lose consciousness, the whole world tumbling into his bones and pressing him inward.
~
In a long forgotten cavern, in a dark, dank alcove of stone beside the moat, one side of the supporting castle walls collapsed. Nobody would ever notice, except one slender, half-dead young man.
He fell into the moat with a slippery plop. There were several seconds of silence, while the moat rippled and regained its former stillness. Then came a desperate splash and the unmistakable sound of a dying man taking a life-saving breath of air. The splashing didn’t stop for quite a while, while Sam gasped and let his eyes adjust to total darkness.
Total? No. Not total darkness. There was light, right there under the water. Daylight, glimmering grey through the murky water. Sam laughed.
Then he took a deep breath and dived, straight for the light. He’d never swum with so great a power in his strokes before, even with arms this exhausted. Scooping his way through ten feet of clay with his bare hands was not something he ever wanted to do again.
The light got brighter as he swam, his lungs aching but coping, legs kicking furiously. He let out a tiny stream of bubbles, feeling pressure on his lungs loosen a slight.
Almost there, almost there. He had to be.
He curled himself around a rusty metal rail lodged into the stonework he was swimming underneath, kicking himself off it with his feet. His feet - in his newly exchanged boots. Thank you, Rat.
He smiled as he swam, strokes getting more desperate. He grunted with pain as his lungs strained inside him, and another ribbon of bubbles escaped his mouth.
He needed air. Now.
He thrashed once more, then turned and pulled up to the surface. It was bright, but if it wasn’t open air, he was done for. Again.
For several seconds after Sam breached the surface, nothing registered in his mind except the feeling of conscious thought actually being possible. As air rushed into him, he felt his head pound against itself, cold and refreshing. He’d never felt so good in his life. Life. He was alive.
His throat gasped itself raw as he gulped in the best air he’d ever tasted.
Bright, green - he was outside. Just after dawn, the light breaking through a fading mist. He was under the drawbridge, his heavy breathing masked by the sound of horses’ hooves on the wood over him. He swam to the side of the moat, grasping overhanging grass that dragged through the water. Oh, just to touch something living. It was wonderful.
He grinned to himself, and sidled along the bank, trembling legs kicking weakly. He was so relieved, he could feel himself starting to shut down, body worn out. But he couldn’t, he was nowhere near safe. He kept pulling himself along, tufts of grass coming away in his hands. Twenty feet down the moatside, there was a ledge, where a fat Guard-marked man sat, turned away, fiddling with his golden belt buckle as he watched farmers carry their wares up toward the drawbridge. Sam spied a purse of coins tied to the back of his belt.
Could he risk it? Sam balanced his chances. If he were caught right now, he had no way to get away; he couldn’t swim faster than the Guard’s crossbow could shoot. But to be free and wandering in a world with no possessions of any sort, nothing for him but simply his life - well, he wasn’t going to get very far. “Brother,” he whispered out loud, panting softly. “Forgive me for this. But you know I wouldn’t unless I had to. And.. uh - It’s nice to be alive, by the way.”
He held his breath as he surged forward, treading water. He untied the pouch as carefully as he could, as gentle as a snake through grass. The Guardsman would never feel it. Sam slipped away through the water as quietly as he had come, turning his hands through it like a frog.
He pulled out of the moat when he reached the far embankment, his movements thankfully hidden by a willow tree that hunched over the surface of the water, dragging its leaves. His legs shook like never before, and he flopped down onto a pillow of clover, closing his eyes for a moment to savour how alive he felt.
A miracle. That’s what it was.
Thank you, Brother.
~
The prison grate rose with a sudden clack, shivering against the pulley, as the young Guardsman named Rat held it with the rope curled around his wrists.
A short, brown-haired woman marched to stand just on the inside of the gate. “Where’s the boy?” she demanded, hand held firmly over the pommel of her sword.
The Guardsman glanced at her quickly. “You mean Sam?” he asked, eyes raking over the woman’s full leather armour. A woman in the Guard was not unheard of, but it was uncommon. She was indeed a fighter, Rat thought, seeing the decisive way she carried herself. She wore the armour like it was part of her.
The woman snorted derisively. “Whatever his name is.” She turned her round eyes on Rat, who fidgeted with the rope, fingers turning numb as he held the gate open for her. There was only one prisoner left inside the cramped, gross cell, when there should have been two. “Where is he?”
“He, um―”
“Little pretty slithered away, din’ he?” came a cackle from the vicinity of the floor. There, beside the pole in the middle of the prison, was the remaining prisoner, an old man with a sharp face, slumped over himself like he was in pain. He coughed wetly, and grinned an uncomfortably happy grin. “Little snake, little jewel... shiny in the sun. Pretty.”
The woman ground her teeth, then took a step closer and squatted in front of the dirty man, reaching a hand out to prod him in the chest, but thought better of it once her gloved hand got within an inch of him. Instead she held her open palm in front of him threateningly. “Where did he go?”
“Slithered into the hole in the ground, slippy and―”
He was cut off by a slap to the face. “Either tell me the truth or don’t, it makes no difference to me,” she said, shaking her head gently.
“I already told you, he slid. Slid through - there.” The man clasped his reddening face and raised his other hand to gesture at the square drain on the other side of the support pole.
The woman sneered at the drain, and spat out, “Impossible. Nobody could fit through there.”
“I saw it with my own eyes. Beetles. Beetles in sunlight, he was.”
The woman huffed through her nose and stood up, hand still tight around her sword. “Hang this man,” she directed to Rat. “Search every sewer. Every drain. Find the boy. Or the Captain will hang you in his place.”
Rat nodded, his eyes wide, starting forward to grab at the cackling madman. He let the gate drop after the woman stepped out, and followed behind her as she made her way up the steps toward the daylight. The prisoner struggled in his grip but only grunted as Rat shoved him upward toward his death.
The stone steps felt strange beneath Rat’s second-hand shoes, worn and cold and slippery. He hoped Sam was still alive.
~
Raphael laughed. His voice was deep and whole, and Ruby would never admit it, but she found him terrifying. She hid it well. She stood straight, hands consciously relaxed by her side; her jaw was clenched so her lip would not tremble. It didn’t help that she imagined he was twice her height.
“Through the drain? And you believed the madman, you...” he let his mirthless boom of laughter die off with the rest of his sentence. He slapped a hand down on the table in front of him, a goblet rattling. Ruby did not jump.
Raphael inhaled, air filling his bony frame. To Ruby it looked like his near-bald dark-skinned head was going to hit the ceiling. “Either way, a prisoner has escaped. This is unprecedented―” he remarked, raising his dark eyes to meet Ruby’s, and she bit the back of her lip, “―and it will not be tolerated. The Priestess will not allow this. I will not allow this.”
It soothed Ruby the tiniest amount to know that her superior would be blamed for this every bit as much as she would be, once the Priestess found out about the prisoner. Sam.
~
Every bell in the castle began to ring, sounding out a message: A prisoner had escaped.
On a grassy hill less than a half-mile from the edge of the citadel, a black horse waited, the rider atop its back sitting up straighter.
Dean Winchester had waited more than five years to hear those bells.
~
Raphael waited impatiently outside the chapel. The sound of the bells was driving him to a point of irritation that he would not be able to stand for much longer. Despite this, he dreaded the moment when the High Priestess would walk out of her beloved chapel and speak with him. He would have to tell her about this so-called ‘Sam’, that wretch of a boy.
At last, his wait was at an end. The wooden doors swung open with a clunk, and preceding the crowd, Priestess Masters strode out, her white robes shimmering with early afternoon sunlight. Her lip twitched as her eyes fell upon the Captain of the Guard, standing in the walkway. She went over to him, her cool voice warbling at him before she had even reached him. “I assume this is about that darn racket the entire castle has been making all day.” She hooked a slender hand over the stone rail that bordered the walkway and the central garden, where monks went about their business after midday service.
“Yes, your Grace.” Raphael bowed his head and looked at his boots.
“Tell me.”
“A prisoner escaped. A young boy, a pickpocket. I have a witness who tells me he...” Raphael swallowed. “He escaped through a drain.”
There was a moment of pause where the Priestess considered his words. “No-one ever escapes from the dungeons of Zamreer,” she said calmly. “The people of this city know that, my dear Captain. It’s a historical fact.” She seemed to smile, eyes turning to the bright sky.
“The responsibility is mine to bear,” said Raphael, saying what he dreaded saying.
“Yes.” Priestess Masters agreed, a slight lilt in her voice.
“It would be a miracle, ma’am, if the boy managed to escape our drainage system.”
“Well,” the Priestess. “I believe in miracles,” she almost whispered, eyes slanted curiously toward the Captain. “I have no doubt that you do, too, Captain. No doubt―” she patted his upper arm, squeezing through the thick leather, “―at all.”
“Yes, your Grace. He is, however... only a thief. He means nothing to us.” In an instant, Raphael knew he had said the wrong thing.
“Great storms, my dear Captain, announce themselves with a simple breeze. A single, random spark,” she said, leaning in close to the Captain, her pale skin shimmering in the glow of daylight, “can ignite the fires of rebellion. We’ll be bathed in a city of blood in no time at all. Now,” she added, fingertip gracing over the leather front of Raphael’s armour, “We don’t want that, do we?”
“No, your Grace. If he’s out there, we shall find him.”
The Priestess smirked and nodded once. “And that’s where you’re right, Captain.” And then she held out the back of her hand for him to kiss; a dismissal. He bowed, touched his lips to her ringed finger, then backed away respectfully, before sweeping from the walkway and into the bright daylight.
~
“Get the horses ready. We ride immediately!”
“Yes, sir,” Ruby affirmed, taking a longer stride to keep up with her much taller Captain across the dusty courtyard. “Where are we headed?”
Raphael shook his head curtly. “He can’t have gotten far, he’s on foot. We’ll begin with the outer town, the nearby villages. Make his description known, let every man in the kingdom know who we are searching for. Put a price on his head. We kill him on sight. No man will ever think they can escape the prisons of this kingdom and live to tell the tale.”
“Yes, sir.” Ruby nodded, never letting her hand leave the hilt of her sword at her side. The red leather scabbard slapped at her legs, but years of ignoring it had left her oblivious.
“The man who apprehends the escapee will be brought to the personal attention of the Priestess,” Raphael continued. He had no doubt that a great reward lay in the capture of this infernal snake of a man. “Tell the men, however, that the one who lets him escape... shall suffer at my own hands. Go!”
Ruby turned off toward the stables, rallying the Guard as she went.
~
Sam walked until the sun went down. It was amazing how easily he went unnoticed whenever he joined a crowd. He walked with the farmers returning home from the city market, adopted a fake limp, and covered his head with a shawl lifted from the back of a moving cart. The amount of mud that was smeared over him was not out of place among these people. One even offered him a burned rabbit for a few coins, an offer which he accepted gratefully. It was the first full meal he had eaten in days.
He spent a lot of time talking to a family of three sisters with their grandfather. They came in every morning to sell bottles of perfume to the rich people in the city. They never made much money, but they were happy, and they were together. Sam watched them and was happy too. He yearned for a family, but he couldn’t stay with Ellen any longer, not after what happened last time. One day he’d find something, someone. That had been something he’d always planned to do, all of his life. He had so many plans that he hoped to one day fulfil, but in his heart he knew that almost none of them would come to pass.
The Guard would be looking for him by now, probably. He wasn’t even sure. He wasn’t worth anything, he meant nothing to the Guard except another body bound for the gallows. He was just another pickpocket, out to ruin rich people’s lives by staying alive.
As the evening turned cold, he left the road and huddled into his own arms, delving deep into some dry white grass and curling onto the ground, ready to sleep in only a moment. He fell into a dream that he promptly forgot upon waking the next morning, fresh dew having made a mask on his face during the night.
He didn’t move to get up until he felt warm rays of sunlight on his skin; weak, but hopeful nonetheless. He brushed dew and grass off himself and then began his journey again, heading anywhere but the city, away from events and people and places that could possibly spell death. He had to avoid anyone in the Guard at all costs. That meant no main roads, no taverns - he’d have to catch his own food. Nothing he wasn’t used to.
His first full day of freedom became a dark one, heavy clouds hanging low over the empty road, and low over his spirits. By late afternoon, an early-season mist had settled around him, clamping his thin clothes to his skin. He was so cold; his toes were numb, even in his boots. The boots, while tight, fit him adequately: they moulded to the shape of his foot as he trudged onward, and were soft enough as he dragged them over the hard ground. Miserably, this was little comfort.
His arms cradled his body as he put one foot in front of another, no longer able to see the road through the mist. All was still and silent. At least, he said to Brother, he’d probably be able to hear any approaching horses.
He could hear the rush of air as he breathed in and out, and made a game of huffing the mist away from his mouth as he exhaled. He had no idea where he was going. He only hoped he’d get there soon.
As the day ended, he again slept by the side of the road, this time crumpled underneath an oak tree with lumpy roots that kept him awake half the night, digging into his back every time he turned over in his sleep. He would have moved, but nowhere else was sheltered enough when the rain started. It rained all of the next day, too.
The days grew steadily colder, and the further north he went, the icier the road became. He skidded and stumbled for hours at a time, but never stopped.
Occasionally a passing traveller would pass by in a horse-cart, or lag behind as he overtook them in stops and starts while they rested. His own resting periods became more frequent the colder he got, and he took much longer to recover. He sat shivering under trees, too tired to move to keep warm.
Seven days of this, and he caved in. He was sick of setting traps for rabbits, sick of the cold, and the hard ground for a bed each night, sick of waking up with ice water making his face red and sore every morning, snow or frozen dew in his hair. Persistence was not really his thing, he realised, not when he was this cold and hungry.
On the eighth day, when the sun set, grey and salmon pink, he sighed and kept walking through the night. He wasn’t stopping in the open tonight, he knew there was a village up ahead. He could rest there.
“There’s blankets, Brother. Hot food, maybe a bath. I could go for turkey, you know? Haven’t had turkey for years. Not since that winter. You know the one I mean.” Sam trembled head to toe, but forced himself forward, step after step. His legs were locked tight with the chill, he could hardly bend them any more. “Forgotten what a full stomach feels like. I want something with cherries in it. An ale, some roast potatoes. And oh God, Brother. What I would give for a bed right now. A hot fire, one I don’t have to light myself with some stupidly damp bit of kindling. Oh - and there we go, speaking of light! There it is, the village. There’s a tavern... they always have a tavern. Every village. Wonder why that is... Ahh,” he sighed, huffing out a cloud of air. “Thank you, Brother.” He swallowed thickly, his saliva ice down his throat. “Freedom isn’t quite so lonely with you.”
He turned the rocky path, heading straight for warmth and comfort. His stolen bag of money jangled happily against his thigh. It was one of the best sounds in the world, as far as Sam was concerned.
And the rush of warm air as yellow light greeted him - that was the best feeling in the world. He stepped grandly inside the tavern, closing the door behind him. His face ran hot straight away, and he was acutely aware of how cold his nose and ears had gotten while he’d been outside. His hands clamped up as he tossed coins down onto the countertop, blood rushing in his ears as he ordered whatever food the tavern happened to be serving.
He was barely paying attention - all that registered was the warmth that returned to his limbs, but slowly the buzz of clarity flooded back into his thoughts as he thawed out by the roaring fire. The place was nice: quaint, small, built solidly with rock and wood, artfully placed animal skins pinned across the walls.
Sam took a seat at a wooden table while he waited for his food to arrive. He rested his damp boots on the table leg, and leaned back against the stone wall behind him. It held some residual heat from the room, and after a moment the warmth began to seep into his muscles.
There were a few other people still around; it was only just dark, so he figured he would take his leave while everyone was still awake. He only had the energy to chew his meal, then he’d be dead to the world until the morning. The idea of a bed had never seemed so appealing. He sighed and closed his eyes, letting the low rumble of chatter in the room overtake him for a moment.
“―searching for over a week now, I heard they went right up north already...”
“No way he’d get that far up on foot. I heard he stole a horse, right? One of the castle ones...”
Sam took a few seconds to register the voices, but he resisted tensing up when he heard the men chattering. They were most definitely talking about him.
So, the Guard were after him? A lowly thief? Sam was surprised, but his mind was too hazy to dwell.
Other rumours were exchanged too, but he couldn't catch them all amongst the hubbub of the small room. The space was stuffy with wood smoke, and almost all sound seemed to be absorbed by the thick smog.
He chanced cracking an eye open to scour the room for the source of the conversation. There. Two scruffy men, farmers perhaps, nattering over pints of ale. Maybe they’d seen the Guard out searching for him.
He probably shouldn’t have stopped here. But he was too tired to worry. He closed his eyes again and focused his mind on the smell of roasting meat wafting in from the nearby kitchen.
“―they’ll kill him straight away, I bet. I think he must’ve stolen something big, the Priestess’s sure got her underthings in a twist about this poor sod―”
The man was cut off by a laugh from the other man, a hearty chuckle, and he promptly joined in. There was a clack, presumably their mugs of ale smashed together in a friendly toast to the High Priestess’ Holy Underthings, followed by the second man’s reply: “God bless that mongrel of a boy, though. Hell, if he can get out of there...” the man sighed, putting his ale back on the table with a thump. “Who knows, me ‘n the wife might get our boy back.”
His friend sighed sympathetically. “Bry, we’ve been through this. He’s not coming back.”
There was silence for a while, and Sam considered opening his eyes again, to take a peek at their faces, but then, “I know that,” the man named Bry replied, softly. Sam only just caught it through the crackle of the fire. “I know that, I know.”
Sam swallowed, suddenly feeling a lot less warm. He was almost immediately distracted by the arrival of a plate of food - steaming wild turkey, roasted to perfection; a side of roughly chopped potato, drizzled with onion sauce; and lastly, a heap of unidentified brassica - he’d always hated brussels sprouts, but right now he was too hungry to care.
He began wolfing the meal down before the innkeeper girl had even left the table. He smiled gratefully at her, a smile that was easily returned. She had warm brown eyes and blonde hair and curved, soft lips that filled him right back up with warmth. She sauntered back to the kitchen and returned a moment later to refill Bry’s friend’s pint with a friendly word.
Sam watched her move as he ate; she was fully at home here. She seemed to radiate the warmth of the entire building, like the fire in the fireplace was also inside her, like the skins on the wall were part of her own skin.
He wanted a place that bled into his own skin. He wanted a life in which he had no reason to be on edge, some place where he didn’t need to smile a fake smile to get what he wanted, no matter how like a second nature it was. He didn’t want to steal, he didn’t want to have to take what he needed. He wanted a home. So, so badly.
Brother, if you’re seeing this... ahh, what am I... heh, of course you are. Okay, this is awesome, all right? I want me one of these. Maybe not a tavern, just... someplace warm, even when it’s cold. Someplace special. And hell, maybe a real brother. Who talks back. For a figment of my imagination, you kind of suck at talking.
Sam sighed as he chewed his turkey, wiping a dribble of juice from his chin with the back of his hand. Oh, he needed a shave. That had completely slipped his mind. He probably looked like a complete ruffian.
He finished the rest of his meal, setting his unevenly-crafted cutlery down on the table, sitting still while he let his incredibly full stomach settle. He had rarely felt bliss like this. Heat burned his bones from the inside, contentment filled him from his belly outward. He smirked, and threw an extra handful of coins down on the table. Hey, he had the money, he was a generous guy - why not?
With only a nod and gentle smile to the young innkeeper, he was led up to a small bedroom. It was warm, and there were no rocks or grass in his bed. He was so relieved to see this, that it only occurred to him later that that was not something people usually found in beds. Lice, maybe. Grass, not so much.
He washed with water from the basin provided, then fell under the covers, imagining himself as a vole or a rat burrowing underground for the winter, hibernating underneath blankets until the morning came.
~
He awoke later than expected, as the morning was getting on a bit. It was probably almost midday. He’d have slept longer, but he had been disturbed by the raucous shouting that came from the tables outside. He fell out of bed and peered through a small crack in his window panel, and spied something that sent a chill of terror down his spine.
There, in the warm sunlight, below a trellis of creeping vines, was a band of Guardsmen, sparring with their swords. He heard the sharp clash of metal as they fought - no, not fighting. Not for real. Playing.
They were after him, he was certain. There was no other reason for them to be this far north. They’d probably gone all the way up, then turned around at border. The armour of these Guards belonged to the castle of Zamreer, and no other. There was a woman among them, Sam was interested to note. A petite brunette woman, arms folded as she observed the men fight each other. They were laughing, but she sat stony-faced, like she was uninterested and above such idle playfights.
Sam crouched below the window and took stock of the men, sizing them up. The woman was under the watchful eye of a tall black-skinned man, who was clearly the Captain of the Guard. Sam would have known the curled golden insignia on the man’s shoulder anywhere. He’d grown up playing games where he fought the Captain valiantly, rushing at Bela with a stick in his hand. Bela always won, and perhaps that was the point. This man was known to be unbeatable.
Sam took a steadying breath and leaned to peer out of the crack in the window shutter again, craning to see how many men there actually were. Six... seven... eight - and then the two who were clashing swords. That made ten Guards, all of whom were armed and undoubtedly dangerous. And they were all here for him.
“Okay, okay...” Sam muttered at a whisper, nibbling the inside of his lip. He had to leave this place, and fast. A horse was the only option here. He’d never make it on foot. He had to head further north, back where the Guard had already searched. “Brother... oh dude, this is gonna be rough. I’m not looking forward to this.”
Sam took a deep breath and stood up, turned away from the window, and went to examine his room. What did he have to use to his advantage? Weapons? Nope. Horse? Nope. He’d have to steal one, and preferably not one of the Guards’. They’d be onto him like a shot. Money? He touched the pouch tied to his hip. It jangled, but only half as much as it had last night. Okay, running low on funds. Semi-check, then. Clothes? Also semi-check. He had what he was already wearing: a thin grey-brown tunic and thoroughly worn and muddy goat-wool trousers. There was a slash in the left knee that he hadn’t noticed before. And boots. Good boots. He was still pleased about that.
He spent half a minute searching the room for anything helpful: forgotten coins, a hidden knife, some rope - anything. His best find from this was a mouse skeleton, which frankly, he would have liked to stop and examine. He set it back down under the bed with a regretful sigh.
“All right, Brother. Haven’t got much, but as you know - well, I have my wits, and helluva lot of that. Let’s do this.”
And with that, he left the room empty, tiptoeing down the hallway. On a moment’s thought, he went back to close the door behind him. If anyone was looking, the scruffy young traveller named Sam was still asleep.
Sunlight blazed through an unshuttered window that he passed on his way to the stairs. He paused to pick out a line of horses tethered to a horizontal pole. All but two of them carried the Guard insignia on their saddlebags. Never been good with horses, Brother. This is probably the worst time of all to have that come to a head.
He drifted down the staircase, keeping to the edge, where he knew it was less likely to creak. The scent of good food drifted into his nostrils, and his mouth began to water. He rolled his eyes upward with a sigh. Don’t let it tempt me, he pleaded to himself. Life over stomach. Life over stomach!
He stepped onto the ground floor without incident; the dining room was empty. He could still hear the muffled clash of swords and lively laughter coming through the front door that he’d come in through last night. Back entrance, maybe?
Cautious, Sam edged toward the kitchen. He kept one eye on the front door, the other on the thin trickle of steam that floated in through the opening to the next room. He tried to keep out the flashbacks of sneaking into kitchens to steal food throughout his childhood, but it was impossible. The method was always the same: come in low through the doorway, hide behind the nearest tabletop and scoop something from whatever happened to be on the surface above you. If you wanted something fancy, it took far more skill and patience.
As it was, he wasn’t after food. He just needed an exit. He slung through the doorway so low he was almost crawling, eyes up to watch the large, brown-jacketed man that hovered by a wide fire, copper pot rattling against his spoon. There, at the back! Bright light carved a rectangle on the stone ground by the doorway, and through the door was a flurry of green. He could see the tethered horses from here.
He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, hearing the quiet creak of his boots - now pleasantly dried out since last night. Just a few more steps―
“Um. Can I help you?”
Sam stopped in his tracks and looked up, startled to see the calm, round face of the innkeeper girl. She peered down at him curiously, evidently surprised to see him sneaking around her kitchen.
“Uh,” Sam said. His legs trembled with the effort of keeping them half-bent, so he straightened up. He stood at least a head above this girl, and could see how the soft wave of her hair turned from blonde to brown at the roots.
“We don’t serve lunch until it’s cooked, so if you’re after a rare steak or something... We do serve those, you know. Hell if I know why anyone would want one, but it’s there if you need it.”
“I - no, I wasn’t - I was actually just headed for the―” he pointed at the doorway that led to freedom, glorious freedom. Well, as far as a tethered horse would get him. “Just wanna get home, wife’s lonely. Kid’s probably hungry and miserable. Misses his daddy, you know how it is.”
The pretty girl smiled. She was probably his age, Sam figured. Damn his automatic lying, he just blew his chances with her. Fake wife and kid, that oughta do it. Not that he actually had any chance - wanted fugitive, and all that.
“Hey, Daddy?” the girl called to the large man sweltering over the boiling copper pot. He turned around and jumped at the sight of a very tall, scruffy-looking man towering over his daughter.
“Spare him a few scraps? For his kid, you know,” she told her father, winking to Sam. Sam couldn’t recall if he’d ever been winked at by a girl so pretty as this one before. It was a nice feeling.
The old man grunted, shrugging with his bottom lip pushed out dismissively. He watched the girl reach for a scrap of cloth and a leg of lamb, before turning back to his cooking pot.
Sam fidgeted, fingers itching to grab the bundle of food the girl was preparing for him, and run. Just bolt straight out the back door, untie a horse and valiantly swoop up upon its back, riding it out into the distance, faster and with far more grace than he knew he could ever achieve.
Yet he waited patiently as the girl - no, woman, for she had long passed the point in life where she was a child - collected scraps of food for him, meat and greenery alike. She was caring and glowed warm from the heart, and Sam would be damned if he didn’t say he was a little in love. She got him food, for Heaven’s sakes. And if that wasn’t the way to Sam’s heart, he didn’t know what was. When times were tough, food was his first and foremost guiding light.
“Hey, uh... what’s your name?”
She beamed at him, placing a red, ripe apple on top of a half-loaf of bread. He hadn’t had bread in weeks. “Jess. What’s yours?”
“Sam- Samnnnny.” Crap.
“Samny?”
“...Yeah.”
Jess grinned at him from behind a fringe of wavy hair. “Nice to meet you, Samny. You have a good, safe, trip now,” she said softly, handing him a tied-up armful of food, lumpy and tightly packed. He reached for his coin purse to pay her, but she waved him off. All Sam could do was nod gratefully, and make a beeline for the door. He took a deep breath before stepping out into the sunshine.
He strode confidently toward the horses, keeping an eye out for the red cloaks of the Guard that he wanted to avoid so badly. When he saw nothing, only the bright haze of a pleasantly warm day, he quickened his steps and fell in between a black and a brown horse. He favoured the one that was brown all over, including a brown saddlebag. Almost everyone had a brown horse; it wouldn't stand out so much. All of the other horses were clearly Guard horses: two bay, a grey, a black, and a few chestnut, all dressed with a red saddlecloth emblazoned with gold stitching. If Sam hadn’t been so keen to get away, he’d have pinched at least one saddlecloth. Gold thread was worth a fortune in the right circles.
He tossed the bundle of food onto the leather saddle, feeling the warmth of it, having been left in the sun. He fumbled with the reins, which were tangled around the pole to which the horses had been tethered. Nimble fingers were not something he was naturally blessed with; even for a thief he was often clumsy. “There!” he exclaimed, as he finally got the horse loose. It whinnied, pulling away from him with more strength that he’d have liked. He shot after it, feet stepping forward long after his torso had followed the horse backward. It nickered again, headbutting the horse to its left, which whinnied in protest.
“Shh! Shh!” Sam urged, patting the black horse that had been disturbed. It had no intention of shushing. It seemed to trot on the spot, stomping its heavy hooves and pounding the dry earth, neighing like no other horse Sam had ever heard. It was like a scream, a siren.
Sam shook his head, wide-eyed. “What, they give you Guard-horse lessons or something? Teach you how to be evil?” he muttered, attempting to secure his sensible brown horse. This horse also had no intention of coming quietly. It reared a foot off the ground, and Sam was so startled he almost dropped the reins and stumbled away in fright. He and horses were never going to be good pals.
“Shh, whoa, whoa - calm it, horsie. Shh,” he whispered, trying to stroke its muzzle. If only he could climb up―
“Is that him?” came a growl from the corner of the tavern, around which, the Guard were hidden from view. Sam looked past the jittery horse to see, with a jolt of terror, a muscular, unshaven man with the red crest of the Guard on his chest, and a half-unsheathed sword in his fist. A second man joined him, nodding, setting eyes on a suddenly shivering Sam.
“That’s the boy - hey, hey, Captain!” the second man cried, calling back to the rest of the Guard. “He’s here!”
“Nonononono,” Sam stammered, reaching desperately for the horse that then tried to kick him in the stomach. He narrowly avoided the blow, but also decided that kicking was the point at which he gave up on horses. He snatched the bundle of food from its back as he pelted toward the other side of the building, away from the Guardsmen.
Once there, though, his only options lay with open road or thick, thick undergrowth - neither of which his racing mind thought he’d have much chance of getting through alive, not without immediate capture.
He was just nearing the second corner of the tavern when he ran straight into wide open arms and a cruel grin that seemed to split the face of the man before him, cutting it into Angry Chin, and Evil Eyes And Pointy Nose. He gasped and tried to dodge the man. Unsurprisingly, Sam found himself bound by a pair of Very Strong Arms.
“Let me go!” he grunted, scrabbling at thick leather with grubby fingernails. No, there was no escaping. He was almost carried by the arms around his waist to the front of the tavern, and he dropped his bag of food in his attempt to free himself from the man’s clutches.
“Well, well,” came a deep voice that belonged to the Captain of the Guard. His dark skin in the sunlight made the whites of his eyes glow like the sun, framing dark pupils that bled into his skin, sharp like cat’s eyes. “We have our escapee - Sam, is it?” he asked the struggling Sam, lifting his chin to examine his face.
“How do you even know what I look like?” he asked the Captain. He had been so ready to claim that no, he wasn’t the man they were looking for - but his tongue betrayed him yet again, with one of the million curious questions he held about the world. As it was, this was the question that bubbled to the surface.
The Captain chuckled, a heavy noise that Sam would rather he’d never heard. There was no joy in it. Maybe pleasure, but it was a dark, bloody pleasure. This man liked to cause pain. “We have a cooperating witness, isn’t it always the way? Goes by the name of... Rat.”
Sam grunted, knowing that recognition had flashed in his eyes. The Captain snarled, white teeth gleaming bright.
“He seemed very happy to turn over your description... for a new pair of boots,” he added, turning his head to peer at Sam’s kicking legs. Sam had struck the man behind him countless times on the kneecap, to no avail. It was like he was made of steel. New boots be damned. Rat be damned.
“So, how do you want to do this, boy?” the Captain asked him, sparing a glance for the rest of the Guard, who had begun to assemble around them. The Captain lunged forward and grabbed Sam by his long hair, dragging him out of his captor’s arms and toward the trellised area in front of the tavern. Sam stumbled on his own feet, his view of the world skewed as he was pulled sideways, painfully.
His feet caught on loose vines twisting across the flagstones as they reached the garden. There were thigh-thick wooden poles every five feet or so, crossed at the top with a thatch of green vines that criss-crossed, hanging down like loose hairs.
For a brief moment it crossed his mind that these were his last moments, and a pretty vine like that really wasn’t a bad thing to see as he closed his eyes for the last time. He also decided that he had had far more of these last-breath moments than he cared to have.
The Captain let him go, shoving him violently toward a pole, and Sam narrowly missed whacking his head on it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jess, hovering in the tavern doorway with her hand clasped over her mouth. Sam swallowed, and straightened up. He was taller than all of the Guards, save the Captain, who held himself straight and confidently enough that he looked about twice the height he really was.
“You don’t escape from our dungeon and get away with it, boy,” the Captain tossed at him, like it was a casual conversation about lunch. “You will pay, and everyone will know. Nobody gets away from our dungeon... and lives!” With his last word, he jerked toward Sam with a speed that Sam matched in a heartbeat, dodging well out of the way and running for dear life. He was immediately surrounded on all sides by members of the Guard: big, hefty men, slighter men with swords raised toward him, and the tiny brunette woman who gazed at him with wide, determined eyes. He ducked their arms, swinging away from advancing swords - he slipped under tables and flew out the other side, disturbing chickens with a startled flurry of feathers. He gasped for breath as the Angry-Chin-Evil-Eyes-and-Pointy-Nosed man stepped into his view, blocking his path to the freedom of the open road. Sam didn’t spare a thought to where he’d go should he escape right now - but not dying would be a good start.
“Brother!” Sam cried out, desperate. “Help me!”
“Nobody’s coming for you,” laughed the Captain, sitting down at a table and letting his men run around after the nimble thief. “You’re alone, and you’re going to die alone.” The man rested his gauntlets on the table in front of him, blinking languidly in the sun. In the meantime, Sam swung himself up onto the trellis, avoiding a particularly vicious swing of a sword from a black-haired man with scars on both cheeks.
Sam had nowhere to go from here, he realised. He crouched upon the wooden pole, trying his best not to crush the vine under his boots. He crab-stepped between the wooden bars, hopping over jabs from swords below. He was an arm’s length away from the hilt of the men’s swords, only just avoiding their stabs at his feet and hands as he clutched at the trellis.
“Come down, Sam,” the Captain suggested, calmly. “You’re not going anywhere from up there.”
Sam had no intention of coming down to die. But after a second of calculation, he leapt onto a table, then to the ground, seizing the sword from Guardswoman's scabbard, and raised it in front of him. He had no idea how to use a sword, but hey, they didn’t need to know that. The fact that it wobbled in his grip was probably unnoticeable.
“Back up. I’m a trained killer,” Sam declared. The lie almost sounded believable, even to himself. ‘Almost’ was the keyword here. His words were met with nothing but laughter.
“If you’re a trained killer, son, then I’m a trained circus lion.”
“I’m not your son,” Sam spat, the point of the sword swinging between the Captain and the owner of the sword, who was advancing in starts. She was clearly not happy about being relieved of her only weapon. Her gaze darted frantically between the silver blade and Sam’s wide eyes, her lips pressed in a firm line. Sam swung the sword in a sharp, nervous arc, forcing her to back up a step. Sam stood his ground.
“I’m not anyone’s son, and you’re not going to take me alive.”
The Captain smirked, eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s all right, Sam. We had no intention of letting you live.” And he waved a hand and ordered a single Guardsman to advance. The burliest of the lot took a hard step forward, out of the crowd of Guardsmen that had assembled around the Captain. Sam felt his feet back away from the man’s menacing gait. He suddenly felt a lot smaller than he was.
The sword was useless now, he watched it being brushed out of the Guard’s way with only an idle swat of his hand. Sam's body flooded with an intense will to run, all the fight gone out of him. He backed up into a wooden pole, and felt vine leaves tickling his fingertips. The stolen sword swung limply at his side and his skull pressed up against the wood, his eyes on the blade that was being raised to his throat.
He closed his eyes. He felt the slim edge of metal pressed cold to his neck, felt it scrape across his windpipe with a sharp line that dragged his skin, bristling against his stubble. The hot breath of the burly man danced on his shoulder, he felt it on his cheek. His breath smelt like wine. Sam swallowed, and braced himself for the end, as the Guard swung his arm back. In less than a second, Sam’s throat would be slit.
He heard a whirr of moving air, and a yell. Sam’s eyes snapped open to see his would-be executor clutching his arm in pain, the shaft of an arrow embedded in his bicep. Sam tightened his grip on the sword in his hand. Every instinct told him to run, this was his chance - but his feet held firm.
He turned his eyes into the sunlight, and there stood the source of his saving grace: a black-armoured man with a sharp-jawed face, crossbow raised to his chest.
There came another whisper of air as a second arrow was launched - this one from one of the Guard, aimed at Sam’s rescuer. It hit a wooden pole harmlessly. In the same moment, a return arrow was fired. The Guardsman fell like a stone.
Sam watched this exchange with shallow and uneven breath, clutching the pole behind him. “You,” the newcomer directed at Sam. “Out.” He gestured behind him with a jerk of his thumb. Sam didn’t think twice. He stumbled into the sunlight, taking the man’s crossbow as it was handed to him. The man was shorter than him, and far better built for battle. His armour was as well made as the Guards’.
As soon as the Guard’s attention was sufficiently diverted, Sam ran. Nobody chased him.
~
Dean drew his sword. “Is that a sword in your hand or are you just happy to see me?” he asked the entire Guard. This was met with nothing but stunned faces. Dean shifted his weight distractingly. “Come on, nothing? That should’ve gotten at least a chuckle. No? A snort maybe?”
The Captain took a step toward him, sword by his side. Dean raised his own in defence.
“Winchester,” the Captain said, not bothering to raise his own sword. “Not a smart move, Winchester. Returning. Not smart at all.”
“Well, you know me, Raphael. I was never really known for being smart, now, was I?”
The Captain bumped his eyebrows up then down, once, inclining his head. “I suppose not.”
One of the Guards stepped forward, blade held in front of him like it was guiding his way. Dean Winchester smiled at the sight of a friendly face. “Gordon,” he chimed.
“Never thought I’d see you back here, friend,” Gordon replied. He and Dean stood apart only the length of their outstretched swords, Gordon lowering his slowly. This was a mistake. The Captain leaned forward and kicked Gordon from behind. Gordon lost his balance and fell - plunging his chest onto Dean’s sword. Dean followed the dead weight down, crouching to the ground and withdrawing his sword desperately.
“No... Gordon... Gor―” Dean breathed. Hopeless. He was dead. Dean looked up at the Captain with seething anger. In a second he had taken two strides across the sunlit deck, his tight fist connecting with the side of Raphael’s face with a crunch of knuckles and flesh and bone. The Captain flew back and collapsed into the arms of a Guardsman.
And with that, the fight was ignited in the eyes of the other men, all swords raised with a swish of metal. Dean clutched his own bloody sword and swept from the trellised garden. He ran toward the inn, seeing no exit that wasn’t defended by a soldier. A beautiful blonde woman stood in the doorway, shaking her head. She signalled him to the left of the tavern, a subtle finger pointed from under her shawl. Dean sprinted over the grass, turning the corner with a swift salute to the woman. He could hear the clunk of heavy boots behind him. He ran faster.
By the side of the tavern lay a pile of horse shoes, tied together by string. Dean seized it as he ran and twisted easily in mid-air, sending the whole handful cascading into the face of the man behind him. Dean watched, satisfied, as the man tumbled into the grass like a felled horse. A second man was stopped with as little effort: a speedy jab to the eyes with Dean’s gloved hand, and the man crumpled to his knees, yelling in pain.
Dean's sword slid between the ribs of another two men, straight through their leather armour. Even the extra skin could not stop Dean's blade, cut like a steak. Dean straightened and took a breath, the second man sliding off his sword and rolling onto the grass. There were more men coming.
“You won’t be able to run this time, Winchester,” an angry-faced man spat at him. Literally spat. Dean swept the spittle off his boot with a well-aimed kick to the man’s shins. The Guardsman buckled, and was then knocked out cold by the pommel of Dean’s sword to his temple.
“Neither will you,” Dean said to the unconscious body. “Not for a while, anyway.”
And then Dean kept running, turning the corner again and coming face-to-face with the kid he’d just rescued.
“Here, I caught a horse! Get on, quick!” the tall boy offered, wriggling a set of reins at Dean, who didn’t slow down.
“I already have a horse,” Dean said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Sam turned his head and watched the black-armoured man speed past him, sheathing his sword and snatching his crossbow from the dust, where Sam had dropped it to grab a horse. It took a second before Dean turned and yelled back to him, “Come on!”
Sam grabbed his things from the ground, and ran after him, slapping his prized horse on the rear. It squealed, and stampeded into the remaining two guards who were chasing them. Sam turned to watch their fate as he ran, almost stumbling as he straightened to run off of the grass and onto the dirt road, a few strides behind the other man. His hands were full, still holding a sword - the Guardswoman’s. He had no idea how to carry a sword while running, especially one with no scabbard. He made do with holding it out to the side, blade pointed away from him. His other hand juggled the parcel of food, fingers twisting in the cloth.
“Hurry up, hurry up,” Dean ordered Sam, slowing down and dragging a massive black horse out of the shrubbery. It chewed a mouthful of leaves, trotting round to stand on the road. Dean swung onto its back, settling the crossbow on his lap.
Captain Raphael was on their trail, bearing down on them from atop a sturdy stallion. Sam couldn’t keep watching him as he ran alongside Dean’s horse, but out of the corner of his eye saw movement cut through the air above his head. He heard the screech of a bird of prey, and a shout and a thump, the unmistakable sound of a man falling from his mount.
Sam kept pace with Dean’s trotting horse as it kicked up dust on the track. “Get on, dammit!” called the rider, offering a hand.
“I can’t mount a moving horse, are you crazy? I can barely mount one of those practice fake kiddie horses, let alone one that’s standing still!”
“Get on, or I make you get on.”
“Make me then, since I can’t do it.”
Dean rolled his eyes. Three seconds later, Sam was hefted by the back of his collar, still kicking as his legs tried to run - but he was in mid-air, choking on his own clothes - and then he was hoisted over the back of the hugest horse he ever knew existed, muscles solid as a rock moving under him as it sped to a gallop. Sam clutched the saddle at his side for dear life, his stomach clenched tight to keep himself from slipping. His legs were still in mid-air, his head over the other side of the horse, sword still wrapped in his hand as he tried not to stab the horse with it. He spent a surreal moment just watching the ground bouncing up and down as he bounced up and down with it.
Then the dirt track turned to green as they turned off the path, heading into the bushes. Leaves whipped at Sam’s face, catching on his ankles and trying their very best to pull him off the horse. The rider held steady as branches lashed at them from all sides, and after Sam was sure a number of cuts had appeared on his face, they emerged into open woodland.
Sam gasped, feeling like he’d just surfaced from yet another deep lake, breathing open air once again. It took several more minutes of directionless twisting, galloping through trees while aiming to lose the Guard, before they finally slowed. The gigantic black horse trotted to a halt on a flat expanse of dead leaves and dry peat, stopping and taking a single step backwards as it balanced itself. Sam dropped his sword and bag of food, and fell off the horse, tumbling to his knees like his whole body was boneless. He let out an exhausted sigh, feeling his stomach muscles trembling with relief.
“Uhhhghhh... I hate horses,” Sam groaned, thighs twitching.
“Hate is such a strong word, y’know?” Dean said, nimbly hopping off his mount and patting the animal on the side. “I’d say what you were feeling was more of a...” he glanced into the middle-distance and searched for a word, “mild, slightly bitter dislike.”
“Whatever,” Sam said, sprawling out on the leaves and staring at the trees half-covering the sky. Pale blue showed through the canopy of light green, tiny specks of dust floating in the sunbeams. “Too tired to argue. Just don’t make me ride again.”
“You wanna to walk the whole way?”
“The whole way, where, exactly? I’m not headed in any direction except away from the Guard and towards food ‘n shelter.”
“I see the two came hand-in-hand for you last night,” the rider observed, leaning his head into Sam’s view, blotting out the sky.
“Yeah, well.” Sam looked down toward his chin. “My mistake.”
Sam looked back up and watched the rider take his gloves off. He had short, light brown hair, and was a day away from clean-shaven. From what Sam had seen, he looked sturdy and driven, his movements very much like how Sam had observed the members of the Guard moving; like a soldier, precise and with power behind his actions. He held a pale hand down toward Sam, who took it and shook, back still flat against the leaves.
“I’m Dean. Winchester.”
“‘m Sam,” Sam replied, dropping his arm back to the earth heavily, letting it rest.
“No last name?”
“Not even a little one.”
“Well that’s too bad. There’s more than enough Winchester to go around, since there’s just me.”
“You got no family either, huh?” Sam said.
Dean shook his head, pursing his lips. “There’s just me, and ol’ Chevy here - and - oh, here we go!” and then Dean broke his sentence off, distracted by a swooping movement that descended from the sky. Sam only saw a shadow, but sat up with a bolt, scrambling to his feet, alert.
It was only a bird: a hawk. It came to perch on Dean’s left forearm, talons clasping around a leather protector he wore there.
“Sam - meet Cas. Cas, this is Sam,” Dean said to the bird. Sam raised his eyebrows, leaning a hand on the horse as it stood there silently.
“Uh... h- hi, Cas?” Sam said warily, not sure if he was meant to look at the hawk or at Dean, but Dean seemed pleased with this, and gently nudged the hawk back into the air with a thrust of his arm. The hawk spread its long, brown wings, each of them more than half the length of Dean’s arm. Then it took off, and Sam jaw dropped as it launched itself up with a single flap, circling the woodland clearing with a long drawn-out screech from its yellow beak, then flew high up into the trees and out to the open sky.
“Huh. I’ve never seen one up so close before. Did you train it?”
“Came ready-trained, I guess you could say,” Dean replied. Sam looked at him out of the corner of his eye. The man’s gaze had tracked the bird like he’d wanted to follow it, flying free and easy. Sam didn’t blame him one iota.
“Now,” Dean sighed, turning back to his horse, “come on, they’re still gonna be after us. They’re not gonna stop until they catch us. Let’s get a move on,” Dean said, climbing into his saddle, and the horse shifted its weight on heavy hooves. “Hand me that sword, would you?” Dean requested, gesturing to the dark-haired woman’s weapon, which lay discarded amongst the leaves. After a moment of consideration, Sam decided he could probably trust this Dean guy with his newly acquired sword. He had just saved his life, after all. He handed it to him, hilt first, and Dean leant over and tied it to the horse’s saddlebag.
Sam chewed his cheek nervously, patting the horse’s flank and preparing to mount. “All right, horsie. Nice and slow now... good boy, good―”
“Her name, is Chevy.”
Sam paused for a moment, ducking down to peer at the horse’s underside. Oh, yes. Female horse.
“Sorry,” Sam murmured, patting the horse’s hindquarters again. Dean snorted, and waited patiently as Sam fumbled about trying to climb up. Sam glared at him, as he offered no help at all. He just sat and stared at the trees, as if Sam’s grunts of effort and desperate grasps at the saddle and Dean’s clothing were merely the gentle breeze that washed through the clearing.
On perhaps Sam’s tenth try, he managed to straddle Chevy’s immense hips, sliding forward on her silky coat until his thighs sat flush with the back of Dean’s saddle. Two fully grown men fit easily on this horse, she was so absolutely massive.
Sam let out a breath of contentment, finally having achieved something today that didn’t involve almost getting killed. “Okay, let’s go.”
“Oh, you’re giving the orders now, are you?” Dean asked, half-turning in his saddle to look at Sam, only just managing.
“Uh. Wh- whenever you’re ready,” Sam corrected. Dean huffed, and squeezed Chevy’s sides with his boots. Sam grabbed Dean’s leather-clad hip as the horse began to move. Having only ridden the animal while sprawled over its back, sitting up and rocking with every step was a new sensation. It took a few minutes of getting used to, trotting under the trees, in and out of afternoon sunbeams.
Oddly, riding Chevy felt natural, somehow. Sam had never ridden this smoothly. Perhaps it was because Dean was doing the actual riding; Sam was just a passenger. After a while, Sam almost began to feel that it was... comfortable.
“So come on, spill. Why’d you rescue me?” Sam inquired. He was about to add “not that I needed rescuing”, but the fact of the matter was that he’d been in dire need of extrication.
“You were putting out this whole ‘damsel in distress’ vibe, and as a knight sworn to service of the small and the weak, I couldn’t really ignore it.”
Chevy made a small unsettling leap over a fallen log, effortless, despite her passengers. Sam clenched his hands tighter on Dean’s leather armour, satisfied by the creak it made. It was as sturdy as the horse herself.
“I’m not small, and I’m not weak,” he said decidedly. Sure, he wasn’t the strongest of men, but as a person, he felt like he was made of something about as solid as Dean’s armour. Maybe with less dead cow in the mix. “I escaped the dungeons by myself, and I survived this long,” he added, less decided on that fact. He pretended not to hear the waver in his own voice.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Everybody knows though, right? I’m a wanted criminal now?”
Dean gave no answer, but it was clear to Sam that he was going to be hunted down no matter what.
Dean turned his head a slight to ask, “What did you even do? Other than escape, I mean.”
Sam huffed. “I stole some money. Which they then confiscated. Pretty sure the guy that took it off me kept it, so I don’t see how that’s any better.”
Dean snorted amusement back at him, switching his horse’s reins to his other hand. They kept on trotting, seemingly in no direction in particular. Dean turned Chevy every five minutes or so, going whichever way had fewer overhanging branches. Mostly they covered semi-open spaces with a few trees here and there, leaves falling around them. It was serene, Sam thought. Gold and green passed by with no sound but the clopping of hooves on soft earth, and the rush of a breeze in the late autumn fall.
It was some time before Sam ventured another query; this Dean person didn’t seem prone to starting them himself. “What’s your story?” Sam asked, scrutinising the back of Dean’s head. “The Guard know you. How come they hate you?”
Sam couldn’t see Dean’s face, but the older man was silent for a while, pensive. “It’s... a long story, kid. I was a Guardsman, but I’m not any more.”
“They kicked you out,” Sam speculated.
“Pretty much, yeah. Well―” Dean seemed about to correct himself, but decided against it. “If you’re wondering if you can trust me... You hate the Guard, they’re the ones that caught you?”
“And the ones that hurt and bully and beat down everyone who’s not as rich, or as well-trained, or as close to the High Priestess as them? Yeah, they’re not hard to hate.”
“An enemy of an enemy is a friend, right, so...” Dean put forward, spreading a hand in front of him. He turned it and patted his horse, easing her on through a creek. Sam felt the cool splash of fresh water on his trousers, and tapped Dean on the shoulder. He asked if they could stop, and they did.
Dean refilled his pigskin sacks, holding them under the surface of the water and watching them inflate. When Sam wandered off to relieve himself, Dean yelled at him not to wander off. Sam yelled right back.
Sam didn’t linger on how easily they bantered, how easily he had trusted Dean. Dean had suggested that Sam might not trust him, but honestly, that was the first time it had even crossed Sam’s mind that he shouldn’t. It was natural and... easy. There wasn’t a moment out of place, like they fitted together.
When Sam returned, Dean was petting the hawk that perched on his arm. It truly was a magnificent creature; curved yellow beak and sharp blue eyes that felt like they cut right through Sam when the bird twisted its head to look at him. He scooped a drink of the stream with cupped hands, watching the hawk intently.
“Hey, shh, shh,” Dean whispered to it, biting the glove of the hand he had been petting with, pulling it free. He stroked with his bare hand, the bird calm and indifferent to Sam once again. “Cas doesn’t usually meet new people,” Dean said through his glove held in his teeth.
“Can I touch...?”
Dean gave a nod and Sam approached, drying his hands on his clothes. He reached up gingerly, not entirely confident that the thing wouldn’t try and chew his fingers off. Forget chew, that beak would slice through fingers like butter.
Sam touched feather with his fingertips, and immediately relaxed. They were soft as silk, so soft he could hardly feel them. If he pressed very lightly, he could only register its presence by the warmth that seemed to envelop anything that came in contact with the bird's feathers.
The bird swivelled its head to look at Sam again as he caressed its back, but didn’t stare as harshly as before. It didn’t seem to blink, even when Sam took its gaze as a challenge.
A moment later, the hawk was pulled away as Dean laughed, petting the beast once more before letting it fly off, strong and mighty. “Man, your face when you were staring,” he wheezed, eyes crinkled at the edges.
Sam felt his mouth turn up at the sides, a rare kind of responsive smile that he felt the need to prod at with the pad of his thumb. It felt nice to smile like that.
“Cas stares at most people like that,” Dean continued, quietly lost in thought. He mounted Chevy again, who shuffled on the spot, shifting their weight. Dean held out a hand to Sam, who took it and climbed up too, almost a cinch to do this time round. “Actually, that’s... that’s not true. People Cas likes.”
“So I haven’t made an enemy of the scary bird. Good to know.”
Dean laughed again.
~
They next stopped beside a wide, shallow river, where Dean swung his leg over his horse’s head and dismounted. Sam followed after a moment, wobbling on tired legs. Chevy leant down to take a drink, Dean did the same, then meandered into the bushes for a minute. When he came back, he rinsed his hands and pulled his gloves back on, then held out an open palm to Sam, who paused with his mouth halfway to a cobbled-together sandwich of dry turkey, cheese, and a couple of misshapen lumps of bread.
“You don’t have any food of your own?” Sam asked, handing Dean a chunk of his turkey and the apple anyway.
“I usually catch what I eat. Can’t really afford to start a fire right now, with people after us and all,” Dean said, scraping up a mouthful of meat with his teeth. “And I don’t eat apples, kid.” He threw the apple back to Sam, who caught it and bit it, still between a mouthful of bread and cheese. He was so very hungry.
“Why not? It’s food.”
“‘s rabbit food. Horse food. No human should eat that. You know what, give it to Chevy. She could use a treat.”
“But - I―” Sam stuttered, cradling the apple in his palm.
Dean’s face broke into a grin, shaking his head slightly. “Heh, whatever. Keep it. You might grow another pair of legs and then I could give Chevy a break. Two men is a lot for that girl, even one as tough as she is.” He looked over at his horse fondly, as she splashed her hooves back and forth through the river. The droplets washed over her middle, drip-drip-dripping off into the gentle current. Her sheer black pelt gleamed in the dappled sunlight, and Sam thought, yes, she was a very beautiful horse.
~
They only rode for a couple more hours before Dean began to get antsy. Sam was sure they’d lost the Guard on their tail with their wandering, but Dean was fidgeting, tapping his foot on Chevy’s saddle distractedly - which confused the horse, Sam noted. They’d twitch off a straight path for a few steps before Dean yanked the reins back gently, correcting her wandering gait. Dean glanced around constantly, like he was looking for something.
Even after Dean’s bird came swift and silent out of the sky, perching on his arm, Dean didn’t settle. He seemed to be sniffing the air, breathing deeply, and sitting up in his saddle to see further ahead. It took about another hour before Dean ground out, “Oh, finally.”
They were still in the middle of nowhere, light woodland sprawled on all sides. It took a moment before smoke wandered into Sam’s line of vision, white-yellow and drifting up through the tree canopy.
“Someone lives out here?” he said, surprised. It was so far from... well, anywhere.
“Would seem so.”
“It’s still light, we could ride on. Few hours of daylight left.”
“Quit yammering, we’re staying here tonight.”
They trotted onward, a wooden shack looming up out of the haze of dry sunbeams and dust. Chevy slowed as they neared, with no instruction from Dean at all. The heavy hoofbeats fell on harder ground, turning from leaf-strewn peat to compact damp earth. It had rained here recently.
There were several buildings, as it turned out: a two-storey barn that seemed to be built out of sticks; an animal skin stretched over a frame, used as a water collector and full to the brim; and a second stone house from which a huffing red-faced woman scurried out, hitching up her skirts.
“This is my place, you are unwelcome! Unwelcome here!” she screeched, heavy brows curling down the middle of her forehead as she approached. Dean pulled his horse to a stop, not yet dismounting. The woman hefted an axe in her hand, an easy weight for her.
Dean spoke in the most polite tone of voice that Sam had heard from him yet. “Afternoon, my lady. My comrade in arms and I need lodging for the night―”
“No, no place for you here,” the woman interrupted, blunt. She drew her bottom lip up and stuck her chin out.
“We’ll pay, of course,” Dean added. Sam watched as the woman’s thick shoulders sank back down from their defensive posture and her eyes glanced down Dean’s side, sizing him up. Her eyes then turned to Sam, and he felt her glare burning him, right down to his boots. His toes tingled uncomfortably.
The woman hmm’ed. She put her non-axe-wielding hand up to her chin, cupping it with a finger pointed along her chin.
Sam figured he should help things along, and pulled out his stolen money purse, showing it to the woman so she could see they weren’t lying about the paying. He shook it so it jangled. “We’re - uh - not above compassion, for those in misery,” he assured, trying for Dean’s tone of voice. Dean turned in his saddle to look at Sam, perhaps questioningly, and Sam shrugged.
The red-faced woman tugged on her shawl, narrowing her eyes, and gave a single nod. Sam felt Dean relax in front of him. He hadn’t even noticed how tense the man had gotten.
“You sleep down there, in the barn,” the woman said, pointing to the ramshackle wooden building made of sticks. Dean thanked her, and nudged Chevy onward. Sam could feel the woman’s stare on his back as they moved away. When he turned back to look, he saw her heading back inside her house, taking the axe with her.
Dean pulled Chevy to a stop right by the barn, letting Sam dismount first. Sam crumpled to a crouch, knees weak from riding. He hadn’t even felt that strain on the back of his legs until just now. Even those days he’d been walking constantly, it never ached all at once like this. He huffed with exertion as he straightened back up, Dean dismounting beside him. His bird still had its talons curled into his forearm. Beady blue eyes locked onto Sam’s, and for a few moments, they were engaged in another staring competition. Then Dean pulled away, slipping inside the lower level of the barn - this part covered completely in hay across all the walls as insulation.
Sam followed, stopping at the half-door, like a door in a saloon, through which Dean went. Sam paused at a ladder leading to the loft, certain that this was where they parted ways, possibly for the rest of the day and night, and that Dean would want his privacy. He climbed the ladder, feeling a breeze ruffle his long hair. Up here, there were floorboards, dry and almost white with dust in the middle, brown and muddy towards the edges. The whole upper level was open to the elements, thick branches tethered to the edge of the boards, only useful to stop someone falling off the side. There was a haybale-layered roof, steepled just high enough that Sam’s head brushed its peak when he stood on the platform.
Sam surveyed the view from between the sticks: a weakly-burning, smoking fire, left unattended in a rock-sheltered cavern, the building that the axe-wielding woman lived in, and a few other smaller, one-storey shelters, with livestock milling around and geese trampling happily through a muddy puddle. Sam took in a deep breath, refreshed by the smell of civilisation, however barren an example. It had been a long day.
He patted his chin. God, he needed to shave. His beard - for it was a beard now, no longer a mess of stubble and fuzzy shadow - seemed to have overtaken most of his face. He’d never had it this long. Then again, he’d never been this far from a bowl of water and a sharp knife.
~
Dean sighed. He hung his saddle bag from a hook, removing the net that usually held hay for the horses. He unbuckled the bag, smoothing down the leather flap with the tips of his gloved fingers. With his one hand he withdrew his battle helmet; the other palm fell into dark blue cloth of soft linen. He bunched it in a fist and drew it out, slow, like it was fragile; it dangled limp from his hand. His brow creased as he considered it. His lips drew into a line, and he swallowed.
He dropped the helmet to the floor, where it rattled and lay still in the dirt. The cloth, he pulled into with two hands, slipping it in his palms, cradling it with his fingertips. It was still as stunning a blue as ever. Blue like the twilight sky.
“Uh - Dean?” came a quiet call from the other side of the wooden door. “Sir, are you there?”
Dean smirked at being called ‘sir’ again. It had been too long. “It’s just Dean, kid,” he called back, coming to the door to peer up at the boy Sam.
“In that case, my name is Sam. Not kid.”
“Did you want something, Sammy?” Dean replied, still smirking. “Or are you just here to pester me?”
Sam pulled his face into an irked expression. “Do you have a knife? That I can shave with?”
Dean considered Sam’s facial hair. “The peach fuzz kinda suits you, don’t you th―”
“Can I have a knife? Please?”
Dean snorted. “Sure. I want this back in the morning, you got it?” he said, tugging a curve-bladed dagger from his belt and passing it over the door, handle toward Sam. Sam took it, turning it once in his hand before tucking it into his own belt.
“Thanks. Oh, and uh, if there’s nothing you need me for tonight, I think I’ll turn in.”
“You can tend to my horse,” Dean said straight away. Sam nodded, turning to where Chevy stood just outside the barn. “And sleep with one eye open, Sam. Don’t ever believe you’re safe. Not out here.”
Sam didn’t look back at him, but he nodded again, patting Chevy on the rear as he approached.
“And don’t disturb me, I keep a sword by me - I’m gonna cut your throat before I know it’s you,” Dean warned, pushing his door open and following to make sure Sam got his instructions.
Sam nodded once more.
“All right,” Dean said softly. The hawk watched him from the ladder, where he petted it once before retiring back to his barn. The bird continued to watch as Sam led Chevy to the water trough, where fresh rainwater rippled in the slight breeze.
Sam smoothed the horse down as she drank, wrapping his sleeve around his hand to wipe the thin layer of sweat from her shoulders. She snorted into her drink, splashing droplets over the side of the basin. Sam sat down beside her on the edge of the trough, cupping water in his hands to wet his face. The water was on the icy side of cold, and Sam could just about see his reflection in the wobbling surface. The sun was about to go down now, and he stopped to watch the golden-orange light filter through auburn and barely-green leaves. It truly was remarkable that Sam had made it through another day. He had barely considered it at the time, but sunsets like this one were another thing that Sam would have missed about being alive.
~
Dean pressed the blue linen to his face, breathing it in. Its proper scent was long gone, smelling only of leather and days gone by. Its softness was still a comfort, no matter how small. Small comforts were the only kind left for him, now.
Dean blinked as gold flickered at the corner of his eye. He turned, and through the hatched wood of the barn wall, split into strips of bright, warm light, was the setting sun. As Dean let it slip over his face, he could feel it stroking his skin like a taunt.
“One... day,” he breathed, throat tight. It was a promise.
As the darkness followed the light, he felt the coldness of night envelop him. He was chilled so quickly, his eyes widened in surprise. It was always a surprise. A terrible, cruel surprise.
~
Sam meant to sleep, but floorboards, no matter how sheltered, were not comfortable to sleep on after a long day’s ride. He climbed down the ladder, where the hawk was perched no longer. Two trips to the lower level of the barn later, and his floorboards were stacked with a heap of loose hay, prickly and foul-smelling, but better to sleep on. But still he tossed and turned. Too cold, he decided. He climbed back down and headed for the fire out in the clearing, a wisp of smoke curling from its surrounding cavern. On a moment’s consideration, he turned back to untie the stolen sword from Chevy’s pack, his and Dean’s things piled up against the inside of the barn. Dean’s little knife on his belt wouldn’t do much to protect him. He didn’t intend to get close enough to an enemy to use it.
The night was chilly, dark blue in the rapidly falling night. A owl hooted in the distance, met with a reply hoot from the other side of the clearing. The trees were much sparser here, one young birch hanging over the rockface that curved around where the fire was silently smouldering. Sam crouched next to it, breathing in the blunt breath of smoke. There was a mess of ash, a few red embers sizzling against burnt-out logs. Sam figured he might as well get it going again, he could stand guard or something, and there was no need to be cold. He threw the sticks that sat around him into the embers, hearing them fizzle, a puff of golden sparks drifting upward. He needed more firewood.
He sighed and stood up, stretching his fingers over the hilt of his sword. There was a strip of leather wound around the handle, giving him a good grip. It was quite reassuring, to have a weapon.
With a glance toward the barn door, lost among shadow, Sam made his way away, towards the denser forest. Once he was deep enough into the forest that the ground was littered completely with branches, he began to collect. He held his sword under his arm awkwardly, piling pokey wood in his hands until it tickled his freshly-shaved chin.
“Brother,” Sam whispered, relaxing as he said the name. “A lot’s happened since we spoke last time,” he said with a tiny smile. “I’m uh, well, I guess I’m still alive. There’s this...” Sam frowned. “There’s this guy. He saved my life.” Sam stopped picking up branches, leaning back against a tree. It was almost too dark to see now. “Now I’m travelling with him, I guess. He never said why he saved me, he just - just went ahead and did it.” Sam turned his words over in his mind.
He took a breath, about to speak, but stopped, still frowning. Then he took another breath, and continued: “He wants something from me, Brother, but,” Sam huffed, “hell if I know what it is. He's got me fetching and carrying, but if that's what he wants from me, he'd be better off with a slave.” Sam knew that was harsh, and brushing the horse down was really very meagre compensation for Dean’s kindness. If kindness was all it was.
He began to pick up twigs again, weighing them down with heavier sticks so they wouldn’t spring away from him. “Well, whatever he wants me for... I’m not going to do it. How do I even know if I can trust him? Really, I mean?” Sam stopped and straightened again. “He seems nice enough, I guess. We get along, easy like.
“But, he’s part of the Guard, or he was, or something. He didn’t even tell me. He’s obviously hiding something,” he reasoned, shaking his head. “I’m young, Brother. I’ve got... prospects. Kind of? As much as a wanted thief can have. I’m no better with him than without him, am I, Brother?”
Sam pushed his bottom lip upward in a decisive manner. “Nope.” Sam threw all the sticks to the ground. “I don’t need him, I’ve always survived on my own. I have a sword, I can learn how to use it. I won’t get caught again, not this time. I’m off.” Sam laughed. “Just you and me again, Brothe―”
A twig snapped a distance behind Sam, close enough to be close, far enough for Sam to know it wasn’t he who broke it. A chill twisted down his spine, and for a moment he considered that he was overreacting; it was clearly just a rabbit, or a ferret, or whatever kind of animal roamed around in the night.
A growl touched his ears.
Wolf. Wolves roam around at night.
Sam’s breath hitched, heart fluttering, loud enough that he couldn’t use his ears properly to hear any give-away signs of danger. Serious flaw in human design there, Sam thought.
Another growl, he heard it loud and clear. Another twig snapped. It wasn’t hunting him, he knew that. If a wolf was hunting him, he’d never have heard it. It was warning him, letting him know it was there, watching him. Sam had never felt more watched in his life. He couldn’t see anything more than a foot in front of him; there were leaves all around him, shimmering grey-blue in the moonlight.
He let out a sharp breath as he heard the rustle of fur. If it was close enough for him to hear that - it was far too close, Sam decided.
“I’m armed,” Sam gasped out. He had no idea what made him say that; the wolf wouldn’t understand. “I have a sword, and I know how to use it. I do, I know how to stab things. Stabbing’s easy.” His voice shook like the leaves in the breeze.
He held the sword in front of him, hips swaying to balance him with his feet apart. Sweaty hands adjusted his grip on the hilt. There came another growl, closer this time. In a flash of moonlight, Sam was sure he saw a glint of teeth.
He didn’t spend another second considering whether he did, in fact, see teeth. He fled, sword in hand, grip loosened by trembling, cold fingers; adrenaline making everything weak but his legs as they pushed him forward, away, away!
He realised a second after he entered the clearing with the gently burning fire, that he’d run back right the way he’d come, back to Dean Winchester, back to the hawk and the horse and the crazy woman with the axe in the house. His eyes were wide with fear, and he slipped on a muddy bank as he sprinted toward the open clearing, turning quickly to check where the wolf was.
He saw nothing, just undergrowth and claw-like branches, dark and shadowy.
Just as he let out a sharp breath of relief, he came face-to-face with a raised axe, and a maddened, greedy face with a heavy brow, arms up and ready for a down-swing. Sam dodged the killing blow, hearing the schick as it sliced into damp earth. And then a flurry of movement, a black shape rushed into the woman’s moon-pale face - a scream of pain, of death, hit Sam’s ears and he reeled back in shock, running, running, straight to the barn. He burst in, flailing around desperately, hands clasping at the air for help, for a weapon, anything!
“Wolf!” he cried, gasping for air. “Dean! Wolf! Wolf!”
Dean was nowhere to be seen, the barn was deserted.
Sam had dropped his sword before he’d meant to, somewhere between the wolf jumping at his attacker, and the barn, but his eyes fell upon Dean’s crossbow propped against a pole, and he grasped it in shaking fingers.
With a smash he pushed back through the saloon half-door, huffing out, “Wolf, wolf!” more to himself than anyone else. He hitched the heavy wooden crossbow up on the stick-tied grill that lay between the barn and the scuffle of dark bodies out in the open courtyard. Fur and teeth were flashing fast and angry, the woman felled and the wolf at her throat, tearing.
Sam steadied the crossbow and pulled the string back - but it was hardly a string, more like a line of force to be reckoned with. He struggled to hook it back, to latch it so he could nock an arrow. Finally it hooked, and his knees were trembling, seeing the wolf ravaging the now most-certainly dead woman with its teeth in the edge of his sight. He looked about for an arrow, and realised he’d spilled them all on the floor in his hurry to shoot the wolf. He snatched one up, breathing heavily and swallowing furiously. His heart was racing, beating so hard in his throat that it hurt.
It took some consideration to realise that the pointy end had to be facing the wolf for this to work, and he knew he was probably meant to do something with the tail feathers on the arrow. Clumsily he managed to set everything straight, and hunched down to align the arrow with his eye, aiming it for the wolf. It continued to scramble at the dead woman’s throat, like it was angry or there was something there that it wanted. He wasn’t eating her, he was just... killing her. Still. Without end.
Sam cleared his mind, let the arrow point straight. Now, to fire―
A slim, pale hand snatched the arrow from the crossbow. Sam followed the movement back with his eyes, not even thinking until his tracking gaze met a startling blue; another person, a black robe around them, over their head and over their face, only their eyes visible. A woman’s eyes, the brightest blue Sam had ever seen. She was about a head shorter than Sam, with a gaze as fierce as Dean’s hawk. She raised a slender finger to her covered lips and breathed through the cloth, shushing.
It was like all the panic went out of Sam. He felt drained and calm, and he could think clearly, finally. The woman pulled away from him, craning to see the wolf out in the clearing, the sound of the creature growling and blood rumbling deep in its throat. Sam could hear the wet click of its jaws from here. He knew it was just his imagination, but he fancied he could smell the blood from here too.
The cloaked woman stepped into the clearing, head turned up to see out from under her dark hood. Sam could see the hint of her cheekbones, high, somewhere between round and pointed. The rest of her face was hidden, cast in shadow beneath the cloth. Sam cursed the cloth, for surely the rest of her face would be as beautiful as her eyes.
Sam panted, letting some air back to his brain. He hurried after the hooded figure as she took a few more steps out of the shelter. “Don’t go out there, th- there’s a wolf! A huge, massive wolf - the biggest wolf - an-and a dead woman!”
She stopped. She turned back, blue eyes seeming to glow like the moon was shining right at them. “I know,” she whispered, soft and gentle, like anything louder would break the still of the night. As if the ferocious snarl of the beast out there hadn’t broken it enough.
And she turned away and kept on walking, straight across the moonlit expanse of fallen leaves and pat-down earth, cloak billowing gently in her wake. Sam clung to the sticks of the barn, knuckles turning white in fear for the woman’s life. She must be insane to go out like that, but Sam was too scared to follow her. Far too scared.
She made straight for the wolf. Sam whispered to himself on her behalf, begging her to come back to safety. He made several attempts to go after her as she got further away, but every time was held back by his own feet refusing to move. His eyes widened as she reached the lumpen shadow of the fallen body, and he made ready to turn his head down to keep himself from watching her die, expecting teeth at her throat in a second.
But - no? She held a hand out to the wolf, as if in greeting. It looked up from the dead body for the first time, blood shiny on its black fur, only a shade darker in the moonlight. It let her touch its head, and as she moved past it, into the forest, it turned to follow her. It held back at her heels, like a trained dog. Like a pet.
It wasn’t possible to train a wild wolf. And the woman, where did she come from? It was like magic, like a dream.
“I’m dreaming, this is a dream,” Sam said out loud. He hardly recognised his own voice.
“Yes, you’re dreaming. Dream on,” came the whisper of the woman, still turned away, voice echoing in the silence, carried back to him by the breeze. Her voice was dulcet, round and whole, even as a whisper.
Sam gaped. He shook his head slowly. The dark cloak and the wolf vanished into the woodland, swallowed by shimmering leaves and branches. Sam was left alone with the dead body, no Dean, no hawk. The horse was still there; he had turned to check. He put a hand to his head in awe, head reeling.
“Brother, I did not just see the things I just saw. That didn’t just happen. Didn’t happen. I’m dreaming. Any minute now, I’m gonna wake up, and I’m―” he gasped for shallow breaths - “gonna be somewhere else, with normal people and normal thieves and normal wolves that don’t behave like―”
A howl filled the air like a song, chilling Sam through every bone, like he was freezing from the inside out with terror. He yelped and scrambled for the ladder to the loft, grappling it with his feet, clinging to its rungs and climbing for dear life. It rocked and swayed in his rush, but he crawled up into the higher level of the barn and dived into his pile of hay, breathing in the dirt like it was the one sensible thing in the world.
“It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real,” he chanted to himself. He lost track of how far the moon’s shadows drifted across the floorboards before he fell asleep, but the terror faded to exhaustion, and sleep swooped down upon him like a graceful hawk, with the most dazzling blue eyes...
~
As the light of dawn crept into Sam’s drafty little room, the air warmed a slight and Sam shifted in his sleep. He began to dream. His mind filled with teeth and wings and startling blue that turned to blood-red, seeping through a woman’s eye in a tear and a scream. A drop of blood slipped from the smooth skin of her cheek, falling, tumbling, and hit a grave with a splash―
Sam woke with a start.
His hands gripped his hay bedding tightly, boots scrabbling and leaving dust trails on the floorboards under him. He took several calming breaths, taking in the haybale ceiling above him, a streak of sunlight touching the sticks that made up the other walls. He turned to look out of the side behind him, seeing a black shape crouched in the courtyard: Dean Winchester.
Sam ran out to see him, almost falling off the ladder in his haste.
“Dean!” Sam approached, footsteps slowing as he got closer and saw Dean was squatted near a fresh grave. Sam’s stolen sword was plunged into the dirt at the head of the grave, the cross-guard across the length essentially turning it into a headstone. The grave was in the same place that the axe woman had fallen last night.
Sam stopped next to Dean, who hadn’t moved. Dean looked up at him with a strained expression, and Sam almost considered that Dean had been crying; his eyes seemed watery and slightly red.
“Thank God you’re - I thought you―”
“You didn’t dig this?” Sam asked, frowning. Dean shook his head but didn’t elaborate.
“Who is it?” Dean asked him.
Sam tightened his jaw. “The woman who let us stay here. Th- there was a wolf.”
Dean groaned and cradled his face in his hands. His balance wavered and he fell backward into a sitting position.
“I don’t understand, where were you? I called for you, I was shouting, there was screaming, you weren’t―”
“I slept through it.” Dean let out a slow breath into his hands, then let his hands drop to his thighs with a slap. “Let’s go.” And with that, Dean stood, snatching the sword from its place and handing it grip-first to Sam. “Don’t lose this.” Sam nodded, watching Dean turn his back and head for his horse, untying her.
Without another word, they moved on. It was some time before they stopped to catch a rabbit, Dean setting traps in silence, only muttering instructions to Sam to get firewood. They could risk a fire right now, they were deep undercover, and the wood was dry. Sam tried his best to keep the smoke at a minimum, made sure the fire was burning hot before he put on the meat. Dean ate in silence too, avoiding Sam’s gaze.
Close to midday, Sam had been thinking about how far into the trees they were now, how directionless it all seemed. He couldn’t tell if Dean knew where he was headed or not.
They were walking with Dean ahead, Sam hanging back and holding onto Chevy’s reins. When Sam’s feet started aching, he said to himself, he’d get back on the horse and ride solo for once. But his feet weren’t that tired just yet.
Sam stared at the back of Dean’s head for a while before he decided to brave it, asking, “When are you going to tell me where you’re taking me?”
Dean, still in his armour, dropped his head to his breastplate, and Sam heard a quiet thup as his chin touched the leather. “Eventually.”
“Is that ‘soon’ eventually, or ‘never’ eventually?”
Dean sighed. “Soon, I hope. You don’t know enough yet.”
“So, tell me.”
“Soon.”
Sam ground his teeth and kept walking. A mist was descending through the trees, carrying in with a light wind.
Dean piped up a few seconds later, “Tell me what happened last night.”
Sam paused. “Uh. There was a wolf, in the woods. Growling at me. And I ran back―”
“What were you doing in the woods?”
“Getting firewood?”
“Don’t wander off, Sam. Especially at night,” Dean growled at him.
Sam swallowed, then continued, “I came back... and the axe-woman, she - she was going to kill me―”
“Serves you right for waving your money around yesterday, that wasn’t exactly smart. Greedy people exist, even this far out here. And as a thief? Heh, you should probably know that.”
Sam willed himself to stay calm and not snap at Dean. Clearly he wasn’t doing enough to meet Dean’s standards, but he was still alive, wasn’t he?
“Anyway. This wolf, it jumped at her, went straight for her throat.” Sam kicked at a pebble as he walked past, it kept to his toe for a few paces before leaping away. “It saved my life, I guess. Went for her, but, it left me alone.”
Sam could almost hear Dean smirking.
The mist very quickly got too thick to see through, and Dean held up a hand for his horse to stop, and Sam stopped with her. “This weather ain’t good for travelling. Rest here a bit.”
Sam tied the horse to a thin tree, and slid his back down it. Dean went to his saddlebag and pulled out a black travelling cloak, which he wrapped around himself. It was long and thick, but just thin enough that it would be good in summer as well. Sam watched the swish of it enviously, before he realised Dean was tossing him a cloak too: a woollen brown one, much thicker, but far shorter. Sam stood to slip it over his head. It was more of a poncho, really.
He slid back down his tree and hugged his knees to his chest. Dean’s bird came to perch on Dean’s arm as he sat on a rock.
“There’s more,” Sam said suddenly. He buried his nose in the cloth on his grubby knees, trying to keep it warm. “There was a woman. A different woman. Like... pale sand on a beach, with these - these intense blue eyes, almost like your bird’s.”
“A woman?”
Sam nodded. “And her voice, it was―” Sam broke off to huff at his own ridiculousness. “Like the whisper of an angel.”
“She spoke?” Dean seemed to sit up straighter, the hood of his cloak falling back as his attention focused fully on Sam. “What’d she say?”
“I asked her if I was dreaming, and she... she said I was.”
Dean smiled and looked at his lap, where he’d put his sword when he sat down. Sam was certain he heard a quiet chuckle.
“I’m not insane, you gotta believe me. I swear this happened, she was real.” It was a far cry from what he’d thought last night, but one night of thought was often enough to change Sam’s mind. Perhaps he’d spent too long trying to convince himself it wasn’t true and crossed his own mind in the process.
“I do believe you,” Dean said, voice low, honest. “Hell, I believe you. I believe in dreams,” he said, nodding slightly.
Sam huffed. “Uh huh,” he said, not really sure at all. Right then, of all moments, he noticed that Dean's eyes were green, a shade greener than his own green-hazel.
Dean grinned, the first proper smile Sam had seen on the man’s face. “This... lady. Did she perhaps have a name?”
“Not that she mentioned. Why?”
Dean’s smile turned wistful as he answered: “Well, she, uh, sometimes wanders into my dreams.” He looked down at his lap again, and if Sam wasn’t mistaken, Dean looked almost shy. Then he looked up at his bird, raising his arm so he was looking at it at eye level. “Wouldn’t it be nice, if I could call her by name, and pretend that we’d met before?”
Dean’s hawk chirped at him and looked away, completely indifferent to Dean’s words. Sam felt a little out of his depth. There was clearly something going on here that Dean wasn’t telling Sam. Besides the whole in-the-middle-of-the-woods thing, of course.
Dean continued, voice soft. “I’ve waited a long time, you know? For... her.”
Sam wasn’t sure how Dean managed it, but his smile became sad. It must have been subtle, because Sam never noticed the transition, and suddenly Dean looked like the lost, lonely man that he undoubtedly was.
“Are you going to tell me the story, or...?” Sam implored. “Because seriously, I’m pretty clueless over here.”
Dean looked over at Sam, slumped against his tree with his arms wound around his legs. He considered Sam for a long time, long enough that Sam felt uncomfortable.
“Just, hang on one minute, okay?” Dean said to Sam, holding up a finger. He stood with a creak of leather, taking the bird with him and walking a short distance away, just far enough that Sam couldn’t hear what he was saying. To the bird. He was talking to the bird.
~
“He thinks you’re a girl. Man, how’d you even pull that off? That’s crazy, Cas.”
The bird said nothing, but Dean petted him on the neck, stroking down air-soft feathers, resistance only from a firm bed of muscles under the layer of brown.
“Should I tell him?” Dean asked. One side of his face screwed up in self-questioning, half of his mouth bunching up. “I could probably keep the girl thing going, yeah? He doesn’t have to know, right? Not yet, I mean.”
The hawk gazed at Dean with a severely unimpressed look. Dean found he took comfort in that, somehow. He nodded. “Okay then. We’ll tell him. The, uh, edited version.”
~
“Have a nice chat with your feathered friend there?” Sam asked, grinning at Dean’s determined expression as he returned, bird still in hand. From where Sam sat, said feathered friend hadn’t seemed very responsive.
“Yeah, thanks.” Dean sat down on his rock again. “We decided I’m gonna tell you the story. From the start.”
“Thank God, I was starting to think I was gonna be sitting in the dark till kingdom come,” Sam replied, rolling his eyes. He buried his nose back in his poncho, smelling leather and horses. He couldn’t help but add, “Which story is this, what’re you gonna tell me?”
“Uh, well. It’s kinda long, and it’s about how - how me and that woman of yours last night met. The first time.”
“You know her?”
Dean only nodded.
“Somewhere in this, are you gonna tell me where we’re headed?”
Dean licked his lips, tongue darting out for a split second. “Eventually. Like I said, it’s a long story.”
Sam sighed through his nose. “Fine. Whatever. Tell me.” He wrapped his hands over his thighs and waited for Dean to start.
Dean let out a long, long breath, looking at his hawk as he did so. “All right.”
~x~
Dean leaned back on his bench and laughed, his shoulders against the stone wall. The red-headed woman named Anna sat to his left, a mug of lager cradled in her curled palms. She grinned along with him, slender chin jutted out in amusement.
“Man, how come he always gets the girls?” Dean asked, leaning forward and taking a swig of his own drink, still rather astounded at the sight before him. Gabriel was on the other side of the tavern, his arm around not one, but two young women, one of whom was stroking his hair. As Gabriel ushered them to an empty table, Dean set his mug back down, licking amber liquid from his lip. It was bitter, but not awful. He put up with it.
“I heard Gina putting about that Gabriel was better in bed than you are.”
“The hell?” Dean spat, gazing at Anna with startled wide eyes. Nobody was as good as he was.
“Well, it’s half true, right?”
Dean narrowed his eyes at her, seething into his mug as he took another sip. “I wouldn’t know, I’ve never slept with him.”
Anna snorted into her own drink, spraying froth on the table. She hiccoughed and straightened up, grinning still. “Becky told you.”
“Becky has a bigger mouth than you’d imagine.”
“...Ew.”
Dean hummed and winked at Anna, leaning back again, one hand around his mug. “I’m kidding. I may be the best, most awesome human member of the Guard, but if I went anywhere near Becky, Chuck would―”
“―Take your head off before you could swear, yeah, I know. He’s scary for a little dude.”
Dean paused and looked toward the tavern entrance, where a gangly teenage boy had breezed in the door along with a fierce gust of late spring night air. “Speaking of scary,” muttered Dean, pointing subtly toward another table nearer the door, where another group of Guardsmen sat. Raphael, Uriel, Virgil, Walt, and Roy.
Anna turned to watch. The boy’s fall was not gainly. He landed sprawled over half of the floor between the Guardsmen’s table and the bar. Roy’s foot casually withdrew from the aisle, making no effort to hide the fact that he’d tripped him. A rumble of laughter came from the table, and the boy sat up, blushing, rubbing at his knees.
Dean’s stomach lurched, all the laughter long since gone out of him. He shook his head in pity, catching the same expression on Anna’s face as she turned back to him.
“Hey, kid,” Dean called to the boy, waving him over. The boy looked warily at him, eyes darting back to the table he’d been tripped at, but made his way over to Dean. He limped slightly. Upon seeing this, Virgil pointed it out and the taunting laughter began again.
The boy stood in front of Dean’s table, shifting from foot to foot, clearly keen to get away.
“Don’t be scared, we won’t hurt you,” Anna said, calm. She looked the dark-haired kid in the eye, and he swallowed before relaxing.
“What’s your name?” Dean asked him, ignoring the mocking voices from the other table.
“Charl- uh, Rat,” the boy said, softly.
“You looking to be a fighter, Rat?”
~x~
“Whoa, hey!” Sam cried, unapologetic when Dean turned to glare at him. “I met that Rat guy, he was guarding my cell when I escaped. He gave me his boots,” Sam said, grinning. He held up a leg, showing Dean the simple brown leather with caked mud all over the bottom.
“Really? A prison guard?”
“Yeah,” Sam replied, nodding. He huffed into his hands to keep them warm; the mist was still thick around them.
“I didn’t think...” Dean muttered, eyes wandering into the distance. “Well that’s better than being on Raphael’s team, anyway.” Dean sighed, a frosty cloud of air puffing out in front of him. “All right,” Dean started, steeling himself for the rest of the story. “So I said, ‘You looking to be a fighter, Rat?’...”
~x~
Rat shook his head roughly, a movement that was copied exaggeratedly by the men at the other table. Rat glanced over, nervous, but Dean waved his gaze back. “Hey, ignore them, they suck.”
Dean saw a glimpse of a smile at the edge of the boy’s lips at that. He saw Anna smile in response out of the corner of his vision. “What are you lookin’ to do when you’re grown up?” Dean asked him, willing the boy to look him in the eye.
“Dad’s a blacksmith,” Rat mumbled, eyes on the corner of their table.
“Do you want to be a blacksmith too?”
Rat hesitated. “‘m good with the metal.”
“Did someone tell you that, or did you work it out yourself?”
Rat swallowed, eyeline inching up a bit. He seemed to be examining the Guard insignia on Dean’s breastplate. “Myself.”
“You good with a sword?”
Rat nodded once, enthusiastically, gaze fixing instantly to Dean’s. “Almost took my brother’s hand off, he said I wasn’t bad. He’s... he’s in the Guard,” he added, voice turned down in shame at the last part.
“Who’s your brother?”
Rat swallowed. He fixed his gaze on Dean’s eye again, stared him down as he said, “Walt.”
“Oh.”
“Holy crap, Walt’s an ass,” Anna hissed under her breath. She clenched her jaw and swallowed the last dregs of her lager. She pushed herself out of their table stall, and Dean thought she was headed to pick a bone with Walt, but she only marched up to the bar and demanded Becky pour her another drink. She didn’t come back.
Dean nodded his head sideways to Rat, indicating he should sit. He slid into the bench to the left of Dean, facing toward the door and the other table. He let out a shaky breath as he realised the other men had lost interest in him and had gone back to their drinks and their own conversations.
“Don’t let him make an idiot out of you, okay? If you’ve got the skill, you damn well use it. Learn to fight, learn to beat him. Get one up on him. He’s your brother, and he shouldn’t treat you like that. Look, I know he’s an ass, but it’s not my place to fix your family problems. I don’t even have the power to take him down properly when we’re practising together, either,” Dean lamented. “I ain’t Captain, nothin’ even close.”
“Walt told me Captain Rufus is stepping down though,” Rat said.
Dean nodded. “There’s trials for Captain in a couple days. Fight us against one another, see who comes out on top. Priestess will pick his replacement herself.”
“You’ll win, right?” Rat asked him, eyes pleading. Dean gave a sad smile, heart wringing itself at the confidence of a stranger. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“Chances are, I’m up against Raphael.”
“Fallen angel.”
“Yeah.”
“They have, like, superpowers, right?”
Dean smiled. “Pretty much. But I dunno. As far as a human goes, I’m...” Dean sighed. Then nodded at the table. “I’m goddamn friggin’ awesome.”
Rat almost laughed, a quiet bubble of a thing. Dean caught his eye and smiled in return.
“Here.” Dean slid the last half of his drink across the table, watched Rat’s eyes light up. Without another word, Rat took it and drained it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he belched, and Dean was reminded of the happy squeals of well-fed pigs. His eyes crinkled as he smiled again. “Go on, scram,” he muttered, nodding back to the door. Rat beamed at him, getting up to leave.
“I hope you win, sir,” Rat said, pausing beside Dean. Dean turned to watch him leave. The door clacked as it closed behind him, and Dean got up to join Anna at the bar.
“Talking about me?” Dean asked the girls, sidling up to the chest-high panel and hooking an elbow over it.
“You presume too much, Winchester,” Anna scolded him. “But, yes.”
“I was just telling Anna how nice it would be to have someone keep a rein on those foul creatures,” Becky declared, head tipped down to the bar, wiping with a cloth. “All you Guard folk. You come in here, you scare my other patrons away, your big fancy armour and your nasty habits, I’m still in half a mind to―”
Gabriel leaned over the bar at the other end of the room, calling for a refill. Becky glared at him, marching over to snatch his mug and fill it from the barrel tap. Anna and Dean couldn’t hear what she said to him, but from what they saw, Becky continued her complaint to Gabriel, who over the course of six seconds saw his face fall from gleeful and more than slightly drunk, to wholeheartedly miserable. Becky left him standing with a mug of lager and a sour expression, before turning back to Anna and Dean like she’d never left.
“And another thing, that Balthazar of yours! All the terrible things he did to our Bessy, I mean sure, she was doing worse things right back, but that’s not the point, the point is that―”
“We get your point, Becky, we do,” Anna assured her, reaching over the bar to pat Becky’s hand. “The Guard is in dire need of new management. We’re working on it.”
“Drinking lager at all hours of the night is not my idea of working,” Becky replied, stony-faced.
Anna narrowed her eyes. “Try telling that to Chuck.”
“You leave him out of this, he’s an artist.”
“And that excuses him, does it?”
“If he could hold a sword without chopping one of his own fingers off, I’d be happy to lend him to the Guard.”
Dean cut in with a nod. “‘s true. Remember last time, with the grappling hook?”
Anna stared at Dean for a couple of seconds before her memory kicked in and she winced visibly. “Fair enough.”
Becky snorted. “Are we done? Please. I have work to be doing.” As she spoke, Raphael approached the bar and flicked a finger as if that alone would conjure another drink. Becky glared at him, mettlesome as a wildcat. She refilled his mug, surely muttering abuse inside her head.
The tall man flicked his eyes over to Dean and fixed him with a cold stare before he went back to his table. Dean felt a pang of hopelessness steal over him; he was beyond evenly matched, even in a fair fight where the fallen angel could not use his powers. But since he had the power, Raphael was allowed to use it. That was how it worked.
Anna pulled Dean back to their table, slumping down on one of the benches.
Dean looked up. “Practice tomorrow morning?”
“Of course. Eight?”
“Make it seven. And throw in a punchbag session.”
“You’re sure? You don’t want to throw your hand out again.”
“‘m sure,” Dean said, nodding. “I need to win this. Rufus found enlightenment or whatever―”
“True calling.”
“―Whatever, but the church ain’t gonna win us the battles, you know?” Dean put a weary hand to his head. “If Raphael takes over, there won’t be a single human left in the Guard. Roy and Walt, even. I guess he likes them, but I don’t think he’s really capable of loyalty.” He spat the last word like a mockery.
“What’s the problem with an all-angel Guard, exactly? No offence, but we’re better than you.”
“None taken. And the point is, think about it, you really want Raphael taking all your drills every day, giving you actual orders, that you actually have to obey? You really think his stance on killing people that don’t matter is really as strict as mine?”
Anna put an elbow on the table and sank her chin into her palm. “You have a point.”
“Won’t be much different from Heaven, I’ll bet.”
“Told you already, don’t remember Heaven. And quit asking, none of us remember.”
“Worth a shot, right?”
“No.”
Dean smirked anyway, clapping his palms down on the tabletop. “Come on, I have to sleep, unlike you.”
“Do the things I tell you about fallen angels just fall out of your ears? We sleep, Dean. Just not as much as you filthy mud monkeys.”
“Whatever.”
~
Dean was practising at least two hours before everyone else, Anna by his side. Gabriel turned up first, dark circles under his eyes and an idiotic smile on his face.
“Two girls, at once, can you beat that, Winchester?”
“I’m too busy to try, Gabe. You could try it, you know. Practising for once.”
“Nah, seems too much like hard work,” Gabriel replied, flicking two fingers in a sideways movement and sending Dean’s punchbag racing through the dust toward Dean. Dean spent all of ten seconds dodging it as Gabriel chased him, running his fingers through the air like a pair of legs. And then Dean fell flat on his face, punchbag stilled by his feet, innocent and inanimate. Dean snorted into the ground, flipping himself to his feet using only his hands. He slapped his hands and sent cascades of dusty sand whispering back to the ground. “Dick.”
“Don’t you know it.”
Anna swung her sword around distractedly. “Come on, quit it Gabe. We have actual things to do.”
“All right, fine. I’ll play your game, just this once. We’re here to beat old Raffie to the punch, right? ‘cause all angels are dicks, and all that?”
“Don’t I know it.”
“And clearly you’re the best thing on offer,” Gabriel drawled, pretending he was unimpressed with Dean, but everyone present knew for a fact that in a fight to the death, Dean would win. He always did, when it was life and death. However, Rufus’ Captain-selection fight was not going to be to the death. That would be silly. There was no need to lose the second-best Guardsman just for the right to call oneself Captain.
“Damn right I am,” Dean asserted, taking his sword from his scabbard and swinging it in circles either side of him with his wrist blurring in a figure-of-eight. Gabriel leaned against the off-white castle wall, cast in morning shadow, picking up a wooden shield from the pile on the other side of the dusty courtyard with a slight gesture of his hand. Dean kept on swinging his sword, faster and fiercer, as the shield floated through the air. Eyes trained on the shield, Dean paced around it, like he and the shield were each a cat, stalking and circling their enemy before attacking. The shield was the first to move; Dean knocked it a few inches back with a firm thwack to its top rim.
“Ooh, you bruised me,” Gabriel called from the shadows. Anna plonked herself down cross-legged in the sunshine, expecting a show. Her faded blood-red armour crumpled from her slouch.
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Dean grinned, lunging toward the hovering wood. A sharp swipe of his sword made the shield spin and bob. It swung pathetically, slowing to a stop before Dean attacked again - one, two, three jabs, the point of Dean’s sword denting, taking a chunk out of, and finally snapping one panel on the shield. Anna cheered from the sidelines, two fists raised and shaking gleefully.
“Ha-ha!” Dean jeered, not stopping to celebrate but moving to attack again - but was then knocked backward by a thrust of flat wood into his chest. Dean jerked himself towards the curved rectangle menacingly, taking tiny steps forward like a hungry bird approaching an outstretched hand. “Huh? Huh? You want a piece of me?” Dean laughed, springing into sudden action and raining down blow upon blow onto the splintering wood. Before Gabriel could even hope to advance another inch with the shield, Dean turned and took out the airborne javelin that had been flying towards the back of his head. It snapped in half, tumbling to the ground and bouncing once in the dirt. A couple more stabs, and the shield came apart in the air, its two remaining panels splitting down the middle and collapsing to the floor, ‘dead’.
Dean glanced up at Gabriel as he emerged from the shadows, clapping his hands slowly. His cheeky expression suited his pudgy cheeks and short playful vessel perfectly. Dean never got how fallen angels ended up with a human body suit that fitted the kind of ‘person’ they were. Not that angels were people. Waves of celestial intent, or something. Whatever Anna had said.
“You know that whole ironic slow-clap thing gets old pretty fast, Gabe,” Dean jibed, one eyebrow cocked.
“I’m somewhat new to being human, I’m allowed to pick up annoying habits like the rest of you disgusting bilge rats.”
“Annnd, back to the insults. Okay, can we do the sword thing now?” Dean directed at Anna, who had come to join them in the centre of the courtyard. She waved a hand and the debris of shield and javelin came back together fully reformed, floating back to the pile that they came from.
“Only if you don’t cut me this time, you know how tiring healing is.”
“Yeah, well it’s tiring for the rest of us bilge rats too, so suck it up. In a fight you’re gonna get a few nicks and cuts, or worse, and you have to power through it, all right?” He patted Anna on the side of the arm, nodding to Gabriel as he retreated back to the shadows to watch.
Anna stood in a fighting stance, sword raised with the hilt to eye level, staring at Dean down the blade. It wasn’t the best way to hold a defensive sword, but the fact that Anna could move the weapon simply by thinking about it, gave her the sort of advantage that a slightly different pose wouldn’t particularly help. If Anna was comfortable holding the sword like that, Dean didn’t really care. So long as she didn’t get killed.
He was about to lunge, to make the first move, before he stopped, realising Anna’s eyes had left his and she had dropped her sword to her side.
“What―”
“Hey Castiel!” Anna called, head turned into the sunlight, hand raised against the clear spring sun behind the castle. Dean frowned deeply. He had almost stabbed her in the ear. Anna distracted him with enthusiastic waving and a small laugh, a tiny bounce on her toes.
“Anna, what are you―”
“Dean, say hi!” Anna muttered to Dean, who dropped his fight stance helplessly.
Raising his hand over his eyes, Dean looked up where Anna was looking, to a window in the side of the chalky castle wall high above them, where perched a pale man dressed in white. He sat to one side, his torso and half his body and thigh against the sides of the hole in the wall, peering down at them with a rapt expression on his face. He had dark hair, and on the whole, he looked very strange. He said nothing, but stretched up five fingers in greeting, hand never leaving his lap.
“That’s Castiel, he’s one of us too.”
“An angel?”
“Fallen angel, yeah.”
“He’s not a fighter like the rest of you? Weird.”
Gabriel had sauntered over to join Dean and Anna, also pressing a hand to his eyes and raising an open palm in a wave to this Castiel person.
“High Priestess doesn’t want him fighting, she likes him too much or something,” he said, shrugging at Dean. Gabriel then lost interest and skulked back to the castle wall.
Dean shrugged too, dropping his shoulders and swinging his sword in preparation for a fight again. Anna swept hers up as well, clashing their blades together gently. Dean moved forward in an instant, brushing Anna’s sword out of his path like it was a blade of grass.
“Hang on, I wasn’t ready,” she complained, batting away his attack swipes determinedly.
“Exactly. You need to be, even if you’re not.”
“That doesn’t make se―”
“It makes perfect sense, dumbass. Always be prepared for a fight, or you end up stabbed or beheaded before you know what hit you.” Dean parried blows swiftly and sharply, driving Anna backward across the courtyard. He began to pace sideways, and her footing was less sure when she couldn’t see what was behind her.
“You have angel mojo, use it, use it!” he instructed, snatching his sword at her midriff, catching gently on her leather armour to make a point.
“I can’t concentrate on two things at once!”
“I thought women were meant to be good at that sort of thing!”
“I’m not a woman, I’m an angel!”
“Fallen angel, in a woman vessel, which makes you a woman. Am I missing something?”
Anna sighed, trying her best not to lose her balance as Dean drove her in dizzying circles. “You men are no better at any one thing than any woman, and vice versa.”
“You can’t pee standing up.”
“You sure about that?” Anna quirked, grinning at him. Dean lost his resolve then, just for a second - and then Anna’s sword was at his throat, and he stumbled a step back in shock. Anna beamed at him. “And not an ounce of angel mojo was used. Womanly wiles, pure and simple.”
“That was cheating.”
“Use what I have, right?”
Dean clenched his jaw. “Right.”
“Very impressive,” crooned Gabriel from the corner. “Bet you couldn’t do it blindfolded.”
“I could,” Anna said, half her face pulled into a grin. “Poor Dean here has no angel mojo to see through cloth with.”
“You’re cheats, the lot of you,” Dean said, swiping the air and gesturing to the fallen angels, the one perched in the window, also.
“Born and bred, my good man,” Gabriel agreed, tapping his leather-armoured chest above his heart with an open palm.
~
As Dean finished up that morning’s training, it was hard not to notice that the angel, the one named Castiel, had continued to watch them. As the sun rose higher in the sky, and as he was putting away the last of the equipment (by hand, of course – he wasn’t about to let Gabriel mess up his system for perhaps the fiftieth time), Dean didn’t even have to shield his eyes to see the white-clothed figure posed around the window.
Dean pretended not to be looking, but the angel apparently felt no shame in staring blatantly. One of his legs was still hooked over the edge of the window ledge, the other bent at the knee with his foot pressed to the opposite side. He looked relaxed, despite the firm set of his shoulders, and it took about five minutes of pointedly not-looking before Dean realised the angel’s head turned to follow him as he trudged across the courtyard with his arms full of spare leather armour.
Dean glanced toward Gabriel and Anna, where they were in conversation with Balthazar, who clearly had only just decided to show up. Dean rolled his eyes, dumped the dusty breastplates in a pile next to the shin pads, and made his way over, unbuckling his own armour from the hips as he went.
“You’re late,” he observed, when he was within earshot of Balthazar and his pretentiously spiky blonde hair.
“And fashionably so,” Balthazar called back, cutting short his discussion with the other angels. “Hope I didn’t miss anything nasty.”
“Only the part where Anna beat Dean’s ass to the ground,” Gabriel chipped in, grinning at Dean. “And don’t be modest, Anna. You know that’s the first time any of us have beat him in practice in months. Not that we don’t kick your ass every day, just this time was more ass-kicky than usual,” he said, to Anna and then Dean. Balthazar patted Anna on the back in congratulations. She punched him on the shoulder and Balthazar recoiled, with a very pointed “ow!”
Dean slipped his armour over his head and folded it, sighing at the sudden full-body lightness he felt without that heavy second skin. His black linen undershirt was crumpled and unevenly sweaty, and it felt very pleasant to finally let it breathe.
“I bet you’re feeling top form now, Balthazar, what with all the extra rest you’ve been taking recently,” Dean snarked, enjoying Balthazar’s irritated grimace. He was sure Balthazar was about to reply with something about how Dean wasn’t Captain just yet, and had no right to make such remarks, when everything was interrupted by a shrill startled shriek from Anna, right in his ear.
Dean saw straight away what made her cry out: the angel dressed in white had literally jumped out of the window and was plummeting to the ground like a bird down shot out of the sky. It was all over in a second, and Dean wasn’t sure what had happened. There had been a sudden boom of sound, a thunderclap. The angel had stilled a couple of feet off the ground, like he’d hit the ocean and was slowed by the water, arms out to his sides, face down. Then he’d stepped down out of the air and placed a bare foot on the white sand of the courtyard, straightened up and walked calmly towards the group of open-mouthed onlookers.
The stunned silence was broken by a cheerful, “Cassie boy! Nice to see you up and about, thought you’d died in there,” from Balthazar, who strode toward the newcomer with an open arm to wrap around him, dragging him by the back of the shoulders to see Dean and Anna.
“I’m pleased to inform you that I am in fact still alive,” came the reply, and Dean was still on edge enough that for a moment he wasn’t sure the voice came out of the right mouth.
The face was pale and serene, free of all the shadows and scars that years of hard life, hard fighting and general experience gave a person. The voice was unusual. It was like a regular man was parched of thirst and had gargled with gravel, before screaming to within a moment of death. It was the strangest voice that Dean had heard, but it wasn’t altogether unpleasant.
Balthazar kept talking. “Well, like Dean said, I still have practising to do, so uh, let’s see, Gabe, Anna, how about a round with the Balthazator?”
Gabriel’s face drew taut as he made his expression as disapproving as possible. “Your swordwork’s not the only thing that needs a lot of improvement, friend,” he said, clutching his angel brother by the shoulder and steering him toward the practice equipment. With a quick turn back, Gabriel called to Dean, “Castiel, meet Dean. Dean, Castiel. Dayenu!” Anna shrugged at Dean and followed them.
“Die-a-what now?” Dean’s brow furrowed at the last minute’s turn of events, and he rubbed at his forehead with his fingertips. His day was usually a lot more straightforward than this. The angel had opened his mouth, undoubtedly to inform Dean what ‘dayenu’ meant, but Dean had already brushed past, stalking swiftly to the corner of the courtyard, through the white alabaster stone arch that led to a small, sunny court, a cranny of space between the training area and some other part of the castle.
“Wait,” came the voice again, and Dean was forced to stop simply because he felt like the voice had grabbed him with a pair of hands and stilled him as he walked. He was just beyond the archway, white walls on all sides and a small fountain ahead of him. He turned and smiled weakly at the face that approached him, a man around the same age as him, perhaps a year or two older. Not that Dean could be sure, as the man’s whole demeanour screamed innocence. It was bound to knock years off anyone’s age.
“I am Castiel,” the man said, and Dean nodded.
“Yeah, I know. You don’t train with the other angels, there a reason for that?”
“Fallen angels,” Castiel corrected him, not moving his head.
Dean shifted his armour to the other hand and waited for an answer.
Castiel pressed his lips into a line, eyes glancing to one side. “The Priestess would rather I didn’t injure myself.”
“You can heal, though, right?”
Castiel inclined his head in a nod, eyes locked to Dean’s. They were a ferocious blue, the kind of vivid colour that only angels seemed capable of having.
“So, what, you’re too valuable or something? Or are you just incapable?” Dean wasn’t sure where the pique came from, but there was something about shirking duties completely that was significantly more annoying than Gabriel or Balthazar’s lack of consistency in training.
Dean’s armour thudded to the floor as Castiel angel mojo’d Dean’s sword from the scabbard on his belt and pressed the blade to his throat, sharpened edge stuttering over his Adam’s apple. Castiel glared at him with such intensity that Dean felt his stomach twist, in addition to the lurch it gave as he found himself at the mercy of yet another sword this morning. Twice in one day was two times too many. Damn, he was really off his game.
“I am no less capable than you - in fact, more so - and far more powerful, far stronger, faster, and infinitely more knowledgeable.” He stepped into Dean’s personal space and stared him down, as Dean tipped his head away from the hovering sword, excruciatingly uncomfortable. “I am a great deal more valuable than you, in every sense. You should show me… some respect.” He ground out these last words in such a way that Dean felt the words rumble down his spine, and he swallowed.
Castiel removed the sword without even a movement, only a thought, and he didn’t step away as the sword sheathed itself. The eye contact didn’t get any less intense, but Dean wasn’t about to step backward and back down. This was a fight too.
It felt like an eternity for which they just stared at each other, but by rights it was probably about another three or four seconds. Castiel glanced down at Dean’s limply hanging arms with balled fists, and the armour that had been relinquished at his feet, and he stepped back, finally.
Dean wet his lips. “I, uh, I’m Dean. Winchester.” And he held out his hand to shake. The dude better take it, Dean thought, because this is as close to as an apology as he’s ever going to get.
Castiel frowned for a moment, eyes darting from Dean’s hand to his face, dubious. Then he took Dean’s hand in his own, gently, and bent down to kiss the back of Dean’s knuckles. Dean’s eyes widened, and he swallowed again as Castiel straightened up, dropping his hand.
“Y- you kissed my hand.”
Castiel narrowed his eyes at him unsurely. “Yes. It’s how people greet the High Priestess, and - and sometimes her friends. I assumed that was how I was to greet anyone else. Did I do it wrong?”
Dean’s brain stuttered for a moment. “I’m not wearing a ring,” he said, holding up his hand with his palm toward himself, showing Castiel that he was truly not wearing a ring.
“...Are you trying to tell me that you remain unmarried? Because I don’t―”
“No, I mean, when people kiss her hand, they kiss her ring. It’s respectful and stuff for important people, but if I’m not wearing a ring, then you’re kissing my hand.”
Castiel continued to gaze at him, focus moving from one of Dean’s eyes to the other.
“Kissing the hand, it’s―” Dean closed his eyes and kept them closed as he said, “it’s what people do when they meet a pretty girl.” He opened his eyes again to see understanding break over the angel’s face.
“And you believe women to be inferior.” Castiel nodded once. “I apologise, I’ve insulted you.”
“Wha- what, no, that’s not, that’s not―” Dean was burying himself in a flurry of thoughts, and attempted to calm them down. “Dude, if I thought women were inferior, would I really fight with a woman by my side? Or have a girl horse, and - hey, quite rightly - believe she is the best damn filly that ever lived?” Dean shook his head, hoping to clear the notion out of Castiel’s head as he did so. “Anna said it herself just this morning, there’s nothing men can do that women can’t do just as good. I’m kind of more insulted that you thought that’s what I thought, than actually saying it in the first place.”
“I am truly sorry I mentioned it,” Castiel said, and Dean grinned.
“Anyway, when you meet a guy,” Dean continued, holding his hand out as if to shake, “here, put your hand up like mine,” he said, gesturing with his left hand that Castiel put his right hand against Dean's own. Castiel hesitated, then copied Dean’s motion, holding their palms parallel in the air.
“Then you take it, like this,” and he pressed their palms together, and wrapped his fingers around the side of Castiel’s hand. Castiel copied, then Dean moved their hands up and down. “There. Like that.”
When Dean looked up, still shaking, regulating the pressure so the angel learnt the best way - Castiel’s eyes were wide with wonder, almost surprised. “We fit,” he said, clearly a new discovery. “Our hands, they fit together.”
Dean looked down at their clasped palms, and saw that yes, their fingers were neatly cupped around each other’s hands, and could feel how the grooves and muscles in his palms sank equally deep into the soft flesh of Castiel’s palm. If Dean pressed any harder, there would be a vacuum between them as the thin layer of air was pushed out.
He realised they’d been shaking hands for quite some time, and dropped Castiel’s hand. “Usually that only takes a couple of seconds,” he said, eyes on Castiel’s embroidered shoulder. He didn’t want to be the maker of the man who stands there shaking hands for an eternity when he meets someone. And something told him that Castiel wouldn’t work it out, at least not until he’d embarrassed someone thoroughly. Possibly Castiel himself, if he was even capable of embarrassment.
“Now you got that down, uh. Look, can I ask - you have been out of the castle before, right?”
“A few times, rarely.”
“Why’d you come out today?”
“To meet you.”
“And - that’s it?”
Castiel glanced around the space around him for a moment, like it held answers. “Yes.”
“Why?” Dean asked, somewhere between curious and confused.
“You seemed interesting enough that I might like you as a... friend.” He said the word like it was a new and foreign concept.
Dean chewed the inside of his lip. This man obviously needed help. And currently it seemed that Dean was the only person around to give it - quite literally, as the courtyard was now deserted, Balthazar and the other angels having wandered off already.
Dean had more training this afternoon; he was going to attempt to show Christian how to use the throwing stars, without Gabriel present this time. Last time Gabriel had spent the entire time making the metal stars fly in a circle and prod Christian’s backside, and it had taken Dean about half an hour to work out which angel was using their mojo. Not that he’d minded at the time, because Christian was, to say the least, unpleasant.
Either way, the point was that he was busy. But he had a little time before then, and he was sure Christian wouldn’t care if he was late. He’d probably thank him.
“You’ve never been to the lower town, have you?”
“No.”
Dean had been expecting the answer, but still his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Dude, you haven’t lived until you’ve been to the lower town.” He grabbed Castiel by the shoulders, giving his biceps a light squeeze. Despite how lean Castiel appeared, there was firm muscle under Dean’s hands. “There’s this one place, they make these food things - God, they are heavenly,” he sighed, eyelids fluttering closed in pleasure at the mere thought. “They’re called ‘pies’.”
“You seem very enthusiastic.”
“Hell yeah I’m enthusiastic,” Dean replied, grinning, letting Castiel’s arms go with a final friendly shove. “And you’re gonna eat a pie if it’s the last thing I do.”
Castiel seemed troubled by this statement for a moment, before his face cleared and he nodded. Dean relaxed, pleased to have knocked some sense into the man.
“All right, uh...” Dean glanced around at the stone walls, some thin spring vines dangling over the other side of the tiny court. There was a marble bench beside the fountain in the wall, a lion’s head spewing water into a bowl beneath it. “Meet me here in half an hour, okay?”
Castiel nodded in agreement, not moving as Dean walked past him, headed for his chambers for a quick wash and to gather supplies for the short trip ahead.
“Oh, and change your clothes, okay? Wear something plain, grey or brown maybe. White kind of stands out like a sore thumb.” He turned his back on the angel, but not before seeing him looking intently at his thumbs. He seemed to be trying to imagine what they would look like if they were sore.
~
Dean arrived at their meeting place perfectly on time, dressed out of his darker clothes for once. He’d put on a summer forest-green tunic, V-necked and tied at the waist with a brown belt, sword and scabbard fixed to it. He’d bought the shirt recently, and had been waiting for an occasion to wear it: a trip to the lower town and – Dean’s stomach flipped in anticipation – a chance to try that pie again.
He’d had pie twice before, once when he slept in town overnight because he was having new windows put in, and once when he’d escaped Sunday mass and needed a place to hide. Okay, so he may have snuck that one off the back of a cart because no-one was around, but he came back the next day and tossed the stall owner a coin, never mind the confused expression he got in return.
But Castiel was late. Dean kicked around the square, not bothering to sit on the bench. The light sand scuffed at his brown boots, and he drew patterns in it while he waited. He wasn’t sure how long he was supposed to wait, because nobody had ever stood him up before. Castiel evidently had no grip on the respect being a member of the Guard was meant to garner.
Strangely, Dean found it refreshing. Castiel didn’t fear him simply because of his stature – maybe, although Dean did not yet know the nature of Castiel’s place in the castle, Castiel might rank higher? He had no clue. Dean would be pleased if they had equal standing. He had rarely known anyone who could speak to him as an equal, outside of his fellow Guardsmen. And he didn’t like half of them very much at all.
Dean tried not to think about how he really couldn’t afford a distraction right now. But with his Captain trial looming, Dean found himself longing for exactly that. He needed something new and interesting in his life. Castiel certainly fit that description better than anything else he'd encountered in months.
The very moment that Dean gave in and sat down, Castiel rounded the corner, wearing exactly the same white embroidered tunic and trousers he’d been wearing previously. Dean stood, and narrowed his eyes at him, and Castiel explained.
“It seems I have no other clothes. I searched my chambers and my rooms, but Priestess Masters has only provided me with white. It is after all, the colour of purity, her colour.”
“You can’t mojo yourself something?”
“Oh...” Something seemed to click within Castiel. “The Priestess doesn’t like me to use my power. But... I suppose I could...”
For a second, Dean thought Castiel was going to cry, but then he looked down at himself and brushed a hand over the cloth covering his chest, and as he caressed it, the white changed to blue, seeping through the strands of fabric like blood, twisting through threads and spreading up over Castiel’s shoulder, swallowing the V-neck in a blue as vibrant as Castiel’s own eyes, but several shades darker. When the shirt was as blue as the summer sky, Castiel looked up at Dean for his approval.
Dean blinked in astonishment, because that was, frankly, the least violent or disruptive display of power he’d ever seen an angel use. As far as the garment went, it was actually quite pretty.
“Uh, maybe mojo those gold threads away too. Someone’ll try to pinch it if they see it. It’s worth a lot.”
Castiel did so, and the thread bled into the cloth and vanished like it was never there. In another second, Castiel had turned his white trousers to mud-brown, and seeing Dean’s turn-collared boots, copied the design to a similar pair that grew up out of the dust and cocooned his bare feet in a swathe of leather. Dean beamed at him, impressed.
“Awesome,” he said, sweeping out a hand and gesturing Castiel to walk beside him.
Dean directed them toward the stables, and as they walked, he got the distinct feeling that Castiel needed a hand to hold, because he was evidently well out of his depth. His head turned at anything that was faster than a cart horse, including the cart horses themselves, and low-flying birds, and the springtime bees. At one point he spun in a full circle when he saw a butterfly. The look on his face though, was one of complete wonderment.
The type of people around here were generally reserved, uppity folk, with fancy clothes and places to be. Around the other side of the castle, a few minutes' walk from here, was the part where the High Priestess usually resided, with the monks milling around doing their thing. Where Dean and Castiel were heading, it was all business. There would be people just about everywhere doing just about anything that it was possible to do inside four walls open to the sky, and a dust pit. Dean began to wonder if Castiel could handle it after being inside for so long.
“You all right there, buddy?” Dean asked, as they neared the castle stables. Castiel was on tiptoe, straining himself into the air.
Castiel turned to him with absolute joy on his face as he said, “It smells disgusting!”
Dean laughed, a hand to his stomach as he felt it clench. “That’s horses for you, Cas. I feel bad for the poor bastard who has to muck them out all the time.”
“His name is Colton and he has three sons, the eldest of whom also works here.”
“What?”
“The man who cleans away the horse dung.”
“How do you know that?”
“Mojo.”
Dean grinned again, slapping Castiel on the shoulder lightly. He stepped forward and led the way through the walkway, a wide tunnel covered with a pointed roof and strewn with hay, crushed and flattened by the passage of many hooves and feet. Castiel followed him closely, almost stepping on his heels. Dean was reminded of a dog he had owned earlier in life.
With a nod to the man sweeping droppings, Colton, Dean pulled round into a stall and presented his horse to Castiel with a sweep of his hand. “Chevrolet Impala, the finest horse in all of Zamreer.”
“She is indeed very well-built,” Castiel remarked, placing a gentle hand on her muzzle. She snorted, nudging him. “God must have enjoyed creating her for you.”
“Uh, thanks, I’m sure He did,” Dean said, fetching her tack. He set her all up to ride, trying not to look at Castiel too much while the angel communed with his horse. He seemed to speak to her with just his eyes; she neighed and whinnied happily as he stared at her. Dean considered that maybe Castiel’s staring match earlier was meant to communicate something to Dean that he simply hadn’t picked up on.
Dean mounted his horse gracefully, but Castiel did not follow suit in the same manner at all. After watching the angel make several failed attempts to hoist himself up behind Dean, placing his foot in mid-air and hoping it would help, Dean directed him to a mounting block. He was relieved when Chevy didn’t even flinch at the extra weight. Once settled, Dean allowed his horse to lead the way out of the stables. As soon as she took her first step, Castiel’s hand flew to Dean’s waist with a cry of surprise. Two or three steps more of Chevy’s rolling gait beneath them, and Castiel gave a pleased hum, but didn’t let go of Dean.
Dean could feel the heat of Castiel’s palm through his shirt, fingertips pressed nervously into him. He didn’t mind as much as he thought he should. It was pleasantly reassuring, to know that Castiel hadn’t fallen off yet.
They sped up to a trot once they entered the sunshine, Dean nudging Chevy toward the downward slope that led to the lower town. White cobbles clip-clopped under them, and as the ground sloped downward, Dean felt Castiel pressed up behind him, both arms with a firm grip around his waist.
“How far is this journey?” Castiel asked, his voice close to Dean’s ear. He was moving around as he said it, glancing from one side of the horse to the other.
“About ten minutes. We could’ve walked but Chevy needed a little attention.” He patted his horse as she balanced herself on the slope.
There was a silence that stretched for a few minutes, in which Dean navigated them through the middle town and across a bridge. When they crossed, Castiel loosened his hold on Dean’s middle and sat up straighter to see over the edge, to the river. “I see a fish!” he said, his voice as passionate as when he’d told Dean that his mere existence demanded his respect. Dean was beginning to like that voice, as he’d rarely met anyone who cared so much about what they were saying.
“You never saw a fish before?”
“Never. Only in books.”
“You read a lot?”
“There’s... not much else to do inside the castle. But there are many books, on a broad range of subjects. I find the pastime enjoyable,” Castiel replied, calming down once they passed the bridge and headed into a different part of town, buildings turning from pauper houses to grubbier, greyer-stoned constructions, one large one looming out in the near distance. There were people all around them, mostly on foot. He liked that he was recognised less down here; fewer people knew he was part of the Guard. Generally people hated Guardsmen, and with good reason.
“You’ve been here six years, and all you’ve done is read?”
All the angels had been on Earth for six years. All of them, save Castiel, had joined the ranks of the Guard. It was part of the deal.
“Read, and watch people. I very much enjoy watching humans interacting.”
“Oh, so you’re a stalker.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
Dean grinned and turned off the path, halting his horse outside a stone archway about as tall as three men. People bustled in and out, carrying things, pulling animals, chatting and gambling and shouting. The smell was unmistakable: the complex, layered smell of life.
It had not escaped Dean’s notice that the fallen angel’s hands were now clamped firmly to Dean’s sides, palms a little sweaty. He had reason to be nervous, Dean supposed. Perhaps this was too much all at once, dragging a recluse right out into the open. Castiel might enjoy people-watching, but being down in the fray of it, it was pretty damn overwhelming.
“You okay for this, Cas?” he asked him, not yet dismounting. Castiel was silent for a bit, but then nodded, eager. He slid off Chevy first, clinging to her until Dean was beside him, then, like a child, took hold of the corner of Dean’s shirt, holding on for dear life. Dean tied his horse to a post and promised money to the kid standing guard, for not letting anyone steal her.
A donkey wandered past in front of them, a bearded man in a red robe following behind, tapping it with a bamboo stick. Dean let them pass before he tugged Cas forward, through the archway. Castiel’s hand had already dropped away from his shirt, more confident now.
As the rush of movement filled his vision, Dean tried to imagine what this place would look like to a newcomer.
Before them stretched a large square courtyard, dirt-smeared walls on all sides and an open sky through which midday sun poured in, blue sky clear and bright. The ground crawled with people dressed in muted colours; he and Castiel were not out of place. There were people in robes and togas and shirts, a few monks in white, but only those brave enough to get their clothes muddy. It was less muddy than usual, thankfully - the ground under them was dry in the sun, trampled by hundreds of feet, human and animal alike.
People all around the walls had stalls selling their wares; imported goods, food, livestock, clothes, clay pots; the list was almost neverending. This was why Dean loved it here, it was so incredibly... random. There was never a guarantee as to what he would find. Sure, he liked predictable, but there was something about a unpredictable chaos that got him excited. He knew as well as anything, that anything could happen here.
“There anything you want to look at, or can we go find the pies?” Dean asked, not bothering to conceal the fact that he would rather do the latter.
“Please, lead the way,” Castiel said, gazing at Dean warmly. It was either that, or he was laughing at him.
They spent a few minutes navigating the throng of people, stepping on toes and subsequently being stepped on. For a second, Dean lost the movement of dark hair in the corner of his vision as Castiel fell behind, so he turned around to see where he had gone: Castiel had stopped to comfort a squealing pig, crouching to look it in the eye. In a space of seconds, the pig was calm, agitation visibly giving way to contentment.
Castiel stood up and Dean met his gaze, and Dean decided then that was going to enjoy Castiel's company more than any of the other angels’. He was exactly the kind of unpredictable that Dean found interesting. He didn’t understand him at all.
“I found the pie stand,” Dean muttered, pointing over his shoulder with a thumb. Castiel followed him without holding his shirt, and Dean counted that as a win. He was still awfully close to Dean’s heels, however.
A table was laid out with stacks upon stacks of baked goods; bread and cakes and - aha! - pie. Dean rubbed his hands gleefully, and leant forward to purchase two of the palm-sized pastries. He handed one to Castiel, who took it gratefully, but unsurely. He wasn’t certain how to hold it, but when he saw Dean cupping his in his hands, he did the same. Dean chewed and swallowed, then led Castiel off to the side, out of the way of the crowd.
Dean was glad he had his eyes open for the moment that Cas took his first bite. He clearly had no idea what to expect, so he approached the pastry with some trepidation, sniffing the delicate aroma, licking it with a flick of his tongue. Then he opened his mouth and sank his teeth into it, and Dean grinned. He knew the expression of pure bliss on Cas' face was the same one that he himself had worn when he’d tried his first pie. He also noted with pride that it was the same expression that he had become adept at causing on the faces of his lovers. Happy women did indeed make the best faces.
Dean almost blushed, because the stuttering moan Castiel let out of the back of his throat was verging on sexual. The sounds got quieter as he ate, and his dumbfounded face became steadily more controlled as the angel realised what a fool he probably looked, and how much attention he was drawing - but the blatant pleasure was still evident, even as he took his last bite. He licked his fingers, then examined his hands in hope that there might be even one particle left uneaten.
It took Castiel’s eyes meeting Dean’s once more and staring back pointedly, before Dean realised that not only had he been gawking at the other man, but he’d been so intent on Castiel that he’d completely ignored the remainder of his own pie, and stewed apple filling was steadily dripping out of his hands.
“Oh!” Dean said, shoving the escaping filling into his mouth and barely registering the taste for a good few seconds.
They wandered from stall to stall, Dean eager to show Castiel everything he loved about this place, and Castiel was eager to take it all in. Dean had never gotten this sort of responsiveness from Gabriel or Balthazar, or even Anna - and before that, he’d been alone. Of all the good things that had happened to Dean within the past years, Castiel’s appearance was shaping up to be one of the better ones.
“Dean, wait,” Castiel said, taking Dean’s elbow. “Do you smell that?”
Dean subtly sniffed the air, not keen to look like he was being pulled into the air by his nose, like Castiel did. “Perfume?”
Castiel let out a short, soft breath, looking at Dean from beside him. He was a little shorter than Dean, but taller than most women. “That’s perfume?” he asked, wonder braiding his smooth voice.
“Wanna go take a sniff?” Dean suggested, already leading the way. But Castiel cut in front of him, apparently keen to use his newly discovered sense of smell to locate the source.
It took a few minutes; Castiel wasn’t likely to have a future as a scent hound, but it was admirable that he had picked it out from the muddle of smells all around them, given he’d rarely smelt anything stronger than a dusty library or freshly laundered fancy cloth, possibly some rose petals strewn through his bathwater.
“Oh, look at them all,” Castiel sighed at him, eyes on the table before them. Coloured glass bottles were covering every flat surface, gleaming in the sunshine, colours reflecting like rainbows across the angel’s face. And the smell... it was glorious.
Around this stall always hung the sweetest, most potent, yet delicate aroma that ever drifted past Dean’s nose. Not lying, he would have gone to bed with that smell. He wasn’t sure if his mouth was watering or drying up, but something was happening in his mouth that he couldn’t explain. It was beautiful.
Castiel had politely interrupted the line of women that surrounded the table, weaving his way to the front and poring over the bottles of perfume like they held the secrets of the universe inside each of their stoppered glass caps. Dean didn’t have much choice but to follow him into the gaggle of females, with the occasional “‘scuse me, ladies,” and “pardon me, m’lady”.
“Fifteen a bottle, but I’d knock something off for you if you ask real nice, Winchester,” came a honey-sweet voice from the other side of the table.
“Cassie.”
“Yes?” Castiel asked.
“What- oh, no, this is Cassie. An old... friend.”
Castiel eyed the girl across the table warily, distracted from the perfumes by Cassie’s round face and wild black hair and dark skin. Cassie smiled at him gently, and Castiel seemed eased by that.
“Well, he says friend,” Cassie smiled, conspiratorially.
Cas swallowed, and seemed to be biting his tongue. “I see.”
“This is Cas,” Dean said to Cassie. “Castiel.”
~x~
“Oh my God,” Sam said, chuckling. “Cas. Castiel. You named your bird after this girl?”
“After Cassie?”
“After the angel,” Sam clarified. Dean had described her beautifully, the way her dark hair framed her face, pale skin and full lips. And the piercing blue eyes he kept mentioning, his hawk had eyes the same. It wasn’t a great leap to say that the same blue eyes influenced Dean’s naming of the bird.
Dean was looking at Sam blankly. “Yeah, I guess I did,” he said, finally.
“Anyway, sorry,” Sam said, grinning. “Keep going.”
~x~
“This is Cas. Castiel,” Dean told Cassie, over the bottles of perfume.
“‘tiel’? An angel?”
“Not the fighting kind, it seems,” Dean said, sparing a glance at Castiel’s slightly uncomfortable expression. Women shoved at them as they stood there, but Castiel ignored them.
“Oh, well.” Cassie said, unperturbed. “Perfume, Cas?” she directed at him, gesturing to the entire table. “Your wife would like them, I’m sure.”
“My wife? I’m not―”
“―Oh, no, he’s not― “
“Oh God, I’m sorry!” Cassie said, hand to her cheek. “I just, I saw the ring, and I thought―”
“Ring?” Dean asked.
Castiel turned to him and held the back of his hand out for Dean to examine, fingers spread. On the third finger of his left hand, there certainly was a ring; a band of silver, finely crafted, with a ribbon of white twisting through the centre, like a tiny vine was embedded through it.
“A symbol of Her Grace, the High Priestess. I am, essentially, her property.”
Dean’s jaw snapped shut like a vice, but he pried it open with some difficulty, to ask, “You’re not... like a slave, or anything, are you?”
Castiel shook his head. “I have no designated purpose other than to exist in her care.”
“What, like... nothing?”
Castiel shook his head again, dropping his hand back to his side. A young blonde woman glared at the back of his head, since he was very much in the way of the perfume stand’s display. It kicked Dean into action, anyway. “Did you, um, wanna look at the perfume?” he prompted, deciding that they would continue this conversation somewhere less crowded.
Castiel returned his attention to bottles, and began to pick them up one by one, inhaling the contents from gently-raised lids. Dean stood awkwardly for a while, feeling like the third wheel between Castiel and the perfume, but once Cassie also looked away to deal with another customer, he allowed himself to give in and pick up bottles as well. They all smelled fantastic, and aside from Cassie's winning personality, the mix of perfumes clinging to her skin had been one of the biggest reasons he had loved her company in the time that they were together. She always smelled like a summer rose, blossoming in a dry desert in the precious moments after rain. A person who can conjure up such an image is well worth knowing, Dean reasoned.
“Dean, smell this,” Castiel said to him, passing him a short chubby bottle with a half-popped lid. Dean raised it to his nose and breathed in, and his eyes watered with such a strong blend of spices that it smothered his tongue and burned his throat. But, as the intensity cleared, he realised he was smelling the pure essence of the roses of Heaven. It swallowed his whole head down in an invisible mist of fragrance, and he squeaked.
“That’s - that’s very nice, Cas,” Dean said, passing the bottle back. Cas seemed to understand how much more he meant by that, and beamed at him, communicating with only his eyes. It seemed like Dean was learning his language, somehow.
The bottle went back on the table, and several more were passed to Dean to sniff at, each more fabulous than the next. By the fifth bottle, Dean was beginning to feel light-headed, and his throat was sore.
But then Castiel made the sound he’d made when he’d tasted pie for the first time: a moan from deep inside him as if something had rendered him completely undone. “Ohhh,” he sighed, grasping a slender blue bottle with slightly trembling fingers. “Dean. I like this perfume.”
Dean didn’t even think twice, only passed Cassie a handful of money without comment. Cassie watched as Castiel just stood there, breathing in her concoction. She seemed pleased with his reaction.
Dean tied his coin sack back to his belt. “There, Cas, it’s yours. Now, come away so we can―”
“What do you mean?”
“I bought it for you, I thought you might like to sniff it away from people.”
“But... I have no money, I can’t return what you―”
“It’s a gift, Cas. You don’t have to give anything back.”
Castiel’s face was a mask of gratitude and confusion as Dean grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away from the stall; behind them the women flooded back towards the display in a wave. Castiel followed his guiding hand blindly, nose in his bottle. When they reached the perimeter of the market, Dean turned a corner and pulled the angel into a near-deserted alcove, the only other occupants a young liplocked couple, who abandoned the space with a giggle when Dean and Castiel arrived. It was sheltered, a wooden bench on one side, an olive tree gnarled and twisted in an uneven dusty bank. It was all shut in, part of the market, albeit an unused part today.
Castiel finally pulled his nose away from the bottle when Dean asked him, “Do you want to put some on, or are you just going to sniff it for all of forever?”
“I―”
“Here,” Dean offered, taking the bottle and pulling Castiel’s hand forward. He had him hold his wrist to Dean, and Dean dripped on a small amount of clear liquid, thrusting the stopper back into the bottle neck. “Now rub your wrists together, like this,” and he showed Castiel how to spread the perfume, while holding the bottle under his arm. Castiel did so, then sniffed gingerly at his own wrist, before nuzzling his face into it and dragging his lips over his skin, eyes closed.
“Damn, Cas... it must really smell good,” Dean said under his breath, smirking.
“It does,” Castiel agreed, and seemed to be deliberating whether or not to shove his wrists into Dean’s nostrils.
Dean leant forward, giving permission, and Castiel raised his left wrist up to Dean’s face. Dean took his loose fist in his own hand, inhaling―
Wow.
That was. Oh.
“Holy crap,” Dean breathed, lips brushing Castiel’s wrist. Castiel nodded earnestly, pulling his other wrist to his own nose and sniffing it again. It took Dean a great deal of willpower not to seize Castiel’s wrist and wheeze all over it, to desperately try and fill his lungs with that unearthly divine aroma. Social boundaries by damned, he’d be sniffing the fallen angel till kingdom come.
Dean pulled away, swallowing down the mist in his mouth, over and over. He held his breath, waiting until the scent had abated from his senses, watching as Castiel forcibly removed his own face from his wrist, and looking very unhappy about it. It was surely addictive, and unless he pulled away now, he’d never let himself stop. Dean nodded, as if they’d read each other’s thoughts.
“So, Cas. Tell me more about this, uh, property of the Priestess thing. Not so much a free spirit as I thought you were?”
Castiel pulled his mouth into a line, glancing down at the now-stoppered bottle of perfume, somewhat regretfully. With another glance up to Dean, he turned away and headed toward the wooden bench underneath the olive tree, sitting and slumping forward in the shade. Dean followed him and sat beside him, hands clasped together over his knees.
“When the other angels fell, when I fell - we were all fighters, as if we were born for it. She picked me out among the others and brought me to her rooms, gave me my own quarters, made me comfortable. The others had to fight for the city if we were attacked, and I had a life of luxury upon the Earth. I didn’t think it prudent to argue.”
“So you just... stick around?”
“I have nothing better to do with my time. She... has one rule, that I don’t use my power.”
“You used it when you jumped out of the castle this morning,” Dean remarked, half his mouth pulled into a grin. For the shock that move had given him, it had really been quite awe-inspiring. “And to change your shirt.”
Castiel looked at Dean guiltily. “I only did that because you were there.”
“Me?”
“I... I think I wanted to impress you.”
Dean bit the inside of his lip. “I guess it worked.” He paused. “But - seriously, dude - why?”
Castiel shrugged with one shoulder, fiddling with the bottle of perfume. “Don’t know.”
Dean examined the cobblestones under their boots, dry and dusty in the warm sun. “Well. I gotta say, wanting to impress someone... That’s... a very human thing to do.”
Castiel looked at him with his wide blue eyes, and Dean couldn’t tell what emotion that was, at all. He shook his head gently, mildly perplexed. “Gabriel would’ve stabbed me if I’d said that to him.”
Castiel huffed with amusement. “Gabriel does not enjoy the company of humans as much as I do. At least, not outside a sexual capacity. I don’t think he quite understands your... intricacies.”
“Aren’t I the only human you know, or something?”
Cas almost glared at him. “You assume too much, Dean.”
“Yeah, so I’ve been told.”
~
Dean bought them each another pie, and they sat back by their olive tree and ate them quietly, Castiel occasionally throwing bits of pastry to the sparrows that flocked to his feet. Dean noted that he seemed to be trying to share the crumbs evenly between each of them - and failing, but it still intrigued him. He watched the angel and smiled.
Dean almost had to drag Castiel back to his horse, once he realised they’d been in the lower town more than an hour longer than Dean had expected to be. As soon as Castiel was on Chevy’s back, however, he did not complain even once, all the way back to the castle.
Castiel slid off Chevy with a puff of breath, going to pat her head while Dean brushed her down and treated her to a handful of oats. Castiel also gave the horse oats when he thought Dean wasn’t looking. Dean grinned and said nothing until he was sure Castiel was done, returning as if he hadn’t seen anything.
Dean started heading back to the castle, going to get back into his training clothes. But he found the angel still in tow even as he passed where they’d met up earlier.
It was less than a minute more before Dean realised that Castiel was all set to follow Dean around for the rest of the day unless he sent him away. Dean needed to find Christian and teach him throwing stars, he couldn’t deal with a lost puppydog with attachment issues as well.
“Look, Cas - how about we do this tomorrow, yeah? Go get some rest, read a book or something.”
“You’re busy.”
Dean sighed, buckling his armour up. “Yeah.”
For the first time in a long time, he wished he didn’t have the Guard to distract him. For years, his training had been his only escape from just about everything, and it had gradually become his focus, the point of his entire existence. His life revolved around it. But after one bizarre afternoon with a fallen angel, his regular life was exactly the thing he didn’t want to return to. The upcoming showdown that was hanging over his head didn’t bear thinking about.
“But... tomorrow, okay? Maybe we’ll go to the Tree of Souls, you’d like that. It’s got all this mystical and magical crap.”
“You promise?” Castiel asked him. It didn’t take a lot to see that Castiel was worried he’d never have another day like this again.
Dean placed one hand on either of Castiel’s arms, nodding his head down to look him in the eye. “I promise, Cas. I can’t have you be the princess locked in her tower forever, right? Princess needs to have a life, man.”
“I don’t understand that reference.”
“Go look up some fairytales while you’re in your tower, would you?” Dean advised, grinning. Castiel nodded hesitantly, and then with a friendly pat to the angel’s shoulder, Dean was gone.
~
The following day, Dean escaped training early. Raphael had been around this time, and aside from the taunts about the upcoming fight for the place of Captain, he had been about as unkind as usual. Dean simply didn’t want to deal with the man, or any of the other Guardsmen.
Anna and Balthazar had apparently gone on some sort of drinking binge last night, and were still too inebriated to muster up the angel mojo to fix themselves and show up to training. Of course, Dean had to hear this from an intoxicated Gabriel, who seemed to be enjoying his wooziness more than he should. From what Dean gathered, the stars Gabriel was seeing made him feel like a real angel again.
Dean wore the same green shirt as the day before. He loitered in the little walkway with the overhanging vines and lion-faced fountain, turning around to see Castiel in his same blue shirt as well. With his hand on the hilt of his sword, Dean stood and thought to himself that blue really did suit the angel. In the shade of the vines and light of the midday sun, Castiel's mussed near-black hair cast a shadow that curved down his cheekbones, curling over his lips.
Dean held back a “You look nice,” - because Castiel was a man, and men should not look ‘nice’. Dean blinked at the angel.
“I’m glad you’re here, Dean.” Castiel looked relieved underneath the serious expression he seemed to be trying to hold on his face.
“Tree of Souls, man. I’m not gonna miss this, it was my favourite place as a kid. I mean, that was before they put the courtyard in, but it’s still awesome.”
“I don’t know what the Tree of Souls is,” Castiel replied, looking quite helpless at this fact.
“It’s cool, dude. I’ll show you.”
They walked to the stables, Castiel keeping step with Dean this time, obviously more confident than the previous day. His head was again turned by all manner of creatures; anything interesting pulled his eyes from where he was walking. Once Dean had to lean over and wrench him out of the path of a trotting horse, when Castiel had been too distracted by an early-season dragonfly.
“Sorry,” Castiel said, eyes wide with surprise when he found that he had collided with Dean’s chest.
“Watch where you’re going, all right? I get that everything’s new and shiny for you, but I’m pretty sure if you get squished, it’s gonna be hard to reverse.” He knew there was no need, but he brushed Castiel down from the shoulders, like he was dusty. They kept walking.
They approached Chevy’s stall like the day before, and Dean spent a moment absorbed in her tack before he realised Castiel had wandered off again. He thought nothing of it - because hey, the angel wasn’t a child, he could probably look after himself. It took a cacophony of frantic whinnying from some distraught horse in another stall before Dean poked his head out of his stall and headed for the noise. Somehow, it had Castiel written all over it.
Three steps down the walkway of the stables, and Dean saw what was causing the fuss: a massive white stallion, rearing and pulling against his reins, half-in, half-out of a stall. He was squealing and stomping, clearly very upset about something. Colton, the horse stable guy, was desperately holding onto the horse, his whole weight leaning into trying to stop him from rearing on his hind legs.
And there was Castiel, standing with his arms raised in a calming gesture - surely it should be working, what with Castiel’s magical animal powers. But still the stallion leapt about like he’d seen a ghost.
“I can’t get him to calm down, he saw this - mister - sir, here, and he just, I don’t know, he just lost it!” Colton called to Dean, trying to explain.
Dean didn’t ask questions, going forward and helping Colton bring the horse down, petting its shoulders, soothing it when it got close enough to the ground. Soon enough, Castiel could look it in the eye, and it immediately stilled, coming to stomp its feet restlessly instead. Castiel took its face in his hands, and it whinnied at him.
“I know, brother,” Castiel whispered to it. Dean looked at him sidelong, waiting until Castiel dropped his hands to his sides before sending a questioning glance his way.
“His name is Lucifer,” Castiel said grimly.
“Uh, as in, Dark Lord Satan kind of Lucifer, or...?”
“The very same.”
Dean raised his eyebrows at Castiel slowly. Castiel’s hand ceasing its patting of the horse, which snorted as its breath slowed. “Maybe it’s a stupid question, but, why is Satan a horse?”
Castiel ground his teeth for a moment, communing with Lucifer silently, before answering; “When we angels fell, Lucifer attempted to... uh...” Castiel squinted at Lucifer’s grey horsey eyes. ”Attempted to unleash his full power upon the Earth and bring about a reign of terror, but... burned out.” The horse snickered and stomped his foot, lashing his head irritably.
Castiel seemed to nod in understanding, glancing away and down at his own feet. “The High Priestess put his remaining Grace into an equine vessel.”
“What, like as a joke? Stick it to Satan, stick him in a horse. Yeah, that’d work.”
“It was a cruel thing to do,” Castiel shot back, his glance toward Dean stern and cold.
“Yeah, but it’s... Satan. You’re seriously telling me this horse is the Bringer of Light, Prince of Darkness, and all that? The guy the church teaches everyone to hate with a righteous burning passion?”
“Lucifer is but an angel, Dean. Like myself. You see me, don’t you? I’m in a human vessel. Lucifer is simply in a... to use a human term, he’s... in a lifeboat without a paddle.”
Dean almost laughed at the hash of human language that Castiel had made, but let it slide with only a pained expression. “Okay, so what’s the big deal? Why’s he kicking up such a fuss?”
Colton the stable guy was completely out of his depth, staring blankly at the white-coated horse as it chewed fixatedly on its bit.
“Dean, please, for a moment, stretch your small human mind so that you might imagine what it would be like to be the most fantastic creature in all creation.” Castiel paused for a second, double-taking. “Then again, that may not be as difficult for you as I originally thought.”
Dean was not sure if that was a compliment or not.
Castiel continued, “Now imagine you were forced to bow before a new creation, one clearly much lesser than yourself―”
“Look, I know the story, Lucifer gets kicked out of Heaven ‘cause he’s not down with the whole bow-to-the-humans thing, but that doesn’t explain anything. I thought you guys didn’t remember Heaven, so it shouldn’t make any difference.”
Castiel thought about this. He glanced at Lucifer, then back to Dean. “You’re right, he doesn’t remember Heaven either.”
“How do you know he’s not lying?”
“He’s not lying.”
Dean rolled his eyes and took Castiel’s word for it. “So, what’s the big deal?” he demanded.
Castiel frowned at Dean.”How would you like to be turned into a horse?”
Dean stared at Castiel. “You may have a point.”
“Lucifer is bored. He doesn’t like the oats, and his feet ache from standing in the stall for so long.”
Colton looked away from the horse finally, having been staring at him in awe. “Nobody’s ridden him in weeks, last person was one of my stable hands. He threw the boy twice, once into a duckpond. And bit ‘im. We were in a half a mind to turn the bugger into horsemeat for the dogs.”
Lucifer snorted angrily. His eyes were wild with raw energy, but Dean didn’t miss the flicker of fear that swam across his horsey face. It was incredibly human in its movements.
“I’ll ride him out today, we’re going to the Tree of Souls,” Castiel said, importantly.
Dean pushed his lips together. Great. They were now going to one of the supposed portals between the Earth and the Underworld, and the Dark Lord Satan was coming with them.
Lucifer didn’t make a peep while he was saddled up, apparently on his best behaviour. He trotted on the spot, eager to get moving. Dean shook his head at the horse uneasily, dubious about this turn of events. Even Chevrolet was unsettled when she came near. He seemed to be leering at her.
“If you hurt her, I will have your head, Satan or not,” Dean warned Lucifer, jabbing a finger at his incredulous pale furry face.
“May we go?” Castiel asked, using a stirrup to mount his new steed. Dean again counted it as a win that Castiel was good to ride on his own this time. Castiel was, unquestionably, a fast learner.
The horses rode out, side-by-side, Dean taking the lead once they broke into the sunlight, heat warming their skin in an instant. Lucifer nickered happily, head pulling and shaking, grey mane whipping as their trot sped to a bouncy canter. Dean led them through moderately busy streets, navigating people easily, and the Devil-turned-horse behind him did the same. Dean doubted that Castiel even had to steer him. This was, without a doubt, the strangest set of travelling companions Dean had ever had.
“Just through here!” Dean called back over his shoulder, gesturing to a golden-bricked archway further along the street. They entered at a steady pace, not needing to slow down at all, because pedestrians could see and hear them coming from a while off and had the sense to stay away from the middle of the street anyway. They passed under hanging clothes drying in the warmer shade of the day, criss-crossing the tunnel-like street like flags or bunting.
Dean heard a gleeful laugh from behind him, and he spared a momentary glance behind him just in time to see Castiel standing up on his stirrups, straddling his horse with his arm stretched upward, fingertips trailing through the dangling cloth, leaving people’s washing lines trembling in his wake. The angel looked down and saw Dean watching him as they galloped, and laughed again. He was balancing so effortlessly, he could only be using mojo to stay upright. Dean couldn’t help but return his smile.
They neared their destination after a few more turns, and Dean could feel his anticipation rising as they got closer to the courtyard that housed the Tree. It was at the very edge of the citadel, with the city’s outermost wall enclosing the courtyard on one far side. Beyond the wall was farmland, open and endless.
The Tree had been his sanctuary, his place of worship - never the church, if he could help it, and he rarely prayed to God. Usually he went to the Tree to rest, to escape the world. He went there to dream.
Dean heard the sound of Chevy’s hooves change from repeated echoes in the sandy golden tunnel of houses and people, to the empty clop of an open courtyard. They had arrived, and it was just as beautiful as Dean always remembered.
Unevenly placed white slabs of stone spiralled out from the centre of a circle of buildings. The pattern on the ground twisted around a raised dais in the middle, from which rose the massive, unruly trunk of an ancient tree. Around the dais was a stone-built moat, twice the height of a man across, and three times as deep, keeping people away. The Tree’s thick roots had long ago grown over the dais and spilled into the water around it.
The moat had been Dean’s greatest regret of the new additions, but so long as the Tree was safe, he didn’t mind. Its roots had taken hold there so quickly after the courtyard was built, that Dean could only think it was growing by magic.
He pulled Chevy to a stop, a few people turning to look at them as Lucifer pulled up behind him. Dean was liable to be recognised here, because he visited here so often still. But he didn’t care. Nothing would stop him coming here.
Castiel dismounted and left Lucifer to stand beside Chevy, neither man bothering to tether their horses. “It’s beautiful, Dean.”
“I think this is my favourite place in the city.”
Castiel gazed at Dean, and Dean could feel his ears burning. He turned to look back at Castiel, certainly feeling a little warmer than he should.
“Thank you for showing me this, Dean.” I can see it means a lot to you.
Dean didn’t hear Castiel’s last few words, but he felt the meaning inside him. There, that was it. Castiel could do for Dean what he did for Chevy and Lucifer, or the pig in the marketplace yesterday. Dean had seen it happen and had wondered, but until now he’d never felt it working. It seemed Dean had been waiting for it. He felt another slight flush of embarrassment as he realised this.
It wasn’t much different from normal human communication, really. There was just a lot more to Castiel’s meaning that Dean understood perfectly. It was pleasant, like Castiel had transferred an emotional feeling as well as just a meaning.
“That was a neat trick, Cas,” Dean said out of the corner of his mouth, while staring up at the tree with its strong branches and spring leaves. “The other angels never did that before. Just you, huh?” He smiled, watching Castiel’s expression turn to a confused frown. “I won’t tell the Priestess you’re using mojo. Promise.”
“I...” Castiel looked down at the roots of the Tree, considering something. “I didn’t do that on purpose. It was far too natural, I couldn’t stop. I didn’t even realise―”
“You just gave me all your schmoopy feelings, dude, and you didn’t even notice?”
Castiel sucked his lower lip gently, blinking at the Tree. “It was an accident.”
Dean didn’t really know what to say to that.
“Uh, so this Tree. It’s meant to be a, like a, a - hole in the worlds. Between the living and the dead, that sort of thing. Portal to talk to dead people. They hold seances and crap here, I dunno if it’s real. Sometimes as a kid I used to climb up a few branches, just lie there. Sometimes there’d be voices. Pretty sure it was just people talking in the city, carrying up on the wind or something. But it was cool, you know?”
Castiel shook his head. “There’s nothing here, it’s just a tree.”
Dean huffed. “Not to burst my bubble or anything,” he said, rolling his eyes. Several people passed, tossing coins into the water.
“I am sorry, but there is no denying that it is a very beautiful tree.”
“People think that if you swim in the water, your soul goes to Hell. Again, pretty sure it’s a thing to keep people out, there were tons of people who came here just to wreck the branches when they were angry that people they love died.”
Dean didn’t get to say anything else before a blur of white muscle rushed past him - the gigantic stallion that was Lucifer was bolting for the Tree and diving headlong into the shining green water of the moat. He landed with an almighty splash, a wave cascading over the edge of the stone pool, soaking in a puddle on the flagstones.
He thrashed in the pool, legs kicking wildly, head bobbing repeatedly under the water. He appeared to be trying to drown himself.
In a split second, both Dean and Castiel were by the waterside, arms outstretched to try and pull the flailing horse from the water, Dean kneeling on the raised stone embankment that held the water level a foot above the ground.
Lucifer was snorting, trying to breathe, but ducking his head under the water like he was trying to go somewhere, then coming up to blink blindly in the sunlight. Castiel grasped for his flank, leaning over the splashing pool with one arm cast forward.
“Lucifer, Lucifer!” he said, fiercely, “There’s nothing there, I can’t feel anything! You can’t go anywhere from here!”
“What the hell is he trying to do?” Dean shouted at Castiel, over the manic whinnying and sloshing between them. Their shirts were soaked through, and they had gained a small audience; a few people came forward and lent their hands into pulling the horse from the water, but with nothing for him to stand on, it was impossible.
“Reach Hell, die, I don’t know. He just... wants to leave,” Castiel said, shaking his head. He seemed forlorn on behalf of the horse-ified Devil. “This is really no place for him,” he added.
“His place or not, I don’t want to have to explain to the High Priestess why Satan is no longer in her stables,” Dean said, jumping into the water beside the kicking horse. This was not particularly sensible, Dean knew that.
Lucifer stabbed his hooves through the water, aiming at Dean’s legs. Dean could feel the water moving around his trousers, the muscular brush of Lucifer’s fetlocks as he pulled his feet back to kick again. Dean pressed open palms to Lucifer’s rearing backside, hands sliding against the slimy fur.
“Pull him up!” Dean shouted to Castiel and the bald man beside him, trying his best to keep his head over the waterline. Green algae sloshed at his cheeks, cold and gross in his hair. His boots had filled with water and were pulling him down, but he kicked through it, exerting himself and pushing, his feet on the other side of the moat, pushing up from the Tree’s roots.
Lucifer roared, throat taut and nostrils flared angrily.
“Lucifer, you’ll die!” Castiel shouted at the horse, hands around his front legs now, finally, trying very hard to keep them from kicking him in the stomach. “You have so much to live for now, you’re not evil, you don’t hurt people! You don’t even remember your power, you can’t remember anything! You’re just a horse, there’s no reason to try to be anything else!”
“You really think talking to him’s gonna help?” Dean muttered, spitting pondweed out. Every muscle was aching.
“Lucifer, brother, please. Listen to me. I’ll be your rider. If that’s what you need.”
Lucifer lashed a hoof at Castiel but he stilled it when he heard Castiel’s words.
“I’ll take care of you.”
Lucifer stopped kicking, calming enough that Dean fell with an exhausted sigh into the water, hands slipping off the horse and trembling underwater until he pulled himself up, holding on to a root of the Tree.
Lucifer let them pull him out of the water. Castiel had to use a blast of mojo, because hey, the horse weighed a ton. Lucifer clopped onto solid ground with a shamed whinny, head down. Dean trod water, smoothing green plant life out of his sodden hair.
Castiel patted his horse, comforting him. Then he turned to Dean, waving away several concerned passers-by who had stopped to help, with a small thanks to each of them. Dean took the proffered hand with a sigh, feeling his arms burning as he was pulled free of the water. He dripped on the flagstones, droplets only vanishing into the rest of the puddle that spread around them, hoofprints leading away to the soggy Lucifer.
“Man, that’s just pathetic,” Dean observed, watching Lucifer shake his head and sending a rush of water into Chevy’s face.
Castiel looked at the horses sadly. “He used to be one of the most powerful beings in all of creation, and he’s stuck as a horse, with no magic at all. I don’t think there’s much about that that isn’t pathetic, no.”
“You’re seriously going to just... be his friend?”
“I see little else I can do for him,” Castiel said, leaving Dean behind, dripping wet, and wandering forward to pet Lucifer’s head again.
“But he’s Satan,” Dean said under his breath, moving his hands as if to illustrate an explosion from his head.
~
They walked back to the castle slowly, Castiel riding in Lucifer’s saddle. Lucifer seemed tired and humbled, and was very quiet all the way back. Dean could hear the squeak of Castiel’s wet saddle from where he sat, and he himself was slipping around due to his own sopping wet clothes. He’d had to empty out his boots before riding.
Castiel made all sorts of promises to Lucifer as they rode - that he would take him out riding once a day, that he’d get different oats, perhaps a different stall for him to rest in. That he would spend time talking to him, and that Lucifer wasn’t required to talk back. That Lucifer wouldn’t be lonely again.
It was almost heartwarming, Dean thought, that Castiel was so blind to who it was he was caring for. Yeah, he’d said that Lucifer didn’t remember being, well, Lucifer, but Dean had his suspicions. Yet, he trusted Castiel’s judgement. He had to. It was all very confusing and somewhat repetitive in his head. He wasn’t really sure what to think.
Dean waited in the stables while Castiel made the necessary requests of Colton, and while Dean went about caring for Chevy, he saw Castiel fetching things for Lucifer, washing the pondweed off his white pelt. Dean could do with a bath himself; he was beginning to smell the dankness of drying silt on his clothes.
Plus, he realised with a jolt, he had his competition with Raphael tomorrow. He hadn’t trained enough, he wasn’t prepared at all. He’d been so distracted. He’d distracted himself, really. It was his own fault if he lost.
Dean approached Lucifer’s new, slightly larger stall hesitantly. “Hey, Cas?” he said gently.
Castiel, kneeling, looked up from his bucket of warm water, which he was towelling onto Lucifer’s legs, grey-green dirt running down in rivulets.
“I’m, uh, gonna take off. I have a fight for Captain with Raphael tomorrow, which I’m really not - I haven’t really―” he swallowed, staring helplessly at the angel, who stood up to look back at him. Under the scrutiny of that piercing gaze, Dean cracked. “God, I’m gonna lose, Cas. The whole Guard’s gonna be hell after this. Raphael doesn’t care about protecting citizens, just imprisoning them, or beating them the hell up. I don’t think he’d know what to do with an enemy if he saw one. Everyone’s the same to him.”
“Seeing equality is a good trait, Dean―”
“I don’t mean like that. I mean he’d beat you up if you’d stolen bread to feed your family, or if you’d killed a man. In fact, he’d have more respect for you if you’d killed someone. He’s... not going to be a good Captain. I think we can all see that. But he’s a better fighter than me, and it’s not... it’s not―”
“It’s not fair,” Castiel finished for him. Dean’s hands were twisted through his own hair, desperately swallowing down his bubbling emotion.
“I should have practised more,” Dean sighed, dropping his hands to his side with a thwack. “I got distracted, you turned up, then stuff happened and...” he trailed off, eyes examining the wall between the stalls.
“You regret your time with me,” Castiel summarised.
“No!” Dean said, adamant. “I don’t. It’s been the best, I mean - it’s good, it’s all good.”
Castiel was silent for a while, and Dean could still feel his eyes on his face. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Castiel directly.
“Dean, can I ask you something?”
Dean looked him in the eye. He may be feeling at a complete loss, but he still had manners. “Shoot.”
“Are we―” Castiel started, putting a hand on Lucifer’s side. “Have we become... we’re... friends?”
Dean grinned. Man, this dude was so seriously awkward, it was almost endearing. “Yeah, man. We’re friends.”
Castiel’s face broke into a smile, one that lit up his eyes and wrinkled their edges more than it curved his mouth. There was no denying, however, that Dean had made him very, very happy with his words.
Dean swallowed, and turned to leave, hands in his still-damp pockets, knocking his sword with his wrist.
“Dean, wait.” Dean waited, turning his head back to see Castiel look up at him pleadingly. “Meet me at the castle’s south-west servant’s entrance tomorrow morning. If your competition’s at noon, I’d like to give you something before then.”
Dean didn’t think it worthwhile to ask what, since he’d find out tomorrow. He nodded, smiled a little, then left.
Yeah, man. We’re friends.
Suddenly, it meant a lot more to Dean once he was alone.
He spent the rest of the daylight hours training, and some time into the night. Nobody disturbed him.
~
Dean hadn’t been to confession in months. Last time was because, apparently, fornication was frowned upon. The fact that all the goddamn angels of the Lord were doing it, supposedly made no difference at all, and Dean was still in the wrong. Never mind the girl he did it with; Dean was the wrongdoer. He wasn’t sure how a few hundred ‘Hail Mary’s was going to make anything better, but if it made God happy, well, he wasn’t one to argue. (Of course, that didn’t stop him doing it again. But the church didn’t have to know about those other times.)
Dean took a deep breath as he entered the church. It was dark and still outside, night fallen long ago.
Inside, it was warmer, lit brightly by the hundreds of candles that were placed all around. Dean had to hand it to them, the church really knew how to pretty a place up.
It smelt like incense, subtle and sweet. Sandalwood, maybe?
Dean walked down the wide aisle, glancing this way and that, seeing mostly-empty pews. People bowed their heads in silent prayer, monks and peasants alike. Everyone was the same in the church, and Dean liked that. Well, almost everyone. There were some people, like Rufus, as Captain of the Guard, and the High Priestess, who were honoured above others, given better seats and sipped at more expensive communion wine. But apart from that, nobody cared that Dean was a Guardsman so long as he didn’t flaunt it.
Dean made his way to the confession booth. He hoped it was empty, he didn’t want to wait. He knocked, and a gruff voice told him to enter.
He closed the gold-embellished door behind him and slumped onto the bench inside, hands over his face. He sighed, long and exhausted.
“Take all the time you need,” came the gruff voice again, only the barest hint of sarcasm.
“Bobby, it’s me,” Dean replied, talking to the grill between the other man and himself.
“Could’a said somethin’, boy. I was all in ‘Father Singer’ mode over here.”
“Well, I ain’t here for confession, Father. Just... some advice, maybe.”
Father Singer sighed fondly.”’s what I’m here for. Spill.”
“You know I have to fight Raphael tomorrow? For Capta―”
“You’re damn right I know, Rufus won’t shut up about it. If I weren’t a man o’ God I’d damn him myself, all his muttering about Raphael this, Winchester that. I’ll have you know he’s still picked you as his favourite, if that’s what you’re worryin’ about.”
Dean huffed, hands sliding off his face and coming to rest between his knees. “Good to know, but that ain’t gonna help me win a fight. You’ve seen the angels fight, they fight like you can actually see the power of Heaven behind them.”
“You’re in it for the greater good, angel boy’s not. Ain’t that just proof that God’s behind ya, boy? What’s the angel in it for? Power, fame, riches? He ain’t gonna get that, he’s just gettin’ a whole lotta hard work that he ain’t cut out for.”
“He won’t lose the fight.”
“You can’t be sure of that, now, can you?” Father Singer replied, his rumbly voice right up next to the wooden grill. “Just have faith, Dean. God works in―”
“Mysterious ways, yadda yadda. You just say that every time just to piss me off,” Dean snapped, a hand to his head again, massaging his temples.
“Don’t make it any less true, kid.”
“Whatever, Bobby,” Dean sighed, resigned to his fate. “Unless you actually have a suggestion, I’m gonna head out.”
“Why don’t’cha stay for a while. When was the last time you actually prayed? Like, man-to-Divinity actual prayer?”
“Does it matter? Prayin’ is between me and God, going to services every week isn’t going to force faith outta me. He knows what I think of Him.”
“Dean,” Bobby said, almost pleading. “Say a few words before you go snuggle up in bed, all right?”
Dean snorted. “Fine.” He stood up and pushed the door open, stepping into the orange candlelight of the church. “See ya, Bobby,” he said, quietly. He just about heard a grunt in reply.
Dean went to sit in a pew near the front of the church, close to the aisle. He felt like he was fighting himself in doing so. He didn’t need the ambience, all the fancy carpet and the candles and the altar at the front. All he needed was a quiet moment every once in a while. But quiet moments were few and far between. And frankly, he didn’t have much to say to God any more.
Dean slumped down and leant his forearms on the pew in front of him. “Uh,” he started, eyes on the golden decorations all over the walls in front of him. Dean lowered his eyelids, shutting out the orange glow, clasping his hands together. Was this really necessary?
“Hey, um, big guy. It’s been a while. Maybe longer than we’d both hoped.” Dean swallowed, looking down at his loosely held hands. They were somewhere between worn, and well-cared for. State of his life, really.
“I guess I should start with, uh, thanks. Thank you for not lettin’ me mess everything up completely. And for Gabe and Anna - and Balthazar - but that’s probably stretching it a bit. Thanks for making my life less crap than everyone else’s.”
Dean took a deep, deep breath, looking around at other people in the pews as he did so. There was nobody in his aisle, but a few rows back there was a balding monk with rosary beads threading through his hands. Dean turned back and pursed his lips. “And thanks for Cas. He’s one of your kids or something, right? Well, he’s - uh - he’s kinda awesome. I guess he’s been a blessing, or somethin’. Too much?” he added, with a questioning glance to the ceiling. “Ah, whatever. If it’s all right by you, I’d...” Dean trailed off, not sure what to add next. He chewed his bottom lip, wringing his hands gently.
“So there’s this fight tomorrow, and I’m not ready,” he said. “What I wanted to pray for, was help. For that. If that’s okay. I know you help people who help themselves, and all that,” he said, trying very hard not to roll his eyes mockingly, “but I’m probably about as ready as I’ll ever be, to tell the truth. I want to ask... that all of that blows over okay.” He swallowed again. “That’s it. That’s all I had to say.”
Dean unclasped his hands and nodded his head. “All right, I’ll be going then. Get some rest.” Dean twitched in his seat. “Uh, I mean me, not you. I’m getting rest. You could have rest if you wanted, but that wasn’t what I―”
Dean stood up. “You know what, I’m just gonna go. Bye. Nice talking.”
And he left the church, hand gripped on his sword, taking long, fast, uncomfortable strides right up to the exit.
~
Unsurprisingly, Dean tossed and turned all night. His mind just wouldn’t shut up. You’re going to lose, it said. Think what life will be like with Raphael as your Captain.
Dean would rather not think about it, but he couldn’t help it. Raphael wouldn’t train them as a group, so much as train the angels how to best terrorise human beings. Dean had no clue what Raphael was like when he had been a proper angel in Heaven, but down here on Earth? He was one seriously nasty bastard.
Dean eventually fell into a nightmarish fever dream that had him writhing under the covers, stomach clenched. He woke with a start, absolutely sure that his gut had been impaled with a sword. It took a few seconds of desperate grappling under his sweat-damp shirt before he realised he’d been dreaming.
Sunlight poured through his lead-lined windows, and he groaned, collapsing back onto his bed, kicking his tangled sheets away. He ran a sticky hand down his face, feeling grit dragged from his eyes.
He could feel his stomach twisting, remnants of his dream still haunting him, apprehension about today’s confrontation. Then he felt another twist when he remembered that Castiel had asked to see him before his fight. This twist was less unpleasant. In fact it wasn’t unpleasant at all. Dean almost felt better about his fight.
Keyword: almost.
Dean got up, dressed, washed. He even tried stretching, to ease the discomfort that was building in his lower back. He was vaguely impressed with the fact that he could reach his toes, but that was as cheerful as he got before he left his rooms.
He forewent breakfast, since he was certain that should he manage to keep his meal down (which was likely, since he wasn't one to pass on good food), it would, at best, make him feel very unwell and weigh him down as he tried to dodge Raphael's swift sword.
He trudged down to the ground floor of the castle. Sometimes he thought there were too many stairs between his quarters and the rest of the world. Under attack, Dean would have to leave his room, walk (or run) down a corridor, three flights of stairs, across an open courtyard with a pond in the middle - then finally into the central entrance of the castle, where he could leave by a side door. It would be quicker to climb out of the window, which is precisely the reason Dean kept a length of rope under his curtain ties.
Dean drew in a long breath as he met the chilly air of morning; the sunlight was cooler today than it had been the previous days. A mist was just rolling off the distant mountains, wispy and pale yellow in the early sun’s rays. Dean figured it was probably about seven o’clock.
Dean liked springtime. It seemed refreshing, like a wash of clarity after the dull ice and grey haze of winter. The brush of green that covered the trees around the castle, he liked that too. Green was his favourite colour. The colour of life and newness, of a new start.
He strode down to the servant’s entrance, where Castiel had instructed him to meet him. He hadn’t specified a time, just ‘morning’. Well, this was the morning, Dean thought. He had nothing better to do. He was too nervous to practise with a punchbag, or to rouse Gabriel from an undoubtedly drunken stupor, and ask him to help him destroy something. He was hoping he’d get through his final confrontation with Raphael by pure adrenaline.
Instead, he sat on the three white steps that led up to an arched wooden door, sunken and well-worn down underneath his backside. Nobody came in or out through the door - he knew it wasn’t too early; servants were up and about all hours of the day and night. This entrance was mostly unused.
Dean only knew where this entrance was because he spent so much of his time sneaking around, trying to avoid people. Fellow Guardsmen, clergymen, various people who had a bone to pick with him for few reasons that he could fathom. He knew, certainly, that should he make Captain - however unlikely - that sneaking had to stop. He had to be an upstanding citizen. And actually make appearances at the celebratory dinners.
After a good few minutes, Dean’s fingers began to chill, and he couldn’t feel his feet as much as he’d like to. He stood and paced. He could be here for hours, as far as he knew. He began to swing his sword in front of him, swishing in figure-of-eights, jabbing at invisible enemies.
Maybe Castiel had been watching him, somehow, because it was only a minute more before the fallen angel burst through the door, one hand on the black ring handle.
He was wearing white again, and Dean had almost forgotten how out of place Castiel looked in such a pale colour. It was like the clothes were wearing him, not the other way around.
“Dean, you’re here,” Castiel said, in a gratified tone of voice. “Please, come inside.” And he held the door open for Dean, stepping out onto the small set of stairs to let Dean pass.
Dean sheathed his sword and smiled, walking inside the archway and coming to stand in a tiny alcove, another unlit staircase leaning in a spiral upward. Dean knew it led to a hallway that the servants used to cart supplies about; bedding and hot water - things for the bedrooms.
“So, what was it you wanted to see me about? Important?” he asked, taking the lead and heading up the spiral, two steps at a time because the steps were quite shallow.
“Perhaps. I have something for you. I think you might like it.”
Dean turned to glance behind him as he climbed; they were halfway up now. “A gift?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t have to, Cas.”
“I know that.”
Dean didn’t say anything more, but reached the top of the stairs and pushed open the door at the top, gently, so it didn’t squeak.
“Follow me,” Castiel whispered, voice hushed. There was nobody about, but sound would carry, since these staircases and corridors went almost everywhere on this side of the castle. The High Priestess’ rooms were in this section, if Dean wasn’t mistaken.
“Do you hang out here often?” Dean asked, a step behind Castiel. The corridor was narrow, only enough space for perhaps one person and a trolley of supplies. Castiel walked purposefully and confidently, like he knew this place well. Better than Dean, in any case.
“These are the passageways I use to reach your training courtyard, and the library. They’re far more efficient than the ones the Priestess uses, if somewhat less cheerful.”
Indeed, Dean was used to far more draperies adorning the walls, more space, and more light. There seemed to not be a single window in this place, only candles in the walls above their heads. The musty candle smell was masked by the smell of damp, but Dean hardly noticed. Trailing behind Castiel, he could detect a whiff of the perfume he’d bought the angel.
Dean smiled, and tried to breathe in as quietly and subtly as possible. It was an incomparable scent, and Dean couldn't possibly imagine what Cassie had made the perfume out of. It was headier than a thunderstorm, a sharper tang than a foreign fruit - redder than blood, a deeper blue than the bottom of the ocean, a brighter light than the sun. It was completely unplaceable.
Dean swallowed and tried to pull his head out of the pool of colours. Castiel turned corners and opened and closed doors ahead of Dean. It occurred to Dean that he would be lost by now, if he were on his own. And the walls were close enough, and the tunnels were long enough, that he’d be panicking.
But now, he felt no fear, not with an angel by his side. One he could trust. He had no idea what it was, but Castiel was... something new.
They passed several servants, young women, carrying towels and dirty linen. It was a squeeze as they pushed past; Dean and Castiel pressed themselves against the wall. Dean only winked at two of them, but the others were quite likely older than himself, so he didn’t feel he was missing out on too much. Both winks got a giggle from each girl, and a squint from Castiel, so Dean counted that as successful.
“Are we there yet?” Dean queried, fingertips brushing the wooden planks of the wall as they turned another corner. “Where are you even taking me?”
“I’m taking you to my chambers.”
“Seriously? No offence, Cas, but you should buy me a drink first.”
Castiel turned to look back at Dean, still walking, his expression fascinated. “I have wine in my rooms if you want some, but I don’t recommend that you attend your competition while inebriated.”
Dean chuckled. “That wasn’t quite what I meant.”
“If I’m not mistaken, you meant the statement as a flirtation.”
Dean almost choked. “Uh - I, I mean, not at you, as much as, um, like, in the general direction of, uh...”
“I take no offence, Dean.”
Dean sucked in a breath and tried to pretend this conversation never happened. Literal angels were, to say the least, very literal.
Finally, Castiel muttered an “excuse us” to a passing chimney boy, then turned out of the hallway and into a proper passageway, with windows and thin red carpet in the centre of the polished floor. Dean felt like he could breathe again. The smell of perfume was less pronounced, though, and he found himself missing it. But he did nothing about it, having embarrassed himself enough for now.
Still Dean followed the angel, leading the way in and out of sun spots along the corridor, each elongated arch broken by lines of lead patterns. They came to a double-doored archway, black hinges holding each door to the wall. Castiel pulled the doors open with both hands, nodding to a passing washerwoman. Dean was surprised to find, impossibly, yet another corridor.
The last one, thankfully. This one was deserted save himself and Castiel’s dark hair bobbing in front of him. One final set of doors, and Dean walked into a different world.
White cloth was draped everywhere, as decoration, from the ceiling to the floor, on every wall like tapestries. The floorboards seemed to be washed and scrubbed until they were pale and naked; Dean could hardly hear his footsteps on the softened wood. Chandeliers hung loosely from the drapes of sheets from above, the candles in them brand new and unlit. In any case, if the chandeliers were lit, the sheets would catch fire as they were hung so close together.
A slender four-poster bed was the centrepiece of the room, and like all the furniture, it was ornately carved from white wood. The silk drapes around it were bathed in morning sun bouncing off the mountain mist in the distance. The room was facing the wrong direction to get direct sunlight in the morning, but it was bright. Very bright. The window on one side was curved, diamonds of glass affixed into a semi-circle all across one wall. The whole room was twice as large as Dean’s own.
Dean’s first impression - aside from drowning in cloth - was how incredibly icy cold it was. Not only the air in the room, which was almost undisturbed - but this room was distinctly unloved and unused, despite its peculiar elegance.
“Are you sure this is the right room?” Dean asked. He wasn’t sure if he should be doing anything other than standing and not touching anything, because that was what Castiel was doing, a couple of feet away, opposite him.
“This is where the Priestess meets me when she sees me. As far as she is concerned, this is my home.”
“You... live here?”
“Almost never. I only sleep here, and only then when I’m not in the library or the garret.”
Dean was having a hard time grasping his reasoning. “Why did you bring me here?”
Castiel glanced down, drawing in a short breath. He turned and reached under the pressed white linen of the bedcovers. “To give you this,” he said, placing a sword in Dean’s hand.
Dean took it, feeling the fine leather of the scabbard smooth in his hand, the tip of it intricately detailed with what looked like gold. He took the hilt in his hand, admiring the blood-red leather wrapped around the grip, and the circular ruby set in the pommel, encased by a globe of gold.
Dean pulled the sword from the scabbard, his mind momentarily lost in a slow, sweet reverie. The metal whistled sharp as he drew it, silver glinting in the white of the room.
The sword design was a blend of sturdy and delicate features, a mixture Dean had never seen in a weapon before. It was beautiful.
He got the feeling he was the intended owner of this sword. It was made specifically for his hand. The blade was shorter than his usual sword, the cross-guard a little slimmer; but it was... perfect.
“Where did you get this?”
“I made it.”
Dean gawked. “Y- you...”
“Last night. After you left, I realised what you needed. And from what I understand about humans, I felt obliged to give you something I was capable of giving you, if it would help you succeed.”
“You want me to use this in the fight today? For Captain?”
“That was the intention, yes.”
“Cas, I only have a few hours. It’s beautiful and perfect and yeah, but I can’t go into a fight with a new sword that I’ve never practised with. It’s madness.”
“You don’t need to practise, just trust me. You’ll win the fight.”
“Cas―”
“Please, Dean.”
Dean looked at those stupid blue eyes of his, and that stupid pleading pathetic look, and crumbled. “Whatever, man. I’m going to lose anyway, might as well do it in style.” He gave Castiel a warm smile. “Thanks, Cas. ‘s pretty neat.”
“I am proud of it, yes,” Castiel said, half-smiling. He stepped closer to Dean and caressed the blade, fingertips running gently down the edge, as if memorising the way it was slightly thinner toward the hilt than the tip, and the flawless outward curve between the two, like a woman’s hips. Dean held the sword up and watched Castiel’s slim hands touch his weapon. He swallowed.
“Now, come on,” Castiel said, lightly, “I have the rest of the castle to show you.”
Dean almost laughed. “Cas, you gotta be kidding me. I have crap to do, I can’t goof off with you,” he said, shaking his head.
“Dean, please stop worrying. Everything will be fine.” He looked at Dean with that intense, vaguely inappropriate stare of his, and Dean was so very close to believing him.
“Don’t do that to me, all right?” Dean retorted, shaking himself out of the light grip he realised Castiel had put on his arm. “Don’t use your mojo on me.”
“How could you better use your time, Dean? Answer me that. What could you possibly do that would make you feel any less nervous than you are now?”
Dean ground his teeth and glared back at the angel. “What could you possibly show me that would make me less nervous?”
Castiel smiled a slow smile, eyes glimmering. “I want to show you the garret.”
“The... what?”
Castiel took hold of Dean’s elbow again, pulling him out of his quarters, leaving the inundation of white cloth behind and closing the door behind them. “It’s the top corridor of the castle, nobody uses it because it’s falling apart.”
“So why do you go up there?”
“Because it’s quiet.”
Dean followed a step behind Castiel again, but this time through the main hallways of the castle. More people were awake now; Dean didn’t know who they were or what their job was in the citadel, but they were always around, and far better dressed than himself.
He and Castiel seemed to be zig-zagging along pathways, along a corridor, up a staircase, then back through another corridor - not always in the same direction. Dean’s own memory couldn’t compare with how Castiel knew where every turning led, but he supposed being inside for six years had something to do with it.
Castiel was rushing, Dean noticed. Every few steps he had to skip a little to catch up; other people passed in the other direction with a waft of moving air. He didn’t recognise where they were, and he was panting lightly. They were in the sunny half of the castle again, and it was warming up as the sun broke through the morning mist.
Eventually Castiel slowed, and they were in a greyer, dustier corner of a hallway. Dean even fancied that it had been boarded up at some point. The staircase they took upward was drenched in a stale shadow. They emerged, turning one last corner onto the landing: a corridor exactly the same as all the others, but pale, like a ghost.
It stretched out before the man and the angel, long and straight, with two doors off to the right. At the end, it turned the corner, and Dean knew it went all the way around the sides of the rooms, the same as every floor in this part of the castle.
All along the left were the tall lead-patterned windows, sunlight streaming in straight onto the carpet. On all the other levels, the carpet was royal red, rolled out right down the middle of the passage with a foot of bare floorboard either side, up to the wall. Here, the carpet was greyed, ripped; the floorboards stained and so thick in dust that Dean couldn’t tell one wooden slat from the next. A thick block of a windowsill was set all the way down the corridor, the height of Dean’s chest.
Like Castiel said, it was quiet. Deathly quiet.
“I come here when I want to be alone,” Castiel said, his voice low. It sounded too big in such a quiet place, but it didn’t echo. It almost seemed like Castiel’s voice was right in Dean’s ear.
“Then why did you bring me here?” Dean asked. Castiel was apparently prone to taking Dean to places he had no sensible reason to be.
“Because I want to be alone, with you.”
It seemed so simple when he put it like that, Dean figured.
They took up residence on the floor, since there was no furniture to be seen. Dean sat with his back to the wall, trying not to disturb the dust too much when he sat and crossed his legs in front of him. He lay his new sword across his lap, one hand over it protectively. The leather of the scabbard was warm in his hand, and he liked it.
“Usually I look out of the window,” Castiel said, kneeling opposite him on the threadbare carpet, not caring that his hands sank into the dust and pulled up tiny swirling swarms of particles. The motes danced in the sunlight, gradually floating out of the sunbeams and vanishing. “Sometimes I just sit and think.”
“You’re really weird, you know that?” Dean asked him, one corner of his mouth pulled upward.
Castiel frowned. Dean’s grin widened, because it was an actual frown.
“It’s not a bad thing, Cas. You’re interesting enough to be around,” he added, nudging at Castiel’s knee with the tip of his boot.
Castiel tilted his head a fraction. “As are you.”
Dean sucked on the inside of his lip, glancing around them at the empty, quiet space. “Was there actually anything you wanted to say, or are we just... sitting?” Dean was not accustomed to not doing anything. Usually he was training, or sleeping, eating - or socialising (that is, when he couldn’t avoid it any longer). Sitting down and just thinking was not something he thought he was actually capable of. He hadn’t done that for a very long time.
“Do you wish to talk?” Castiel asked him, head tilting again. He looked a bit like an overly-inquisitive bird.
Dean locked eyes with the other man and realised Castiel was going to stare at him until he answered. “Yeah.” And then he looked down, wetting his lips. The staring made his stomach feel too tight.
“About anything in particular, or―?”
“Just―” Dean interrupted, “Just talk. Anything.”
Castiel looked down the hallway, at the stripes of sun crossing the carpet all the way down. “I can tell you the story of how the angels fell. Unless Gabriel or one of the others told you already, you won’t have heard this part of the tale. I don’t think many humans know.”
Dean leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his knees. Castiel’s eyes were glistening golden in the sunlight; he seemed unaffected by how bright it was. “Tell me,” Dean prompted.
Castiel inhaled, like he was bracing himself. “We don’t remember what it was like to be angels, but we all know the power we still have. We know how marginal it all is now, compared to how we were in Heaven. We are far more powerful than humans.”
Dean huffed, shifting to get more comfortable. The dust was going to rub into his clothes, he realised. He couldn’t bring himself to care.
“When we fell,” Castiel continued, blinking, “it was like something was ripped out of us. It hurt. It...” Castiel parted his lips and dragged in a long breath. “It hurt like hell.”
Dean pressed his lips together, hoping Castiel picked up on his sympathetic expression. Castiel glanced up and caught Dean’s eye, and held it as he spoke again:
“Priestess Masters. She rode out to the Hellmouth - that’s what we call the field that we all fell to. It must be somewhere near the edge of the city, I barely remember. We… we were like empty, lost souls, tangled together. The Priestess caught us and separated us, as individual entities. She gave us all bodies, the bodies of dying people, willingly given. It took weeks before all of us owned a vessel.”
Castiel swallowed and cast his eyes to Dean’s chest, where the Guard insignia was pressed into the leather, raised edges and hollows that made up the Masters crest.
“She made us a deal: we fight for the city, protect it against enemies for all the years we live. In return, she grants us safety from the humans, she would make sure there was no fear, from either side. We live in symbiosis of safety, and we, as refugees, pay back the kindness in her rescue. We saw nothing wrong with that, so we took the deal. At the time we had no idea what our powers inside human vessels were like. We had no memories, we were like children.”
“I remember the next part,” Dean added, nodding unhurriedly. “I’d just made the Guard, just passed advanced training. I fought beside the new angels. You were all... really friggin’ good. Just saying,” he muttered, as Castiel narrowed his eyes at him. “Your brothers and sisters. Or whatever they are. They were good fighters.”
“Angels are soldiers, it was a natural gift.”
“Like your powers.”
Castiel nodded, sliding his hands into his lap and clasping them together with a wave of dust following. “I was kept apart from my brothers, I watched them learning and developing their skills as fighters. I watched how you taught them, and how Rufus Turner taught them.”
Dean couldn’t fight down his question any longer. “Did you ever get jealous?”
Castiel stared at a patch of carpet for some time, pondering. “Emotion was harder for me to grasp, I think. I had limited contact with other angels, other humans. Jealousy is something that eventually surfaced, yes.”
Dean just looked at him. He tried not to pity him, because the resulting personality in Castiel needed no such pity. He was still as intelligent and developed as his brethren, perhaps in a better way. He had never needed to know the driving anger that was behind the Guard training, or the bitterness that led to Raphael and some of the others being as cruel as they often were.
Castiel focused his eyes on Dean’s chest again, gaze wavering over his heart. “We owe the Priestess our lives. She is the reason we dwell in the city, why we fight for her and her city’s people. Without her we would have swum endlessly in that field, our power useless and our lives meaningless.”
“What meaning do you have now? What purpose?” Dean hadn’t meant to sound so blunt, but something about the story didn’t seem to sit right. “The others wait for a battle to fight, but what do you do?”
Castiel furrowed his brow, lower lip pressed upward like he was trying to stop it quivering. “I have no purpose.”
Dean then felt the pity wash over him like a bucket of water. He could feel the muscles in his eyes rounding, he knew how he must look to Castiel now: like his heart was breaking for him.
“Except today,” Castiel continued, turning his head up and looking Dean in the eye again. His voice was firm, no longer as wavering as it had been a moment before. “Last night, my purpose was to make your sword. Today, my purpose is to prepare you for your competition. It is my intention that you win against Raphael; you are a much better teacher. Raphael has nothing to teach except his own faulted morals.”
“Yeah, buddy,” Dean said, his grin back on his face. “So, what’re we waiting for?” he asked, attempting to leap to his feet (and instead, wobbling to his feet). He tied his new sword to his belt, pleased at the strength of the leather tie. “We still have to prepare Chevy, get her all prettied up. And polish my helmet, and get my good armour out. The Priestess is gonna be there, there’s a ceremony for the winner,” he said, helping Castiel to his feet. The angel didn’t want to let go of Dean’s hand when he was standing again, and Dean had to shake him off. “You’re coming, right?”
“To the ceremony?”
“To the fight. I wouldn’t bother turning up to the ceremony, but there’s gonna be speeches and crap, and as a good sport, the loser’s gotta take a second blow, right?”
“You won’t lose, Dean,” Castiel repeated. “And I will be watching the fight from my window.”
“All the way up there?”
“It has a better view.” Castiel dusted off his legs, grey dust in patches on his white trousers. It showed up even more clearly on Dean’s black, but he was getting changed later anyway.
Dean raised his eyebrows a slight, then led the way back to the staircase leading down. He turned and gave the corridor one final sweep with his gaze, enjoying the torrent of dust that had flooded the lines of sun, making luminescent blocks all the way down the passage, right to where they’d been sitting. Castiel passed him and exited first. Dean followed.
One day, he would be able to find this place without getting lost, he decided.
~
The real armoury was nothing like the training armoury. The breastplates in here were kept on person-shaped wooden stands, even if thick leather would never crumple. The swords were pinned side-by-side along one wall, always polished to a shine. Axes and daggers were hung artfully in rows across the back stone wall, the light touching the sharp edges and rebounding in semi-circles all across the opposite side. The ceiling was quite low, and it smelt musty, as this room was rarely used except for when servants came in to clean.
Dean held the door open for Castiel, shivering even in the sunlight through the narrow windows around the top of the room. He was getting more nervous by the second. They only had twenty minutes. Twenty minutes before Dean had to be in the training courtyard, on his horse, ready for a showdown.
Dean had to grab Castiel by the arm to stop him from wandering off and looking at all the shiny pointy things. They didn’t have time for wonderment.
Dean gathered up his formal armour - twice as thick as his usual second skin. The Guard crest was emblazoned front and centre, the grooves filled with white paint. Castiel watched from his side, and Dean knew he noticed how his hands were shaking. Castiel said nothing about it, however.
Dumping everything he needed on the empty table, Castiel reached forward to help him before Dean knew what he was putting on first. Castiel started with the chainmail, then the breastplate, slipping it over Dean’s head when he obediently raised his arms. Dean swallowed endlessly, gulping down his nerves, as Castiel buckled up the sides. His nimble hands worked quickly and efficiently, pulling the ties tight enough that even a well-aimed sword could not find a gap to penetrate.
“You know I have servants for this,” Dean muttered, a shaky smile on his lips. He was unaccustomed to the bulkiness of this leather, and it felt too high on his neck once Castiel added the second part that protected his throat.
“Your servants aren’t here,” Castiel observed. “Luckily for you, I’m well versed on this type of armour.”
Castiel had to hold Dean’s hands still as he put his gauntlets on for him. There was a river of metal plates that flowed out from the knuckles of his hand, and Dean flexed his fist and watched them curl.
Castiel stood in front of him, straightening after putting the leg plates on for Dean over his shaking boots. Dean knew Castiel was doing it all in the wrong order, but it was shaping up fine, and he wasn’t really in any state to do it himself.
“Thanks, Cas,” Dean whispered, eyes focused on the straight line of Castiel’s dry lips.
“Your visor,” Castiel added, turning and fetching it off the table. “I don’t think anyone could tell that it’s not been polished,” he said with a minuscule smile. “I’ll carry it for you.”
Dean nodded, eyes closed. He wrapped a hand around the hilt of his sword. It made him feel better, the way he could feel the facets in the ruby, the gold cage that sat around it, the solid shape of the pommel under his thumb.
Castiel nodded for them to leave, to collect Chevy from outside and make their way to their arena. They had not even taken two steps forward, before the door to the armoury swung open, and Raphael stepped in with a couple of manservants at his heel.
Dean stopped in his tracks, hand gripped tight on his sword, ready to draw it from the scabbard.
“Dean,” Castiel warned.
“Oh, I see the bird has escaped from its cage,” Raphael said to Castiel, ignoring Dean. “And what a fancy flight this is,” he continued, his servants slipping armour on him as he spoke, raising his arms to either side for them to reach the buckles. “I hope you won’t bruise your wings, brother. I’m sure they were meant for something truly beautiful.”
Castiel seemed to be oblivious to the sneer in Raphael’s voice, because he replied, “I appreciate the sentiment, Raphael. But I’m only here to help Dean prepare. I’m not fighting.”
“No, no. I see that, too.” Raphael smirked. “You were never meant for anything quite as real as a fight, were you, Castiel?”
Dean’s stomach turned as Raphael said Castiel’s name, like the word itself were a mockery. It sounded like it was spoken wrong, like Raphael had said the wrong name. Everything about it just sounded plain wrong.
“He was meant for a lot of things,” Dean said, and he realised his voice was much stronger than he’d meant it to be. He pulled the tone down a little as he added, “Fighting just ain’t one of them. Doesn’t mean he’s not as real a person as you or me.”
“Winchester,” Raphael said, tonelessly. There was a long pause as the last of his armour was buckled up and he took his sword in hand, rattling it and shifting its balance in his hand. “I hope for a good fight today. If you are as good an opponent in a fight as you are a defendant of this worthless creature, you might just have some hope. As is,” he said, looking down at the hilt of his sword, testing its weight, “you don’t have a chance in Hell.” And he grinned, white teeth a crescent of malice in his dark-skinned face.
Raphael swept out of the armoury with his young servants in tow, the shorter of the two closing the door behind him. Dean took in a long, deep breath, feeling his chest straining against his armour.
“I’ll show him chance in Hell.” And with that, Dean marched out the door, Castiel following a second or two behind.
~
“Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap,” Dean muttered, not taking a breath until his train of curses ran empty.
Castiel tried to look him in the eye but Dean’s focus wouldn’t settle. “Stay calm, Dean. Let your instincts guide you.”
“Crapcrapcrapcrap,” Dean said in reply, grip on his sword so tight that his fingers were going numb inside his armoured gloves.
“Here, take your helmet. Just ignore the crowd,” Castiel soothed. Dean’s hands were shaking so much that he nearly dropped the helmet, before Castiel removed it from his trembling grip.
People cheered around the corner, the occasional passer-by staring at Dean as they stood in the tiny vine-covered courtyard, Chevy to Dean’s left. She was decorated in finery - most of which Dean thought was both irrelevant and dangerous, as it dangled around her legs and was liable to trip her up. But it was fancy, and fancy was what today needed. This was as much as a stage show as it was a competition.
“I think they’re waiting for you now,” Castiel said gently, as chants and cheers started up from the swarm of people in the training arena.
“Crapcrapcrap,” Dean whispered, hoarse.
“Here,” Castiel offered, slipping Dean’s helmet over his head, visor still up so Dean could see him clearly. “You are not going to lose.”
“Y- yeah, well,” Dean stuttered, swallowing.
Castiel stared at him, then leaned forward and pressed his lips to the cheek of Dean’s helmet, a kiss to metal.
“What was that for?” Dean asked, eyes wide.
“For luck.”
Dean suddenly had about six different replies, but his throat was too tight to say even one of them. He nodded shakily, then turned to pull his horse through to the arena. Castiel followed at Chevy’s flank, and Dean could feel his presence all the way through the archway and into the throng of the crowd. As pats began to rain on his back, cheering drowning his ears, recognising faces of other Guardsmen - friend and foe alike - he lost his rein on Castiel’s whereabouts, and when he turned around to mount his horse, the angel was gone.
Dean tried his best to remember to breathe, riding through the sea of people and to one end of the arena. The High Priestess sat back on her temporary throne to his left, in a white, flowing dress, her advisors and servants in a small formation at her side.
Raphael stared Dean down on a chestnut horse from the other end of the courtyard, people around them in a massive circle, waving coloured banners - black, red, white. The black ones were for Dean, the red for Raphael. The white were neutral, but there were so few of those. Dean couldn’t see clearly enough through slightly blurred vision, to see if there was more red or black. It all turned into a wash of brown, the cheers muffled and tinny in his helmet.
Raphael’s horse was growing restless, heavy feet lifting and pawing at the dirt.
Dean zoned everything out; concentrated on breathing in, breathing out. His lips narrowed to a small ‘o’, one hand absently petting Chevy’s shoulder, the other fondling the hilt of his sword, fingers stretching and curling, ready to pull it to attack.
When the signal came, a sudden jolt of noise - Dean wasn’t ready. Raphael was already charging him down, horse kicked into a gallop. Dean flicked down his visor, realising he’d automatically drawn his sword. He nudged Chevy into a trot, then another nudge and she began to run, sand kicking up under her hooves as she pelted down the fighting line.
Sword out, Dean readied himself for the first blow; Raphael’s sword was slimmer and longer, the point of it aimed directly at Dean’s chest. So much for letting your opponent live, Dean was sure he’d be a bloody corpse by the end of this. His heart was pounding, he could feel it swimming in his throat.
Here it comes.
Dean swerved Raphael’s sword with a practiced ease, his own blade swiping at the fallen angel’s side, catching on a buckle and sending it blazing into the audience with a glimmering line of silver. Dean barely registered the cheer that went up behind him, as he rounded his horse at the other end of the arena, turning back to face his challenger.
Raphael’s horse seemed to be channelling its rider’s anger; it snorted and toed the dirt as it swerved back to face Dean. He felt nothing but the thud of Chevy’s hoofbeats on the ground and the pounding of his saddle underneath him, the red horse coming up to meet them a second time.
Dean swung his sword and he heard it whistle as it cut the air, connecting with Raphael’s thigh with a fleshy slice. Raphael’s sword, in the same moment, stabbed sharp into Dean’s shoulder, and Dean felt his sword arm drop weakly, the force of the blow running up and down his whole arm like it had been wrenched off and he could still feel its ghost.
He turned at the end of the arena, the crowd taking a few steps back to allow for Chevy’s huge hooves and swish of her tail. In a moment’s glance, Dean’s eyes flicked to his right, up to the window Castiel had dived out of only a few days before. There was the angel now, perched on the ledge with his bare feet dangling over the edge, braced on the outside stone.
Castiel was watching over him, and Dean felt braver.
Raphael charged again, and Dean was already two steps ahead, his horse faster and stronger. For a third time, their swords met halfway down the arena, another cheer rising from the crowd. Nobody was touched this time, but Dean knew his fighting arm was compromised; his strike had not been as forceful as he’d meant it to be.
Again. Raphael dropped his sword to Dean’s injured shoulder with a heavy movement before Dean could even swipe at him. His nerves trembled, up and down his arm, pain folding him over in half, face burying in Chevy’s coarse black mane. He grunted, visor slipping back - no, wait, his helmet. His helmet slipped from his shoulders and with a slow glint of metal, he saw it fall from the side of his horse.
His head was unprotected, and Raphael was coming at him once more. Dean felt a wave of dread wash upon him. With his left hand, Dean turned Chevy, her hooves slower this time, like she knew Dean wasn’t good for this round. “Come on, baby. We gotta - we gotta...”
She took the hint and jumped straight into a gallop, launching herself toward Dean’s assailant. It only took Raphael one last blow before Dean was sliding from his saddle, landing on his knees in the dust. He crawled to his feet, turning with his sword arm cradled in his other hand.
Raphael dismounted some way from Dean, walking swiftly through the white dust, kicking it up in the breeze like a child would. Like he knew how much his flippancy was causing Dean to lose his resolve. Dean’s knees were trembling, but it was likely undetectable through his armour.
The crowd were chanting, clapping, stamping their feet. Raphael was so close now, Dean could see the blaze of his eyes through his visor. Raphael raised his sword to attack Dean, who couldn’t do the same. And then―
Chevy placed herself between Raphael and Dean, hooves stomping up the dust. Dean could feel her footfalls under his own feet, thudding through his boots, up through the sand. Raphael gave a frenetic laugh, and before Dean could make any move at all, Raphael swiped his sword at her knees, and she screamed.
Dean had never felt such impassioned fury in his life. He walked right around his fallen horse, blade raised, not feeling the pain of his injury. He swiped at Raphael, at his neck, his loosened side buckled, at his hips. Raphael stabbed back, Dean parried easily, driving the angel back, forcing his feet as he forced his sword.
“Nobody - fucking - hurts - my - horse,” Dean seethed, never stopping his attack. It felt like his sword was flying through the air, weightless, like it was guiding his arm. The power it drove at Raphael was flowing down his arm and charging his every footstep; he could see the fear in Raphael’s eyes.
Dean wanted to laugh but his horse’s pain still was heavy as a stone inside him, and he kept on fighting. It was a second before he realised it wasn’t his horse’s pain he was feeling, but his own.
His stomach was twisted like a knot, tight, then elongated, like it was being stretched. His ribs were cracking in his armour, his heartbeat was rough and uneven. Blood began to pour from his mouth, bitter and metallic. He stopped fighting and fell to his knees - he had no choice; he was dying.
“You are no match for an angel, Dean Winchester,” Raphael told him, removing his helmet and turning it to the ground. Dean watched it fall and realised Raphael was doing this to him. The angel’s hand was twisting around, with his fingers curled like claws.
Dean could feel the claws inside him, cutting through flesh. He spluttered, a splash of blood running down his chin and dripping on his armoured hands, turning the silver to a liquid red. Tears filled his eyes, helplessly.
Raphael looked down at him, like he looked down on everyone. “You are no match for me.”
Dean’s grip tightened on the sword Castiel had given him. Have faith, Dean. God works in mysterious ways.
Dean stood up. He had no idea how he managed it - and by the look on Raphael’s face, he had no idea either. Dean raised his fist with the sword, and dragged it down through the air, pain rushing through him, but it was too much to scream. He could hardly see through the agony, tears blinding, spasms racking his whole body as everything trembled.
His arm was moving, he could feel it moving, he could feel it hitting its target. Leather, metal, skin, it cut through after each blow, hacking with some unknown magic that seemed to have possessed Dean’s sword. He just followed its movement, let it guide his footsteps.
He heard the screams of the crowd, encouragement or fear, he wasn’t sure. All he felt was pain and the drive to win, the internal plea not to die just yet, please.
Finally his vision cleared a little, and he knew he could stop. Raphael’s arm was raised against him in defence, ready to hold off one more blow. His was on his knees in the dust, blood splatter on his face, darker red soaking into the red of his armour-covering. Dean let his sword fall to the floor, the pain so intense he could no longer feel it. He dropped to his knees, then fell back flat on his back, legs sprawling to the side. Through his blinking eyes, he saw the sky, white, grey, and blue, the sun shining weakly on his face.
He felt death coming down on him like a cloak, like a warm blanket - like peace.
~
“Anna! Anna, is he all right?”
“I got the worst of it, I think he’ll be fine - give him some air, dammit, move them back!”
“All right, all right! Everyone back! Back!” Gabriel shouted, turned away from Dean’s supine form. Dean groaned.
“Oh, there we go. Hey, Dean!” called Anna softly, her red hair falling in his face. Her arms were around his head, cradling him.
“Am I dead?”
“Not quite. You’ve got a few years left on you, I think.”
Dean groaned again and let his head fall back, exhaustion braiding every muscle in his body.
“Hey, handsome,” Gabriel said, head hovering over Anna’s and blotting out the sky. “Everyone’s talking about you.”
“I’ll bet,” Dean replied, licking blood from his lips. It was long dry, he’d been here a while. “What happened?”
“What, you missed it too?” Gabriel asked, in mock despair. Then he grinned. “You bit Raffie in the ass, that’s what. And right after he tore your guts out, too. It was awesome.”
“Mmmf,” Dean grunted, eyelids flickering. Gabriel had a habit of exaggerating. Dean’s thoughts scattered, only dwelling on how Raphael had had him so broken, so beaten. He barely remembered anything that happened after that point, it was all pain. He’d lost, he knew it.
“Baby!” He shouted suddenly, trying to sit up. “Chevy, what happened to her, is she okay, what―”
“Hey, hey, cool it!” Gabriel said, a hand on Dean’s chest, pushing him back down into Anna’s arms. “She’s fine, I fixed her. Well, most of her. She’ll be off those legs for a few days, mind.”
Dean growled. “I’m gonna kill him―”
“No need, you pretty much already did,” Anna said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “The other angels had to fix him up, he was hurt pretty bad. That’s some kick-ass sword you got there, huh?”
“What.... oh, that,” Dean muttered, feeling the hilt touching his fingertips. “Cas gave it to me.”
Anna glanced at Gabriel, and they shared a look. “Magic sword, hm?” Gabriel asked Dean.
“Oh, no, it’s just―” and then Dean paused. Magic sword. Sword forged in one night by an angel, who for whatever reason had absolute faith that Dean would win? Yeah, Dean had no idea how that one had escaped his grasp. “Um. Maybe.”
“Take it from me, Deano. You have there, in your hand, a magic sword of epic proportions. I’d keep that little factoid under wraps, if I were you.”
Dean grunted, realising he was no longer wearing gauntlets, and he could touch the ruby in the hilt with a gentle fingertip. “Noted.”
When Dean was ready to stand up, the angels manoeuvered him through the crowd of stragglers: curious people who had seen everything and were either there to see if Dean was okay, or to see how badly he was injured. As Dean was realising, they were two different things. People patted him on the back in congratulations or condolences, others poked him to watch him flinch.
Anna seemed to have healed almost all of the damage, for which Dean was very grateful. He leant his weight on her as Gabriel walked ahead, breaking the crowd and letting them walk through in his wake.
It must have cost Anna a lot of energy, Dean considered. Healing was one of the most difficult and fatiguing powers a fallen angel could use. They didn’t heal like people did; it took them a lot longer unless they used their mojo. Without mojo, Dean figured a broken bone would hole one of them up for several months, while a person could be over it in a matter of weeks. Also luckily for Dean, mojo-healing was transferable to another person.
The noise of the spectators died out as Gabriel let them to a quieter part of the castle, heading for Dean’s rooms. As they passed through, the courtyard with the fountain was bright and tranquil. Early afternoon sun was dancing on the clusters of expensive imported bulrushes, surrounding the circle of clear water. Dean blinked as they hobbled through.
“Wait,” he grunted. “Wait here for a bit. I can―” he let out a sharp breath, “I can still feel my bones shifting about.” He winced, and let Anna sit him down on the stone partition between the shaded walkway and the open square.
“You were very brave, Dean,” Anna soothed, open palm stroking his slightly bloody hair.
Dean snorted. “I was headstrong. Bravery doesn’t win every fight. I should’ve backed down when I had the chance, save everyone the trouble. Just handed over the Captaincy to Raphael and have it over with,” he said, bitterly. He almost missed the look that Anna and Gabriel shot at each other - one of confusion, then understanding, then just plain impish. From years of knowing both angels, Dean knew better than to ask.
With a (slightly painful) eye roll, Dean hefted his arm back over Anna’s shoulder and kept walking.
“The ceremony is tonight, so you’d better clean up before then,” Anna said, eyes on Gabriel as he hovered around, waiting for them. “You have a speech to make.”
“What the hell do I say in front of all those people, Anna? ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t be your Captain because I suck - here, have a crappy evil angel instead’?!”
Anna held back a laugh. “You tell them what a good sport you are, and congratulate Raphael on a good fight. The Priestess was going to have you all do that stuff right after it was over, but neither of you were in any condition to make speeches.”
“But I don’t want to make a speech,” Dean whined.
“And you don’t want to turn up covered in blood, either. I’ll run you a hot bath when we get up there, how about that? Scrub that crap off your face.”
“You make it sound so good, Anna, I could hardly say no, now, could I?” Dean replied, monotone.
Anna grinned and hefted Dean up the first flight of stairs. “Gabe! You could help!” she shouted at the other angel, who was already up the stairs and toying with the bannister, turning the gold edging into a small grass snake.
“Nah,” Gabriel said, but when Anna reached the first landing, he took Dean’s other side and together they helped him all the rest of the way to his quarters.
~
“Dean, where are your good clothes?” Anna snapped, throwing a clean shirt at Dean as he towelled off his hair. “All you have is muddy black. And...” she held up a slightly damp green shirt, festering algy and patches of dirt clumping all over it, a distasteful expression on her face, “this.”
“Oh,” Dean said, slipping the black linen over his head. “I meant to wash that.”
“Where are your servants?”
Dean screwed up his face, chewing his inner cheek. “Uh.”
“Dean,” Anna sniped, glaring. “Did you sleep with them all again?”
“It’s not my fault, they’re always around, and they’re not exactly hard on the eyes―”
“Dean, if you keep doing this, I am going to have to get you male servants.”
Dean cycled through a set range of facial expressions, before landing on the one that made him rub the back of his head awkwardly, then slip his hand down and slap it into his lap. “I’m fine without servants anyway. They get in the way.”
“Okay, really?” Anna challenged, marching over to the bed where Dean was sitting. “When was the last time these sheets were changed?”
“Uh. Last Thursday.”
“You know I know when you’re lying, right?”
Dean flared his nostrils at her and clenched his jaw annoyedly.
“And this,” she added, walking to a pile of dirty laundry. “Do you even know how to wash stuff?”
Dean opened his mouth, then thought better of his reply, and slowly shut it again.
“This,” Anna said, prodding carefully at a stack of food trays, the remains of a week’s worth of food slowly dissolving into itself. A small circle of flies buzzed around it.
“That’s Larry, the one with the bent wing,” Dean said, pointing.
Anna had a hard time making her face any more disapproving. “When are you going to find yourself a nice wife, Dean?”
“You’re seriously going to play that card with me?” he asked, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.
Anna glowered at him, tempted to hurl the dirty green shirt in his face, except then he’d have to wash said face again. She’d spent enough time trying to get the caked blood off his chin. Dean’s skin looked a bit sore now, and Dean was sure it hadn’t escaped her notice that he kept touching his shoulder where he’d been hit in his fight. She felt sorry for him, really. He was pathetic.
Anna spent some more time going through his wardrobe, looking for his dress armour. She’d seen him in it a few times, in the rare instances that he actually showed up to special occasions. He wasn’t good among large numbers of people, or doing that ‘mingling’ thing that Gabriel kept insisting he try some time. He was, truly, a lone wolf.
“Aha!” she cried, dragging a badly-folded black shape out of the back of a pile of clothes, shaking it out. It was much like his regular armour, thin enough to not be a burden, but an extra layer of protection should he need it. It was like a vest, easy to slip over his head and buckle at the sides; the collar wasn’t really practical, but on Dean it looked pleasing enough, jutting up at the back and curving around to a point under the hollow of his throat.
“Dean, come here,” Anna called, watching him get up from the side of the bed and limp over to her, bowlegs carrying his weight somewhat unevenly. “Put this on,” she said, narrowing her eyes as he winced, when he tried to lift his arms. She helped him buckle it over his shirt, standing back to admire the view.
This armour had the Guard insignia too, like his training armour, but this one was deeply embroidered with gold, shimmering slightly under the shallow dents, inside which the stitches hid.
“How do I look?”
“Not bad,” Anna muttered, knowing full well it was an understatement. Dean knew he looked even better in this get-up than usual, but Anna was not prepared to admit that. “You could’ve hung it up after last time, it’s got creases in it.”
Dean smoothed the creases down. “Good to go?”
Anna stared at his clear green eyes and nodded. “Good to go.”
~
Dean tried to hide as soon as he’d gotten into the ballroom with everyone else - he’d never found pillars quite this useful before. There were hundreds of people in here, and more arriving every minute. Dean gripped the ruby-embellished sword tightly, again calmed by the feel of it in his hand, the way it fit perfectly. Magic sword. God, he’d never get used to that.
Speech. Speech. He’d never been good with speeches. Especially the polite kind where you tell everyone how dramatically you failed at your job and how happy and honoured you are to have done so.
Basically, he was going to be lying through his teeth to congratulate Raphael on a job well done. Raphael was Captain now, and Dean was a failure. Dean was not happy about this.
Dean took deep, calming breaths, and peered around his pillar to survey the assembly of people. There was Rufus, no longer Captain as of today. He’d be handing over his ring. And possibly blessing the new guy, since he was a man of the church now, and qualified to do so.
Dean swallowed rancorously. Raphael had no right to a blessing. He hurt Chevy, and Dean was not very forgiving toward people who hurt his baby. Oh, and he almost tore Dean apart from the inside. Dean wasn’t happy about that, either.
Fancily-dressed people wandered around, mingling. There were goblets of wine being handed out, and little tidbits of food on trays. Dean craned his neck to follow a tray with his eyes, almost tempted to abandon his hiding spot for something to chew on.
In his mind, he thanked Anna profusely, for having the presence of mind to have Gabriel bring him a meal once Dean had had a wash. If he still hadn’t eaten, Dean was sure he’d be lying on the floor right now, just as close to death as he had been earlier today. Never again was he going without breakfast.
Eventually the doors to the ballroom closed, guards on each of the two arched halves. Dean risked looking out again, toward the raised platform where the High Priestess now sat, her white gown flowing out from her like a waterfall. She did look alluring, Dean mused. He’d never really looked at her much before, she was always on a stage or throne somewhere, far away from wherever Dean was.
Maybe Dean was meant to be up at the front now? Raphael was there, looking slightly battered but otherwise fine, sadly; there was Rufus, and Father Bobby, both decked out in their fancy Priest getup. Dean almost laughed. Bobby looked better in a plain brown robe and a scruffy pair of goat-wool trousers, a wine stain here and there. The white swathes of cloth that drowned his arms didn’t suit him at all.
Reluctantly, Dean inched through the sides of the crowd, vaguely hearing the muttering, mumbling comments as they talked amongst themselves. He glanced quickly at all the faces he passed, looking for at least one person he recognised. He needed someone to stare at while he made a fool of himself. By the time he was halfway to the front, he’d picked out Balthazar, who slapped Dean jovially on the back and grinned at him. Dean figured the angel hadn’t got the memo about him losing the fight spectacularly, and moved on.
He found Christian, who excused himself from a conversation to shake Dean’s hand with a neutral expression. Good enough, Dean thought. Virgil, who sneered at him. To be expected. Jody, who beamed at him from afar. Dean glanced back with a questioning expression, but she made no reply, because she was then shoved gently in the shoulder by Anna, who stood at her side. Dean sighed with relief and made his way through the burbling swarm of people to greet them.
“Evening, ladies,” Dean said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. At least his limp had eased up a bit.
“Evening, Winchester,” Jody said, a sly smile creeping up one side of her face as she clutched her goblet of wine. At a glare from Anna, she raised it to her face and seemed to be trying to drown her grin.
“You’re up in a few minutes, Dean. You ready?”
Dean flicked his eyes to Anna. “The heck do I say?”
Anna softened her gaze, shoulders slumping gently. “You fought amazingly, okay? There’s nothing to be scared of.”
“Yeah, except the thousands of people staring at me with their judgemental little eyes,” Dean snapped, snatching Anna’s goblet of wine and downing it in one. Jody stood quietly and watched him. Dean handed the goblet back with a small thrust of his hand. “Look, I’m... I’m really sorry, all right? I’m sorry I messed up.” His voice was low and he was too ashamed to look Anna in the eye. “We all have to suffer Raphael’s sick crap now, and...”
Anna placed a placating hand on Dean’s upper arm, silver eyes warm and loving. “You did fine, Dean. I didn’t want to tell you earlier, because Gabriel was having so much fun torturing you... but―”
“Hey, that’s not your secret to blab,” Gabriel interrupted, turning up with two wine goblets and hovering a tray of nibbles in front of him. Dean grabbed a goblet and drained that, too - then snatched a handful of dainty pastries and stuffed them in his mouth.
“Gabe, you should tell him,” Jody said, nodding her head sideways toward Dean. “You can’t have him going up there not knowing.”
“I sure could, you know I could,” Gabriel replied, mouth full.
“What don’t I know?” Dean asked, apprehensive, but with good reason. Last time Gabriel pulled this one on him, he was down with bull-inflicted injuries for almost a week.
“That you actually―”
“Anna!” Gabriel barked, spraying crumbs onto her formal armour. Dean watched them bounce off and onto the stone floor.
Trumpets sounded the start of the ceremony, and the High Priestess stood up to a wave of applause.
“What don’t I know?” Dean repeated, louder into Gabriel’s ear, covered by the sound of applause.
“That you won!” Gabriel shouted to Dean’s face with a jaunty grin. “You’re Captain!”
The applause continued and fuzzed in Dean’s brain as he tried to process this information. “I... what?”
The crowd died down as the High Priestess began to speak in her warbling voice, but Dean zoned it out in favour of whispering insistently to the angels and Jody, who were all smirking at him.
“When did that happen? Raphael had me, he beat me!” Dean hissed, trying to keep his head down so the Priestess didn’t see him talking over her.
“Priestess Masters didn’t think so,” Anna whispered back, leaning around Gabriel’s hovering tray to see Dean. “It was near enough a draw by the end, anyway.”
“Why’d she pick me?” Dean mumbled, frowning. His stomach was turning. He had no idea what to say to everyone before, but now? His brain was empty of everything except questions.
Anna only shrugged and straightened up, her red hair disappearing behind Gabriel’s chipmunk cheeks. Jody reached forward and tapped Dean on the back. “You have a neat horse, by the way,” she said in an undertone.
“Thanks,” Dean said, looking back with a grin at her brown bob-cut hair and motherly eyes. “She’s my baby,” he added, pride lining every syllable. Jody nodded like she understood. He really loved that horse.
“―without further ado, I present to you, our new Captain of the Guard, Dean Winchester!” the Priestess called out, beaming at her subjects. “Dean, I know you’re here! Do come up, won’t you?” she said, and Dean slowly pulled up to his full height to peer over the heads in front of him, who were looking around for the elusive Winchester man.
“Go on!” Gabriel said, shoving Dean. Dean swallowed and edged through the parting bodies in front of him, making his way to the platform. Applause began as soon as he stepped up, the Priestess’ hand warm through the black linen of his arm. He scanned her eyes and studied the dark brown hair hanging in decorative ringlets around her round face. There was gold in her hair, slim rings around thick locks. She smiled at him.
“Dean has a few words to say before we gift him his new place in the Guard, the one he so valiantly earned.” She spoke clearly out to the sea of faces that stared up at them, her voice rising and falling like a song.
Dean gulped and turned to the crowd. Raphael was glaring at him, he could feel eyes burning into his side. “I.. uh...”
“A little louder, sugar, the front row can’t quite hear you,” she said to him quietly. He could hear her smiling around her words.
Dean looked around desperately, he’d lost his friends in the masses of unknowns. There was no Balthazar, no Jody, no Anna, no Gabriel. No Cas.
He squeezed his hand around the hilt of the sword Castiel had given him, trying not to look at anyone directly. He stared at the back wall, where a huge white banner hung down, gold thread shining bright in the sunset glow from the windows.
“Um. This―” he took a deep breath and turned the volume up to full, as loud as he could be without shouting. “This is a great honour, one that, I, uh, honestly didn’t think I deserved.” He swallowed hard. He could do this all with stock phrases and a list of clichéd thank-yous, right?
“I want to thank you all for such an opportunity, an opportunity to prove myself...” Dean’s voice cracked and he trembled, but he swallowed and carried on, feeling his throat peeling itself raw with the effort of thinking and speaking at the same time. “Prove myself to all of you people here, that I am worthy of serving as Captain to the band of warriors who fight for this city, who fight to protect you all.”
Dean took a deep, steadying breath. This wasn’t going too badly, this was good. This was good. “I want to thank you for supporting us, every one of you. Thank you to Her Grace Priestess Masters,” he said, turning to her and watching her as he spoke: she smiled politely, her weight on one hip and arm across her middle to hold her elbow, a hand daintily held over her heart.
“And thank you to the rest of my Guardsmen,” Dean continued, staring out at the unrecognisable faces that stood and looked at him, and just kept looking and looking.
Oh, there was Anna, with her flame of red hair. How could he have missed that?
“Thank you Anna,” he said, smiling a slight, throwing his arm out to gesture at her warmly, “without whom I would still be lying in the middle of the arena bleeding my guts out.” For whatever reason, the assembled hordes laughed at that. Dean, while wondering why they found that funny, was pleased that they were actually listening to him.
“Um. A-and, lastly,” he began, chewing the back of his lip. “Thank you to an angel, without his help I would have surely lost. I don’t think he’s here today, but, he, uh, he helped me. A lot. Um, so, thank you Ca―”
Dean spotted Gabriel shaking his head violently, eyes wide in warning. Dean hesitated.
“Thank you Gabriel,” Dean finished, throat tight. “Uh... that - that’s it,” he said to Priestess Masters, who was already clapping. The crowd followed suit, applause filling Dean’s head again.
He was ushered to a kneel in front of the Priestess by a pleased-looking Rufus, who put his hand to his finger and slid a ring off it, twisting it over his knuckles.
The audience hushed as Rufus held the ring up in the last light of sunset. It glinted once in the final ray of orange, before the sun dropped behind the mountains and the room was plunged into a pinkish shadow.
Rufus spoke slowly, his deep voice cool and full in the gigantic hall. “I present this ring, on behalf of the Guard of Zamreer, to Dean Winchester, our new Captain.” The ring slid over the second-to-middle finger on Dean’s right hand, quite loose, but tight enough that it wouldn’t slip. Dean peered at the white band for a moment, still warm from Rufus’ finger. Then he stood, to another round of applause.
Quietly, Rufus spoke again, only to Dean: “I couldn’t imagine anyone better for this, Winchester. Bear it well and prove me right.” Dean only nodded, twisting the new ring with his thumb.
Dean turned, beaming at the people clapping at him. For him. Yeah, that was kinda awesome.
He was going to own this.
~
Dean got back to his quarters some time after dark - he’d had multiple offers for drinks from his friends and from strangers, but he had turned them all down, because all he really wanted to do was fall into a bed and sleep.
So, that was what he did. He spent all of ten minutes undoing Anna’s overly cautious knots on his armour, then threw it on the floor distastefully, taking his boots off and hurling himself under the blankets.
He thought he would fall asleep right away, but his mind took a while to settle.
He was Captain of the Guard. It was one of the most honoured roles in the castle of Zamreer. He could use this, he thought. He could use this to turn the way people saw the Guard around. Rufus hadn’t done too badly as Captain, but what was doing the damage was letting Guards like Raphael wander around the town and never show up to training, because, as Raphael had claimed numerous times, he had no need to train. Dean begrudgingly acknowledged it was probably true. But the fact that nobody was watching Raphael was the problem. He was allowed to do what he liked, never even a slap on the wrist.
Dean’s mind trailed back to this evening, at his speech. He smiled into his pillow, proud of himself for not looking like a complete idiot. Raphael’s speech had not garnered the same amount of respect, which Dean was also pleased about. Apparently Raphael was under the impression that Dean was to be compared with a young colt that needed breaking in. Gabriel did not take kindly to that, and had booed loudly. After a few people in the crowd laughed, and a few more boos, it was pretty clear that Dean was truly the more popular of the two.
And Castiel. He hadn’t been there, which Dean was more than a little disappointed by. He’d have liked to have seen him be a part of one of the finer moments of Dean’s life, for whatever reason. It would have been nice to see those sharp blue eyes among the wash of nameless faces, to see him give some encouragement.
And to be able to thank him properly.
Dean hadn’t seen him since he saw the white-clothed figure in the window, as Dean had rounded his horse to charge.
And what a horse. He’d had her looked over before the ceremony, and could determine that she was fine, if in need of the horse equivalent of bed-rest. He had hugged her for a very long time, before Gabriel had pulled him off and declared that he would catch ‘horse cooties’ unless he moved away.
Dean sighed and rolled over, burying his nose in his blanket. It was going to be a long day tomorrow.
~
Dean’s first day as Captain didn’t go as planned. This was largely due to the fact that Dean had not planned anything.
Gabriel was off with a hangover, surprise surprise. He’d probably been drinking on Dean’s behalf, no doubt. Anna showed up, but it was clear it was only because she wanted to make sure Dean knew she was supportive. When he saw the bags under her eyes, he sent her home. He supposed her tiredness would have been caused by the sheer amount of healing she’d had to do for Dean yesterday.
Dean surveyed his final attendance: Jody (smiley), Balthazar (black-eyed and hungover), Virgil (grumpy), Roy, Christian, Inias (quiet), Hastur (irritable), and a few assorted other angels and humans whom Dean had yet to get to know properly. He knew their names, faces, and their fighting strengths and weaknesses, but that was as far as it went.
Of course, Raphael was absent, but Dean hadn’t expected anything else.
Dean paced in front of the small line-up, kicking at the white sand. “All righty, troops. I guess we gotta make the most of today. As your new Captain―”
Dean paused for a moment because Jody, Balthazar, Inias, and three or four others were clapping. “All right, enough,” he snapped, not hiding his smile.
“Now we have a lot to get through, I haven’t seen a lot of you guys with the throwing stars. I think we got a new batch in, so be careful because they’re still sharp. I don’t quite trust you with flying pointy things, not naming names, Christian and Inias.
“All right...” he trailed off, nodding up at Jody. “Let’s get the target boards out, have a round at that.” His tiny legion began to disassemble, heading for the equipment shed. “And no stabbing each other, you hear me?” he shouted after them.
He let out a huff of air, rubbing his bare hands together. He’d actually have to put a battle plan together, so to speak. These people needed more than just training, they needed discipline and control. Dean wasn’t sure he could provide that, but he could sure as hell try.
~
Everyone took a long break for lunch, but Dean didn’t head for the food, despite the abuse his stomach was screaming at him. Instead he cornered Balthazar and pressed him for information.
“Have you seen Cas?”
“Ah, our elusive reclusive pretty-boy angel. I haven’t, actually,” came the smooth reply, as Balthazar straightened after putting a wooden target away. He was a half-inch shorter than Dean but at least three times as smarmy. “Have you checked that bat roost he’s prone to skulking in?”
“I wouldn’t be able to find that if I tried,” Dean admitted. The castle was astonishingly, immeasurably large, and despite having traipsed up to the garret once, Dean had no doubt that he’d be lost before he was halfway there.
“The library?”
“Again, I have no friggin’ clue where that is.”
“You should brush up on your sense of direction, dear Captain,” Balthazar crooned, a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean knocked it off. At least his injury didn’t hurt any more. “I’d hate to be lost in the woods with you, no matter how good a shot you are with a crossbow. In fact, that’s really more of a reason to avoid it.”
“I’m glad you understand how much I would enjoy shooting you, and yes, I will take that as a compliment. But any more sucking up and I will hold you in contempt. Now, please, tell me somewhere I could find Castiel, that I actually know how to find.”
Balthazar sighed, as if resigning himself to giving up a secret. “Have you tried the bell tower, he likes to stand up there and look at things,” he said, clear that he considered the mere thought strange.
“Oh,” Dean said, suddenly light on his feet and ready to go. “Thanks, I’ll check.” He headed back across the courtyard, toward the castle. “Oh,” he turned back, one last chip of wisdom to impart: “Work on your footwork, you get wobbly on your downswing,” he said, miming Balthazar’s sword movement and an uneasy foot.
Balthazar nodded, taking it as a suggestion rather than criticism. Oh, if only the rest of his Guardsmen were so easy to instruct, Dean lamented.
Rushing across the courtyard, Dean squinted his eyes against the sun rebounding off the pale dust on the ground. There was only a thin layer, underneath it was hard compact clay; it was good for soaking up blood, and easy to replace. Dean passed the place he’d fallen, broken and bloody, the previous day. The sand was white and clean, not a trace of the smeared red pool he’d left behind.
Dean rounded the corner of the castle, chasing the air down the sides of courtyards, heading for the church. He reached it in a matter of minutes, sweltering under his training armour. Black leather and springtime sunshine weren’t really compatible if you wanted a regular temperature.
Aha! There was a figure in the bell tower, leaning on his arms and looking over the maze of gardens and curtilages, monks and commoners and lords, all going about their business. Dean came to the side of the church, locating the wooden staircase that led in a spiral to the single bell in its roofed house.
Dean began to climb. It was a long way up; the church was a tall building - tall enough that when they were singing, the single, harmonised voice of the choir would echo like it was neverending, and the sound would oscillate and undulate like a hundred wolves howling at the moon. Now, though, it was silent.
He was out of breath when he reached the top, and leant forward with his hands on his knees, puffing air into his lungs.
“Hello, Dean.” Castiel didn’t even have to look at him to know who it was.
“Hey, Cas.”
The view up here was spectacular. Dean went forward and rested his arms on the side wall like Castiel did, taking in the hive of bees that was the grounds of Zamreer. Green blossomed among the white and gold, thin shadows blue in the midday sun. Out to Dean’s left was a second building connected to the church; part of the castle, he assumed. He barely recognised everything from up here.
“Wow,” he breathed. “This is pretty―” he sighed. “This is pretty cool, Cas.”
“The view from the garret was even nicer, should you have actually taken the time to look at that,” Castiel replied, perhaps somewhat playfully.
“I’ll take a look next time. You’ll have to show me how to get there, though. Balthazar’s not impressed with my homing pigeon skills.”
“I believe Balthazar had trouble finding the correct end of a sword at one point.”
Dean laughed. “I’m using that against him, I hope you know that.”
Castiel smiled, eyes crinkling. The sun threw the crinkles into sharp relief, which Dean was sure made him look even happier.
“I didn’t see you at the ceremony last night,” Dean mentioned, turning away from the expansive view and converging his attention on Castiel completely. The smile had fallen off the angel’s face, carried away on the breeze.
“I don’t go to social events.”
“Well, lucky you. I’d give an arm and a leg to not have to do them - not literally,” Dean added, seeing Castiel’s sharp look of horror. “I’ve come close to losing limbs too many times to give them up for anything.”
Castiel smoothed his face over and glanced to Dean’s mouth, where a small smile played at his lips. “Gabriel tells me you came very close to mentioning me in your speech,” the angel said, eyes meeting Dean’s. Dean could see happiness there, even without the smile.
“Yeah, if he hadn’t suddenly started jumping about trying to make me stop talking, I would’ve. What’s he got, something against me saying your name?”
Castiel pressed his lips together and glanced to Dean’s shoulder. “He was right to stop you. I don’t think the Priestess would be too pleased to find out that... I...” He trailed off and bit his lower lip, forcing himself to silence.
“She doesn’t control you, Cas. You can make friends, you can have a life. Besides, it’s not like she would stop you. She’s pretty nice, right?”
Castiel stared into the middle-distance, squinting. Then he nodded. “She is often very pleasant company.”
“So there. Live a little.”
And with that, Dean climbed over the stone partition and onto the roof of the church-adjacent building, boots flat on the slanted white slates.
“Dean, what are you doing?” Castiel asked him, considerably alarmed. “You’ll fall!”
“Not if you catch me, I won’t,” he said, spreading his arms out and taking a few steps forward along the long point of the roof, headed for the next building along.
“I’d have to use angel mojo, Dean,” Castiel said, peeved. “You know I’m not allowed.”
“And that, is precisely the point,” Dean replied, turning back to grin at Castiel. Castiel frowned deeply, hands gripping the stone wall between them.
“I will not use my power for you, Dean.”
Dean leaned dangerously to one side, one foot lifted off the flat. Immediately he felt a cushion of air around him, pulling him back upright. He grinned pointedly.
Castiel glared daggers at him. Then he too put a leg over the partition and climbed over, feet upon the rooftop. It sloped away from their feet on either side, not too steeply, but steep enough that a misplaced foot would send them tumbling to the ground, about the height of ten men below them.
“You are a very reckless man, Dean Winchester.”
“I pride myself on ‘daring and willing to try anything once’, actually.”
“You have no grasp on the consequences of your actions, and you don’t care who or what you endanger by carrying out said actions.”
Dean turned around, his back to the angel, and kept walking, arms out to the sides like a scarecrow. “I’m not scared, is all.”
“If I were not here, you would be scared.” The voice came from right behind Dean, so he knew Castiel was following him.
“If you weren’t here, I wouldn’t be on the roof. It’s a stupid place to be. I could fall at any minute.” He could practically feel the heat of Castiel’s glare on the back of his head.
Dean tested his footing again, deliberately slipping, daring Castiel to catch him. He did. But with his arms, not with his mojo. Dean felt a strong grip pulling him back to upright, first on his arm, then steadying him by his hip.
“Please stop trying to make me save you.”
“Sometimes it’s nice to be saved,” Dean said, quietly. His eyelids flickered. Then, he turned to continue on his way along the roof.
They stumbled along in silence, Castiel less than an arm’s length behind. Ahead of them was another roof, one that crossed parallel to the one they walked. They were just past halfway there before a crossbow arrow whistled between Dean’s legs as he took a step.
“What the―” Dean looked down and spied a dark shape on the sandy ground, a crossbow in hand. “CHRISTIAN!” he yelled, feeling a levelling hand on his armoured hip as he turned to face the minuscule man below them. “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT FOR?”
“Captain?” came a tiny, tiny voice.
“WHY ARE YOU SHOOTING AT ME?” Dean demanded. The volume of his voice was deafening even to his own ears.
“I thought you were an assassin,” came the reply, crossbow slumping pathetically.
“IF I WERE AN ASSASSIN, WHY WOULD I BE ON THE ROOF IN BROAD DAYLIGHT?”
“Need I remind you, Dean, that as Captain of the Guard, you have no better reason to be on the roof in broad daylight than an assassin might,” Castiel said from his side.
Dean huffed. Christian’s reply had been lost, but Dean couldn’t care less. “GO PRACTISE WITH THAT CROSSBOW, CHRISTIAN, YOUR AIM IS TERRIBLE.”
Christian shrugged the crossbow over his shoulder and stalked off, eyes still on Dean and his white-clothed companion. Dean let out a sigh, shaking the collar of his armour to let some cooler air rush against his overheating chest. He began to walk again, one foot in front of the other, balancing his steps.
With a hefty, slightly wobbly leap, Dean scrambled up onto the next roof, crossing over the peak and coming to a stop on the other side. There was a short wall here, a stumpy barrier between the edge of the roof and the long drop to the ground below. Dean didn’t dare to look over. He hated heights with a fearful passion.
Castiel came to stand on his left, and Dean, with his feet against the barrier, sat down on the roof. He looked out across the green fields before him, past the towers and turrets of other castle buildings. There was a long road out of the city, through the drawbridge and the endless wall that surrounded the citadel. Castiel sat down too, bare feet pressed to the parapet as well.
“Don’t your feet hurt?” Dean asked.
“No.”
“Oh.”
Dean took in a breath, inhaling only clean air, which carried with it the sweet smell of blossoms and new leaves. The hubbub of the castle also drifted up on the breeze, a tinkering hammer in the background, the casual laughter of a woman. Perhaps there was merit in just sitting quietly and listening, Dean thought. It really was very satisfying.
On a sudden - reckless - whim, Dean leaned forward to take a look over the side of the roof. His stomach flipped at the sight: nothing but air and distance between them and the flat, sandy white ground. Dean leaned back and caught the gaze of Castiel, who was eyeing him curiously.
“Cas,” Dean started, his voice almost a whisper, so as not to disturb the ambience of the moment.
Castiel positively beamed at him at the sound of his name. Dean chuckled lightly. “You like the nickname, huh?”
Castiel nodded, once. “You know,” he said, parting his lips again to speak, “the part of my name, ‘tiel’... it means ‘of God’. Priestess Masters named us, perhaps they were our names in Heaven, also.”
“But... I took the ‘tiel’ off your name. Doesn’t that make you, like―”
“Yours.”
Dean’s train of thought stopped as his mouth was half open to say something. His midriff was tingling strangely. He should probably eat something, he decided. He closed his mouth and swallowed, looking at the barrier again. Could he dare?
“Uh, Cas?”
“Yes, Dean.”
“If I jump, would you catch me?”
“Why, of all the reasons in Heaven or on Earth, would you want to jump?”
Dean’s nervous smile broke into a grin that only found one half of his face. He looked at Castiel directly, surely. “I’m gonna do it.” He stood up.
Castiel shook his head in disbelief. “There is something wrong with you, Dean.”
Dean swallowed, knowing he should be far more terrified. “When I fall, make it do that epic booming noise yours did, and the stopping right above the ground,” he suggested, hands moving to illustrate the plummet to the ground and hovering just before the flat of his palm.
Castiel stood up too. “Dean, why, in the name of God Himself, do you want to fall? You’re human, you have instincts against that sort of thing. You would die, Dean.”
“You wouldn’t let me,” Dean said, grinning like a madman. Perhaps his hunger had gone to his head; he felt quite wild.
“Besides, Cas. I don’t want to fall. I want you to catch me.” And he held out his hand for Castiel to take. “Oh, and you’re coming with me,” Dean told him. There was no way he was jumping by himself.
Castiel seemed like he didn’t know what to feel. He hesitated, but then took Dean’s hand. Their palms slid together, fingers curling around each other, locked in a solid, reassuring grip.
Castiel’s face was fluttering with emotions, none of them pinned down. He swallowed. “I’ve never used this trick with another person,” he confessed. “And myself, I’ve used it rarely. The day I met you, that was only the second time.”
“Try everything once, twice if you like it?”
Castiel gave a shaky nod. “I... I’m certain that I can... I can catch us both.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“I’ve never used that much power all at once.”
Dean rubbed a soothing circle on Castiel’s hand with his thumb. Castiel’s eyelids flickered at the touch. Dean realised that the tiny caress, while a small gesture, was probably the most intimate touch Castiel had ever received from another person.
Dean swallowed and looked at their joined hands. “Cas?”
“Hm?”
“Don’t tell anyone about the hand-holding.”
Castiel seemed to understand why, nodding again. “I like how we fit together,” he said, voice so low it was almost imperceptible in the slow rush of air around them. “Your sword, the shape of the hilt - it was forged and measured from my hand... I learned your hands when we touched the first time. And I made your sword from the hollows of my own.”
Dean’s free hand wandered to the sword at his belt. Yes, he could feel that. He could feel Castiel’s grasp in the handle, fitted so perfectly around his own. “Thank you,” Dean whispered.
“You are welcome, Dean.”
Dean sucked in a long, long, breath, tightening his grip on Castiel’s hand. “On three?”
Castiel nodded.
“One.”
Castiel placed a bare foot on the divide between roof and air, toes shuffling. Dean mirrored him with his boot.
“Two.”
Dean’s heart was thudding, halfway frightened and thrilled; excitement coursed through him like lightning.
Dean paused for a spell, not sure if he could say it.
“Three,” Castiel said, and launched them over the parapet.
They fell like they’d been hurled from the heavens themselves, like droplets of rain forced from the sky by a thunderstorm. Dean took a few frantic heartbeats to realise he was screaming, arms and legs thrown out to his side, his hand still clutching Castiel’s. They plummeted, down, down - the ground was rising to meet them, Dean’s guts left behind about half a world above them.
And then it all stopped with a crack of thunder, the ground held in stasis like it was a drawbridge stuck on the final rung before it closed.
They were hovering for only a moment before Dean felt the force holding them drop, and they tumbled the last foot, as easy as falling out of bed. Dean landed with his knees in the dust, hand holding his face from the ground instinctively. He collapsed, front flat to the ground, head turned to Castiel.
He let out an exhilarated huff of breath, a cloud of white particles rushing from his face off of the floor. Castiel was looking back at him, eyes blazing with delight. His hand shook in Dean’s gentle grip as he laughed; it came as a rumble from his throat, eyes half-closed as they held contact with Dean’s.
Dean couldn’t help but laugh too. Euphoria burned him, and he let go of Castiel’s hand and rolled onto his back toward the angel, so their sides were pressed together. Castiel didn’t turn, but closed his eyes and listened to Dean’s huffs of relief and joy as he looked up at the building they’d just jumped from.
“Wow,” Dean breathed, dusty white hand to his forehead. “Dude, that was incredible.”
“You boys just gonna lie there, or come in and eat?”
Dean sat up on his elbows, recognising the airy voice. “Missouri?”
“The one and only,” said a plump black woman, her eyes twinkling. “I made pie,” she offered, turning to go back inside the door she’d just come through.
Castiel rolled over then, sitting up in the dirt and gazing at the open door in wonder. “How did she―?“
Dean cracked another grin, getting to his feet and presenting a hand for Castiel to pull himself up. When he was standing, Dean answered. “Missouri’s a psychic,” he said. “And she is awesome.”
~x~
“Wait, wait, wait,” Sam interrupted. “You know Missouri?”
“You know Missouri?”
Sam nodded, grinning at Dean from the back of the horse. “Yeah. Missouri’s awesome.”
“I know, right?!” Dean replied eagerly. “Did she ever give you a pie?”
“Best thing I ever tasted.”
“It was the cherry pie, right? Tastes so good, make a grown man cry.” Dean shook his head wistfully. “God-damn.”
He picked his way carefully over the dash of rocks and misshapen ferns on the forest floor, leading his horse by the reins. Sam finally got to sit up top for a while, but Dean didn't seem to mind. Sam decided that the guy was starting to grow on him. He was a good storyteller, and he had a sense of humour. He was good company, really.
“All right, so what next, she read your palm or something?”
“Patience, dude, I’m getting to that.” Dean rolled his eyes a slight when Sam huffed. “Okay, where was I...”
~x~
The kitchen was dark, but once Dean’s eyes adjusted from looking at the bright sky, he saw what could only be called an organised chaos. There was clearly a system: a few people moved between tables and work surfaces, stoves and fires - carrying pots, sweeping the tiled floor. On top of the tables was a mess of food; uncooked vegetables, leafy greens and lumpen roots stacked as high as Dean’s head. Pots bubbled on side burners, hooked over the flames, too many hanging on one line, but somehow it all managed to stay balanced.
“You cook for the whole castle in here?” Castiel asked in disbelief.
“Well someone’s gotta do it,” came Missouri’s reply from another part of the room, hidden behind a washing station of several hundred brown-white plates, and thousands of gleaming silver utensils piled up next to it like a sharp, shiny mountain.
It smelled delicious; foreign, familiar, and altogether mouth-watering - and Dean clearly wasn’t the only one who noticed. Castiel was craning forward, angled precariously over a table covered in spices, laid out in straight lines. He breathed in, and Dean saw his grubby feet leave the floor as he leaned on his hands. Then he dropped back to the tiles, turning to Dean with a pleased look on his face.
Dean gave a tiny eye roll and gave in, going to take a tiny sniff at the rows of peppers, or whatever they were - a burn filled his nose, and he coughed.
“You cough on it, you eat it,” Missouri said sharply, shuffling forward with her hands full of a round dish, a perfect crust in a curve over the top. “And you don’t want to be eating one of those things,” she said at the spices. “You’ll burn your throat out just by getting too close.”
Dean wheezed.
Missouri served out a slice of pie for each of them, herself included. She handed the men a full plate each, shooing them over to the other side of the kitchen with a fluttering hand. They passed the heat of three roaring fires, a bread oven the size of Chevy, and a bunch of people shouting instructions in presumably a different language. ‘Parmesan cheese’ and ‘aubergine’? Those weren’t real things, surely.
Castiel hesitated, then sat down opposite the woman, on a wooden-slatted chair. He took up about half as much of his seat as she did on hers. Dean took the third chair, sitting with his back to the steamy tumult of the kitchen.
“So, what brings you here today, Captain?” Missouri asked Dean, and he paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, slightly irked that she already knew full well what brought him here.
“Dean decided to jump off a roof.”
“He always was an impertinent child,” Missouri said gently to Castiel, who, Dean was even more irked to find, was smiling.
Dean took a defiant mouthful of pastry, and straight away stopped frowning. His jaw would have dropped open from shock, were he not afraid of misplacing even a single crumb of this ridiculously delicious thing. “Ohm my gob,” he mumbled around his tongue. “D’ash amayshing.”
“Isn’t it?” Missouri purred, radiating a smile at him.
Castiel tasted his with the tip of his tongue, swiping a blob of red gloop into his mouth. And then promptly assaulted his slice with his fork, cramming a giant lump between his lips and taking a full minute to savour it.
It was like someone took cherries and turned them into a … well, a pie. That was really enough to explain it, in Dean’s book. There was no such thing as a bad pie. This one was just... unbelievable.
There were a few minutes of silence in which Dean did nothing but enjoy himself, not caring that people might be watching when he licked his plate. When he set it back on the table with a light clank, Castiel across from him was making sweet love to his fork, pulling it gently out from between his tight lips, then setting it down on the edge of his own barren plate. Dean glanced over to Missouri to find she hadn’t even touched hers, but apparently had been watching he and Castiel the whole time.
“You gonna eat that?” Dean asked, reaching over the table. Missouri slapped him and he withdrew, touching the skin of his hand gingerly. That was to be expected, Dean mused. She did that every time. Any excuse to hit him, really.
“Now,” Missouri deliberated, placing her elbows on the table, one hand over the other. “I see Castiel here is getting to know the world through your eyes, isn’t that right?” She said it less as a question, than a statement that he wouldn’t dare to disagree with.
“Yes ma’am,” Dean said, putting his hands in his lap to stop them wandering over the table and picking at Missouri’s pie crust. It had just the right amount of sugar on it, just the right amount of crunch in the pastry.
“How do you know my na―?“
“Psychic, Cas. She knows everything.”
Missouri crooned. “Ohh, not everything. But,” she nodded to one side, glimpsing the wide-eyed angel, “near enough.”
“Dean’s been showing me of all his favourite places. The lower town, and the Tree of Souls.”
“See anything you like?” the woman asked Castiel, eyebrows raised a fraction.
Castiel nodded. Dean thought he almost looked like a child being questioned about their day at school. He seemed physically small next to Missouri, but Dean knew his power outsized hers by about ten thousand times. He could do what she did, without even trying. Then again, Castiel had used his power so rarely, he probably didn’t even know what he was capable of.
“Tell me, honey. What was your favourite part?”
Dean’s eyes flicked between the two of them as Castiel spoke: “Dean bought me some perfume, and we ran on horseback through the lower town. And then we―”
Castiel stopped himself, and Dean absolutely knew he had been going to tell Missouri about their hands clasped around each other on the rooftop not more than five minutes earlier. Castiel held Dean’s eye for a few seconds more before Missouri cut into Dean’s thoughts.
“It’s nice to be touched like that sometimes, isn’t it?” she said mildly, like it was a meaningless observation. But Dean could feel the heat rising from his collar, and he hoped he wasn’t blushing at her words. Maybe it was the steam in the kitchen, but... no. Dean knew what was making him all bothered like this.
He hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Anyone.
Dean swallowed twice in succession, eyes never rising from the leather-pinned cover on the table.
“It was very pleasant, yes,” Castiel said quietly. “Dean would rather you didn’t know.”
“I know that’s what he’d rather,” Missouri countered, breaking her hands apart to pick up her fork and shovel some pie onto it. “But sometimes I can’t help knowing things. Just like people,” she said, her mouth full, pointing her fork between Dean and Castiel, “can’t help wantin’ things.”
Dean rallied through a good number of retorts: he hadn’t wanted anything, he hadn’t meant to touch Castiel like that. But none would come out. Sometimes people can’t help wanting things. Dean didn’t know what he wanted. But, he had to admit, it was nice to be touched like that.
He hated when Missouri was right. Which was always.
“As is, there’s a few things Dean hasn’t showed you yet. Very special places.” Missouri looked pointedly at Dean, as if she expected him to know what she was talking about. He shook his head very slightly, eyes wide in an expression of cluelessness.
Missouri pressed her lips together and grimaced at Dean. “Limn’mere, Dean. Take him there, won’t you?”
“There?” Dean asked, frowning at her, eyebrows coming together in a curved V. “Why there?”
“Because, Dean. You tell me.”
Dean sucked in an irritated breath. Actually thinking about an answer seemed like too much effort when she already knew what he was going to say. As he knew from experience, however, she wouldn’t let him leave until he answered the question.
Dean searched the air in front of him with his eyes. “Because it’s pretty, because it’s special, because it means a lot to me,” he intoned, blandly. “Because deep down I really want to share it with someone.”
“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Missouri went back to her pie, eyes half closed.
“What’s Li’meer?” Castiel asked, inevitably.
Missouri only nudged her head toward the angel, urging Dean to tell him.
“It’s this... pond, with a waterfall, out in the forest. I used to go out there when I was a kid, still training for the Guard. I used to practise there by myself. It was nice, quiet. Kind of like your empty corridor.”
“I thought you didn’t like to sit quietly.”
Dean swallowed. “I don’t. Not any more. I used to.”
Missouri straightened up, wiping the corner of her mouth with a fingertip. “These things need easing back into. Like anything good, they take time. Like your little tree,” she turned to Castiel.
“Tree?” Dean enquired.
“Castiel has a tiny tree, some foreign idea that you can keep it small by cutting the roots.”
“I’ve been looking after it since it was a seedling. It’ll take years and years to mature. I’m...” he trailed off to flash a glance at the psychic, who nodded at him almost imperceptibly. “I’m quite proud of it.”
Dean’s mouth turned upward into a smirk. “You’ll have to show me sometime.”
“I will.”
Missouri watched them watching each other. She didn’t stop smiling, and Dean couldn’t help but think that she knew something he didn’t. Either that, or she was communicating with Castiel telepathically. Both were annoying.
“I’ll make you something to take with you tomorrow; drop by before you head out, won’t you?” Missouri offered, a soft brown hand on Castiel’s shoulder as she stood.
“A picnic?” Dean asked, lip quirking.
“You don’t mind a salad, do you, Dean?” Missouri asked him. Dean scowled, and it took him until she had walked right around the table and was heading over to a stuttering pot behind him, that he realised she was just trying to mess with him. “Don’t come by too late, Pamela has something for you,” she called, vanishing behind a stack of muddy potatoes.
And with that, Dean was left staring at the blue-eyed angel, amused by Castiel’s ruffled, windswept hair. It apparently hadn’t settled after their dive off the roof.
Dean’s stomach just about sated now, he stood up and told Castiel he was heading back to training, and damn, he wanted another bit of that pie. Castiel agreed, and they snuck back to where Missouri had left the round tray. Instead of the rest of the pie, they found two small paper-wrapped packages, each in the shape of a pie slice. Dean grinned, and picked them up, handing one to Castiel.
“Man, I love psychics.”
~
“Deeeeean Winchester,” Pamela said at him, whistling. She had her arms crossed, and looked far more pleased to see Dean than he thought she had any right to be. That said, she couldn’t see him at all, not through her blind white eyes. That said, it was like she was ogling him from all sides. Dean shifted on his feet, standing up straighter.
“Good to see you too, you look great,” Dean said, fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. Pamela made him uncomfortable, and she knew it.
“Always with the blind jokes. It doesn’t make cooking any easier, you know. I can’t get a reading off a copper pot that’s entire life has been leek soup.”
Dean wasn’t sure what to say to that.
“Your angel will be along in a minute, he’s just putting on a dab of perfume,” she said with a slightly mocking smile. She somehow must have sensed Dean’s black look, because she laughed, leaning forward and letting her brown hair fall over her face. Pamela loved to laugh, and that was something Dean did have a fondness for. “Don’t worry, my lips are sealed,” she said with a slow nod, the smile gone from her face. “There are some things that just won’t do to spread around.” Her grin slowly returned. “Unlike that delightful fragrance of his.”
Dean flicked his eyes to the sky, blue but lightly clouded - quite a nice day for a picnic, he supposed. Pamela stood in front of the door to the kitchen, boots kicking at the dust gently. Dean tapped his foot, empty of conversation now, but still feeling blank white eyes roaming all over him. Including his rear end, despite him facing Pamela. He had no idea how she did that.
After a few more seconds, Dean huffed and went to lean on the wall of the kitchen, sandstone cool on his back. Pamela came to lean beside him, arm against the wall so her nose was right near his shoulder.
“You changed your shirt specially, didn’t you?”
“Shuddup.”
Dean could see where the sand was messed up, where he and Castiel had collapsed into it this time yesterday. It had evened out a little, but the impressions were still there, swipes through the dust, blotchy dents where their knees and hands had fallen.
“You never had a friend quite like him, did you?”
“I said shuddup.”
Since meeting Missouri, Dean had fretted about this coming day. Picnics were not exactly in his quota of Things Dean Winchester Spends His Time Doing. Eating, yes. Eating outside, maybe. But eating outside, in a beautiful location, with a burbling stream and excellent company? That was outside his acceptance range.
He decided that he was only doing this because Missouri would have his head if he didn’t. There were a lot of things he did for this reason, and trying out for Captain was one of them. That hadn’t turned out so bad, and Dean was inclined to trust Missouri come thick or thin. For some reason it just worked that way.
Around the corner a few silent minutes later, came Castiel, dressed in his blue shirt and brown trousers - but barefoot, the boots he conjured days before nowhere to be seen. Dean pushed himself off the wall, feeling Pamela’s unseeing gaze still upon him as he crossed to the angel.
“Heya, Cas,” Dean said, moving his hand to pat Castiel on the arm, but chickening out halfway through and instead making an aborted swipe at Castiel’s shirtsleeve with his fingers. Castiel looked down at the tickle, and raised a very subtle eyebrow at Dean.
Dean wriggled his fingers and pulled his hand up to touch his own ear, hoping that would excuse him. Castiel ignored this completely, going instead to the slender woman leaning by the kitchen door, through which a delicious aroma of roasting meat wafted.
“You must be Pamela. My name is Castiel,” the angel said, holding out a hand.
“I know who you are,” Pamela said with a boyish grin. She took Castiel’s outstretched hand and shook it firmly. Dean winced.
“Cas, this―” he started, going forward to gesture at Pamela from her side. “This is when you kiss. Pretty girl, you bow, and you kiss. Shaking’s for the guys.”
Pamela started to argue, but was her words were drowned by Castiel’s reply: “Oh... I didn’t realise. Perhaps I don’t find her as pretty as you do,” he said to Dean.
Dean gawped at him. “Wha...”
Pamela burst into a raucous fit of laughter, clutching her stomach and her mouth open wide with a heavy cackle. “Oh my God,” she breathed, gasping for air. “Oh boy, this one’s a keeper,” she rasped, patting Dean firmly on the chest with an open hand. Pamela left them, and wobbled her way inside on laughter-shaken legs, still huffing with amusement.
Dean stared at Castiel and Castiel blinked, baffled. Then Dean dropped his chin and grinned, shaking his head slightly. “I can’t go anywhere with you, man,” he said, fondly.
Cas looked startled at this. “Are we not going to your waterfall in the forest today?”
Dean looked up and was again at a loss. “No, not - Jesus, Cas, how are you even still alive? You have like, zero social skills.” Dean grinned unabashedly, managing to let his hand pat Castiel’s arm this time. Castiel continued to look nothing but confused.
“Here, I got you this,” Pamela called to them, returning out into the sunshine with a bundle under her arm. Dean took it, and found that it was a woollen blanket, red and yellow, knitted cross-ways so that where the colours crossed in their lines, they made orange squares. Dean didn’t unroll it more than halfway, and thanked Pamela, still not entirely comfortable with the idea of a picnic. It was a child’s thing, a family outing. It wasn’t for two male friends.
Castiel leaned over and touched the blanket with his palm, squashing it gently between outstretched fingers. “This is very soft,” he commented, stroking it.
“O- okay, that’s enough with the fondling,” Dean said, pulling it away. “We should go get Chevy.”
“Gabriel told me to remind you that Chevrolet shouldn’t be ridden for a few days until she feels better,” Castiel stated, still eyeing the blanket like he wanted to touch it some more.
“Aw, man,” Dean bemoaned, scowling at the squishy roll in his hands. “We’re taking Lucifer then, I assume,” he said darkly. He was not impressed.
“I think he would enjoy the ride,” Castiel nodded. He looked over to Pamela, who was watching him with blank eyes, and he nodded again, apparently for her benefit. She grinned at him, corners of her mouth pulled up as if by string.
“Takin’ the Devil on a picnic. Well that’s a new one,” she said.
Missouri came out of the kitchen swaddled in her usual brown drapes and shawls. “I packed you both some chicken and potato, and a teeny weeny bit of salad. I know you’re not going to have any, Dean, but Castiel, here - do try and force some down his gullet, honey, I worry about this man’s health,” she said, first to Dean, then to Castiel.
Castiel nodded dutifully, lips pressed together. He took the wicker basket she gave him, and held it in both hands like it was a birds’ nest or something equally as delicate.
“Now, hurry back, Dean has training he really ought not to miss. And I know what you’re thinking Dean, and no, you’re Captain now, and must therefore show up to all practices!” She declared, and Dean felt his insides churn. He might love how psychics were one step ahead at all times, but occasionally it was uncomfortable to be at the receiving end of it.
With a half-hearted wave, Dean stalked off toward the stables, Castiel lagging a good few paces behind from the weight and awkward shape of the basket. Had he been any other angel, the weight wouldn’t have even registered, but this was Castiel, sworn against all things mojo.
And so Dean sighed, turned around, and played the part of the gentleman, taking the basket - well, he tried. Castiel held on, and so they ended up carrying half each. Dean felt like an utter fool, carrying half a basket and a roll of blanket. He tried to ignore the sly glances that passed their way, curious and possibly a tiny bit mocking, but he might have been imagining it.
Damn Missouri and her foresighted plans. Dean didn’t like this one little bit.
~
Lucifer was a trouble-horse. The stallion had had no proper owner prior to Castiel; for six years he’d been passed from owner to owner, each one impressed by his coat and strong frame, the spirit with which he carried himself, and of course, his sheer size. None of the people had been acceptable enough to the ex-angel that he didn’t get bored of them and throw them from his back when they’d least expected it.
Castiel enjoyed Lucifer’s company. There was no trace of the evil and corruption he had once owned, and under it all, he really made a fine companion. Lucifer respected Castiel’s acceptance of him, and was even proud to call him a friend.
Dean Winchester, however, Lucifer was not so sure about. The man was bowlegged and smooth-talking and too swift with a sword for his own good. Castiel, at least, had a firm footing with Lucifer when it came to background: they were all ex-angels here, so there was that base amount of trust.
Dean wanted to put a saddle on him, which felt all wrong; Lucifer felt like he had no other choice but to bite at Dean until Castiel fitted the saddle instead. Not being able to talk really did make things more difficult.
Dean set down the blanket under the wicker loop of the picnic basket, leaving the basket on the stool in the corner of the horse stall, for Castiel to hand to him once Dean was mounted. This proved difficult to do, however. Lucifer whinnied and wouldn’t stand still, bucking up gently - not violently - but enough to make it as hard as possible for Dean to mount.
“Maybe I should ride in front, in the saddle,” Castiel suggested. “Horses aren’t meant to carry two people, at least Lucifer would feel better if it was me steering.”
“But you don’t know where we’re going.”
“You could tell me.”
“I can’t remember, it’s been years. It’s gonna take a bit of wandering around. Follow my nose, that kind of thing.”
Castiel looked along the muscular body of Lucifer, considering Dean’s words. He put a soothing hand on Lucifer’s side and slid it up toward his shoulders, walking forward with it. He went to look into the horse’s eye, a stern expression on his face.
“Lucifer, please let Dean ride in front. He won’t hurt you. You can trust him.”
Dean easily compared Lucifer’s behaviour to that of a skittish child, an abused dog, some poor soul who couldn’t bear to let someone in. Dean even found Castiel’s tone calming himself, and he felt less irritated about the stomping horse. He put a gentle hand on his flank, reassured when Lucifer made no angry move against him.
Cautiously, Dean tested his weight on his hand, pressed to Lucifer’s back. All fine. Dean put one foot in the stirrup. His other hand on Lucifer’s back. Dean hesitated to put his full weight on the horse, but he did it, and the horse didn’t even flinch. Dean swung his leg over and sat full in the saddle, sliding into place on the leather. He let out a short huff of relief, Castiel whirring quiet praise at his angel brother.
Castiel handed Dean the basket, then climbed up without a second thought, holding onto Dean’s unarmoured hip and hooking a couple of fingers in his belt, as Dean pressed Lucifer on, out of the stall.
Dean still expected to be thrown, but once Castiel was behind him, he didn’t think Lucifer would bother; he seemed to like the weirdo too much. Dean chuckled under his breath at the thought.
“Is something funny?” Castiel asked him, as Dean pushed the horse to a gentle trot, heading for the main drawbridge of the citadel. Castiel had never been this way before, but was less intrigued by new surroundings as he had been previously. He was talking right into Dean’s ear, arms pulled lightly around his waist, each of his hands between Dean’s armpit and his hip.
“Yeah, it’s just - the horse likes you even more than I do,” Dean grinned, navigating around a stall selling apples.
Castiel pulled back from Dean a slight, and maybe became a little tense, Dean wasn’t really paying attention. “You don’t like me?”
“No, I do. That’s what I mean. The horse likes you a helluva lot. Just saying.”
Silence met Dean’s statement, and Dean, concentrating on manoeuvring the horse, forgot he’d even said anything. A minute later, just as they came into view of the city drawbridge, leading out of the enclosed citadel, Castiel whispered a reply into Dean’s ear. “I like you a lot, too, Dean.”
Dean didn’t know why, but he shivered. He then considered that he should’ve put another layer on before coming out today. The wind was quite gusty.
People came in and out of the city all the time, merchants headed for the lower town, Lords and Ladies, doing whatever it was that they did. Monks, from other churches, tradesmen, peasants, everyday people that wanted to see the glorious city of Zamreer. Some came to see the famous angels, the city’s greatest fighters. Nowhere else in the world had a collection of such powerful fallen angels.
Here, at the drawbridge to the city, was the border between this world, the one Castiel knew and Dean loved, and the rest of creation. It was like a hole in the bubble, pass through it and you’re gone. Sure, you can come back, but you hold the memory that there is, in fact, somewhere to be, other than Zamreer.
“Dean, may we stop a moment?” Castiel asked, fingernails tight in Dean’s side. Dean looked around but couldn’t see over his shoulder. He pulled Lucifer up to a wall, on the right side of the lowered drawbridge, out of the way of the passing carts and people, and a few other people on horseback. A Guardsman stood on either side of the stone pillars, and the one closest to Dean saluted him as the horse stilled. Castiel jumped down straight away, a hand on Dean’s knee before he swung his leg down and dismounted as well. He tried to speak to Dean, but Dean was already distracted―
“Captain,” the Guard said, a gangly fellow with awkward cheekbones and a bony frame.
“Uhhh... Garth, is it?”
“Yessir,” the man said, dropping his hand back to the hilt of his sword in his belt.
“Just, um, making a routine inspection. How’s things going down here?”
“Same as usual, Cap’n. Uh, we had a couple of people trying to smuggle untolled foreign goods inside, we confiscated it all.”
“What was it?” Dean asked, peering behind him, aware that Castiel was waiting for him.
“Uhh,” Garth muttered, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “Sugar.”
“Seriously?” Dean squinted. “You’re stopping people bringing sugar in?”
Garth shrugged non-committally, crumpling the paper back up. “It’s been contraband for years. Nobody thought to change it.”
“So.. everything with sugar in it is illegal?”
Garth pressed his lower lip up in an arch. “Pretty much.”
“All right, new rule, you let the sugar in, all right? Charge them for it if you have to, but... man. That’s just not right.”
“Got it, boss.”
“All right.” Dean turned away, mind on edge. Pie had sugar in it. He had to have a word to Missouri about her supplier.
Castiel stepped out from where he’d been hiding behind Lucifer. Dean glanced at him questioningly. “I don’t want anyone to see me here,” Castiel said under his breath.
“It’s cool Cas, nobody knows you anyway.”
“It’s... not that. Dean, I’ve never been outside the city. Until a few days ago I’d never left the castle more than a couple of times.” His voice was grated on his throat, low and nervous.
“Are you... scared?” Dean asked, not quite ready to believe it.
“Yes, and very much so.”
Dean had to admit, it was brave for Castiel to say so. Dean would have shrugged behind denial until he was writhing in his boots - either that, or gotten over it.
“Cas.” Dean stepped forward and placed two hands warmly and solidly on Castiel’s upper arms, squeezing gently. “You have nothing to be scared of. It’s safe outside as it is in here.”
Castiel shook his head, like Dean wasn’t understanding him. The angel raised his right hand, the back to Dean, fingers spread. The ring on his finger was delicate silver, a thin snake of white weaving through the middle. Property of the High Priestess.
Dean stared at it, comprehension dawning at last.
He leaned forward, crowding into Castiel’s space with his hands unhurriedly curling around Castiel’s fingers. He took hold of the ring with two fingers and tugged, wriggling it so it slipped upward, bunching on his knuckle for only a second before pulling free. Castiel didn’t fight him, only watched with troubled eyes.
“For today, you belong to nobody.”
Dean had a sudden thought, reaching down to take off his own Captain of the Guard ring from his finger, sliding it off and holding it together with Castiel’s, two circles overlapped on his pale palm. Castiel brushed his fingers over the bands, and Dean felt his fingertips against his hand, the tiniest tingle.
“We’re free, for today.”
Castiel took Dean’s hand in his own, cupping it with slender fingers and curling Dean’s fist closed. “Please keep it safe, I can’t lose it.”
“Heh, me neither. Don’t worry, okay? We’ll be fine.” Dean slipped the rings into his only pocket, a deep V in the right side of his trouser, at his hip. They slid to the bottom and pressed against his leg. He would be aware if they were misplaced, he would feel their loss easily.
“Now, come on.” They mounted the horse again, Dean giving Lucifer a hesitant pat, before ushering him on through the drawbridge with another quick salute to Garth. Lucifer’s hooves clopped heavily over the wood, then touched on the path through the muddy grass on the other side, and they fell soft and gentle.
A few minutes down the gritty road with dust rising behind them, Dean left the path and sped to a gallop, heading straight for the trees. He knew the way by heart, mostly. It was only the last part he would get lost at. The trees would have grown since he was last there; odds were, Limn’mere would prove very difficult to find today.
~
“We have passed this tree before.”
“Jesus, I know. And he’s the one with the branches that look like a windmill - I know, I know.”
“I don’t understand how it’s possible for us to be going in circles if we have only taken a straight path.”
“This forest is tricky like that, I’m pretty sure it’s haunted.”
“There are no such things as ghosts, Dean.”
“There were no such thing as angels, either, until you guys dropped in to say hi.”
“Angels were part of human lore right from the very start, we are nothing new, and no great leap for the human imagination.”
“So are ghosts, Cas. Dead people. People died before people learned to dream.”
“I think you’ll find it’s the other way around.”
“Well we could sit and discuss this until Judgement Day, Cas - chicken, egg; angel, ghosts, it’s all the same―”
“No, Dean - I mean turn Lucifer around, it’s through this way. I can hear running water.”
Dean tilted his head and tugged on the reins to stop Lucifer’s slow clop through the undergrowth. There, he heard it too. “Through here, Luci,” Dean clucked, directing the horse toward the sound.
Castiel dismounted with the picnic basket, and Dean felt Lucifer's relief as his gait lightened. The horse nickered quietly, shaking his head.
“This is it, Cas, I recognise this place. It’s just―” Dean jumped off the horse and brushed aside hanging willow branches, stepping around some tall grass that was dotted with fresh blooms. “Just through here,” he said, almost ending with a gasp.
This place had never looked this beautiful before. It was like within the years Dean had spent away, it had blossomed into a madness of colour, of greens and bright sunlight, grasses and ferns and overhanging leaves, trailing down through the dark, clear water of the pool in the centre. A small waterfall rushed into it from a couple of feet above, splashing happily as it took its two-foot plunge.
A gigantic rock jutted out from one side of the pool, Dean never had any clue how it had gotten there. He used to enjoy diving off the rock, swimming in the cool water and coming up for air at the small wooden dock on the other side, built by his own hand. The dock stood half a foot above the ripples of the water, but the platform had sunken into the side of the bank, swallowed by a carpet of grass and moss that hadn’t been there in the years before.
Sunlight, golden sunlight, filtered in from above, greened through the leaves, dappled by their shimmering shadows. Birds sang sweet and happy as they ever did, and Dean felt like all of his burdens were lifted.
“Welcome to Limn’mere.”
“Did you name this place?” Castiel asked in wonder, stepping ahead of Dean with his eyes on his bare feet. Dean noticed he was wriggling his toes, perhaps new to the sensation of grass beneath him.
“Yeah.”
“Limn, meaning... to explain something, beautiful, something bright... Mere. A shallow lake.” Castiel frowned, toes sunk into the grass. “This is a stream pool, not a mere.”
“I’m not great with the whole complete geographical accuracy thing. It sounded pretty.”
Castiel turned back to Dean, eyes dazzlingly blue amongst the surrounding green and gold. “It is indeed very pretty.”
Dean quirked half his lip into a smile. “That’s it? Very pretty?”
“There are many things I could say about this place, Dean, but for now, I think ‘very pretty’ will do.”
Dean settled for that. “Come on, let’s get this picnic over and done with,” he said, reaching for the basket, unfurling the blanket and letting it roll, soft as air, across the grass. It seemed a shame to crush it after its years of peace, but the longer stalks only bent away from where he sat, and Lucifer was quite happily munching on some at the other end of the clearing.
Castiel stood, halfway between Lucifer and the pool, breathing in deeply. Dean sat and hugged his knees, and just watched.
He watched the coloured birds flit from branch to branch, possibly the great-great-great grandchildren of the birds he once watched fly about here. He had missed the bubbling sound of the stream leading away from the pool, the rushing of the small waterfall, the way it almost sent him to sleep. But most of all, it was that utter calm he felt, that emptiness that somehow filled the void inside him, filled him with colour and shape and sound, that he simply hadn’t been capable of feeling when training for the Guard, or even when he was just around other people.
Castiel stood and watched the sky for a while, head tipped back, gold dancing on his face. Dean wondered what he was thinking, but he daren’t interrupt; for all he knew, this was an angel-to-God one-on-one. At least, it looked like it. But eventually, Castiel blinked his eyes open, put his head down, and came to join Dean.
“Having a little divine revelation?”
“God doesn’t talk to me, Dean. Not like that, not in words. I see Him, through the beauty of this place. God is in everything.”
“I see His putting you through hell to put you on Earth didn’t shake your feathers much. Faith still as strong as ever.”
“Angels have no free will,” Castiel said quietly, shuffling forward over the blanket on his knees, hands in his lap. “As a fallen angel I can choose my path, but my faith is always going to be a part of me.”
“You can’t choose to forget it?”
“Maybe I can. But I don’t want to.”
Dean blinked. He didn’t really understand that. If it wasn’t something you needed, you got rid of it, and unless it got you through the day, it became irrelevant. Sentiment had no place.
Dean’s stomach reminded them, loudly, why they were there. Dean patted his midriff, then reached over to open the basket. Inside was a feast for his eyes, which instantly translated into feast for his stomach, which promptly began to gurgle louder in anticipation.
Dean handed Castiel a lump of something meat-like, and realised Cas was doing that thing where he looked at Dean with his eyes and smiled at him without moving his face. Dean’s eyelids flickered distractedly, and he dug into his food without a word.
They enjoyed their meal in silence, Dean occasionally glancing up to watch the birds, or to watch Castiel watching the birds, or to watch Castiel watching him watching the birds. It took a while to register that he and Castiel were, in fact, simply watching each other. Dean coughed and looked away.
Of course, their meal ended with a slice of Heaven each. That is to say, pie. Dean chuckled with delight as he pulled them out of the basket, silently blessing Missouri and all her mysteriously devilish ways, and how they always seemed to work out okay for Dean.
Dean licked his fingers then lay down on the blanket, grass prickling him even through the wool. He could hear it crackling as he turned his head, the compacted dirt harder on the flat of his lower back. The sunlight was dazzling, it glinted at the corners of his eyes like gold dust.
Dean heard a rustle, then realised it was Castiel coming to lie down beside him. Dean blinked a few times, the back of his hand up to his eyes, watching the bright green of the young spring twigs surge in the breeze above.
Something inside him apparently decided it was time to stand up again, because a moment later he was on his feet, looking down on the other man sprawled over the blanket. Castiel’s feet had twisted into the corner of it, and he was rubbing it between his toes.
Dean wiggled his fingers in agitation. He reached for his sword. He just felt like he was in a fighting mood. “You know how to fight, Cas?”
Castiel sat up on his elbows, not even squinting against the bright daylight. "I've watched you fight. And I know the principles. It should be a natural gift for me.”
“Here, take this,” Dean said, risking everyone’s reflexes enough that he braved throwing the sword, hilt-first, over to Castiel. He caught it with a fast swipe through the air, palming it neatly. Dean pursed his lips, impressed.
Dean went to Lucifer’s saddlebag, pulling out his old sword, the one he would have used in his fight against Raphael, had Castiel not presented him with the new one. Perhaps this was sentiment, Dean considered. That he kept this sword, after being handed a better one. His blade had been through so much with him, every battle fought, it was there by his side, in his hand, in his enemy’s throat. It was a loyal weapon, and he couldn’t abandon it.
“I hereby challenge you, sir, to a duel,” Dean declared, in his most official voice. He pulled his shoulders back like they were tied to a string and tugged straight; one hand on his hip in what he hoped was a menacing but attractive stance. The sword point was sharp into the ground, the straight silver line leading up in a curve through his hand and arm; strong.
Castiel shuffled to his feet, both hands around the hilt of the red sword; nimble, pale fingers unsurely twisting around the leather.
“Hold it like I hold it,” Dean instructed, showing Castiel how his fingers fit around the hilt. Dean’s old sword didn’t feel right any more, not after using the one that suited his grip so perfectly.
Dean waited until Castiel copied his stance, his footwork, his defensive demeanour. Their swords were held at an angle toward each other, hands relaxed away from their hips, blades aimed at each other’s faces. Dean gave a test attack, one quick swipe of engagement, Castiel’s sword knocked from its hovering stance, bruised to pointing off toward the pool. Dean kicked the blanket out of the way, barely taking his eyes of the angel, who had readied his position once more, and was ready for the force that hit his weapon again.
It didn’t escape his notice that Castiel’s eyes were not on the fight at all, but on Dean. Watching his face mostly, although the blaze of blue did burn a trail down Dean’s thigh once or twice when he sidestepped - but it was like Castiel could absorb everything around him just out of the corner of his eye.
“You’re not bad,” Dean grinned, sidestepping again and letting Castiel take another attack. Castiel clearly knew what he was doing, even if he was unpracticed with his movements. “You’re as good as your brothers.”
Castiel huffed, moving forward to slash at the middle of Dean’s blade, forcing him back a foot or so, almost stumbling on a clump of grass. “They’re not really my brothers. Or my family. We only share a species, and a home.”
Dean parried and blocked Castiel’s attack - blades clashing with a fiercer blow every time, but both of them were still relaxed, neither defensive; enjoying the sparring. “Well that explains Gabriel and Anna then,” Dean muttered. “I thought it was weird, you know? That - uff - that they call each other brother and sister and - hff - they slept together.”
“I was not aware they saw each other in that capacity.”
“I think it was a one-time thing? Oh - damn, Cas, you’re improving... how are you―” Dean was being chased backwards like Castiel was a wildcat bearing down on his prey, pressing Dean so far back that his boots stepped into the edge of the lake. He felt the cold lapping at his toes through the leather, but before he got distracted, he ducked a swipe from Castiel and began to drive him back across the grass. “So you’re like nuns, then? Everyone’s a sister.”
Castiel grunted under his breath as Dean took advantage of his moment of thought, cutting gently at his shoulder, stopping before it hit the angel. Castiel fought back remarkably, bordering on a challenge for Dean. He was learning as they fought, and Dean began to muse that he would never want Castiel as an enemy.
“Do you have any family, Dean?” Castiel asked, hitting Dean gently on the side of his hip with the flat of his blade.
Dean again forced himself not to get distracted at this point. It was a simple enough question. Alas, one that the answer to would halt the fight immediately. Dean did not want to stop. So he lied.
“Yeah, I, uh - I got a mom, dad. Back at home, they came for my ceremony. And, a - a brother.” Dean swallowed, throat tight.
Castiel’s face remained impassive as he defended another attack. “Tell me about your brother.”
“Younger. He’s really funny, and smart as hell - good at everything, you know?” Dean said, trying to pat down his emotions, but realising that it was a smile that came up, so he let it escape. A proud grin settled on his face, and he kept on swinging his sword, stepping forward, back, circling over the grass. “He’s doing an apprenticeship, working on being a healer. He’s gonna find the cure for everything.”
Castiel gave a smile, quick and small. “Everything?”
Dean flashed a grin and took another swipe at the angel, blade sliding down the fabric of his blue shirt as it knocked against him. Dean coughed a laugh: “You’re letting me win, man, your defences are dropping.”
Castiel said nothing, turning his movements back to the kind of force that Dean felt was more natural. He figured Castiel didn’t want him to feel bad, being beaten by an angel... again. Especially a novice.
“What’s his name?” Castiel asked, and it was a couple of seconds before Dean scrounged up an answer.
“Bobby.”
Castiel swiped again, “Like Father Sing―”
“John. Bobby-John.” Dean let out a startled breath, feeling all wrong inside. Suddenly this fight felt uncomfortable, and the air felt cold.
Castiel beat him in three more steps, slashing and twisting Dean’s sword across his own, coming to hold the red-handled one at Dean’s throat, the angel’s body pressed up against him from behind.
Dean let out a long breath, warmth flooding back to him, he was back to Earth and was bathed in afternoon sunlight again. He could just about sense the aura of Castiel’s perfume on his wrist, as his hand was at his throat.
“You let your defences drop, Dean,” Castiel whispered in his ear, lips brushing his skin. He almost growled: “I think you need some practise.” And then he pulled back, sword slipping away from Dean’s throat. Dean swallowed, touching his Adam’s apple as it bobbed.
“Not bad at all, Cas,” Dean said, quietly pleased that his voice stayed level. “Could make a Guardsman out of you, yet.”
“I do not wish to fight.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Dean swung his black-handled sword in an arc by his side, well-familiar with the swooping noise it made. “I call this one Wendigo,” he told Cas, holding the sword in front of him and admiring the long and straight of the blade.
“After a monster?”
Dean eyed him with a smile. “Monster of a sword, it fit.”
“What about this one?” Castiel asked him, coming forward to show Dean the mojo’d sword laying flat across his outstretched palms. “This one is made with care and love, and was made to fight for peace and justice. It’s not a monster.”
“Did you have a name in mind?”
Castiel’s eyes drifted into the middle-distance, squinting at the waterfall tumbling into the pool. “A day of rest, of peace... Sabbath.” Castiel’s gaze flicked back to Dean’s.
“Sabbath?” Dean repeated, an eyebrow raised.
“Either the day of rest - or the night where witches meet with the Devil,” Castiel said, smiling at Lucifer as the horse raised his head and whinnied with his mouth full of grass.
Dean pursed his lips, reaching his hand up to take the sword from Castiel. It felt so perfect in his hand still, he didn’t know why he would even bother to pick up a different weapon. He pulled it upright, blade pointing to the sky. “Sabbath. Sword of Dean Winchester, Guardian of Zamreer.”
“It has a ring to it,” Castiel said, with an air of amusement.
“Guess it does.” Dean stared at the circular ruby in the hilt, finger tracing over its perfectly shaped edges. “Awesome,” he said, clapping Castiel on the side of the arm, going to ready Lucifer to ride back.
“Are we leaving?” Castiel asked, watching Dean sheath Sabbath and straighten Lucifer’s saddle.
“I gotta get back, Cas. I have Captain stuff to do. You know, Guardian of Zamreer. Kind of a big deal.”
Castiel’s lips became a thin line, eyes drifting to the scuffled grass where the two of them had fought, and the crumpled blanket, rolled aside. He sighed, and went to gather their things up.
“May I ride in front on the way back?” he asked Dean, handing him the empty picnic basket with the blanket inside. Well, it was almost empty. Dean hadn’t eaten his salad, but Castiel was unsurprised. He hadn’t been too keen to ‘force some down his gullet’, however.
Dean glanced warily at Lucifer, nose in the grass. “Sure, I guess. You remember the way?”
“Of course,” Castiel replied, mounting his horse with ease. Lucifer suddenly attempted to leave without Dean, kicking into a gallop - but Castiel yanked his reins and forced him to stop. “Lucifer, if you try that again, I will leave you here.”
Dean snorted, “He’d probably follow you back.” He handed Castiel the basket as he climbed up, taking it again once he was settled, sitting behind the saddle on Lucifer’s rump. Dean turned to watch as they left Limn’mere behind them, pushing through trees once more. The splashing of the waterfall became the sound of the rush of air through the leaves above them, as they trotted back the way they’d come.
This was the last time they would take only one horse, since it was clearly a bad idea. Besides, Chevy missed Limn’mere, Dean was sure of it. Nowhere else was there a sweeter grass that grew. And the ride there and back was pleasant, to say the least. The view ahead was obscured by trees, but the sun was spilled in patches over the dry flat of the earth, and when Cas pulled Lucifer around through into thinner forest, the way ahead was open and truly bewitching to the senses.
The wind was almost honeyed, the last of the season’s blossom drifting around them as they trotted, easy and unhurried. Lucifer’s white pelt shimmered in and out of the sunlight, pink petals landing on his ears; he shook his head and nickered, like a laugh. Dean himself felt like laughing too.
The view could instill nothing but peace inside him.
Perhaps, though, the regret that it would end. Dean dared not think about it.
Dean let his mind wander as they neared the city again; they didn’t leave the forest just yet, but Dean knew they were coming to the edge. Castiel directed Lucifer effortlessly, taking them not the exact same way they had come, but along a similar route; once taking the other side of a giant tree that Dean had never bothered to investigate the other side of - where, he was unnerved to find, there was a massive hive of bees that Castiel paused to look at, fascinated. Dean was eager to move on, but was, frankly, captivated by how enthralled Castiel became by all the little things going on around them. For Dean, they were everyday things. But for Castiel, everything was as new for him as it was for a child.
Dean wasn’t sure what to make of that. Castiel was certainly not a child, and it would be silly to treat him like one. He was in every way an adult the same age as Dean, minus the gigantic privilege that was freedom to explore, to discover for himself. Dean couldn’t take that away from him, and so he stood by and watched as Castiel shoved him off the horse so he could dismount to look at a clump of mushrooms.
“Those things are poisonous, you know,” he decided to mention, in case Castiel didn’t know.
“Amanita muscaria,” Castiel told him, back turned, crouching down beside the cluster of red-capped evil-looking things. “Sometimes used as a hallucinogen.”
Dean looked at him warily. “Is there a reason you know that, or...?”
Castiel stood up with a tiny grunt of a sigh, turning and stepping over soft woodchips to stand beside Dean. A bit too close, Dean noted. He leaned away, almost imperceptibly.
“I have read almost every book in the castle library,” Castiel told him. “There were none of the fairytales you mentioned, however. I did ask, but mostly the collection houses the discoveries and history of the city and its people, over the last seven centuries or so. There is no fiction available.” Castiel dropped his eyes with a disappointed press of his lip.
Castiel reached forward and put his arm around Dean, and for a moment Dean panicked at how close he was getting, then realised he was only reaching for the saddle behind him, nudging Dean out of the way. Castiel climbed up and steadied Lucifer until Dean was safely behind him, still holding the picnic basket.
They rode on in silence. It was a few minutes later, so very close to the edge of the forest, that Dean noticed the scent that had been lingering in his nose for a while now.
“You’re wearing the perfume I bought you,” Dean realised. “Pamela... told me you were.”
Castiel ducked his head, and Lucifer slowed a fraction as the angel pulled on the reins as his hands tensed involuntarily. Castiel was embarrassed, Dean discerned. Dean couldn’t help but feel the same way, for a long, drawn-out quiet moment.
Slowly, steadied to a walking pace, they emerged from the trees and onto the open grass that spread out from Zamreer’s borders. They were only a few minutes away now.
Dean swallowed, realising he had to breathe or he’d fall off the horse from dizziness. He inhaled, and the scent was unmistakable now - that ravishing, unplaceable sense that clouded his nostrils before he had a chance to clear his head.
It was irrepressible: he had to breathe in again, with forced gentleness, else he’d fall off the horse from light-headedness. There was no winning, really. He sniffed, licking his lips. He could taste it on his tongue now, easy to separate from the blossom and the green leaves, the new-life dust that rolled on the wind.
Dean closed his eyes and leaned forward, and before he knew it, he was hunched over the basket on his lap with the tip of his nose pressed to the back of Castiel’s neck, dark hair tickling him. The perfume filled him up like nothing he’d felt before, like he was inhaling something solid and golden-red, like fire, or whiskey - something that danced like the flame, spun like a spinning-top inside his head. The aura covered Castiel’s skin like he’d rubbed it all over him, and it was intoxicating. Dean considered that it might be made from Castiel’s damn mushrooms, because boy, was he hallucinating. His mind was awash with colour and pleasure, and he couldn’t get enough.
“Dean?” came a quiet, rough voice.
“Mm?”
“I think you’re falling asleep,” Castiel murmured over his shoulder. Dean jerked up to sitting, grasping the basket with slightly sweaty hands. His face had been pressed to a warm shoulder of muscle, totally relaxed; he hadn’t been that at ease in months. Dean swallowed with a strange discomfort squirming in his gut.
“Sorry man,” he whispered.
“It’s okay. I don’t mind.” There was a long lull, neither man speaking. “Out of curiosity,” Castiel began, never turning, “what were you thinking?”
“What, when I was taking a nap on your back? It’s pretty obvious I wasn’t thinking at all,” Dean scoffed. Castiel was silent in reply, but Dean knew he was just settling his curiosity so as not to press Dean with questions. Dean gritted his teeth and decided he might as well share one more thing, since they were totally having a moment. “That perfume is like Hell to my nose, though. Kind of feels like it’s eating at my soul. In a good way,” he added, sure not to offend.
Castiel turned his head a slight toward Dean, a frown pulling his eyebrows closer. “I didn’t put the perfume on my neck, Dean. Only my wrists, like you showed me.”
Dean felt a chill of dread fall down his spine, painfully mingled with the possibility of further embarrassment. “So... your neck...?”
Castiel replied softly, a smile on his words. “Just my skin.”
Dean knew he wasn’t blushing, since the embarrassment only sought to twist in his gut, cold seeping through the bones in his thighs, his back clenched tight.
“I’m gonna walk,” Dean said, jumping off Lucifer while he continued his stride. Dean kept pace with his back legs, eyes to the ground.
“Dean.”
“Shut up, I can’t ride with you.”
“Please don’t feel shame over this, it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing, Cas,” Dean snapped, eyes blazing up to meet with Castiel’s, looking down from horseback. “I just - I goddamn sniffed you, Cas. That’s not nothing. It’s - it’s friggin’ wrong, is what it is.”
“I don’t think it’s wrong.”
“To you, maybe. You’re cut off from the rest of us, civilisation and crap. When there’s people around, you can’t do that. Maybe - maybe a guy and a girl, but, not two guys.”
“You did nothing wrong, Dean. And there is nobody around. I promise not to tell anyone, in case you needed to hear it out loud,” Castiel said, slowing the horse down as they neared the drawbridge. It was mid-afternoon now, and people were still going in and out as before.
“It’s not that, Cas.”
“What is it, then? It’s nothing to me, you are just making this difficult for yourself.”
“Guys don’t buy guys perfume. Guys don’t wear perfume. Guys don’t go on picnics. Guys don’t ride two-by-two on horseback. Guys don’t...” Dean bit the inside of his cheek, hard. “Guys don’t hold hands. All right? It’s wrong.”
“I realise that neither of us are a woman, Dean,” Castiel said sternly, stopping Lucifer in his tracks, at the edge of the path into the city, just out of earshot of the rumbling traffic. “I won’t tell anybody about what we do together - I have few people to tell.”
“That not the point,” Dean spat, hands clutched in fists at his sides. “We shouldn’t be doing any of this in the first place.”
“This is not a normal friendship, Dean, unless that escaped your notice.” Castiel dismounted, coming to glare at Dean from a foot in front of him. Dean’s eyes widened at his proximity, but he did not back away. “I am the ‘princess’, locked in the ‘tower’, and you are simply looking for a reason to escape your new responsibilities. I have nothing better to do with my time, than take advantage of that. I will follow you anywhere you wish to take me - and your reasons, to me, are irrelevant.”
Dean swallowed. “That’s all you want from me? A chance to escape?”
Castiel seemed surprised by this. “What else is there?”
Dean stared at him, face forced blank. “Nothing. There’s nothing else,” he said, as much to himself as Castiel.
“Like I said,” Castiel said, pulling back and mounting Lucifer once more. “It is nothing.” He stared straight ahead, until Dean was behind him, then they stalked across the drawbridge and through the paths of the city until they reached the stable.
Dean handed Castiel his ring back without a word.
~
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Dean said, the words forced. He sat down on the bench in the wooden booth.
“What, again?” came the cool voice of Rufus from the other side of the partition on Dean’s right.
“Captain? Where’s Bobby?”
“It’s Father Turner to you now, Winchester. And boy, don’t you ever notice that Singer’s only around at night? Man, you have some serious observational issues.”
Dean kept his eyes on the tiny circles of light through the criss-cross mesh of thick wood in front of him. There was gold paint on it, and Dean vaguely thought what a waste of gold that was. Little things, he always saw the little things. Never the big picture. Yeah, he knew what Rufus meant.
“I lied to a friend,” Dean said, head down, threading his fingers together and placing his elbows on his knees. “Told him I had a family.”
Rufus sighed through his nose, sympathy seeming to waft through the grill that separated them. “Just trying to make yourself feel better, huh? I know how that is.”
“I...” Dean croaked. “I don’t know why I did it. It was stupid,” he muttered, shaking his head. “As soon as it was out, I just wanted to―” he swept a hand toward his mouth, “push it back in, stop it from ever coming out. I’m not a liar,” he said, softly.
“Like hell you ain’t. I remember one time you told a girl you had a flyin’ pony.”
Dean almost laughed, instead barking out a short cough. “Rufus, that was eighteen years ago, I was eight. And she didn’t believe me anyway.”
“That’s no excuse, the good ones always start young.”
Dean tried to keep a smile in, he wasn’t in the mood. “Anyway. This friend.” Dean drew in a breath and let it out all at once. “I told him I had a brother. Named Bobby-John.”
Rufus chuckled for a moment, rumbling deep. “You know that wasn’t his name, don’t you?”
Dean closed his eyes, hearing his own heartbeat rushing in his ears in the closed box. “Yeah, I know.”
“Bobby... he told me what happened to them. Reaper Massacre, he said.”
Dean shut his eyes so tight he could feel his eyeballs pressed behind his lids, dark orange of the church confession booth turning splotchy green and blue under the pressure.
~x~
Sam took in a slow gasp, hands tangling in Chevrolet’s reins as he tried to slow her to a halt. “Dean?” he uttered, voice as soft as the chilly breeze of the early afternoon.
“Hm?” Dean asked, eyes half-closed in thought. He still kept his cloak around him, even if the mist had long cleared.
“Dean, my parents died in the same massacre,” Sam said, words haunted.
Dean’s face cleared of lines, instead clouding with an intense sympathy, grief, seeping into the hollows of his eyes and creating invisible shadows.
“I’m sorry,” Dean said, swallowing hard.
Sam shook his head. “I never knew my parents, I don’t remember them.”
“I was nine.” Dean stroked the hawk that still perched on his arm, comforted by its feathers, even through his gloves. “I was already at the Guard training, all I got was a quiet word from Uncle Bobby... he came to stay at the castle then, to look after me.”
“Uncle?”
“Not my real Uncle, but close enough. Family don’t end with blood, he kept saying. Not alone. Never alone. But... still lonely.”
“I lived with my Aunt Ellen. Not my real Aunt.”
Dean gave Sam a weak smile, and Sam returned it, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder from up on horseback. He moved it off almost immediately, but Dean seemed calmed by the touch. “I did have a brother, he was lost when they torched the place,” he said bitterly. “Six months old, never even got a chance.”
“I was six months when they found me, hidden in a cupboard in a burned-out building,” Sam said, voice fierce all of a sudden. “You - you don’t think...?”
Dean looked at Sam, and Sam looked at Dean. They looked nothing alike, Sam was too tall, Dean too slender; Sam with his hazel eyes and Dean with his green - the only thing they had in common was their proximity and their parents’ deaths. There was nothing there, no.
Dean shook his head. “Can’t be.” He shook again, turning back to the path he was making through the trees.
Sam nudged the sleek black horse back to Dean’s side, walking beside him. “I pretend that I have a brother, sometimes. I talk to him when I’m alone. Like some people talk to God.”
Dean glanced at Sam, up on his horse. “You’re kinda weird, you know that?”
“You said that to Cas, and look where that got you.”
“I haven’t finished the story yet. He- she and I get along fine, I’ll have you know.”
“Whoa, spoilers!” Sam huffed, on the verge of laughter. He looked down at Dean as he kept walking, black cloak drifting and catching over the dewy plants behind him as he passed. “You and Cas really had something special, though, huh?”
Dean sighed, head tilting down. “Yeah, she just didn’t know it yet. I didn’t, either. I was really blind, sometimes.”
“Keep the faith, Dean,” Sam said in a lighthearted tone - he meant it as a mockery of people who said such things, but he couldn’t help but let some truth bleed into it. He meant it. Faith was important sometimes.
Dean laughed under his breath. “You do sound like him, sometimes.”
“Who?”
“Cas,” Dean said, turning away and reaching into a pocket.
“Him?”
“What?” Dean murmured distractedly.
“You said ‘him’.”
“No I didn’t,” Dean said, alarmed. “Or maybe I did, but by mistake.”
“Yeah, whatever. What’s that?” Sam asked, leaning forward in the saddle to see what Dean was holding in his cupped palm. It was shiny, circular, a coin perhaps.
“I - I was making this for Cas.” He held out his hand with his palm up, so Sam could see clearly; a band of plain gold made a loop: a ring.
Sam took it with the tips of his fingers, careful not to drop it. Dean let his arm fall back to his side.
“It’s nice,” Sam said, peering at it, held right up to his face with all of his fingers touching it, turning it. “It’s very well-made.”
“Makin’ dainty little things ain’t really my strong point, so...”
“No, it’s good, it’s really good,” Sam said, impressed. It was almost flawless, a clean circle with no nicks or bruises, no imperfections in the gold. Simple.
“It’s not finished, I don’t quite know what it needs. Don’t even know if it’ll fit her,” Dean continued, hand reaching up again to tangle in the loose reins of his horse, guiding her needlessly. “It’s not like I wanna marry her, or anything,” he said, almost defensively. “I just thought it would be nice, her having had a crappy ring all the time she was on Earth, keeping her prisoner.”
“It wasn’t really keeping her, though, was it? By magic or something.”
“Nah, it was just a ring. It’s the principle, right?” Dean took the ring back from Sam, pocketing it. “It was all symbolism, of her being trapped. She takes it off when she’s with me, and...”
“And she’s all yours.”
Dean huffed, crossing sides with Sam so he avoided a tree. “So anyway. Shall I keep going with the story?”
“You’re gonna get to the reason you kidnapped me at some point, right?”
“I didn’t kidnap you, bitch.”
“Did too. I was fine on my own,” Sam retorted, tone still good-natured. “Jerk.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “So I was all ‘oh, I lied to my friend’, and then... Rufus didn’t bother giving me ‘Hail Mary’s, just a promise that I’d come clean... he got it, you know?”
“Not really.”
Dean didn’t spare him a glance. “I went back to my rooms. Got changed back into Guard stuff, went back down, did some training―” he spoke in monotone, listing off the things he did for the rest of the day. Evidently it was of lesser interest than the rest of Dean’s life, because as he’d been telling it, his life had slowly begun to revolve around the angel Castiel.
She must have been a truly beautiful woman, Sam thought as Dean spoke. The way Dean described her, her startling blue eyes, her long black hair, slender frame... for the most of it, she seemed a strange lady, but the way Dean’s eyes shone with joy and loss as he spoke... it spilled volumes, far more than Dean could say in words.
If Dean loved this girl, he need not even say it. Sam could see it in his eyes.
“So then, the next day,” Dean said, taking a new breath for a new day. “We went out to the forest again.”
~x~
Dean pulled at his collar with a finger, trying to loosen it. New leather was going to take a while to break in. This armour had the Captain of the Guard crest emblazoned on the left shoulder, opposite his heart. The whole thing was so stiff, it was binding his chest so he could barely breathe. It felt like a cage around him.
He was going to take the first opportunity to take it off and breathe, he decided. Maybe do some stretching, loosen his arms up again. The tiny cap-sleeves of black leather were keeping his shoulders all tense, and he hadn’t been able to relax for hours.
He’d been trying to track Raphael down all morning, because he still hadn’t turned up to a single practice session. Even Uriel hadn’t managed to avoid Dean’s little tag-teams of local children, sent on missions to capture and bring the elusive Guardsmen to him. It was fun for them, Dean supposed. The children, that is. Uriel had a hard time trying not to smack one or more of them in the face, but dare not, because they, just like him, were under the orders of the Captain - plus, their parents were watching him.
So Uriel was resigned to sulking at the back of a fencing session, half-heartedly trying to take Balthazar’s head off. Virgil, like Raphael, remained absent.
Dean stomped across the dusty courtyard in the sun, back burning under the leather. Talking to Missouri calmed him down. So, to Missouri was where he was going.
Slinking in through the always-open doorway, Dean slipped around the bustle of people working, young and old, skinny and fat, all looking somewhat overworked, but not miserable. In fact, they all looked quite happy. Despite the steam and the constant barrage of strange smells, the kitchen always seemed like a cheerful place to work.
Missouri undoubtedly had something to do with the cheeriness, Dean thought. He sat down on a stool at the side of the room and waited for her to find him. It took all of ten seconds.
“I told you, honey,” Missouri warbled, and Dean realised she was talking not to him, but a white-clothed person who was walking behind her. Castiel. “He’d be here in a moment,” she finished, coming to stand expectantly at Dean’s side with a tiny sigh.
Dean looked between her and Castiel, wondering what this was about. “Did I do something, or...?”
“I’ll tell you what you did, sweetheart, shall I?”
Dean was expecting something about Castiel and their argument the day before, but instead he got, “You know Bessy, down at the sugar mill by the big tree, the ol’ one with the swing?”
“Uh...” Dean said.
“Well,” Missouri continued, hands clasping in front of her. “I hear you gave some kid fool permission to let processed sugar in. From the outside,” she said, enunciating the last three words with a growl in her voice, leaning down and glaring at Dean’s face.
“Uh.”
“Poor Bessy’s gonna be out of a job in,” she glanced up at the ceiling, “ooh, let’s see - three days flat.” She looked down at Dean and folded her arms.
“I was meaning to ask about that, actually,” Dean croaked. “Your pies. You put sug―”
“I do no such thing, I know it ain’t legal! Did it happen to escape your notice, Captain, that it ain’t cherry season? Where’d you think I get cherries? Preserved cherries, that’s what.” The dark-skinned woman looked down her nose at Dean, and Dean shrunk under her gaze. “I don’t use a single smidgen of imported sugar, and there are plenty of damn ways to sweeten everything up. Without. Sugar.”
“W-wh-what’s your point?” Dean asked, feeling like a tortoise pulling his head inside his shell, what with his stiff armour pressed on his neck.
“My point, sweetheart,” Missouri said, voice now gentle as a feather, then turning to cold iron as she ground out: “is that you are an ass. Today, on your way out to Limn’mere, you will find that rake of a man, Garth, and you will tell him to put sugar back on the contraband list. There are reasons, Dean Winchester, for everything.”
“I’m not going to Limn’mere,” Dean said, looking Missouri up and down uncomfortably. So much for coming here for some good advice, he was getting fried like one of Missouri’s special potato chips.
“Oh, aren’t you?” Missouri said, hands on her hips. “Castiel, honey, why don’t you tell Dean what you told me?”
“I didn’t tell you anything,” Castiel said, voice as deep and gritty as ever. Dean had only vaguely registered his presence once Missouri had started talking.
“Tell Dean what you were about to tell me, then.”
“I would like to see the place again,” Castiel answered.
Missouri gazed over at him softly, a hand slipping from her hip to touch his forearm. “That wasn’t all of it, now, was it?”
“I... would like you to take me,” Castiel said to Dean. “Because I would rather not go on my own.”
If Missouri gave Castiel a slightly regretful look when he added his reasoning, Castiel did not notice. Dean looked up at Castiel from his perch on the stool.
“I packed you another basket,” Missouri said happily, tottering off to fetch it.
Dean looked away from Castiel when the woman left, and Castiel did not speak.
“Andy!” came a sharp bark from across the kitchen. Dean peered around the standing Castiel to see Pamela whacking a young man upside the head. ”How many times have I said, carrots then gravy. And - jeez, Andy, you forgot to heat the plate up again.” Pamela glared at the kid with the empty whites of her eyes, and he shrugged expressively, letting her fix his mistakes.
“Go wash the dishes,” she said after him, and he moved to do so. Pamela turned to stare down Dean, and then glanced to Castiel, who had also pivoted on his heels to watch. “Have a nice trip, boys, won’t you?” she called across a rush of steam, grinning at them. Dean huffed and straightened up on his seat.
“Why does everyone know what’s going on around here? Whole room full of psychics and mind-readers - you included,” Dean said scathingly, gesturing up and down at Castiel’s torso. “Why’ve I gotta be the only normal one, huh?”
“You are far from normal, Dean,” Castiel said, perhaps reluctantly, not keen to talk but ending up doing so anyway. “You are special. In any number of ways.”
“Oh, please,” Dean reviled. “Don’t give me that ‘you’re beautiful on the inside’ crap.”
Castiel frowned at him, his hands by his sides. “You are beautiful, Dean. The part on the outside is just a lot more obvious.”
Dean’s face twitched, trying to believe Castiel had insulted him, but found it hard to register as a bad thing. “Thanks,” he hissed, mocking.
“You’re welcome, Dean,” Castiel said, in a solemn, honest tone.
Dean felt a little Castiel-shaped hammer knocking at the emotional wall he’d built. He huffed and looked away, watching Missouri return with the basket. Dean was fully aware that she hadn’t needed all that time to fetch it, and had been giving them a moment to talk.
“Now then,” she said, setting the basket in Dean’s lap, where he was forced to take hold of it. “You two have a good time, and I want that basket back when you’re done with it.”
Dean sulked. Castiel pulled him to his feet by his elbow, and he sulked some more. Then he dragged himself to the stables at Castiel’s side, making a two-minute detour (basket shoved unceremoniously into Castiel’s arms first) to inform Balthazar that he would be back for training later than usual. Then he proceeded to sulk all the way to the stables, leaving a trail of sulky air in his wake, which Castiel avoided by keeping step with him the whole way.
It wasn’t that Dean didn’t want to go to Limn’mere - well, that was exactly it. He did want to go. He wanted to go with Castiel, and he wanted to take the damn basket and the blanket stuffed inside, and he wanted to ride out on their horses, and have a merry old time.
He didn’t like that he wanted that.
Things were simpler when all he had to worry about was how much he’d had to drink last night, and how hungover he would be when he showed up for practice - keeping his horse pretty, keeping Gabriel and Anna on his good side, keeping Raphael out of his sight. Now he had to keep everyone else in line, and he had an angel who just needed a buddy more than anything.
Castiel was to Dean what Lucifer was to Castiel: some poor sod that needed a little guidance and friendship.
But that wasn’t all it was. Dean did enjoy Castiel’s company, whether Castiel returned the sentiment or not.
Which was Missouri and Castiel’s point. Responsibility was not something Dean really wanted. He liked being careless and carefree, and he enjoyed picnics in the woods far more than anything else he’d ever worked towards in his life. He just wanted to share Limn’mere with someone. He was starting to realise that he’d never actively wanted anything in his life before. He’d been working toward being Captain for practically his whole existence, and now he had it, he wanted something else. Reckless.
And so he marched on regardless, heading for Chevrolet’s stall first, resting a hand on her nose as he called to her softly. She had been brave, and he checked her knees: yes, they were healed. There were scars, but scars couldn’t always be healed by angel mojo, only by time.
Dean felt a seething anger toward Raphael for doing this to his baby in the first place. “I’m going to kill him.” he muttered, to anyone who happened to be in earshot. Chevy snuffled at his hand.
Castiel disappeared to set Lucifer up for the ride - yesterday’s journey took much longer than it usually did, but today should be quicker, maybe twenty minutes at a fast trot. While Castiel was gone, Dean brushed his horse down and spoke softly to her, so very lovingly.
“Dean,” Castiel said from behind, and Dean straightened up to see the angel dressed in white, sitting atop his massive white stallion. He looked quite impressive, even in the dark brown shadows of the stables. “Are you ready to leave?”
Dean nodded, head still fixated on the many ways he might murder Raphael. He’d start with his knees, he settled. Mounting with the basket, Dean pulled Chevy out of her stall to stand parallel by Castiel’s horse, his own dark armour and black horse only a few inches lower, Chevy being smaller and stockier.
With a nod, Dean led the way out of the stable, hearing Lucifer’s hooves at Chevy’s rear. They trotted down to the drawbridge, and with a sigh, Dean pulled up at the stone pillar that Garth stood at. Castiel parked Lucifer up by the wall, watching the people pass by.
“Captain, nice to see you back so soon,” Garth smiled, toasting him with an invisible glass.
“Yeah. I’m here to take sugar back off the menu,” he said, tugging at his leather armour again. It was starting to itch in the heat of the sun.
“Well that didn’t last long, did it?” Grant said, with an amused snort. Dean pursed his lip and watched Garth unwrinkle the paper from his pocket. “That should be fine. We have a bunch of new stock coming in though, replacements for raw sugar cane.”
“Just don’t let the processed stuff through, all right?” Dean ordered, turning away to mount his horse again. He was about to press onward, when he was held back by a bare foot on his leg, Castiel reaching over from next to him.
“Dean, would you take my ring again?” he asked, toying with it on his finger nervously.
Dean kept his eyes on the silver-white band as he nodded. Castiel pulled it off and handed it over without hesitation. His fingers grazed Dean’s as he took it, and Dean couldn’t help but think it was intentional, a silent thanks. Dean took off his own ring also, knowing Castiel was watching him.
“I’ll race you to the forest,” Dean said with a quick grin, and a second later a determined Lucifer pushed in front of him, the horse taking the challenge personally. Dean could feel Chevy’s hooves pound the drawbridge hard as she forced herself to catch up - Dean realised it was less of a race between himself and Castiel, than it was for their horses.
Lucifer was sleek but strong, with spindly legs that cut the air, rather than propelled through it by sheer force, like Chevy’s. She was built like a beautiful machine of muscle, blasting her way across the grass and kicking up dirt behind her. Dean bounced in the saddle, eye on the dark-haired angel rushing a good way ahead.
“Don’t let them get there, baby,” he said to his horse, knowing it was up to her whether she pushed herself to do it or not. But then again, she was hard-pressed to refuse him. She bit into a gallop that far outstripped the fallen angel and his ex-angel horse, and Dean watched their challengers’ stony faces as they overtook and pounded into the forest’s edge at full speed. But Chevy was having too much fun to stop now - she leapt over a fallen log and kept running. Lucifer was on their tail, the heavy clop of hooves on peat drumming up behind them.
They ran at full pelt together through the trees, navigating trunks and branches with heavy turns that regularly had Dean holding on for dear life. He let out a whoop of delight as she crossed over a stream in one bound, water splashing in droplets up over his back.
The basket of food was an irregular shape, but even with the lump of it in Dean’s lap, they blazed through the streaks of sunlight, across soft waves of earth, slashing through low branches with a swift whip back in Castiel’s face. Dean grinned and kept on.
After a few exhilarating minutes, Chevy began to slow, muscles burning with heat between Dean’s legs, sweat glistening in a layer on her coat. He touched her head; it was okay if she wanted to slow down. She gradually fell to a trot, and Dean looked behind to see Lucifer had fallen well behind, Castiel’s white clothes stepping in and out of sunbeams only every few seconds as they walked at a restful pace.
Dean slowed Chevy enough that Lucifer and Castiel could catch up, and soon the horses panted and snorted side-by-side, their heavily clopping hooves slow with the effort of exertion.
“Whew,” Dean said, also short of breath. His armour was as tight as anything now, feeling hot as a furnace. He would undo it now, but it wasn’t easy, the buckles were stiff. He’d wait until they were at the pool.
“That was fun,” Castiel said, a smile gracing his face as he said ‘fun’. It didn’t seem like something he’d experienced before, and Dean smiled back.
“Yeah, it was,” he replied.
That was all they said on the way there, the only sounds coming from their huffing horses and the birds twittering in the swish of the trees. Castiel led the way once they got into the deeper forest, Dean using all of his brainpower to memorise the way this place looked now, making sure he would be able to find it on his own. Lucifer pulled through thick shrubs, and together all of them emerged in the green, grassy wonderland that was Limn’mere.
The trees that overhung the whole place waved gently at their tops, the breeze stronger there. The sun beat down through the leaves as hot as ever - the warmest day this year so far, Dean supposed.
He dismounted, removing Chevy’s saddle and bridle, letting her coat breathe in the open air. Castiel followed suit with Lucifer, then came to stand beside Dean as he stood and looked at the view.
The enclosure wasn’t huge - a grassy verge where the men were with their horses (who were now chewing grass happily), a sandy bank ahead of them that sank into the lapping edges of clear water. The pool itself was about as big as Dean’s rooms in the castle - nothing too expansive, but large nonetheless. The giant rock was on Dean and Castiel’s left, about the height of Dean and perhaps half again. The point of it hung over the pool, a few vines trailing from its lip and dangling in the still of the surface. The flat sun-dappled mirror was disturbed only by the splashing waterfall that flowed into it from the other side of the pool: a tiny, ferocious little thing that spat fresh springwater constantly. Rocks surrounded the rest of the surface, all along the furthest side, all the way up to the dock that Dean had built. From there, the pool’s edge came round and receded back to sand, the shallowest water glimmering on the bank from where Dean and Castiel observed.
“I never really thanked you, Dean,” Castiel said, voice low, “for bringing me here, and sharing this with me.”
“It’s nothing,” Dean said automatically - and with those words, they were both thrown back to their argument the day before. Dean looked at his boots and scowled at his carelessness. Why couldn’t it have been forgotten, why did he have to ruin this?
“Perhaps, unless you disagree... we might put aside yesterday’s dispute about our motivations in leaving the castle... and just enjoy our time here together,” Castiel suggested.
Dean was relieved at the suggestion. “Let’s,” he agreed, untying his scabbard from his waist. It was a bad idea to disarm himself, he knew that, but he couldn’t get to the buckles on his armour while his hilt was in the way. Plus, the weight was uneven on his hip.
He threw Sabbath down on the blanket Castiel had just rolled out, and began to unbuckle the fiddly metal squares.
“May I...?” Castiel offered, and Dean let him. Less than a minute later, and he was free of the leather monstrosity, hurling it to the ground in frustration. Then he took in a deep, calming breath, and let it out, and let his worries go with it.
Castiel was watching Lucifer take a drink from the pool, hands sliding up his own forearms gently. “I want to go swimming.”
“What?” Dean asked, pausing as his straightened his sweaty shirt. He was still overheating, and it was annoying him.
“I have never swum before,” Castiel said, looking at Dean with clear blue eyes. “I’m sure I could pick it up quickly.”
“You want me to teach you?”
Castiel narrowed his eyes in amusement. “I hardly think Lucifer is qualified to teach me.”
Dean felt his face curl strangely, and recognised it as a smile - it felt foreign, after having a grimace painted on his face all morning. “Psh, fine,” he muttered, shaking the neck of his black shirt so a rush of air waved against his skin.
Castiel wandered to the water’s edge, his bare foot testing the sand, sinking his toes deep into it and sighing in newfound pleasure. Another step, and he placed his second foot in the shallow water, breaking the surface and letting it drop to the sand below. He hummed a low note, happy. He took two more steps, hurried and eager, water sloshing at his white trousers, soaking into the linen.
“Hey, whoa, whoa. You gotta take your kit off, you’ll be freezing after if you go around with wet clothes.”
“We have to be naked?” Castiel asked him, standing with the water up to his knees, looking a little pathetic.
For some reason it only then clicked that Dean also had to be in the water in order to teach Castiel how to avoid drowning. Dean hesitated, wondering if he could rescind his offer to provide swimming lessons. But - “No, no, just down to our underthings, it’s cool.”
“Underthings?”
“Yeah, you know, breeches.” Dean gestured to his lower half. “You are wearing some, right?” For all he knew, Castiel was as adamant that he needed nothing under his trousers, as he needed nothing on his feet.
“Oh, yes,” Castiel said, touching his hip lightly.
Dean cocked his head, indicating that Castiel should come back on dry land. Dean pulled his shirt off with a sigh of relief, letting it crumple on the grass. His skin felt sticky and clammy, far too hot to wear dark linen and leather. If only he could be wearing a light top like Castiel - which Castiel was no longer wearing: he’d cast it aside, next to Dean’s.
Castiel was skinny, Dean observed, eyes only glimpsing the other man before he went to undo his own trousers. Broad-shouldered, muscular, pale - and skinny. Well, slim, was maybe the word for it. He seemed quite agile.
“Cas, if you’re stuck inside all day, reading books...” Dean began, tugging his boots off when he noticed his trousers were snagging around them, “where’d you get the time to keep that tummy so trim, hm?”
Castiel glanced down at his stomach, as if looking at the flat planes of it for the first time. “It came like this,” he said, eyebrows knitting together. “My vessel, a dead man. It hasn’t changed at all since I took over his body.”
“Dead?” Dean asked, startled. “I thought he was dying, not dead.” He pulled his trousers into a heap and stood up, hand on the corner of his hip, pointed bone under the crook of his fingers.
“My brothers received the vessels of dying people, collected by the Priestess on her orders, given freely... mine, was a man who died of heart failure. Jimmy,” he said, touching his heart gently. He was very lightly tanned, Dean noticed - not as pale as he looked in the white clothes.
Castiel continued: “I only inherited his body a few hours after he passed on. I don’t know if that was the reason Meg keeps me away from the other angels, but I have suspected. I doubt I will ever know.”
“You can’t just ask?”
Castiel looked at Dean, both standing with only their knee-length linen breeches covering them. Dean’s were worn thin, and for a fleeting moment he worried they might be see-through. But he didn’t linger on the thought.
“I can’t ask questions like that, Dean.”
“You’re really so scared of her?”
“I’m not―” Castiel began, fierce, but then he calmed. “I don’t fear her. Only her power.”
“She has power? Like angel mojo?”
Castiel inclined his head, perhaps in shame. “I’m not meant to talk about it to anyone.”
“She’s an angel?”
Castiel’s eyes shifted, grazing over Dean standing half-naked. “She is human, but she is very powerful. Not like us, not like the angels. But she can control creatures that―” Castiel stopped abruptly. “I cannot tell you this, it’s treason. She would kill us both.”
Dean let out a soft breath. “All right, you don’t have to.” He took a step forward, placing his hand at Castiel’s elbow and nudging him toward the pool. “Swim now?”
“Yes, please,” Castiel replied, shoulders slumping in relief.
Together they waded into the shallows, Dean watching Castiel’s smile out of the corner of his eye. Cool water seeped into the cloth around Dean’s hips, turning heavy, swaddling him gently as his steps created his own current around him.
“It feels nice,” Castiel said, once the water was up to his midriff, arms raised at his shoulders, still out of the water. Stones covered in soft plant life were tickling and slipping under Dean’s feet, and he figured Castiel was feeling the same thing. He began to see what Castiel saw in this, the newness. It had been so long since Dean felt those stones under his feet, it felt like a fresh encounter.
Every sensation sent a tingle of enjoyment through Dean, the way the water lapped at his stubble as he pushed up from the pool bed and started to tread water; the ripple of liquid between his spread fingers; the way he could feel the wrinkles in his own foot as he twisted it, pushing through the water.
“Dea―” came an aborted cough, and Dean turned to see Castiel’s face vanish below the surface. He swam back and wrenched Castiel to the surface by his bicep, and he came up with a bewildered expression on his face, hair sodden and dripping down his face in little rivers.
“You have to kick, Cas,” Dean instructed, still treading water. “Like me, see?”
Castiel looked down between their bodies as Dean held him up, and through the ripples of the surface, he saw Dean turning his legs on the spot, like a frog.
Castiel imitated him, and then Dean let go of his arm to make waves under the water with closed hands, balancing himself. Castiel copied that too, and straight away ceased his uncertain wobbling and bobbing. He breathed a sigh, and for a moment they just watched each other hovering in the pool, sun shimmering over their heads. Castiel reached up to brush the wet hair off his forehead, only losing his balance for a second before learning to right himself.
Dean kicked and began a slow swim towards the other side of the pool, over by the waterfall. Castiel hesitated, trying to work out what to do with his legs - after a few seconds of calculating how to synchronise kicking and the round movements with his arms, he followed.
Dean touched his hands to a rock twice the size of his head; grey, sharp facets on it smoothed over by age; hollow at the bottom just over the surface, where the water shivered at it constantly. Castiel met him there, and held on to the rock too.
“Dude, how do you even learn so fast?” Dean huffed a tiny breath, eyes moving over the muscles rolling under the skin of Castiel’s neck as he bobbed in the water.
“I suppose it’s a blessing,” Castiel replied. He turned his head to the rock that they hung onto, eyes widening at what he saw there. “Look, a frog!” he whispered, throat pulling up in excitement.
Dean looked at what Castiel was looking at, and saw nothing, only ferns draping a few inches from his face, leaves covering everything in his sight. Castiel reached a hand out of the pool, cupping it beside the rock, palm up. He twitched a finger, like he was beckoning. A rustle - and then out came a small green frog, crawling on funny elongated legs.
“Oh, that’s disgusting,” Dean muttered, repulsed.
Castiel glared at him, shoulders drawn back. “It is a beautiful creature, Dean, like every one of God’s creations.”
“It’s gross and slimy, why are you―” Dean broke off as the frog crawled into Castiel’s palm and heaved its throat as it arranged its legs to sit there. “Ew, that’s... ew.”
Castiel beamed with delight as the frog squeaked quietly. “Hello,” Castiel said, nose a few inches from its tiny green face. It fit nicely in his palm. “Dean doesn’t like you.”
“Damn right I don’t, look at that. Bleugh,” Dean said, hands clasped tightly on the rock, sunlight drying his shoulders as they were held out of the water. He watched for a few more moments, as Castiel held the frog and studied it. “Did you use mojo to get it to come to you?”
“Only a small amount. It was curious anyway, it didn’t take much persuasion.”
“You know, in a fairytale, if you kissed that thing, it’d turn into a prince.”
Castiel glanced up at him furtively. Dean bit his tongue.
“Why?”
“Hell if I know, that stuff never makes sense. They’re kind of like... romance stories. Princess kisses the frog, it becomes a prince, they get married and live happily ever after, the end.”
Castiel frowned, face still right up next to his frog. “Why would I marry a prince?”
“Well, not you, but a princess.“
“You said I was a princess before,” Castiel said, getting increasingly confused. The frog inflated its fat little belly again.
“No, you’re not, I meant - in the stories, there’s girls trapped in the tower, they’re not allowed out. I just... saw that comparison.”
“You don’t think I’m a princess?” Castiel said, stating the question in monotone.
“Uh - no, you’re a guy.”
“So I’m a prince? I’m a frog prince?”
Dean put fingertips to his forehead and rubbed gently. “No, that’s not...”
“Since I’m not a prince now, if I were kissed, would I turn into a prince?”
“Cas. God, stop. Please,” Dean demanded, a hand out in front of him. “They’re stories, all right? They’re not real.” He lowered his hand and watched Castiel return his attention to his frog, peering down at it with his shoulders hunched out of the water, waterline washing at his collarbone. Dean flicked his eyes over the two of them, the man and his frog.
Castiel sighed, speaking to the slimy lump in his hand. “I still don’t know why I would need a prince, when I have you.” Dean thought he was still talking to the frog, but then realised Castiel was looking right at him with those wide blue eyes.
“Jesus, Cas,” Dean breathed, suddenly annoyed. “Would you quit giving me mixed signals? First you’re all ‘I want to be your friend’, then you’re all whispery in my ear with the ‘I like you too Dean!’ and then you’re all ‘what else is there?’ - and now you’re right back to saying you like me. Are you here for me, or for the escape, Cas? I can’t tell any more.”
“Dean,” Castiel said, distressed. He put the frog back on the rock and it hobbled back into the undergrowth. “Dean, I like you. I like you very much,” Castiel said, his voice strained and low. His eyeline skimmed the water at Dean’s chest, shaking his head gently. “I didn’t mean to confuse you. I thought―”
“What, Cas?”
“I thought, that when you told me that men don’t do any of the things we did together... I thought you didn’t wish to continue. All of those things, they were the things I had enjoyed the most.”
Dean looked blankly at him and let him keep talking.
“I thought that, if you wanted an out, if you didn’t want to...” Castiel looked away toward the sandy bank, eyelids lowered. “If you didn’t want to see me again, it would be easier for you, if you thought I didn’t like you.”
“The hell kind of flawed logic is that?” Dean asked, one half of his face quirked high.
Castiel pulled his lips into a line, gaze resting back on Dean’s face but not quite meeting his eyes. “Missouri insinuated that I should apologise.”
Dean snorted. That emotional wall inside him seemed to have crumbled. The tight feeling in his chest had lifted before he’d realised it had happened. “You know another thing men don’t do?”
“What?”
“Talk about their feelings.”
Castiel met his eyes briefly before looking down again. He seemed very fixated on Dean’s chest, eyes dancing over his heart. “Are we friends again?” he asked, faintly.
Dean smirked, and resisted patting Castiel on the shoulder because as there was no clothing separating their touch, it seemed like it would be inappropriate. “Yeah, whatever,” he said as kindly as he could. Castiel gave a sigh of relief, eyes falling closed.
“Good. Nothing would be much fun without your company.”
“All right, enough with the fluffy, fuzzy feelings, okay?” Dean said, voice at its normal volume again. “Now, do you wanna jump off the big rock, or not?” he asked, hoping Castiel would say yes.
“Jump?” Castiel replied, looking at the rock warily.
“Without mojo. The water catches you.”
Castiel blinked a few times in thought. “Okay.”
They swam to the dock, Dean climbed out first, pushing himself up on his arms, swinging a leg up to stand. Castiel tried to copy but twice slipped and fell back with a splash. Dean held out a hand, Castiel took it, and with a foot on the dock, heaved himself to standing with a firm grip around Dean’s wrist.
Dean led the way around the sandy edge, passing the grassy side on their left, where Lucifer was rolling in the grass and Chevy was eating a tree. Dean’s breeches were hanging very low on his hips, heavy with water - he knew for a fact that they were clinging to his legs and buttocks as he walked, and given that Castiel was right behind him, he was probably getting an eyeful. Whatever, they were both guys, it was nothing new.
He reached the base of the rock, dark and mossy at the base. It rose from the grass at an angle, slated layers worn down all the way up to the curve of the tip. He turned, about to gesture ‘ladies first’ to Castiel, but as he turned, he failed to catch the angel’s eye, because Castiel’s gaze was on Dean’s lower half.
“Um,” Dean said, self-consciously touching the drawstring of his breeches. They had lowered to just below his hip, the V of muscle just visible at the sides. Castiel glanced up at his eyes and saw him staring back, but looked back down to study Dean’s midriff.
Dean frowned. “Cas, the heck are you looking at?”
“Your...” Castiel started, fingers flicking to his own hip, two fingers tracing the line of his V, dipping below the drawstring. He looked down at his hand and pulled his fingers away from himself, straightening up. “Forgive me, I was just curious.”
Dean opened his mouth and let out a squeak of air. “You never seen another guy before?”
Castiel blinked, lips pressed together. He shook his head slowly, twice.
Dean was troubled by this, but beyond a facial twitch, resolved not to let it show. “Uh, you wanna jump first?” he said, finally getting to point Castiel up the rock. He kept his eyes lowered as he spoke.
“We can jump together,” Castiel said, passing Dean and climbing up on the rock, feet slapping against it as his breeches dripped a trail of water below him. Dean paused, before following Castiel up onto the rock.
They stood side-by-side, looking down on the green all around them. The water rippled gently, black depths shaded by the splashes of sunlight that danced clear and golden on its surface. Dean could see the gold flashes of schools of tiny fish as they made their way around the pool. “Ready?” He breathed in deep, all set to leap in straight away.
But then there was a hand in his, slightly damp, but warm and solid. Dean turned to see his hand having been taken by Castiel, their palms flat together. Dean’s nose flared, and he tugged his hand away, eyes turning back to the pool below.
“On three,” he said, not unkindly, but forceful enough to let Castiel know he was being rebuked. “One,” he said, toes over the edge. He wouldn’t normally count, but Castiel’s presence was his excuse. “Two.”
Dean bit the back of his lip. Then he reached over and took Castiel’s hand again, locking their fingers between each other. He didn’t look at his face, but the grip on his hand was welcoming. “Three.” And they leapt, one of Dean’s feet leaving before the other, pushing him off the rock with a forceful shove.
The world turned from the green-gold pool to a mess of leaves, then the blue of the sky, then plunged wet and cold from air to liquid. Dean felt the pressure on his hand drop as the rush of water hit him, a soft caress but strong like anything.
He could hardly see under the surface, it was fuzzy on his eyes; he could feel it moving with tiny threads of current across his eyeballs, cool and somewhat pleasant. He kicked and headed for the open air, the sunlight shimmering above. He broke the surface and took a breath, watching the waves roll from his neck in circles. The sun glinted at him off the water, and he looked around and waited for Castiel to surface so he could grin at him.
He didn’t come up. Dean sighed and rolled his eyes, and ducked back under to see where the angel had gotten to.
It was all dark green under here, shadows of black, trails of leafy water plants forming their own enclosed world. This was what Castiel was admiring, it seemed. He hovered below the surface, holding his breath but not in his mouth - his hands turned to keep him under, legs hanging uselessly.
Dean swam over, coming to hover beside him. He shrugged, in a ‘what are you doing, man?’ kind of way. Castiel smiled slyly, and reached to take one of Dean’s hands. Dean was a moment away from taking his hand back again, but Castiel realised this and slid his hands by his fingertips up Dean’s forearm, and gripped his elbow instead. Dean frowned in question, but at a tiny nod from the angel, he took Castiel’s elbow too - and then everything changed.
His eyes could see every colour, every shape - he could make out every rock formation, every plant, every distant fish meandering through the leafy fronds. The sunlight lit everything perfectly, the dust in the water was irrelevant. There was not just the green of the water, but the blue of the sky reflected in everything, the orange of the fish, gold, red, purple. Impossible colours, fantastic shapes.
He stared at everything, seeing a completely different side to Limn’mere. Not only was there his own world, up in the clearing, but here was Castiel’s world under the water. Dean was elated, overjoyed to find something new in something he thought he knew well.
And Dean didn’t need to breathe, he was happy just floating there with the angel keeping him from needing air. His lungs didn’t burn, and he had no need to panic, not even when he realised he’d been underwater for more than a couple of minutes now.
He laughed, and the water that ran into his mouth didn’t bother him. He spat it out, finding the feeling peculiar over his teeth. The water was bitter, earthy. It was familiar, and it brought back all the memories of this place, of swimming here - but never knowing of the other creatures that shared it with him.
Castiel touched Dean’s shoulder gently, fingers brushing the skin with the hand not already holding onto him. Dean turned to see Castiel looking away, pointing at a large fish, about the size of Dean’s hand. Most of the fish in here were minuscule, no more than a finger at most. This one was white, orange patches across its sides made up of dots of shimmering scales, almost a rainbow in the spectrum of light.
Castiel reached his free arm out and gestured, beckoning the fish forward like he had with the frog. It shimmied its little wavy tail, rushing toward them. Dean almost gasped as it slowed, looking him in the eye, gaping. He gaped back.
Gently, it sifted itself through the water, back end turning from side to side and pushing it forward. Dean had never seen a fish up so close, except on his dinner plate. This one was truly glorious, like it was glowing in the darker water.
As it passed between the angel and the man, they both turned their heads to follow its path; their eyes met for a moment, and Dean realised the expression of wonder that was undoubtedly on his face, was the same one Castiel wore every time he stepped outside the castle, seeing everything in these colours, so clear and vivid.
Dean blinked slowly, watching as the fish swam away, losing interest. Grinning, Dean pointed at the surface. Castiel nodded, tugging Dean upward by his arm. Dean let him pull him up, and they broke the surface like it was a layer of a bubble, and then the air was back in Dean’s lungs, easy as if he’d never been under the water. He hadn’t needed a breath. He laughed sharply, dropping his arm from Castiel’s, and falling backward to laugh at the sky, bringing his legs up to float and laying out flat.
“Oh, man, that was friggin’ unbelievable.”
“You enjoyed that?” Castiel said, a few feet away to Dean’s left.
“Fuck yes.” Dean didn’t turn his head to look at Castiel, but kept on staring at the sky through the blanket of bright green leaves that whispered some way above them.
He took in a deep breath, reeling with that thrilling buzz, same as when they lay on the dust after jumping off the castle roof. His heart was still drumming with excitement, fingers twitching. It was a few seconds more of silence before Dean cracked open an eye to see where the angel was. “Cas?”
There was nobody there, the pool surface was free of anyone but himself. Did Castiel go back under? Dean was about to un-float himself to find out, but a second later, he had no need.
A steady hand slipped on his lower back, smooth, and - absolutely terrifying.
Dean spasmed in the water, legs flailing, arms wrenching himself off balance. He was still writhing in shock as a dark-haired head popped out of the water, chuckling. Castiel’s laugh was deep and hollow, and came from within his chest, very honest and seemingly infectious.
Dean chuckled too, still shivering with tense muscles. “Jesus,” he huffed, voice shaking. “Don’t do that, Cas.”
“I am Leviathan!” Castiel declared, almost shouting, with fake menace. The effect was ruined by the massive grin he had plastered over his face.
“Oh, so you’re a sea monster now,” Dean said, amused by the childish joy Castiel was taking in this.
“I will eat you,” Castiel said, gnashing his teeth once.
Dean’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he tipped his head back and guffawed, knees weak under the water. “Go on, then,” he challenged, batting his hands through the surface and offering himself as prey to be chased. Castiel took the bait, and leapt after him through the water.
Dean splashed and shouted as he made his way away, kicking with some buried adrenaline - this was play, something he had missed for so very long. His stomach was twisting as he swam, keeping to the surface while Castiel had dived beneath. Slow hands nipped at his ankles from underwater, and Dean shrieked, although he hoped Castiel didn’t hear that. He swam in awkward circles, dodging the grabbing hands badly, always getting caught on the ankle or on the corner of his breeches.
One ferocious tug, and he was pulled under the water with a shout of discomposure - he kicked at Castiel’s biting hands, both of them just under the surface, grinning madly at each other. Castiel’s hand got closer, Dean missing the kick - Castiel swiped at his breeches again, taking hold of one leg as it was the only thing he could grab. Dean kicked that leg, but Castiel didn’t let go. Dean kicked again, and realised too late that by doing so, he had forced Castiel’s hand to tug down his breeches, and he was now hovering underwater with his underthings around his thighs.
Castiel stopped grabbing at him, pulling back with an apologetic expression on his face - but as Dean was stuffing himself back under cover, it did not escape his notice that Castiel’s eyes stayed on his exposed body, not hiding his curiosity.
Dean was blushing, he could feel the burn under his skin, even in the cool water. He swallowed, and blinking, raised himself to the surface, breaking it and gulping in a lungful of air.
Castiel came up too, a rapt but shy expression on his face. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to get so excited.”
Dean trod water again, eyes on Castiel’s slightly parted lips. “It’s fine,” he said, trying for carefree, but coming across as embarrassed as he really was. “You know, I’m starving,” he continued, trying for a change of subject. Or just wanting to get out of the water now. Both.
“We could eat, then, if you want,” Castiel said, already heading for the bank where the horses grazed. He swam confidently, easily. Much like his froggy friend.
Dean sighed and followed, swimming arm-over-head, kicking his legs like scissors. Castiel turned to watch him do that, then clumsily copied, improving with every stroke. By the time they touched their feet to the stones in the shallower water, Castiel was a natural.
Dean held tight to the drawstring of his breeches as he cleared the water, feeling them weigh him down, slipping off his hips and clinging to him at once. He walked to the spread blanket, kicking aside his leather armour with a bare foot. He sat down, then stood right back up again, because damn, his ass was cold and wet. His breeches were clinging to the cool of the air, it soaked into the sodden cloth and chilled Dean until he shivered.
“I gotta wring these,” he mentioned to Castiel. “If you put your clothes on over those you’ll be freezing,” he said, nodding to Castiel’s own white half-trousers, stuck to his muscular thighs tightly with water. Castiel sat down on the blanket anyway, reaching for the picnic basket. Dean wanted to eat, but he was chilling more by the second, even in the heat of the sun.
“Don’t look, all right,” he instructed Castiel, turning his back to the sitting angel and untying the drawstring. He removed his underthings and stretched them out to wring them, letting the droplets shower upon the grass. His thighs were clammy in the open air, but dried swiftly in the late spring warmth.
He pulled the cloth back on with some difficulty, it was twisted and damp - he managed it, re-tied the knot, and swivelled around. Castiel was looking at him, but turned his head away quickly when he saw Dean’s eye on him.
“Were you watching me?” asked Dean, disbelievingly, coming to sit beside Castiel with a thump.
Castiel’s eyes were turned down to the morsel of food he held in his hand, picking at it with his fingers. “No,” he said.
“Liar.”
Castiel ate the food in his hand guiltily. Dean reached over to the basket and took out some of the same, whatever it was. It was delicious.
He swallowed his mouthful and lay back, hand across his eyes to keep out the bright sun. He was so very content, his mind right back to all those years ago when he would swim, naked, alone, then come and lie right where he was now, staring up at the sky... This was when he was the safest, the furthest from anyone else. Private, away from prying eyes.
Right then, was when he realised he’d gotten too settled with his memories. He wrenched his hand away from between his legs, balling it into a fist. Okay, so maybe he used to touch himself after swimming, but he wasn’t alone now. He flicked a glance to Castiel, and Dean was extremely relieved to see he was facing the other way, watching the horses.
Dean sat up, shifting a leg to hide the slight swell under his breeches.
“Seriously, you’re gonna get your clothes all wet if you don’t wring those,” Dean said to Cas, nodding at Castiel’s crossed legs with still-dripping breeches. He could see the colour of Castiel’s thighs through the cloth, where the wet white was pasted to him.
Castiel considered them carefully. “I could use mojo,” he thought out loud, but shook his head and decided against it. He stood up and moved off the blanket, undoing his breeches. Before he dropped them, he turned back to Dean, who had his nose in the basket.
“You can watch if you want, I don’t mind.”
Dean tried to fight down another blush. “Nope,” he ground out, grabbing a handful of assorted nuts.
Castiel rolled the wet cloth off him, revealing a finely toned rear, bent forward on strong thighs to remove the clothing from his ankles. Dean caught a flash of dark skin between Castiel’s legs, before Castiel’s ass filled his view again, somewhere between flat and round, solid - the same colour as the rest of him, no tan lines.
Castiel wrung the cloth, then pulled it back on, standing on one leg at a time. The slender hips disappeared behind looser, less-wet cloth, and Dean blinked. Had he really just watched that? He turned his head away violently, before Castiel could see him.
“Dean?” Castiel asked, sitting beside him and taking a slice of sausage out of the basket. “Dean, were you watching me?” he asked, eyeing the back of Dean’s head. Dean wasn’t sure what gave him away, but it might have been the very fierce desire not to look back at Castiel even when he was dressed again.
“No,” Dean hissed, far too defiant to be believable, and he knew it.
“Liar.”
Dean gritted his teeth.
“Dean... I do know when you’re lying,” Castiel said, calmly. “Not just now. Always, I mean. I can’t help it, it’s an angel thing.” It sounded like a confession.
Confession. Lying. Dean swallowed and turned back to Castiel, seeing his head dipped low and expression solemn.
“I’m sorry about your family, Dean,” Castiel whispered.
Dean tried not to choke on his mouthful of food, swallowing it down. It was tasteless and ashen on his tongue. “You... knew I lied? All along?”
Castiel nodded gently. He looked up to meet Dean’s eyes, mouth turned down at the corners a little. “You were enjoying the fantasy, so I let you be.”
Dean put an unsteady hand to his head, hiding his face from Castiel’s gaze. He pressed the flesh of his palm into his eye gently, until he saw red sparks appear in the blackness. A warm hand touched his bare shoulder, and he pulled away, shrugging. The hand reappeared, and with only a reluctant twitch of muscle, he let it stay.
“You miss them,” Castiel said softly, his hand rubbing up and down a tiny bit. Dean curled up his legs and wrapped his arms around his knees, then buried his face in the crooks of his arms. He said nothing, but Castiel didn’t need an answer.
“I’ve never lost anyone,” Castiel said, hand coming to rest on the back of Dean’s neck, shuffling closer. Dean could feel the heat of his thigh against his own, folds of their damp breeches rubbing almost imperceptibly.
“Dean?” Castiel asked, thumb brushing the hair at the base of Dean’s skull. “If you look at me, I could feel it, I could know what it feels like for you.”
“Nobody wants to feel that,” Dean said, his voice thick and muffled against his knees. “Trust me, you don’t want to feel it.”
Castiel didn’t reply, but Dean heard a soft breath, then his thigh was pressed completely to Castiel’s, and bare skin weighed down on his side, a strong arm around his shoulders. Castiel squeezed, chin on Dean’s shoulder. Dean didn’t look up, but sniffed wetly.
“I hope you never lose anyone again,” Castiel whispered into his neck. Dean felt his skin prickle, but it wasn’t unpleasant. He felt warm, fully comforted by the arm around him, the gentle stroke of a thumb on his bicep.
“Tell me about your brother?”
Dean looked up, perched his chin on his knee to look out at the pool and waterfall in front of them, blurred through the tears in his eyes. “I don’t know his name, he was born after I left for the Guard. My parents... they never told Bobby, they had an argument before or something, I don’t know. They never told him they were having a baby, he didn’t know until the people that found their bodies... until they said they found a baby with them. Six months old.” Dean’s voice had broken part way through his words, and he was another surge of emotion away from letting the tears fall from his eyes. He held them in through sheer force of will; guys don’t cry. Not in front of other guys.
Dean turned to look at Castiel, who pulled his arm back as he met Dean’s gaze. Castiel stared into him, and only barely touched on what he felt, before his eyes filled with tears too, and he looked away.
“I told you not to,” Dean flared, hands tense on his knees.
“How can you bear it?” Castiel asked, curling fists across his chest, like he was about to fall apart, trying to hold himself together. “How can you stand this grief, Dean? It hurts so much.”
Dean swallowed hard, fighting down everything he felt. It was overwhelming. “I deal with it. There’s nothing else to do.”
Castiel relaxed suddenly, releasing his grip on himself and wrenching one of Dean’s hands into his own, clutching it tightly. “You won’t be alone any longer, Dean.” He looked Dean right in the eye with an animal intensity, focus switching between Dean’s eyes every second or so. “Neither will I.”
“What?”
“I can share how you feel. Unburden yourself, I can take it for you.”
“Cas, no.” Dean shook his head. “People can’t work like that, you have to keep this stuff to yourself sometimes.” His eyes cleared of tears, and he stared down the angel, willing him to understand. “This stuff... it hurts, but it’s not yours to feel.”
“Then... talk about it, with me. Tell me what you want me to know, and no more.” Castiel placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder again, letting it slip off slowly, dragging down his upper arm as it went.
“Now?”
“Whenever. Any time. I can... be there for you.”
Dean was a moment away from laughing out loud. A small smile broke through his pained mask, and he snuffled. “So... what, you got my back? That’s it?”
“There’s nothing more I can offer you.”
They maintained eye contact for a few more seconds, and Dean could see the smile creeping into Castiel’s eyes as they stared. Castiel wasn’t intruding on his feelings, just looking at him. And yet, his heart felt much lighter. Unburdened.
Dean let out a breath, wiping his clammy hands on his damp breeches, unravelling himself from his position. “Pass me a sausage,” he muttered, moving on swiftly.
Castiel passed him the basket, and Dean took a selection of goodies, then Castiel took the basket back, setting it down beside him. Dean looked over at him, then took a double take.
“Dude, you can move away now. Touchy-feely time’s over.” And he shooed Castiel back with a fluttering hand. Castiel hesitated, unsure, but then scooted away, leaving a sensible amount of space between them.
Their meal went on in a companionable silence.
When he was done eating, Dean lay back with his hands behind his head, knees crooked. The grass was prickly under his toes, but the blanket was soft under his hands, and he stroked it mindlessly, rubbing with a thumbnail.
~
Eventually they packed up, Dean pulling on his trousers over mostly-dry breeches, while Castiel rolled up the blanket. Tugging his shirt over his head, Dean eyed his new leather armour dubiously. It was really the most uncomfortable thing, and he would much rather wear his old one again.
“You know, I’ll just put it on when we get back,” he said, shrugging and hanging it over the back of Chevy’s saddle. He put Lucifer’s saddle back on for him, while Castiel dressed himself. Dean pointedly kept himself looking the other way.
Yeah, he wasn’t naked this time, but Dean was still ashamed of himself for the first time he’d let his eyes linger. Why had he even done that? Maybe Castiel’s curiosity was infectious. Besides, it was only fair, right? Castiel had ogled him, he was just getting his own back. Castiel had even said he didn’t mind if Dean watched.
Dean cleared his throat and put it out of his mind.
With a regretful sigh, he led the way as they clopped off into the forest. They kept a steady pace, enjoying the scenery this time around. Everything seemed to glow in this sunlight, leaves shimmering with gold halos from above, even the dirt under the horses’ hooves was bright with patches of light.
Soon enough they reached the edge of the forest, and Dean let Castiel take the lead as they headed into the bath of sun. The peat underfoot became grass, and Dean took in a deep breath, the cool scent of grass like a sensory border between the world under the trees and the world out in the open.
He looked across the field they were in - they were still in the kingdom, but outside the border of Zamreer’s citadel. A gigantic carpet of green spread from the drawbridge, the gritty path running through it. Dean and Castiel were trotting to meet the path now, back toward the city.
“Cas, hang on a bit,” Dean said, calling to the man ahead. Cas heard him and pulled his horse around, Lucifer coming to stand parallel with Chevy, facing away from the city. “I want to show you something.”
He reversed Chevy with a tug on her reins, and turned back away from the castle citadel and its white walls, speeding to a trot in the opposite direction, still on the grass but heading the same direction as the road. He slowed at the top of a hill, surveying the view.
The road was some way to their left, meandering dusty yellow in the midst of green, forest trees even further along - from where Dean sat now, there was more forest to his right, a short distance off. That was the side that kept his beloved Limn’mere safe and secret.
Castiel pulled up right next to Dean, and again, Dean saw the contrast between his own full-black horse and clothes, and Castiel’s white. They must look quite strange, standing up here and looking down on the people that came and went along the path. The picnic basket in Dean’s arms probably looked out of place.
“There, that’s what I wanted to show you,” said Dean, pointing straight ahead. The path wound into the distance, getting hazy in the warm blue of the air and the dust. Cutting across, far, far away, was a bright blue river, crossed by a red brick bridge. Beyond that was farmland, golden and peach and sweet greens, all cut into uneven squares.
“That’s the edge of the kingdom. The next part is Evacéra.”
Castiel looked on in earnest, as did Lucifer.
“Do you ever think about, just...” Castiel glanced down, then to Dean, “...leaving?”
“Running away? From the city?”
“From everything. Never coming back.”
Dean blinked at him, ignoring an insect that tickled at his cheek. “I used to.”
“Why did you stop wanting that?”
Dean huffed a laugh. “I never stopped wanting to. But I stopped believing it could happen. My whole life is here, Cas. There’s nowhere else I could go.”
Castiel turned his head a little, eyes still on Dean’s. “But there is,” he said quietly, not even needing mojo to know Dean knew differently from what he’d said.
Lowering his eyes, Dean nodded slowly. “Bobby has a place, an old castle, a few days’ travelling from here. I used to pretend I could just pack up and head over there, never have to come back to training. But I’d been here pretty much my whole life, I realised that wasn’t going to change. And hey,” he added, cheering up. “I made Captain! It wasn’t all for nothin’.”
Castiel looked at him, and Dean thought he looked quite proud. Of him. Dean turned one corner of his mouth up into a smile.
“I wish I could leave, Dean.” Castiel said, swallowing and looking off at the bridge again. “I love things at the castle, but I am... sick of them.” He seemed to resent the words, not wanting to admit it.
“Yeah, I know how that is,” Dean agreed. They stayed and dreamed together for a few more seconds, before real life caught up with Dean’s thoughts. “Come on though,” he said, turning Chevy back to the castle, “I have a Guard to Captain.”
They started to trot, and they kept up their pace right to the drawbridge. Dean saluted Garth as they passed, but at a call from Castiel, Dean pulled up at the edge of the street, against a clay wall pasted with signs and slogans and splashes of faded paint.
“I need my ring back,” Castiel said as their horses pulled together. Dean reached for his pocket, wriggling his fingers inside to find the two bands.
“Oh,” Dean said, a tiny wrench in the pit of his stomach.
“What is it?” Castiel asked, leaning forward on his horse, bristling.
“I think they fell out of my pocket.”
Castiel’s eyes went wide, hands clenched on Lucifer’s reins. “Where?”
“Uh- uh...” Dean stammered, closing his eyes and shaking his head as he thought, hard. “Probably by the pool, when I took―” he dropped his voice to a whisper, so the runs of people on the ground in the street beside them wouldn’t hear, “when I took my trousers off. They’re most likely still in the grass, they shouldn’t be too hard to find.”
Castiel took a breath, nodding. “We have to go back and get them.”
“I’ll go, you stay here. I won’t be long.”
“I’m coming with you, Dean,” Castiel replied, like it was obvious. “What if they’re somewhere on the forest floor, anywhere the horses ran past? Without mojo you’ll never find them.”
They had already pulled back into the street, trotting lightly toward the drawbridge again. Dean could still hear his leather armour flapping on the back of Chevy’s saddle. He growled under his breath, getting more frustrated by the minute. He was already several hours late back to training, and he had so much to get through. Damn Missouri, and her badly-timed perfect afternoons.
“Wait,” Dean said to Castiel, before they crossed the drawbridge. He hopped off his horse, letting her move to the side out of the way of the people. Dean located Garth, swinging the armour off the saddle and going to talk to the man by the gate.
“Captain,” Garth said, a hint of a question in his tone.
“Here, look after this, would you?” he said, handing the Captain-branded armour to the skinny Guardsman. “And this.” He handed Garth the near-empty picnic basket. “There’s some salad in there if you’re hungry.”
“Uh, thank you, Cap... but... hey, is this the official Captain gear?” Garth said, delighted to find the Guard crest on the heart of the armour.
“Yeah, you’re Captain for a bit, okay? I’ll just be a little while, I’ll be back within an hour. Take good care of that, it’s important.”
Garth nodded enthusiastically, as he pulled the leather vest over his head and it clunked over him like he was wearing a small barrel. “Not to fear, Cap. You go do your business, I’ll be right here,” he said with a hearty wink and a finger tapping the side of his nose. Dean vaguely wondered what he could mean by that. He mounted again, and together with a worried Castiel, they sped toward the forest.
~
“Look, it’s probably at the pool. Quit worrying, we’ll find it.”
Castiel seemed to be restraining a whine, as they pushed their horses further on. As Dean had been informed, Castiel was running some sort of low-level mojo sweep across the path, trying to pick up a glint or glimmer of the missing rings.
It wasn’t like they were that big a deal, though, right? Dean asked himself, knowing exactly how much that wasn’t true. Rings were what ran the upper class around here. If you had a Priestess-awarded ring, that put you in the top of the elite, essentially the top of the social food chain.
The Priestess got the most important one; a double-band of solid gold, a twist of a golden snake around a shining red gem, an ancient ruby that had been around since the dawn of creation - or so the stories said.
A step down from her were the people of the church, so despite his origins as a drunken off-edge screwy bastard, Bobby Singer had somehow made it to the cream of that crop. He never acted like it, but he practically controlled the entire city, except for any specifics that the Priestess wanted to mess with.
Now, below Bobby, was Rufus Turner, ex-Captain of the Guard. He’d risen a rank, accepted by the church as a true clergyman. Dean suspected that Bobby had something to do with that, as it wasn’t normal practice.
Until Dean had been nine and his parents had been lost in the Reaper Massacre, Bobby had been the furthest thing from a ‘Man o’ God’ as a man could possibly be. He had, however, been a good second father to Dean at times, despite his drunken tendencies. Maybe his parents’ deaths had been a turning point for Uncle Bobby, Dean supposed.
Often, Dean theorised that Bobby had sneaked his way into the church - forged some documents, put on the Father Singer demeanour, and stuck around until someone believed him.
Why? Because Dean had been nine years old, and had just lost his parents. Bobby had been there for Dean before, and right then was when he needed him more than ever. Dean just accepted it, and Bobby had been Father Singer ever since.
Castiel’s ring, unlike Dean’s, did not symbolise power over people, only rank. He was higher up than the majority of other angels, higher than the Guardsmen, just about equal with Dean. Dean didn’t know what the point of Castiel having a ring at all was, but at least it meant Raphael was well below Castiel on the scale of I Outrank You, Shut The Fuck Up.
Dean grinned to himself at this thought. The idea of Castiel using cuss words was really quite amusing.
Castiel was becoming more and more agitated as they neared Limn’mere for the second time today. Dean didn’t know what the consequences of losing their rings would be, but there was no doubt that it would be bad. And harsh.
“I’m sorry,” Dean muttered, just loud enough for the angel to hear, as they dismounted and brushed the leaves back at the edge of Limn’mere’s still-sunny clearing. “It was stupid, I should’ve paid attention.”
“It’s not your fault, I distracted you.”
“...With what?”
Castiel began to take a good look at the grass by the pool, leaning forward at the waist slightly. “Nakedness.”
Dean coughed. “Uh, um, huh―”
“Here they are,” Castiel said, voice airy with relief. He bent down to pick up two shiny circles from the grass, placing the white bone one in Dean’s open palm. The other, the silver one, he tossed in his own hand, testing its weight.
The angel let out a slow breath through his nose, teeth gritted. He stared at the ring for a long time.
Dean would say something to him, but the look of deep thought on Castiel’s features was more of a barrier than an invitation. So Dean blinked and fiddled with his own ring while he observed the other man and his thinking. Castiel’s brow was creased, and something in his eyes was darkening, yet he remained still, just staring at his hand.
But then he ground his jaw together, angry, wrenching his hand back, ready to throw―
“Whoa, Cas!” Dean cried, hand around Castiel’s fist, stopping him throwing his ring into the shimmering depths of the pool. “You’ll never find it again!”
“I don’t want to! I want to be rid of it, Dean!” he shouted, shoving Dean’s hand away and lifting his fist again. Dean grabbed him again.
“If you lose this, what’ll happen, huh?” Dean challenged, scooping Castiel’s ring from his clutches. “What would the Priestess do when she realises it’s gone?”
Castiel hyperventilated for a couple of seconds, eyes wandering every which way. “I don’t know. She’d be angry.”
“Do you really want that?”
“I don’t want anything. Nothing. Except to escape. I am trapped, Dean.” He turned to look Dean full-on. “I am a prisoner.”
Castiel dropped his gaze to Dean’s mouth, following the line of his tongue as he grazed his lips, wetting them. Castiel spoke again: “When I am with you, this is the only time in my life, the only time, that I have been free.”
Dean felt the angel’s sorrow. “But you’re not really,” he uttered, hushed. Castiel shook his head. “You put the ring on when you go back, and you’re hers again.” Castiel closed his eyes, like Dean’s words were causing him pain.
“Most of the time... I’d rather be here. With you.”
Dean had no words for his reply. He stepped forward and put a consoling hand on Castiel’s shoulder, and with his head lowered, Castiel leaned into it.
On a wild, sympathy-driven impulse, Dean leant to press his lips to Castiel’s forehead, sighing so his breath ruffled the lightly-damp spikes of Castiel’s hair. Castiel started, nodding upward in surprise - and headbutting Dean’s nose.
“Ouh,” Dean grunted, hand on his face as he stepped back.
“Oh, I’m - I’m sorry,” Castiel said, an arm reaching out like he wanted to pull Dean back. Dean waved an arm at him, making him keep his distance.
“Guh... I’s... i’s cool, ‘m fine,” he mumbled, holding his bleeding nose.
“Here, I can fix that―”
“No, no―” Dean said, fighting Castiel’s approaching arms. But eventually Castiel caught him, and pressed two fingers to his forehead, and the soreness in Dean’s nose fell to nothing. He straightened up, touching his nose gingerly, all the blood gone. “Thought you’re not meant to use mojo.”
“I’m not. But I hurt you, I had to fix it.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, Dea... Dean, what time is it?” Castiel interrupted himself, glancing at the sky but not able to see the sun.
“Uh, about four, I think. We were out here a pretty long time―”
“Dean, I’m late.”
Castiel strode past Dean and mounted Lucifer’s waiting saddle, kicking into a gallop and whipping through low branches, gone before Dean knew what had happened. He grabbed Chevy and chased after the angel, catching up in less than a minute.
“Late for what?” he shouted, over the rush of passing air between them, and the thud of hooves across the forest floor as they headed back to the city.
“The Priestess. She sees me in the afternoon sometimes, I was meant to be there at mid-afternoon, but the sun’s about to go down: I’m late.”
“It’s not about to go down, you have another couple of hours―”
“I’m late, Dean!” And with that, Castiel somehow managed to speed his spindly horse to a faster pace, pulling out in front of Dean and Chevy.
Dean spurred Chevrolet to catch up again, and she was only able to keep pace with the tail of Lucifer; he was fast when Castiel needed him to be, it seemed. “What does she want you for?” Dean called out.
“She asked to see me specially, she had something she wanted to ask,” Castiel shouted back, half the volume of his voice lost to the passing dust.
“Not in trouble, are you?” Dean asked, jokingly.
Castiel replied, turning to face him this time as he spoke: “If I don’t get there in time, I will be.”
Dean resigned to the fact that they were going to get back a lot sooner than he’d expected, and there was nothing wrong with that. They had their rings, and that was a bucketful of relief for them both. Well, mostly for Dean, as it turned out.
They bypassed the edge of the forest, not slowing as they galloped into late-afternoon sunlight, still bright, their shadows just that little bit lengthier. Castiel was still ahead as they sped to the drawbridge. When they reached there, they found their path blocked by a throng of people, clamouring to take a look at something just inside the open mouth of the city.
“All right, all right, break it up,” Dean called out to them all, willing his tired horse on through the crowd. He dismounted as he got to the centre of the commotion. There was Garth - he was sat upon a milking stool, battered and bruised, leaning to one side, up against a heftier companion, who wobbled him around trying to get him to sit by himself. There was no sign of Dean’s armour, which worried Dean.
Castiel was immediately distracted by this turn of events, temporarily forgetting about his appointment. He pushed to the front of the crowd, crouching in front of Dean as they both checked Garth’s wounds.
“What happened?” Dean asked the guard that Garth leant against - Ivan, a bearded man with round eyes and a concerned expression.
“Virgil and a couple of his cronies took a sword to him - not too hard, just―”
“Are you flipping kidding me, it was as hard as a goddamn Guard training test!” came the sharp response of Garth, wincing as Castiel turned his head to look at his swollen eye.
“What the hell for?” Dean asked, demanding answers.
“Why does it have to be for anything,” Ivan said bitterly, but was interrupted by Garth again.
“They took your armour, Cap’n. Wanted to see how good it would do in battle first, though. I just happened to be the test subject who was wearing it at the time. Uh... they left the salad. It tasted amazing.”
Dean patted Garth on the shoulder with an open hand, and Garth whimpered. Dean stood, as did Castiel, who gave Garth instructions to go and see a man named Cupid, in the castle’s central infirmary.
“Do you smell burning?” Castiel asked anyone in earshot, and Dean sniffed the air beside him.
“Burning leather,” Dean confirmed, eyes squinting. They muscled their way out of the people who were beginning to lose interest in Garth, following the crowd as everyone followed their nose.
Around the corner, and Dean was met with a sight that, frankly, gave him very mixed feelings.
The first thought he had, was ‘good riddance’. The second, was ‘oh my God, why are they burning my armour, what the hell, oh crap, now I have to deal with this’. It came out as a long string of panicky words in his head, and he felt his shoulders deflating.
“Oh, there he is!” came a joyous shout from atop the burning demonstration pyre, Virgil waving an arm toward Dean, drawing the attention of the entire gathered crowd to pale-skinned Dean in his dark shirt and horse-crumpled trousers. Dean wished he still had that tortoise shell of armour to shrink back inside - but there it was, hung on a cross, up in flames.
“Our new Captain,” Virgil cried out, adamant and headstrong as a prophet. “Our Captain, who has yet to prove he’s worthy. Unfairly winning a fight, never turning up to practice. He’s as bad as the rest of us, wouldn’t you say?” Virgil shouted to the crowd, calling for them to agree. They did. Apparently he’d been riling them up for a while now.
“But you know what’s worse?” the tall man bellowed, almost laughing. He stepped off the wooden pyre and strutted down the steps and through the gathered crowd. “He tells people he’s better. That he cares about your safety. That he’s doing exactly the same thing as everyone else who is cruel to you, who beats you down - but tells you that he’s being kind!”
Dean stood and watched the approaching man with a sickened awe. He’d only been Captain for a few days - and within those days, yes, it was true that he had rarely been around, but he knew how to manage the people that actually turned up. Just about.
But unfairly winning a fight? No. The sword may have been angel mojo’d, but so was Raphael as a whole. Use what you have. Dean had Castiel.
Dean look around: Castiel had been pushed back into the crowd; he was still there, but Dean could only see the top of his tufted black hair, and his eyes, as the angel stood on tiptoes to see over people’s heads.
“You’re a slacker, Captain,” Virgil taunted, the crowd clearing a circle around them as they came face-to-face. Virgil was taller, his face older and with a permanent angry smirk. “And you’re very easily distracted.”
Dean felt a squirm inside him, telling him it was true. He hated when other people saw the worst in him before he did.
“What of it, Captain?” Virgil asked, taking a step back with his arms spread wide. “At least Raphael isn’t blind to his own depravity. He knows when someone needs to be taught a lesson,” he grinned. The smell of burning was starting to eat at Dean’s throat.
“So, Captain.” Virgil dropped his arms to his sides, and growled his last few words out: “What... of... it?”
Dean swallowed, jaw aching from how tightly he was clenching it. “What... of...” His brain had shut down with the blind panic of having so many people watching him and judging him. And not even neutrally this time - this crowd was already tuned to hate him.
“That kid,” Dean started, blinking as he forced memories up like bile. “The one Raphael shoved into the gutter because he - what was it―”
“Stole his money, oh Captain. The child, an urchin. No manners at all.”
Dean bit out a mirthless laugh, looking around at their crowd. There, just like that, Dean had the upper hand. “Who are these people, Virgil? Take a look at them.” Virgil did.
“Tell me, how much money do these people make, from the sweat of their labours, hard work, fighting society for everything they have? Tell me.”
“Does it matter, Winchester?”
“It does. The child belonged to one of these people. One of these people,” he said again, loud enough so everyone could hear, “who were hungry, who couldn’t feed their children. How much money do you make, Virgil? Just for being on Earth, for rarely showing up to training?”
Virgil was silent, drawing himself up angrily.
“To Raphael, one bag of coins was next to nothing, he could spend that much in, ooh, a week.” Dean looked round at the crowd again, seeing mostly older men, some younger women - weavers, pot-makers, tradesmen, livestock-breeders. All of them hard-working people, all of them skinny. “To that child - he knew its value. That child knew those coins could feed his entire family for three times as long.”
Dean pushed past Virgil and went to stand on the pyre, the flames dying down as they reached the shell of his armour. The crowd turned to watch him, and Dean saw Castiel’s white clothes standing out among the sea of brown. He still held onto their horses.
“Okay, so I’ve not been a great Captain so far, maybe I do need more practise at this.” He gestured to himself, speaking to the whole crowd as if they were one person.
“But I don’t hurt people. I know what things mean to people, I know where the line is for punishment. I’m not saying all your kids should come up and pinch my money―” the crowd chuckled - “but I’m not going to beat your kid to the curb because he wanted to feed his family. That’s one example.” Dean held up a finger. “One example, of the many times Raphael and his supporters have gone way, way over the top. I’ve missed a lot of them, but hell, I know some of you lot have seen it.
“Bessy,” Dean said, waving a hand to a soft-faced blonde woman near the front of the crowd, “I’m sorry to bring this up right now, but we all know what he did to you was inexcusable. One day he’ll get what’s coming to him, he will.” She nodded, and Dean gave her a tight smile.
Then Dean sighed. “I’m not a bad person,” he said to everyone in front of him. “I hope you’ll give me a chance to prove that.”
He leapt off the pyre and nudged his way through the crowd with his head down. He felt a few pats on his back, and a great deal of mumbling, but mostly people kept their distance. He headed for Castiel.
“Not so fast, Winchester.” Virgil stepped in front of him.
“Virgil, I don’t have time for this. I have training to get to, believe it or not. You’re meant to be there.”
“Raphael will be Captain one day, and one day soon.” Virgil pressed a fist to the middle of Dean’s chest, and Dean had no idea what that meant, but it felt threatening. “You will lose.”
“Sure I will,” Dean said, pushing past again, ignoring the crowd and taking the reins of his horse from the waiting Castiel. Virgil shouted after him, but Dean moved on, tugging Chevy behind him.
Castiel walked beside him in silence, waiting until there were very few people around them in the street, heading for the castle. Then he said, extremely calmly, “I am very, very late.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“You won’t lose to Raphael, Dean. God wanted you to win that fight.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “You wanted me to win that fight. You made the sword, you helped me. God had nothing to do with that.”
“God guides every action that happens in this world. If God had wanted you to lose, you would have lost regardless of the sword I made you.”
Dean was too unsettled to spare that a thought right now. “Go on, get to your meeting,” he said. “I’ll take the horses.”
Castiel handed him the reins of Lucifer, ready to part ways at the base of the castle, at one of the entrances that Dean assumed led to Castiel’s rooms. It was the same building that had Castiel’s window above the training courtyard, the same one whose top floor was the disused garret.
Castiel never got further than a few steps toward it, however.
“Castiel,” a woman said, dressed in a white flowing gown that pinched at the waist and draped off her hips, leaving a triangular trail of cloth in her wake. It was the Priestess. In a flicker of alarm, Dean realised he still had Castiel’s ring in his pocket, confiscated when the angel had tried to dispose of it. He didn’t move, only watched the woman and Castiel approach each other, some way in front of him.
“You weren’t in your rooms, Castiel, where were you?” She sounded curious, but her tone was on the edge of sharp and reprimanding.
“Forgive me, your Grace, I was in the library; I lost track of time.” Castiel’s head was hung low, hands twisted together in front of him. Perhaps trying to hide the missing ring, Dean thought.
“As is, I can’t see you now, anyway,” the Priestess said, coldly. “You kept me waiting, Castiel. I had something very important to say to you, and you are treating me badly.”
“I understand, it won’t happen again.”
“It shouldn’t have happened this time. What could possibly be so interesting in the library?” she asked, not frowning, but looking pissed off all the same.
“I got caught up reading... it - it was a very interesting story.”
Priestess Masters narrowed her eyes at the angel, lips taut. “I have to see you tonight instead; I have another engagement now. We will be continuing this discussion.” She stalked off, shoes clicking on the cobblestones. “Good afternoon, Captain!” she called to Dean as he stood there, nervously fiddling with the horses’ reins. She diverted her stride toward Dean, hair bobbing around her face as she walked.
“Shouldn’t you be at training, Captain?” she asked, head tilted to one side. Dean considered, not for the first time, how odd it felt to be called ‘Captain’ rather than just ‘Winchester’.
“I was just putting these here horses away,” he intoned, running a hand down Chevy’s soft muzzle. “Took ‘em out for a quick trot, give ‘em some exercise.” It wasn’t a lie, not like Castiel had lied to her about being in the library. But it was uncomfortable, the way it wasn’t the whole truth.
“Two horses? For one man? Who was your second?” She was quirking an eyebrow at Dean, and Dean couldn’t help but feel the gesture was forced familiarity.
“Uh, yeah. Took Balthazar out with me, he was getting sick of training.” It felt like an extension of Castiel’s lie - it felt easy to let it roll off his tongue like some candied dish that was just that little bit too sweet.
“Isn’t Balthazar training your Guard right now?” she asked, her brows curving down in a frown. Dean had never seen her frown before. In the background he could see Castiel shifting on his feet anxiously. Was there really as much to fear from this woman as Castiel seemed to believe?
“Uh - ye- yeah. He came back early, he...” Dean sucked in his lips. “Uh, you know what? Forgive me, I’m - I’m―”
“Lying your guts out?” she suggested, smiling coolly at him.
“I took a girl out to the forest,” he said, in the tone of hard-won defeat. He raised the basket in his other hand, showing the Priestess. She pursed her lips like a kiss.
“This is what you’ve been skipping practice for, I imagine,” she gathered, slender arms crossing over her middle, dainty fingers curling around her own elbows. One of her fingers tapped a beat, and Dean noticed it was the finger with the double-banded ring with an enclosed ruby. Dean realised with a jolt that it was essentially the same design as the hilt of his sword: a faceted ruby that glimmered bright in the sunlight, and a case of wrought gold holding it in place.
“Yes, ma’am,” Dean admitted with his head down in abashment.
“Pretty girl, is she?” Priestess Masters asked, voice swift and bouncy. Much like the rest of her demeanour.
“Very,” Dean said with a helpless grin, a glance up to Castiel behind her, undetectable in its speed.
The Priestess sighed, a tiny smirk on the corner of her mouth. Her frown had lifted, and all that was left was blatant amusement.
“You know I cannot allow this, Captain. Not in the middle of practice. I know the kingdoms are at peace, and we have nothing to fight - but you know as well as I do that that won’t always be the case.” She unravelled her arms and placed one line of fingertips on the chest of Dean’s shirt, dragging the cloth an inch or so. “We need you at your station, I’m sure you realise what’s at stake. If you’re going to take your girl out, make it after hours, hm? Take her to a tavern, buy her a drink.” Her tone was kind, gentle. Castiel surely had her wrong? There was nothing cruel in her expression.
“Besides,” the Priestess continued, brushing some dark hair behind her ears, “you never know what’s out there, those woods are haunted - or, so the legends say.”
Dean chuckled. “I’ve heard a fair few, yeah,” he nodded.
“Anyway, Captain,” she said stepping backward, pulling her white dress out from under where she was about to step. “I have an appointment. You’ll keep me up to date with your training, won’t you? Let me know how everyone’s doing?”
“Of course, your Grace,” Dean said, bending at the waist to press a gentle kiss to her ring. In a second of bewilderment, he thought he tasted some of Castiel’s perfume in her scent: not intoxicating like it had been on the angel, but recognisable. But it was only perfume, and it was gone as soon as she moved her hand away and took her leave, and Dean couldn’t conjure the aroma back to his mind even a second later. Just perfume.
Dean peered around the horses and watched her as she slid away in the sunshine, a graceful dignity went with her as she crossed the courtyard cobblestones. Castiel was beside him then, a hand on Lucifer’s neck for comfort.
“I dread tonight,” Castiel told Dean, eyes still on his horse, but Dean knew he was speaking to him.
“She’s not so bad, Cas,” Dean said, adamant. “You’ll be fine.”
Castiel did not meet his gaze. “May I have my ring back, please?”
Dean handed it to him, momentarily hesitant before he placed it in Castiel’s hand, worried he might try and dispose of it again - but then reasoned that the angel was so damn scared of the Priestess, he couldn’t dare. Not any more.
“You’re overreacting,” Dean said gently. “We can see each other again tomorrow, okay? Just maybe not in the day,” he added with a sideways grin.
Castiel took in a breath, ready to disagree, but held himself back. “I have to go.”
He turned and headed for the castle entrance, its archways with huge doors swung open during the day to let the warm air inside.
“Hey - hey, Cas, wait.” Dean stumbled after him, dropping the horses’ reins for a moment. He sidled up to Castiel and looked down the inch or so between their heights. “Do you wanna meet up tonight?”
Castiel narrowed his eyes. “And do what?” he asked, head turned. “Unless you wish to get very wet, we would have to stay inside, there’s a storm coming.”
Dean glanced at the sky, then at all the horizons around them. Clear blue, all over. He looked back at Castiel with a doubtful expression on his face.
Castiel pressed his lips together in an amused smile. “You’ll see.”
And then Castiel left. Dean stood there, grappling with Chevy’s reins, then Lucifer’s (who snorted and pulled away, insisting on following at a distance). Dean led them to the stables, brushed them both down, then sat on a milking stool and thought about life.
He stared at Chevy as she stuck her nose in a bucket of oats, absent-mindedly rubbing at her rear flank. The smell of the horses was calming to Dean; it had been the bridge between castle life and his great escape for much of his existence. Even before he’d had Chevy, his other (rather more mindless) horses had been good companions - once he’d even had a dog, who ran alongside his galloping steed as he made his way to Limn’mere, or over the bridge into Evacéra. Dean loved to travel, he loved to explore, to learn something new. All of that need, that want - it had all dissipated over the years, the further he sank into Guard training, the harder he worked in becoming the greatest fighter that Zamreer had ever seen.
It had been something to be proud of, right up until the angels had touched down in the city, one by one making Dean look more and more like an amateur. He’d worked even harder, trained as hard as ever. There’d been no time for anything in his life outside of training, eating, sleeping.
Gabriel and Anna had been a godsend, they’d helped him win his battles every time. They had nothing to prove. They were quite content to help a friend best their brothers, and like Dean always prayed thanks for, they were reasonable people.
The other angels, not so much. Dean bore with it. One day he’d make Captain, and he could put them in line.
Now he’d made his goal. There was nowhere higher to go. And now Dean wanted that escape again - he’d been thrown right back to his teenage years, when he’d gotten his own horse for the first time, allowed to ride out on his own.
But he wasn’t alone: Castiel was by his side.
Castiel, to Dean, felt like a guide, pulling Dean back to the freedom he’d yearned for all his life. Why did he have to come now, of all times? He was such a distraction for Dean; it was clear to everyone. Even the Priestess knew it now, even if she thought it was some girl who was the distraction, and not her precious kept angel.
“Hey―” Dean said, then coughed, because his voice was hollow. He swallowed, then tried again. “Hey, God. It’s me. Dean Winchester. I guess you can hear me, so... Um.” Dean bit his lower lip and stared at the floor, studying Chevy’s hooves as they scuffed the dirt.
“I’ll start with the thank you again. I have a lot to be thankful for, I always do. I never really say it... you know I think it though, right?” He looked up at the ceiling, the planks of wood coming to a point in the middle of the roof of the stable, beams crossing it. There were vines over the beam, trailing in the gentle through-breeze.
“Every good thing,” he sighed. “Every good thing that happens, to me, or to anyone. I’m thankful.
“And - and right now, even if he’s messing up my life... Cas. I’m just... really, really glad...”
He couldn’t finish his thought, leaning forward on his milking stood and putting his face in his hands. It felt too intimate, too soon. He wasn’t ready to say what he thought he might have been going to say. Yeah, he didn’t even know.
He didn’t know what he was thinking. It was a feeling, not words. He couldn’t put it into words.
“Cas said you won me that fight,” Dean continued, resting his forearms on his thighs. The top of his head brushed Chevy’s sleek black leg, and he nudged her affectionately. “I don’t know why - because hell, Raphael was better, and I’m making a crappy Captain so far. I’d pray for help being better but... Jesus, I know I’m good - oh, sorry, sorry,” he muttered, catching the blasphemy too late. “Look, I know I’m a good Captain, but...”
Dean lost his train of thought, rubbing a horsey hand furiously over his face, mussing his hair. Stubble was grainy on his chin, bristling on his palm.
“All I want to do right now is goof off with Cas. I can’t - focus.”
Dean squeezed his eyes tight and growled to himself. To say he was feeling torn would be an understatement.
“Oh Lord,” Dean began in a lighter tone, attempting to summarise. “I pray for guidance, and direction, and a hint at what the fucking hell I’m meant to be doing with my life right now. Why send Cas, if you want me to Captain? Is this a test?” Dean leaned back on the stall wall behind him and kept his eyes on the roof. “Because it’s a sucky test.”
Dean let out a long breath, dropping his eyes closed. “All right, that’s it for now. That’s all I can...”
Dean sighed again, and stood up, patting his horse’s rump.
“See you later, Chevy,” he muttered, easing out of the stall and putting the rope back up. Then he headed out in the sun, making his way to the training courtyard.
~
Balthazar was probably a better Captain than Dean was, Dean thought, with a sour bite of his own tongue. He may not be an expert teacher, but he was still a formidable attacker, a skilled defender - and far better at managing difficult students than Dean was. Already Virgil had been captured and brought to justice: polishing every piece of armour and equipment in the Guard’s shed, stuck there until dawn tomorrow morning, or until he was done; whichever came first. Without mojo.
Dean patted Balthazar on the back in thanks, stepped back, and let him get on with it. Dean could get back to Captaining tomorrow.
It wasn’t really justice, Dean thought. Justice would have Virgil thrown out of the Guard completely. But alas, simply the name of his species meant he was bound to do the Priestess’ work until the day he died, should it ever come.
From what Dean could tell, these goddamn angels were immortal. That was all well and good for Cas; his curiosity in the world would outlive them all. But creatures like Raphael were tied to this Earth for just as long. Dean felt for everyone who ever had to deal with them in the future, he really did.
Dean did up the buckles on the side of his old armour, feeling right at home in the scruffy scratched old thing. It curved with him as he moved, it twisted when he twisted; it swung his sword right along with him. If Dean had his way, he’d wear this raggedy thing until the day he died. Captain of the Guard’s special crest be damned. He liked this second skin.
He made a stop at the castle’s central infirmary, intending to check on Garth and his multiple bruises. The infirmary was one of the few places in the castle that Dean actually knew how to get to; he’d spent more than his fair share of time here, over the years. Granted, he’d been training here longer than almost everyone, but he was also very prone to picking fights he was bound to lose. He was an idiot like that, really.
Pushing open the door - of course, it creaked - Dean strode among the rows of beds up along the walls, wooden-framed, grimy and notched, but always with fresh linen sheets, and a line of broken people.
There was Woody, he’d been here a month now - “Still waiting on that broken leg, huh?” Dean called to him, getting a rude hand gesture in return. Dean chuckled and flipped his finger right back.
“Move, move, move,” came a hurried voice from behind Dean, and he stepped back against the second row of beds, almost knocking a free-standing candle holder onto an empty cot. He grabbed it in time, righting it.
Rushing past Dean was a chubby man with scruffy hay-coloured hair, hands full of bottles. Not one bottle, or two - or even four or five, say, the normal amount of bottles that a person could carry. This man was carrying no less than fifteen bottles, and all of them upright and full of sloshing liquids.
“Still here, Cupid?” Dean asked, perching himself on the end of the bed he was standing by. He could feel the warmth of the setting sun on his back, gentle through the glass windows that ran from the top to bottom of the side wall, all the way along.
“Nowhere better to be, sweetie,” came the soft reply, and Dean recalled how he’d never been quite comfortable with how Cupid spoke like a woman. He had nothing against Cupid, seeing as he’d fixed almost every malady Dean had ever come in here with - even that nasty case of the clap, which had been dealt with swiftly and quietly. There was nobody better suited to being a healer than a well-mannered fallen angel, Dean mused.
“Did Garth ever make it here, or did he collapse under his own weight?”
“Done and dusted in a heartbeat, honey,” Cupid’s voice called from the other end of the infirmary; rushing, always rushing. “Sent him home about a half-hour ago, he’ll be at practice tomorrow. Says he’s giving the gate duty a rest for now, if it’s all right by you.”
Cupid was already bustling right back to Dean, arms empty now. He veered off to check on some patient’s blotchy red skin, put a hand over their forehead with a pained expression on his pudgy face, then he relaxed and moved off back into the central aisle between beds. The patient’s skin eased its angry red as he passed, still sore and unconscious, but improving.
Dean made to leave, nothing else to do today. He could tidy his room, but... nah.
“Did you need help finding Castiel’s quarters tonight?” Cupid asked, catching up with Dean even as he took his first step for the doors. “He told me you wanted to see him, and your sense of direction left something to be desired. Something special planned?” he inquired with a cutesy smile. Dean ground his teeth, nose flaring.
“Just wanted to say hi. He seemed kinda worried about something the Pr―”
“―Priestess had to say, yes.” Cupid sighed melancholically. “I’ll take you up there, I have to attend to him anyway.”
“Attend?”
Cupid drew his face back in surprise. “He didn’t tell you already? I double as his manservant.”
“Man... servant?”
“Were you always this dense, silly?” Cupid muttered fondly, tapping Dean on the side of his head with a finger. “I do his sheets and clothes and things. Run his baths, wash his feet, that sort of stuff. Manservant.”
“Wash his feet?” Dean repeated, somewhat fazed. “He can’t do that himself?”
Cupid blinked in thought, then took Dean by the arm and pulled him out of the infirmary, into the darkened, deserted corridor.
In a whisper, Cupid told him, “Priestess Masters is very insistent he doesn’t use a single ounce of his angel dust. Castiel’s been telling me that he’d not quite been sticking to those rules, has he?”
Dean swallowed. “Uh, he may have shown me―”
“Showed off, is more like it. His feet get grubbier every day he sees you - what in Heaven’s name have you been doing with the little mite?”
Dean almost laughed at Cupid description of Castiel. Castiel was anything but little. And then Dean swallowed down a rising flush of shame that threatened to engulf his face.
Cupid smiled knowingly. “Oh, I know about that too, don’t worry,” he said at the lowest volume possible. Dean barely heard him.
“You know about...?”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, hon, everyone gets curious now and then,” Cupid said, hushed.
“Curious - no, I’m not, I’m not―”
“I told Castiel the same thing, he was all worried he upset you, poor pet.”
“I’m not upset, I’m just―” Dean took a breath, “and I’m not curious.”
Cupid tilted his head, perhaps trying to look at Dean’s flustered face from a different angle and seeing if it looked any less emotionally violated. “You keep telling yourself that, Deanie.”
“It’s Dean.”
Cupid patted him on the shoulder and went back inside the darkening room, conjuring up more lit candles with a sweep of his hands across the lines of beds. “I’ll meet you at eight, base of the castle. Wear quiet shoes,” he muttered back over his shoulder.
“Quiet shoes?” Dean repeated under his breath. Frowning for a second, he laced his fingers over the hilt of his sword and then turned to leave, pacing down the stone-floored tunnel of the castle. There were no candles down here, and Dean just headed for the light at the end, listening to the echo of tap-tap-tap that followed him. Oh, maybe his shoes were quite noisy.
~
Eight o‘clock, and Dean stood in the castle foyer, tips of his fingers tapping his sword. His nails were short, rounded at the ends. Maybe a bit chewed, but that only happened when he was nervous, or really bored. Right now he was halfway between both, and so stood there, trying really hard not to fiddle with that hangnail that had presented itself when he’d gotten it too close to a sharpened sword.
“Right on time, aren’t we always,” Cupid’s soft voice said, from the other side of the entranceway. The doors were closed now, as night had fallen a few hours ago. It was still warm out, but insects had a tendency to creep in endlessly through doors left open at night.
Cupid wore something similar to Castiel’s white get-up; this one long-sleeved, looser, with cotton rolled to Cupid’s elbows. He wore it over brown trousers and round-toed boots. Dean had never seen him out of his infirmary brown-grey, and thought he looked much better like this.
“One day, Deanie, you’ll work out how to find your own way around here. You’d think being here nineteen years would be long enough.” Cupid was leading the way up the main staircase, turning right at the top.
“Show me a sword, or a crossbow, and I can tell you north through south, show you every trick ever possible. But the castle, man, it’s like a goddamn labyrinth.”
“You’re lucky you can tell your pretty ass from your pretty face, sweetheart.”
Dean scowled.
“Oh, no, no,” Cupid moaned, tapping Dean’s cheeks as they turned another corner. “Smile for your angel, won’t you? He likes when you smile.”
Dean gaped, tugging his face away from Cupids pudgy hands. “He’s not my angel.”
Cupid rolled his eyes and dragged Dean by the shirt up another staircase. “I hope you’re paying attention, I will not be showing you this again. If you get lost, you’re calling someone else, not me.”
“What makes you think I’d be able to find anyone else to tell them I’m lost?” Dean replied, sour.
They cut across the castle in a far more logical way than Castiel had ever shown Dean through the back-corridors. Dean was halfway certain he could actually remember this route.
“Now, I should tell you,” Cupid said gently, once they had passed out of earshot of a couple of dainty females in long dresses, whom Dean had already slept with, and so gave them little notice, outside of a respectful nod. “I’m going there to be there for Castiel’s meeting. The Priestess is not privy to my presence, and neither should she be of yours. Hence the quiet shoes - well done, by the way, those ones are rather flattering on your thighs.”
Dean glanced at his thighs, which did look more shapely than he was used to. Huh, not bad.
“So... we’re snooping.”
“If you want to put it like that, be my guest. Castiel knows I’m going to be there, he’d rather I knew what was going on.”
“Does he tell you everything?”
“He’s told me everything you’ve done together, if that’s what you’re asking. He didn’t have to say it all out loud, either. Angel powers do come in handy, don’t they?”
“So you know... everything?”
“He’s really quite smitten with you, you know.”
Dean fought down a gooey feeling that tried to tickle his stomach. “Whatever.”
“Here we are - talk in whispers now, won’t you?” Cupid instructed, pushing open the heavy doors to the last corridor that led directly to Castiel’s room. Dean stepped lightly, hand on his sword like it would help him be invisible.
Here was the final door, behind which Castiel was having that dreaded conversation with her Holy Grace, Priestess Masters. Cupid stepped between Dean and the door, pressing a spread-fingered hand against the pale wood.
Under his hand, whiteness grew, shimmering and turning yellow as a window was painted onto the door, a messy shape that wobbled as Cupid kept his hand pressed in the middle.
Dean could see into the room: lit by fifty or more candles, on surfaces and in holders all over the room, none of them near the walls or draped cloth. The ones in the ceiling remained unlit.
At the foot of the carved white bed, the fallen angel perched. His bare feet were flat against the floor, hands clasped in his lap, head down, as if in prayer. A few steps in front of him, the Priestess paced, the heels of her shoes silent on the soft scrubbed wood of the floor. Her white dress turned over the air behind her, dragging as she twisted to resume another length of her pace.
Dean and Cupid could see them, but they couldn’t see back. “Nice,” Dean whispered to Cupid. Cupid shrugged, accepting the compliment.
“Since you clearly have no bearing on your value, Castiel,” the Priestess said curtly, “I shall have to describe it to you.”
Dean looked her up and down. Her manner was completely different to how she’d been around him his afternoon. She was cold and bitter, her movements sharper and less fluid. She held her eyes half-closed, like she was glaring at everything.
“I go through endless trouble to protect you, Castiel. The pain it took me to save you in the first place, was - let’s put it this way - never in all your eternal years, could you imagine a pain as great. Great losses, Castiel. Things were lost that can never be regained, nor replaced.
“You are of greater meaning to this city than any of your brothers; nothing is more important to this city’s survival and continued peace than you are―”
“Please, tell me how―”
Castiel’s face was whipped on his cheek by Meg’s fast hand - Dean jumped at the slap of sound it made; it could be nothing but painful.
“Do not interrupt me, Castiel.” She ground the words through her teeth, lips moving angrily an inch from his face. She wrenched his chin upwards with one hand, pressing her thumb into his stubble. Dean thought she might slap him again, but she dropped her hand, leaving white, fading marks on Castiel’s chin.
“What were my rules, Castiel? When I saved your life, and brought you here - you, in my debt - what were my rules?”
Castiel swallowed, breathing shakily. “N-not to use my power.”
“Have you broken this rule, Castiel?” she asked, innocently. Oh, thought Dean, if only Castiel were better at picking up on tone, he could tell that it was a ploy.
“I have not,” Castiel said. Dean watched as the Priestess’ shoulders slumped in disappointment, then the whip of movement as she flew to Castiel’s side, hand in his hair, pulling hard, yanking his jaw down as his head was pulled back.
“Do... not... lie... to me, Castiel.”
Castiel let out a breath of shock, jaw hanging open. Dean’s hand turned on his sword, and he wished Castiel knew how much he wanted to comfort him, just the touch of his hand, a quick glance, a steely reassurance. Even to have Castiel know he was there, watching. But unable to do anything. He would be hung, for sure, no matter how good a trusted fighter he was for her city. He now knew why Castiel dreaded this meeting.
“Castiel, won’t you tell me,” the Priestess continued, standing up and starting to pace again, “tell me why you have been using your power.”
“I was only curious, I wanted to see what I could do―”
“And what can you do, angel?”
“I can bend nature to my will, the smallest of creatures... I can―” Castiel broke off with a tiny smile and a huff of pleasant memory, “I can call them to me, speak to them...”
“Is that all?” the Priestess asked, hands behind her back as she stood at the wide window, looking down on the courtyards below. A splatter of light rain hit the glass as she watched, and Dean smiled, because Castiel had been right about the weather. Of course he had been.
“Yes,” Castiel lied. He didn’t mention Dean, the way he could catch them both in a bed of air, the way he could show Dean another world through his own eyes, just by a touch. Dean felt his heart plummet, because the Priestess would surely know that Castiel didn’t tell her everything. Protecting Dean.
But the Priestess nodded, turning from the window. “You will not use your power again, do you hear me? Not once. Have no doubt, no―” she strode toward the angel, “―doubt―” she took his chin in her hand again, turning it forcefully toward her, “―at all. I will know. Do you understand?”
“Yes, your Grace.”
“Now, tell me,” she added, brushing a gentle hand through Castiel’s soft dark spikes of hair, claws still in his face, “what was my second rule?”
Castiel’s lip wobbled. “Do not leave the castle.”
Dean almost gasped. Cupid put a restraining hand on his lower back, and Dean willed himself to focus.
“Have you broken this rule, Castiel?”
“I have special permission to visit the bell tower, and the other buildings of the castle,” he recited, eyelids flickering at the sensation of fingernails being drawn over his scalp, “but no, I have not broken this rule. I have stayed within the citadel walls, no further than the main structures. At all times.” He held the Priestess’ fierce gaze as he spoke, and Dean was impressed at how controlled his lying was. He was sure of himself and determined not to let her see his weakness, and Dean respected that endlessly. Castiel was truly a fighter, in his own way.
“Good,” Priestess Masters said, wrenching her hands away from Castiel’s head with a forceful shove. Castiel touched his sore chin with his fingertips.
“If I find you ever break my rules again,” she hissed, hands curled like talons on her own hips, “you will never leave this room again. You will never again visit your precious library, nor the bell tower, or see any of your friends,” she spat.
Castiel swallowed twice and kept his eyes on his feet as he nodded.
“I am merciful, Castiel. I let you see the things you claim to love. But how much love can there really be, if you’re so willing to give it up?”
Castiel said nothing.
“I will know, Castiel. Believe me, I will know.” She lifted a hand to Castiel’s face, not to hit him, but to drag a gentle finger down his cheek. Then she offered her hand to Castiel’s lips. “You do love me, don’t you?” she whispered.
“Of course, your Grace,” Castiel said back, and Dean was hurt to hear the sincerity in his voice. His stomach felt clenched and uncomfortable, but it didn’t last - she was headed for the door.
Cupid wrenched his hand away from the wood and their shimmering window vanished, and he dragged Dean back a few steps with his hand over his mouth. The door opened, and the Priestess stepped into the hallway. Dean wrestled Cupid’s grip for only a second, before realising that the Priestess could not see them, and had walked right past.
Her white dress trailed through the air, and vanished around the next corner as she stepped through the doors and into the main hallway of the castle. Dean felt the clammy hand fall from his mouth, and his shoulders sagged in relief.
“Invisibility cloak?” he asked with a quirk in his voice.
“Even we Cupids get magic powers, silly,” came the reply, but it was not Cupid’s usual cheery tone. He was trembling with worry, and so was Dean, even if Dean hid it better.
Together they burst through the door to Castiel’s room, Cupid closing it quietly behind them. Dean was already at Castiel’s bed, a consoling hand coming to rest on his turned shoulder, his body face-down on the mattress, fists bunched in the sheets.
“What if I never see him again, Cupid?” a muffled voice uttered, thick with oncoming tears.
“I gotta say, that’d hurt a helluva lot,” Dean replied, sitting beside Castiel.
“Dean?”
“Right here, buddy.”
Castiel lifted his face from the sheets, uncrumpling himself to sitting up, leg pressed right against Dean’s. There were tears in his eyes, and his face was half red and sore, but he was smiling. “Dean,” he repeated, putting a hand on Dean’s collarbone, sliding it up against his neck. Dean put his palm over it, leaning in to accept the hug that Castiel fell into, arms swept around Dean’s neck and squeezing his shoulders gently.
“Did you hear all of it?” Castiel asked him, lips grazing Dean’s shoulder.
“Think so. The part about you not being allowed to leave the castle... well, that was brand new information,” he said, with fake cheer.
Castiel seemed to shrink against him, fingers curling into his shirt. “I’m sorry, Dean. If you knew I was going against her wishes so fiercely, you’d never have let me come with you.”
“Pff, sure I would,” Dean retorted, pulling the angel off him, glancing at Cupid, who was folding clothes, just giving them a moment. “I’m not exactly a stickler for rules, y’know.”
“Dean,” Castiel said again. Yeah, he knew better.
“Okay, maybe you’re right. Fine.” Dean set his free hand down on his thigh, the other around Castiel, holding onto his shoulder blade, thumb rubbing him through the white cloth of his shirt. “So we can’t leave again, no more Limn’mere. It’s not a big deal, I can take you―”
“Dean, no!” Castiel interrupted, a hand held up to stop him. “We’re still going, nothing will take that freedom from us.”
Dean laughed. “Cas, you heard her, right? She’ll ban you from - everything.”
Castiel’s lip trembled, hands curling into fists on his lap. “No, no. No, she won’t―”
“It’s not love, Cas. What she’s giving you. You don’t hurt the people you love.”
“It was only fair, I hurt her by using my power.”
“Don’t defend her, Cas! What does she use your power for, huh? If you’re not using it, it’s going somewhere, right? She’s not told you, she’s keeping that from you. She hurts you―”
Castiel made to disagree, but Dean caught his face in his hands, not like the Priestess before, not with grabbing hands, but with a gentle caress. “―Cas, listen. She hurts you, she keeps you trapped. There’s no freedom, you said it yourself.” Dean dropped his hand to Castiel’s hands, sliding them together and locating the silver-white band on the angel’s finger.
“Look, you’re trapped.” He held up Castiel’s hand, turning in his seat to look at Castiel face-on, their knees bumping at the edge of the bed. “Prisoner. Your words. That’s not love.”
Castiel turned his words over in his mind. “Then... what is love?”
The words were burned fiercely into Dean’s mind, ready on his tongue. Let me show you. But he couldn’t say that, no. He couldn’t say that.
“Love is letting someone be happy.”
“You let me be happy,” Castiel said, a tiny frown between his eyebrows. His eyes were on Dean’s lips, and Dean licked them self-consciously. Castiel tracked the movement.
“Me and you, it’s not like that.”
“You don’t love me?”
Dean’s eyes flickered to Castiel’s mouth, between his eyes, his lips slightly parted. Dean shook his head. “Not like that.”
“Then how?”
Dean dropped his head and Castiel’s hand, grinning a little. “We’re friends, Cas. It’s different than love.”
Castiel stared very hard at the side of Dean’s head, trying to study his mind without breaking inside it. “But... I...”
“You’ll know love when you feel it, believe me.” Dean stood up, wiping his hands on his shirt. “You meet a girl, and there’s that spark - there’s nothin’ better. Me ‘n Cassie? It was just like that.”
Castiel studied the floorboards. “You and Cassie are no longer in love.”
Dean shrugged, eyes on Cupid as he placed things neatly in an ornate white wardrobe filled with more white things. “Sometimes it doesn’t last.”
“Will our friendship last?”
Dean closed his eyes with a smile. Sometimes Castiel asked the sweetest, naivest questions. It was endearing, really. “Let’s hope, Cas.”
They were silent for a while, the rain on the window splattering harder, coming back into Dean’s focus now his mind was off the madness of the past minutes. “You were right about the storm,” he mentioned, hearing the first roll of thunder rattle the window.
“I have had six years in which I had nothing to do other than study this planet and all its intricacies. At least,” Castiel said, coming to stand beside Dean looking out over the darkened city, “the parts of it that I can see from here. I was bound to learn how to predict the weather.”
The view wasn’t much, really. In the dark of the night, the only thing lit was the inside of the church, warm orange spilling out into the rain from its coloured glass windows that were arched all along its sides. It was off to the left of Castiel’s huge curved window, in the mid-distance, a few streets between here and there. Everything else was swallowed in blackness and the haze of falling rain.
A flash of lightning struck down some miles away, casting sharp, dark shadows of every building in Zamreer. A deep roll of thunder followed it, and Castiel leaned forward, doing the human equivalent of a dog pricking up its ears.
“I love the thunder,” he supplied, a hand pressed lightly to the window, wanting to get outside. His breath fogged the cool glass, and he reached up with a tiny smile on his face, to draw in the huff. He drew a crossbow arrow, pointing at an low angle toward the sky.
“What’s that mean?” Dean asked.
Cupid came to stand beside Dean, on his other side. “Love.”
Dean squinted. “No it doesn’t.”
“Try telling that to years of being Cupid, flying around and shooting you guys in the ass with love darts.”
Dean turned his full attention to Cupid. “You remember Heaven?”
“I was never an angel, sweet, I have no Heaven to remember.”
“But... you fell?”
“Right along with the others, hon.” His voice grew wistful. “Oh, how I long for the days when I could do as little as point you all in the right direction and send you blundering on your merry ways.”
Dean looked long and hard at the ex-cherub, trying to imagine him in a half-toga with a tiny bow and arrow. Nope, that wasn’t happening. “Weird.”
“You’re telling me. Seems like the only reason I’m here now is to fix boo-boos and stop Castiel from falling apart, poor thing,” he said, soft gaze resting on Castiel, who was ignoring the two of them in favour of staring out at the rain.
Cupid stared at Castiel for a long time, his expression growing wearier with every passing second. “Castiel,” he began, stepping closer. “There are plenty of things you can still show Dean, there’s no need to feel like that.”
Castiel looked away from the window, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Everything I’ve showed Dean and he’s enjoyed, has been using my... mojo.” He seemed to be repeating the thought for Dean’s benefit. “There are very few things in this castle that would interest him. Even if we still snuck out to the forest, undetected... the magic is gone from that place without being able to see it.”
Dean stepped forward, shaking his head. “That ain’t true and you know it,” he said, voice gruff. “Talking to you doesn’t use your mojo. That’s good enough. Limn’mere was always magic before I saw everything under the water, and now I know it’s there, it’s even more magic. You don’t have to see something to know it exists, Cas,” Dean continued, realising there were more things his words could be applied to than just the underside of his beloved stream pool.
“The magic comes from sharing it, Missouri was right.” Dean swallowed, patting Sabbath’s hilt in an uneven rhythm for a few seconds. “Everything’s special just by you being there.”
Okay, that was way too soppy. No way a guy says that to another guy, Dean thought. But this was Cas, he didn’t seem to care that they were both guys. He actually just cared about Dean.
Castiel had still not met his eyes, and was now tracing the lead between window panes with his fingertips, each pane about the size of his hand. “We can still go to Limn’mere,” Castiel repeated. “Another secret.”
“Your life is nothing but secrets, huh. What’s one more?” Dean said with a goofy grin. He had just talked himself into it, hadn’t he? Damn.
Castiel locked eyes with him then, emotions Dean didn’t even recognise playing in there. “There is something magical that I can still show you.”
For a second, Dean had some very awkward mental images - hands in places he wasn’t expecting hands right now. He glanced up and down Castiel in slight shock. “You - don’t mean...”
“Come with me,” Castiel said, taking Dean by the front of his shirt, dragging him toward the door.
“Where are you taking me?” he demanded, as they left Cupid alone in the cloth-drowned room and the fifty-odd candles bright around him.
“To the roof!” Castiel replied, pulling him into the main hallway, dropping his arm before Dean had a chance to tug it away, seeing people coming from the other end.
“The roof? It’s raining!”
“And there’s lightning,” Castiel added, gleefully.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
Dean attempted to memorise the direction they took; he assumed by ‘the roof’, Castiel meant somewhere in the vicinity of the garret, and since Dean wanted to know how to get there anyway, he forced himself to store this information as best he could.
The trouble with Zamreer’s castle, was that there were very few landmarks inside the buildings. Dean could tell the buildings apart, yes, but between each of their numerous floors, there were no statues, all the tapestries looked the same, all the doors were unmarked. The same type of person roamed every floor; the view looked much the same between one floor and the next. It was no great surprise that Dean got lost so often. Having a rapport with almost every young woman who worked here, however, did help. Apparently his cluelessness was ‘endearing’, even among the staff he had not yet had the pleasure of pleasuring.
Dean instead memorised the turnings they took, which staircase exits they followed, which carpets he almost tripped over. If he could work out how to get to Castiel’s rooms, he could find the garret.
Good. That was good.
And here they were; candle-lit corridors eventually led to the darker, dustier side of the penultimate floor, where nobody bothered to put candles. Castiel climbed up first, the air growing stale and colder as they came to the garret, standing in moonlight-bathed and rain-washed shadows. The dust was settled, everything lit with a shimmering pale glow. Lightning flickered and thunder growled beyond the glass.
The carpet of dust was like sand on a beach, without differences between one patch and the next. There were few disturbances, even where Dean and Castiel had sat last time, before Dean had braved his fight against Raphael.
Castiel led again, sweeping up a haze of particles behind him; Dean’s own feet stirred it up to his nose, and he sneezed. Castiel jumped and turned around with a stupefied expression on his face, eyebrows climbing up his forehead.
“What was that, are you okay?” he asked, frantically taking a step toward Dean.
“Wh―” Dean started, before doubling over in a laugh that had his knees trembling. “I sneezed, Cas, I―” he practically giggled, stomach muscles weak and spasming as he tried to breathe. He straightened up to see Castiel’s face as perplexed as ever. ”People sneeze, to get the dust out of their nose. Or when they’re sick.”
Castiel’s brow creased. “That seems like a very strange thing to do,” he said, as if stating a conclusion that he had reached. And then he turned back around and kept walking, heading for a slatted door, that had clearly been boarded up, but had the planks wrenched away.
Dean cautiously followed him, keeping the rattly door open with the tips of his fingers. Behind it was a staircase - another one. It was so dark that the stairs were barely discernible from each other, and Dean only stared at the scaling figure of Castiel as his ghostly white legs climbed with ease in the dark.
“What’s this, the stairway to Heaven? Is it really possible to get higher up than this?” he called, barely seeing the stiff sway of Castiel’s hips as he was gradually swallowed by the dark. “Cas?”
Dean hovered at the entrance, not sure if he could willingly follow. It wasn’t so much the dark he was afraid of, nor the height, but - actually, no. It was both. Bigtime.
“Cas?” he called again, hoping to see friendly blue eyes in his face any second now.
“Follow me, Dean,” came a small, distant reply.
“But you’re already gone,” Dean said, helplessly. He felt very not-brave. He should be more than this.
“I’m up here,” drifted down a deep voice, even more distant. It was being devoured by the rotting wood, bouncing off unfinished planks that lined the wall. Whoever built this place had never completed this staircase.
Dean whimpered, then kicked at the air, screwing up his face. “The things I do for you, asshole,” he muttered, and followed.
“I heard that,” came a snide reply from farther away than should have been possible to hear from.
“You’re cheating.”
“I’m not using mojo, if that’s what you mean,” Castiel said, a few steps closer now that Dean was climbing into the darkness, treading each creaky stair like it was about to collapse.
“Then how can you hear me?”
“You are thinking very loudly.”
“Reading my mind doesn’t use mojo?”
“Your mind does,” the angel said, in a philosophical tone. “But your conscious thoughts, no matter how garbled, are easier to read, almost effortlessly. Plus, that particular thought,” Castiel said, right beside Dean, making him jump, “was thought with some venom in my direction.”
“What am I thinking right now?” Dean quizzed, thinking very hard indeed.
Castiel squinted at him, stepping into a thin beam of rainy moonlight that cut sharply across his face, making his blue eyes bluer. “I cannot be a bastard, since as an angel I had no parents, and I cannot vouch for the marital status of my vessel’s parents... But before that, what is ‘fucking’?”
Dean’s face broke into a grin that made his face ache. “Oh man, just to hear you say those words,” he cackled, slapping Castiel on the arm, grabbing and squeezing heartily. “Best day ever, man.”
“I had fun today too,” Castiel said, thinking back to their impromptu swimming lesson and journeys back and forth through the forest. “I agree. Despite...” Castiel looked down, the wobbly moonlight jittering over his pale skin, “despite the worse parts, today was without doubt the best day of my life.”
Dean rubbed the hand on Castiel’s arm up and down, only then realising that he had never withdrawn his grip. He dropped his hand back to his side immediately.
“Hasn’t your life been, like, six years?”
“Yes. But - please don’t think I’m a child―”
“I don’t think that, Cas.”
“You did, on numerous occasions.”
“I don’t think that any more.”
Castiel nodded, accepting his word. “I brought you up here to show you something...”
Dean was dragged back to his earlier thoughts. What could Castiel want to do, all alone in the dark? Alone, but with Dean?
Dean realised Castiel was probably still prodding at his thoughts, and promptly put up a wall, because what if he was wrong? Castiel didn’t seem to notice anyway, since he had taken a few more steps into the darkness, the both of them on a landing at the top of the stairs.
“It’s raining outside,” Castiel said, stating the obvious. “You’re going to get wet.”
“Why are we going outside? On the roof?”
Castiel spoke as if it were obvious, “Because there’s lightning.”
And with that, Castiel wrenched open a square portion of the roof; a door to the outside. Water poured in, but it was ignored. Castiel located a wooden beam and propped it under the heavy raised square, and Dean heard a crunching noise as the post took its weight.
“Follow me, Dean.”
Dean didn’t hesitate this time. Castiel crawled out of the trapdoor and into the splash of torrential rain, the hiss of it tickling Dean’s ears. Poking his head out, Dean felt the cold droplets rebounding onto his cheeks, covering his eyelashes with white stars. It was bright out here, even though the moonlight was dimmed by the lashes of rain, and the wind. As Dean levered his torso out of the roof-door, he was hit by gust after gust of icy blasts, wobbling him off balance.
There was, at the very least, a ten-storey drop off the edge of this roof. Dean had never counted the floors, and right now he wasn’t sure if he was pleased about that or not.
“Cas, wait!” he called, legs seizing on tiptoes below him, still safely inside. “Cas, I can’t―”
“I won’t let you fall, Dean.” His voice was buffeted by the wind, drowned by the rain. Dean could hardly see him through the whipping rain that broke between them, rushing like a waterfall over the pale slates of the roof.
“How can you catch me, without your magic?” Dean yelled back.
Dean just caught a laugh through the blaze of senses that overwhelmed him. “I can catch you with my arms, I can hold onto you.”
“Cas!” Dean cried, another flutter of wind threatening to knock him off the roof even while he was still half inside.
“Take my hand, Dean,” came a soft voice, and a warm hand was over Dean’s ice-cold one, strong and reassuring. Dean took it, and let it pull him onto the roof.
He leaned against the wind, legs trembling in terror and absolute exhilaration. Never before had he experienced a storm like this: he could see the city lit up as a lightning strike touched down on the other side of the citadel; thunder shook him to his core, like it was wrenching in his gut.
“Oh, God,” Dean whimpered, clutching the angel’s hot forearm. His skin was still a normal temperature, impossibly, but felt like it was burning under Dean’s rapidly freezing hands. He shivered continuously, teeth chattering.
“Come this way,” Castiel guided, pulling him to his feet fully, arm around his lower back as they walked together over uneven, slippery tiles. Even as Dean slipped and trembled, Castiel held him steady. “Sit here.”
Dean sat, his butt on one side of the point of the roof, his shaking legs on the other, fingers gripping the tiled partition like it was his only lifeline. His other hand, his right hand, gripped Castiel’s - knowing that that hand was his true lifeline. He’d be dead right now if the angel weren’t here, he knew it. Why did they always end up like this? Why the roof, of all places?
Castiel sat beside him on his right, perched slightly higher up.
“Now w-what?” Dean asked through jabbering teeth. “What are we waiting f-for?”
“Lightning!” Castiel declared, excited. His hand covered their clasped palms, rubbing some feeling back into Dean’s skin. He could feel Castiel’s warmth spreading through him, not just his hand.
“Are you u-using mojo?”
“I can’t have you freezing.”
“C-Cas, no, st-stop it...”
“Shut up, Dean.”
“‘kay.”
They waited for a few minutes, Cas never ceasing his gentle massage of heat back into Dean, however he was doing it. Then suddenly, Castiel stopped, poised with his chin in the air, searching the sky above.
“Here it comes,” he whispered, and Dean had no idea how he heard it, but he heard it. It was like all the sound was sucked out of everything, like the whole world had stopped, like the rain stopped - just so Dean could watch this happening.
Lightning touched down, shimmering up from the ground beside the castle, licking along its sides, crackling with power. It changed every second, jumping and shaking its white lines, but kept its path, creeping toward the angel and the man, the latter who sat there, terrified and unable to do anything about it.
Castiel sat calmly, neither of them moving, watching the lightning approach them. Then it was at Castiel’s back, and the angel clutched Dean’s hand tight as a vice, but Dean was so numb he barely felt it. He felt nothing but the heat of fire, of the fire that burned bright as the sun right in front of his eyes, dancing its way over the body of the angel.
Then there was a flash as it hit Castiel’s heart, and Dean was so sure he was blinded, he thought all he would ever see was white - but then an image came clear, vivid and bright as anything.
There sat Castiel, hand in Dean’s, lightning crackling all over him. His head was bowed, eyes closed. Then, slowly, he raised his head, the buzz of electricity, impossible shapes, rising from his sides, massive, from his back.
Wings. Wings made of light.
Castiel raised his eyes with his head, with his rising wings. He met Dean’s overwhelmed gaze, Castiel’s irises clouded over with white; brilliant, stunning white. It faded slightly as their eyes met, and Dean could see the blue of Castiel’s pupils glowing as brightly as the rest of him, a beautiful laugh in them, swimming out between them.
“Dean,” Castiel said, voice hollow, empty - but whole, all around the both of them, and Dean was almost sure it was the thunder that spoke his name, not the angel.
“Cas,” Dean replied, paralysed. He smiled, realising he was warm like he’d never left his bed this morning, like he was still laying in the sun by the pool in Limn’mere. He’d never felt this good.
He laughed, weak and tight in his throat, but it was a laugh of utter joy. He felt the prickle of tears in his eyes, and he blinked them away, attention too rapt to miss a second of it to tears, even happy ones.
The squeeze on his hand was gentle once more, and then it all fell away, the lightning snapped back to the sky, the water poured onto their heads, the wind lashed sharp stinging rain from all sides. It took several long seconds before Dean could use his eyes again, still seeing the crackling lines around his angel like an aura.
Dean let out a shaking, jittery breath. “Hooooly shit,” he breathed, sure the words were lost to the wind.
“Not one bit of angel mojo,” Castiel said in his ear, proudly. “That was all me.”
Dean looked long and hard at Castiel, their faces only a few inches apart. “I’d s-say I’m an easy man to please, Cas, b-but you - Jesus, you g-go above and b-beyond.” He was still shaking, half in awe.
“I do my best,” Castiel said, quietly. His lips were so very close to Dean’s ear, he could feel his breath on his chilled skin. The hairs that raised on his neck were only a delayed reaction to his shock of seeing a man struck by lightning, absolutely nothing to do with the growl of Castiel’s deep voice against him.
“W-we need to go inside,” Dean stuttered, hands seizing up with cold. “I’m f-freezing my ass off here.”
“Your ass is fine, it’s your lips I’m worried about,” Castiel said to him, a hand on his bicep, tugging him, wobbly, to his feet. Dean followed the guiding hand blindly once more, legs clumsy with cold.
Castiel practically shoved him back down the hole in the roof, Dean landing on all fours in a puddle on the landing, slipping on wet floorboards. The angel followed, landing lightly like a cat, closing the roof behind him before Dean could muster the brainpower to blink. He could feel everything shutting down, slowing like an unwound clock.
Strong hands dragged him down stairs. He clomped and stumbled, but the hand around his waist held him steady. “What’s wr... wrong with my lipssss?” he asked, thoughts finally catching up with him.
“They’re turning blue,” Castiel informed him, turning him around in the low light of a hallway. Somehow they had already gone through the garret’s sea of dust, down the flight of stairs, and halfway along a corridor, before Dean knew what was going on.
Dean tried to focus on the face in front of him, seeing it shimmer like it was underwater. Warm hands held him, warm all over.
Warm hands.
That was all Dean remembered that night.
That was the best night of Dean’s life.